Childhood, whose very happiness is love.
There are words to paint the misery of love, but none to paint its happiness.
Surprises are like misfortunes or herrings - they rarely come single.
Truly, a little love-making is a very pleasant thing.
There is no wretchedness like self-reproach.
youth, balancing itself upon hope, is forever in extremes: its expectations are continually aroused only to be baffled, and disappointment, like a summer shower, is violent in proportion to its brevity.