THE MOST EXTENSIVE
ON THE INTERNET
A fellow who lives in a windmill has not a more whimsical dwelling than the heart of a man that is lodged in a woman.
Ask me questions concerning to-morrow.
Blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, and though a late, a sure reward succeeds.
Born to excel, and to command!
As by transcendent beauty to attract
All eyes, so by pre-eminence of soul
To rule all hearts.
Courtship is to marriage, as a very witty prologue to a very dull play.
Critics to plays for the same end resort
That surgeons wait on trials in a court;
For innocence condemn'd they've no respect,
Provided they've a body to dissect.
Defer not till to-morrow to be wise,
To-morrow's sun to thee may never rise.
Grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure.
Guilt is ever at a loss, and confusion waits upon it.
He only is secret who never was trusted.
He that can't live upon love deserves to die in a ditch.
He that loses hope may part with anything.
He who closes his ears to the views of others shows little confidence in the integrity of his own views.
Heav'n hath no rage like love to hatred turn'd,
Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn'd.
His pure thoughts were borne
Like fumes of sacred incense o'er the clouds,
And wafted thence on angels' wings, through ways
Of light, to the bright source of all.
His wit run him out of his money, and now his poverty has run him out of his wits.
How rev'rend is the face of this tall pile,
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads,
To bear aloft its arch'd and pond'rous roof!
By its own weight made steadfast and immovable.
Looking tranquillity! It strikes an awe
And terror to my aching sight! The tombs
And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.
Hushed as the falling dews, whose noiseless showers impearl the folded leaves of evening flowers.
I am tipsy with laughing.
I know a lady that loves to talk so incessantly, she won't give an echo fair play; she has that everlasting rotation of tongue that an echo must wait till she dies before it can catch her last words!
I know that's a secret, for it's whispered everywhere.
I like her with all her faults: nay, like her for her faults. Her follies are so natural, or so artful, that they become her; and those affections which in another woman would be odious serve but to make her more agreeable.
I'll give you revenge another time, when you are not so indifferent; you are thinking of something else now, and play too negligently; the coldness of a losing gamester lessens the pleasure of the winner. I'd no more play with a man that slighted his ill fortune, than I'd make love to a woman who undervalued the loss of their reputation.
It is, alas! the poor prerogative of greatness, to be wretched and unpitied.
Married in haste we may repent at leisure.
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