A witty woman is a treasure; a witty Beauty is a power
At war with ourselves, means the best happiness we can have
Beauty is rare; luckily is it rare
Between love grown old and indifference ageing to love
But they were a hopeless couple, they were so friendly
Charitable mercifulness; better than sentimental ointment
Dedicated to the putrid of the upper circle
Dreaded as a scourge, hailed as a refreshment (Scandalsheet)
Elderly martyr for the advancement of his juniors
Favour can’t help coming by rotation
Flashes bits of speech that catch men in their unguarded corner
For ’tis Ireland gives England her soldiers, her generals too
Get back what we give
Goodish sort of fellow; good horseman, good shot, good character
Grossly unlike in likeness (portraits)
He had by nature a tarnishing eye that cast discolouration
He had neat phrases, opinions in packets
He was not a weaver of phrases in distress
He’s good from end to end, and beats a Christian hollow (a hog)
Her final impression likened him to a house locked up and empty
Herself, content to be dull if he might shine
His gaze and one of his ears, if not the pair, were given
How immensely nature seems to prefer men to women! 
Human nature to feel an interest in the dog that has bitten you
I have and hold—­you shall hunger and covet
Idea is the only vital breath
If I’m struck, I strike back
Inclined to act hesitation in accepting the aid she sought
Lengthened term of peace bred maggots in the heads of the people
Loathing for speculation
Mare would do, and better than a dozen horses
Matter that is not nourishing to brains
Music was resumed to confuse the hearing of the eavesdroppers
Needed support of facts, and feared them
O self! self! self! 
Or where you will, so that’s in Ireland
Our bravest, our best, have an impulse to run
Perused it, and did not recognize herself in her language
Pride in being always myself
Procrastination and excessive scrupulousness
Read deep and not be baffled by inconsistencies
Service of watering the dry and drying the damp (Whiskey)
She had a fatal attraction for antiques
She marries, and it’s the end of her sparkling
Smart remarks have their measured distances
Something of the hare in us when the hounds are full cry
Swell and illuminate citizen prose to a princely poetic
That is life—­when we dare death to live! 
That’s the natural shamrock, after the artificial
The burlesque Irishman can’t be caricatured
The well of true wit is truth itself
They create by stoppage a volcano
This love they rattle about and rave about
Tooth that received a stone when it expected candy
We live alone, and do not much feel it till we are visited
Weather and women have some resemblance they say
What a woman thinks of women, is the test of her nature
Where she appears, the first person falls to second rank
You are entreated to repress alarm
You beat me with the fists, but my spirit is towering