MondayFeb 09, 2026
Quotes: 53419 Authors: 9969
Labour for his pains.
Can't I another's face commend, And to her virtues be a friend, But instantly your forehead lowers, As if her merit lessen'd yours?
The maid who modestly conceals Her beauties, while she hides, reveals; Give but a glimpse, and fancy draws Whate'er the Grecian Venus was.
But from the hoop's bewitching round, Her very shoe has power to wound.
I am rich beyond the dreams of avarice.
'T is now the summer of your youth. Time has not cropt the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them.
Time still, as he flies, brings increase to her truth, And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth.
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