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.

Conventions are often more cruel than the law.

Courtesy is only a thin veneer on the general selfishness.

When women love us, they forgive us everything, even our crimes; when they do not love us, they give us credit for nothing, not even our virtues.

When she lives at his palace, the maiden niece of a bishop can pass for a respectable woman because, if she has a love affair, she is obliged to hoodwink her uncle.

There are two kinds of poets: those who feel and those who express themselves. The former are happier.

Foppery, being the chronic condition of women, is not so much noticed as it is when it breaks out on the person of the male bird.