Love, like a chicken salad or restaurant hash, must be taken with blind faith or it loses its flavor.

At twenty, a man feels awfully aged and blasé; at thirty, almost senile; at forty, "not so old"; and at fifty, positively skittish.

A man may talk inspiringly to a woman about love in the abstract--but the look in his eyes is always perfectly concrete.

A man's ideal woman is the one he couldn't get.

In love, somehow, a man's heart is always either exceeding the speed limit, or getting parked in the wrong place.

A fool and her money are soon courted.

Telling lies is a fault in a boy, an art in a lover, an accomplishment in a bachelor, and second-nature in a married man.