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

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.

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

Oh! you shall see how well I know how to love! I can only love; I know only how to love! With moderate faculties, we can yet do much when we center them on a single object.

I read what I feel, and not what I see.

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.