love, which is a madness, and a scourge, and a fever, and a delusion, and a snare, is also a mystery, and very imperfectly understood by everyone except the individual sufferer who writhes under its tortures.

How chronic is the unconcern of men and women of the world!

Why is it so difficult to love wisely, so easy to love too well?

Paris is a mighty schoolmaster, a grand enlightener of the provincial intellect.

A modern writer likens coquettes to those hunters who do not eat the game which they have successfully pursued.

love is so very subtle an essence, such an indefinable metaphysical marvel, that its due force, though very cruelly felt by the sufferer himself, is never clearly understood by those who look on at its torments and wonder why he takes the common fever so badly.

Our virtues, as well as our vices, are often scourges for our own backs.