What does it matter if, by chance, a little vile blood be spilled?
I loved you when you were unfaithful; what would I have done if you were true?
Love is not a fire to be shut up in a soul. Everything betrays us: voice, silence, eyes; half-covered fires burn all the brighter.
None love, but they who wish to love.
Great crimes come never singly; they are linked To sins that went before.
Honor, without money, is a mere malady.