The Darkness Of Death Is Like The

A Woman Who Could Always Love Would Never Grow Old; And The Love Of Mother And Wife Would Often Give Or Preserve Many Charms If It Were Not Too Often Combined With Parental And Conjugal Anger. There Remains In The Face Of Women Who Are Naturally Serene And Peaceful, And Of Those Rendered So By Religion, An After-spring, And Later An After-summer, The Reflex Of Their Most Beautiful Bloom.

There Are Souls Which Fall From Heaven Like Flowers, But Ere They Bloom Are Crushed Under The Foul Tread Of Some Brutal Hoof.

Whenever, At A Party, I Have Been In The Mood To Study Fools, I Have Always Looked For A Great Beauty: They Always Gather Round Her Like Flies Around A Fruit Stall.

Love Lessens Woman's Delicacy And Increases Man's.

Sorrows Are Like Thunderclouds, In The Distance They Look Black, Over Our Heads Scarcely Gray.