To Blow Is Not To Play On

This Is The True Measure Of Love, When We Believe That We Alone Can Love, That No One Could Ever Have Loved So Before Us, And That No One Will Ever Love In The Same Way After Us.

The Whole Art Of Living Consists In Giving Up Existence In Order To Exist.

Ah, How Often I've Cursed Those Foolish Pages, That Showed My Youthful Sufferings To Everyone! If Werther Had Been My Brother, And I'd Killed Him, His Sad Ghost Could Hardly Have Persecuted Me More.

The Fine Emotions Whence Our Lives We Mold Lie In The Earthly Tumult Dumb And Cold.

The Flowers Are Full Of Honey, But Only The Bee Finds Out The Sweetness.