One Minute Gives Invention To Destroy; What

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

Come, Come, Leave Business To Idlers, And Wisdom To Fools: They Have Need Of 'em: Wit Be My Faculty, And Pleasure My Occupation, And Let Father Time Shake His Glass.

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

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."

Turn Pimp, Flatterer, Quack, Lawyer, Parson, Be Chaplain To An Atheist, Or Stallion To An Old Woman, Anything But A Poet; For A Poet Is Worse, More Servile, Timorous And Fawning Than Any I Have Named.