George Granville

Love is a subject to himself alone, And knows no other empire than his own.

Love is a plant of the most tender kind, That shrinks and shakes with ev'ry ruffling wind.

You'd see, cou'd you her inward motions watch, Feigning delay, she wishes for dispatch; Into a woman's meaning wou'd you look, Then read her backward.

Providence, not niggardly, but wise, Here lavishly bestows, and there denies, That by each other's virtues we may rise.

She will, and she will not, she grants, denies, Consents, retracts, advances, and then flies.

Fate holds the strings, and men like children move But as they're led: success is from above.

The kiss you take, is paid by that you give: The joy is mutual, and I'm still in debt.

No vengeance like a woman's.

Oh love! thou bane of the most generous souls! Thou doubtful pleasure! and thou certain pain!

Patience is the virtue of a beast That trots beneath his burden and is quiet.

So many shapes have women for deceit, That every man's a fool, when we think fit.

Oh my lov'd friend! till now I never knew The pangs of parting friendship. At distance I have tasted of the pain, When the rude morn has sundered us away, To our repose: but by my soul, I swear Even then my eyes would drop a silent tear,

A villain, when he seems most kind, Is most to be suspected.

Cowards in scarlet pass for men of war.

Mankind, from Adam, have been women's fools; Women, from Eve, have been the devil's tools: Heaven might have spar'd one torment when we fell; Not left us woman, or not threatened hell.

['T]is the talk, and not the intrigue, that's the crime.

Whoe'er thou art, thy Lord and master see, Thou wast my Slave, thou art, or thou shalt be.

Happy the man, of mortals happiest he, Whose quiet mind from vain desires is free; Whom neither hopes deceive, nor fears torment, But lives at peace, within himself content; In thought, or act, accountable to none But to himself, and to …