Genius, like a torch, shines less in the broad daylight of the present than in the night of the past.

The virtuous woman flees from danger; she trusts more to her prudence in shunning it than in her strength to overcome it.

Experience unveils too late the snares laid for youth; it is the white frost which discovers the spider's web when the flies are no longer there to be caught.

Women always find their bitterest foes among their own sex.

Happiness is where we find it, but rarely where we seek it.

That prudery which survives youth and beauty resembles a scarecrow left in the fields after harvest.

The true worth of a soul is revealed as much by the motive it attributes to the actions of others as by its own deeds.