must seek pastimes
     Make a shroud of your virtue in which to bury your crimes
     Man who suffers wishes to make her whom he loves suffer
     Men doubted everything:  the young men denied everything
     No longer esteemed her highly enough to be jealous of her
     Of all the sisters of love, the most beautiful is pity
     Perfection does not exist
     Pure caprice that I myself mistook for a flash of reason
     Quarrel had been, so to speak, less sad than our reconciliation
     Reading the Memoirs of Constant
     Resorted to exaggeration in order to appear original
     Sceptic regrets the faith he has lost the power to regain
     Seven who are always the same:  the first is called hope
     She pretended to hope for the best
     Sometimes we seem to enjoy unhappiness
     Speak to me of your love, she said, “not of your grief”
     St. Augustine
     Suffered, and yet took pleasure in it
     Suspicions that are ever born anew
     Terrible words; I deserve them, but they will kill me
     There are two different men in you
     Ticking of which (our arteries) can be heard only at night
     “Unhappy man!” she cried, “you will never know how to love”
     We have had a mass celebrated, and it cost us a large sum
     What you take for love is nothing more than desire
     What human word will ever express thy slightest caress
     When passion sways man, reason follows him weeping and warning
     Who has told you that tears can wash away the stains of guilt
     Wine suffuses the face as if to prevent shame appearing there
     You believe in what is said here below and not in what is done
     You play with happiness as a child plays with a rattle
     You turn the leaves of dead books
     Your great weapon is silence
     Youth is to judge of the world from first impressions