Worthless As Wither'd Weeds.

Proud People Breed Sad Sorrows For Themselves. But If You Be Afraid Of Your Touchiness, You Must Ask Pardon, Mind, When She Comes In.

The Lord Help Us!' He Soliloquised In An Undertone Of Peevish Displeasure, While Relieving Me Of My Horse: Looking, Meantime, In My Face So Sourly That I Charitably Conjectured He Must Have Need Of Divine Aid To Digest His Dinner, And His Pious Ejaculation Had No Reference To My Unexpected Advent.

If You Ever Looked At Me Once With What I Know Is In You, I'd Be Your Slave.

He Might As Well Plant An Oak In A Flowerpot, And Expect It To Thrive, As Imagine He Can Restore Her To Vigour In The Soil Of His Shallow Cares!

He Shall Never Know How I Love Him: And That, Not Because He's Handsome, Nelly, But Because He Is More Myself Than I Am. Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of, His And Mine Are The Same.