Oh! how many times we die before death!

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

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.

I love the abandonment to impulse, I act from impulse only, and I love to madness that others do the same by me.

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

If you can attain repose and calm, believe that you have seized happiness.

Calumny spreads like an oil-spot: we endeavor to cleanse it, but the mark remains.