Oh! how many times we die before death!

I love you as one should, to excess. With folly, delight and despair.

Oh! how many times we die before death!

You soothe my soul. You fill it with so tender a sentiment that it is sweet to live during the time that I see you.

Oh, my dear, my tragedy is that you don't need to be loved as I know how to love.

You know that when I hate you, it is because I love you to a point of passion that unhinges my soul.

Ah! mon Dieu! how the mind shrinks by loving! it is true that the soul does not, but what can one do with a soul?