It is difficult to define love; all we can say is, that in the soul it is a desire to rule, in the mind it is a sympathy, and in the body it is a hidden and delicate wish to possess what we love-Plus many mysteries.

We torment ourselves rather to make it appear that we are happy than to become so.

There is a kind of love, the excess of which forbids jealousy.

The temperament that produces a talent for little things is the opposite of that required for great ones.

The man who leaves a woman best pleased with herself is the one whom she will soonest wish to see.

We own up to minor failings, but only so as to convince others that we have no major ones.

The tranquility or agitation of our temper does not depend so much on the big things which happen to us in life, as on the pleasant or unpleasant arrangements of the little things which happen daily.