O Fie, Miss, You Must

If Happiness In Self-content Is Placed, The Wise Are Wretched, And Fools Only Blessed.

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.

A Little Scorn Is Alluring.

Women Like Flames Have A Destroying Power; Never To Be Quenched Till They Themselves Devour.

I Am Always Of The Opinion With The Learned, If They Speak First.