Virtue Can Procure Only An Imaginary Happiness;

Cruelty, Very Far From Being A Vice, Is The First Sentiment Nature Injects In Us All.

Hope Is The Most Sensitive Part Of A Poor Wretch's Soul; Whoever Raises It Only To Torment Him Is Behaving Like The Executioners In Hell Who, They Say, Incessantly Renew Old Wounds And Concentrate Their Attention On That Area Of It That Is Already Lacerated.

The Debility To Which Nature Condemned Women Incontestably Proves That Her Design Is For Man, Who Then More Than Ever Enjoys His Strength, To Exercise It In All The Violent Forms That Suit Him Best, By Means Of Tortures, If He Be So Inclined, Or Worse.

There Are Thorns Everywhere, But Along The Path Of Vice, Roses Bloom Above Them.

Truth Titillates The Imagination Far Less Than Fiction.