Then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honor turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust. The grave's a fine and private place But none, I think, do there embrace.

Cover that bosom that I must not see: souls are wounded by such things.

Innocence is not accustomed to blush.

It is a strange enterprise to make respectable people laugh.

It may cost me twenty thousand francs; but for twenty thousand francs, I will have the right to rail against the iniquity of humanity, and to devote to it my eternal hatred.

There's a sort of decency among the dead, a remarkable discretion: you never find them making any complaint against the doctor who killed them!

There is no protection against slander.