A widow is a fascinating being with the flavor of maturity, the spice of experience, the piquancy of novelty, the tang of practiced coquetry, and the halo of one man's approval.

Nowadays love is a matter of chance, matrimony a matter of money and divorce a matter of course.

A man marries one woman to escape from many others, and then chases many others to forget he's married to one.

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

It isn't tying himself to one woman that a man dreads when he thinks of marrying; it's separating himself from all the others.

Flattery is like wine, which exhilarates a man for a moment, but usually ends by going to his head and making him act foolishly.

Many men kill themselves for love, but many more women die of it