Caprice In Women Often Infringes Upon The

Death Happens But Once, Yet We Feel It Every Moment Of Our Lives; It Is Worse To Dread It Than To Suffer It.

To Be Among People One Loves, That's Sufficient; To Dream, To Speak To Them, To Be Silent Among Them, To Think Of Indifferent Things; But Among Them, Everything Is Equal.

The Pleasure We Feel In Criticizing Robs Us From Being Moved By Very Beautiful Things.

The Events We Most Desire Do Not Happen; Or, If They Do, It Is Neither In The Time Nor In The Circumstances When They Would Have Given Us Extreme Pleasure.

It Seems To Me That The Spirit Of Politeness Is A Certain Attention In Causing That, By Our Words And By Our Manners, Others May Be Content With Us And With Themselves.