Sun, I come to see you for the last time.
Me, rule? Me, place the State under my law, when my feeble reason no longer rules even myself!
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.
Wrinkles on the brow are the imprints of exploits.
Too much virtue can be criminal.
Small crimes always precede great crimes. Whoever has been able to transgress the limits set by law may afterwards violate the most sacred rights; crime, like virtue, has its degrees, and never have we seen timid innocence pass suddenly to extreme licentiousness.