Women In London Are Like The Rich

All I Ask, Is The Privilege For My Masculine Part The Poet In Me.... If I Must Not, Because Of My Sex, Have This Freedom... I Lay Down My Quill And You Shall Hear No More Of Me.

Women In London Are Like The Rich Silks; They Are Out Of Fashion A Great While Before They Wear Out.

'twas But A Dream, Yet By My Heart I Knew, Which Still Was Panting, Part Of It Was True: Oh How I Strove The Rest To Have Believed; Ashamed And Angry To Be Undeceived!

As Love Is The Most Noble And Divine Passion Of The Soul, So Is It That To Which We May Justly Attribute All The Real Satisfactions Of Life, And Without It, Man Is Unfinished, And Unhappy.

Nothing Is More Capable Of Troubling Our Reason, And Consuming Our Health, Than Secret Notions Of Jealousy In Solitude.