of all the follies that we can commit, the greatest is to hesitate.

Jealousy ought to be tragic, to save it from being ridiculous.

Ah, tell me not that memory sheds gladness o'er the past, what is recalled by faded flowers, save that they did not last?

There are words to paint the misery of love, but none to paint its happiness.

A preface is a species of literary luxury, where an author, like a lover, is privileged to be egotistical.

the blessings of matrimony, like those of poverty, belong rather to philosophy than reality.

the fact is, that life is too short to be occupied by aught but the present - hope and remembrance are equally a waste of time.