Passion is Love's blind guide, but the only one he hath.
Art achieves all little things by absolute truth: but all her great things need some admixture of illusion.
It is no wonder if Art frequently prefers Illusion to Truth: for Illusion is her servant, but Truth her mistress.
Wail not too wildly for expiring Love: The Love that dies was never quite alive.
Every veil secretly desires to be lifted, except the veil of Hypocrisy.
Then is Love blest, when from the cup of the body he drinks the wine of the soul.