Wit Must Be Foiled By Wit: Cut

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!

If This Be Not Love, It Is Madness, And Then It Is Pardonable.

I Find We Are Growing Serious, And Then We Are In Great Danger Of Being Dull.

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.

I Nauseate Walking; 'tis A Country Diversion, I Loathe The Country.