The beings who appear cold, but are only timid, adore where they dare to love.

Friendship is like those ancient altars where the unhappy, and even the guilty, found a sure asylum.

In youth we feel richer for every new illusion; in maturer years, for every one we lose.

The heart has always the pardoning power.

We are all of us, in this world, more or less like St. January, whom the inhabitants of Naples worship one day, and pelt with baked apples the next.

Only those faults which we encounter in ourselves are insufferable to us in others.

There is nothing at all in life, except what we put there.