Poets and men of action differ: the former yield to their feelings in order to reproduce them in lively colors, and therefore judge only ex post facto; the latter feel and judge at one and the same time.

Woman has this in common with angels, that suffering beings belong especially to her.

Whereas scoundrels become reconciled after knifing one another, lovers break up irrevocably over a mere glance or word.

Noble passions are like vices: the more they are satisfied, the greater they grow, Mothers and gamblers are insatiable.

Happiness lends poetic charms to woman, and dress adorns her like a delicate tinge of rouge.

The majority of husbands remind me of an orangutan trying to play the violin.

For avarice begins where poverty ends.