It is no wonder if Art frequently prefers Illusion to Truth: for Illusion is her servant, but Truth her mistress.
Life without Love is as a flower without fragrance.
As the bud a leaf, so at last the thought becomes a word.
Wail not too wildly for expiring Love: The Love that dies was never quite alive.
In the religion of Love the courtesan is a heretic; but the nun is an atheist.
Love is wont to visit Man in the company of Desire; but Woman by himself.