In My Conscience I Believe

Music Has Charms To Soothe A Savage Breast, To Soften Rocks, Or Bend A Knotted Oak. I've Read That Things Inanimate Have Moved, And, As With Living Souls, Have Been Inform'd, By Magic Numbers And Persuasive Sound.

O Ay, Letters - I Had Letters - I Am Persecuted With Letters - I Hate Letters - Nobody Knows How To Write Letters; And Yet One Has 'em, One Does Not Know Why - They Serve One To Pin Up One's Hair.

There Are Come Critics So With Spleen Diseased, They Scarcely Come Inclining To Be Pleased: And Sure He Must Have More Than Mortal Skill, Who Please One Against His Will.

All Well Bred Persons Lie - Besides, You Are A Woman; You Must Never Speak What You Think.

She Once Used Me With That Insolence, That In Revenge I Took Her To Pieces; Sifted Her, And Separated Her Failings; I Studied 'em, And Got 'em By Rote. The Catalogue Was So Large, That I Was Not Without Hopes, One Day Or Other To Hate Her Heartily.