Even pleasure cloys without variety.

She only is chaste, who is chaste where there is no danger of detection: she who does not, because she may not, does.

Eurydice, dying now a second time, uttered no complaint against her husband. What was there to complain of, but that she had been loved?

I hate a woman who offers herself because she ought to do so, and cold and dry thinks of her sewing when making love.

It is prudence that first forsakes the wretched.

There is a certain kind of pleasure in weeping.

All things human hang by a slender thread; and that which seemed to stand strong suddenly falls and sinks in ruins.