What in us the women leave uncultivated, children cultivate when we retain them near us.

Our destiny often looks like a fruit-tree in winter. Who would think from its pitiable aspect that those rigid boughs, those rough twigs could next spring again be green, bloom, and even bear fruit? Yet we hope it, we know it.

Wine rejoices the heart of man and joy is the mother of all virtues.

Rash, inexperienced youth holds itself a chosen instrument, and allows itself unbounded license.

Truth is a torch but a tremendous one. That is why we hurry past it, shielding our eyes, indeed, in fear of getting burned.

Man's restlessness makes him strive.

We're really up against it, we poor women: A bachelor's a hard thing to convert