How Hard A Thing 'twould Be To

Love's But The Frailty Of The Mind, When 'tis Not With Ambition Joined; A Sickly Flame, Which If Not Fed Expires; And Feeding, Wastes In Self-consuming Fires.

I Confess Freely To You, I Could Never Look Long Upon A Monkey, Without Very Mortifying Reflections.

Music Has Charms To Sooth A Savage Breast, To Soften Rocks, Or Bend A Knotted Oak.

I Always Take Blushing Either For A Sign Of Guilt, Or Of Ill Breeding.

O, Nothing Is More Alluring Than A Levee From A Couch In Some Confusion.