Joy Is The Reflex Of Terror.

Look Not At The Face, Young Girl, Look At The Heart. The Heart Of A Handsome Young Man Is Often Deformed. There Are Hearts In Which Love Does Not Keep. Young Girl, The Pine Is Not Beautiful; It Is Not Beautiful Like The Poplar, But It Keeps Its Foliage In Winter.

He Is The Best Gentleman That Is The Son Of His Own Deserts, And Not The Degenerated Heir Of Another's Virtue.

The Soul Does Not Give Itself Up To Despair Until It Has Exhausted All Illusions.

Great Blunders Are Often Made, Like Large Ropes, Of A Multitude Of Fibres.

Style Is The Substance Of The Subject Called Unceasingly To The Surface.