A novel is a mirror carried along a main road.

One-half, the finest half, of life is hidden from the man who does not love with passion.

At a distance, we cannot conceive of the authority of a despot who knows all his subjects on sight.

The pleasures and the cares of the luckiest ambition, even of limitless power, are nothing next to the intimate happiness that tenderness and love give. I am man before being a prince, and when I have the good fortune to be in love, my mistress addresses a man and not a prince.

When intimacy followed love in Italy there were no longer any vain pretensions between two lovers.

Life is very short, and it ought not to be spent crawling at the feet of miserable scoundrels.

The pleasures of love are always in proportion to our fears.