Give to a wounded heart seclusion; consolation nor reason ever effected anything in such a case.
One hour of love has a whole life in it.
It is a singular fact that most men of action incline to the theory of fatalism, while the greater part of men of thought believe in providence.
Love is not only a feeling, it is also an art. A simple word, a sensitive precaution, a mere nothing reveal to a woman the sublime artist who can touch her heart without withering it.
Nothing is a greater impediment to being on good terms with others than being ill at ease with yourself.
Everything becomes agitated. Ideas quick-march into motion like battalions of a grand army to its legendary fighting ground, and the battle rages. Memories charge in, bright flags on high; the cavalry of metaphor deploys with a magnificent gallop; the artillery of logic rushes up with clattering wagons and cartridges; on imagination's orders, sharpshooters sight and fire; forms and shapes and characters rear up; the paper is spread with ink - for the nightly labor begins and ends with torrents of this black water, as a battle opens and concludes with black powder.
Love is perhaps no more than gratitude for pleasure.
The national budget is not a safe-deposit box. It is a spray can.
No navigator has yet traced lines of latitude and longitude on the conjugal sea.
No woman allows her lover to descend from his pedestal. Even a god is not forgiven the slightest pettiness.
An ounce of courage will go farther with women than a pound of timidity.
The impossible is justified by the fact that it occurred
If the artist does not fling himself, without reflecting, into his work, as Curtis flung himself into the yawning gulf, as the soldier flings himself into the enemy's trenches, and if, once in this crater, he does not work like a miner on whom the walls of his gallery have fallen in; if he contemplates difficulties instead of overcoming them one by one ... he is simply looking on at the suicide of his own talent.
Men die in despair, while spirits die in ecstasy.
It is beyond a doubt that during the sixteenth century, and the years immediately preceding and following it, poisoning had been brought to a pitch of perfection which remains unknown to modern chemistry, but which is indisputably proved by history. Italy, the cradle of modern science, was at that time, the inventor and mistress of these secrets, many of which are lost.
Love, according to our contemporary poets, is a privilege which two beings confer upon one another, whereby they may mutually cause one another much sorrow over absolutely nothing.
For avarice begins where poverty ends.
A man who stops at nothing short of the law is very clever indeed!
There is a cure for temptation. What? Yielding to it.
Hatred like love feeds on the merest trifles. Everything adds to it. Just as the being we love can do no wrong, so the one we hate can do no right.
Like hunger, physical love is a necessity. But man's appetite for amour is never so regular or so sustained as his appetite for the delights of the table.
Chance, my dear, is the sovereign deity in child-bearing.
The motto of chivalry is also the motto of wisdom; to serve all, but love only one.
Hope is a light diet, but very stimulating.
Excess of joy is harder to bear than any amount of sorrow.
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