Love is the only way on which even the dim-witted reaches certain heights.
Poetry is only born after painful journeys into the vast regions of thought.
True love is mixed up with birdlike squabbles, in which the disputants wound each other to the quick; but a quarrel without animus is, on the contrary, apiece of flattery to the dupe's conceit.
Economized love is never real love.
Evasion is unworthy of us, and is always the intimate of equivocation.
The errors of women spring, almost always, from their faith in the good, or their confidence in the true