All Well Bred Persons Lie

Beauty Is The Lover's Gift.

Mr Witwould: "pray, Madam, Do You Pin Up Your Hair With All Your Letters? I Find I Must Keep Copies." Mrs Millamant: "only With Those In Verse.... I Never Pin Up My Hair With Prose."

They Come Together Like The Coroner's Inquest, To Sit Upon The Murdered Reputations Of The Week.

Women Are Like Tricks By Sleight Of Hand, Which, To Admire, We Should Not Understand

If There's Delight In Love, 'tis When I See That Heart, Which Others Bleed For, Bleed For Me.