In my conscience I believe the baggage loves me, for she never speaks well of me herself, nor suffers any body else to rail at me.
I know that's a secret, for it's whispered everywhere.
There is in true beauty, as in courage, something which narrow souls cannot dare to admire.
Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned.
They come together like the Coroner's Inquest, to sit upon the murdered reputations of the week.
I confess freely to you, I could never look long upon a monkey, without very mortifying reflections.
