Let them laugh that win! 
     Let ultra-modesty destroy poetry
     Let the dead past bury its dead! 
     Life is made up of just such trifles
     Life as a whole is too vast and too remote
     Life goes on, and that is less gay than the stories
     Life is not a great thing
     Life is not so sweet for us to risk ourselves in it singlehanded
     Life is a tempest
     Like all timid persons, he took refuge in a moody silence
     Little feathers fluttering for an opportunity to fly away
     Little that we can do when we are powerful
     Lofty ideal of woman and of love
     Looking for a needle in a bundle of hay
     Looks on an accomplished duty neither as a merit nor a grievance
     Love in marriage is, as a rule, too much at his ease
     Love is a fire whose heat dies out for want of fuel
     Love was only a brief intoxication
     Love and tranquillity seldom dwell at peace in the same heart
     Love is a soft and terrible force, more powerful than beauty
     Lovers never separate kindly
     Made life give all it could yield
     Magnificent air of those beggars of whom small towns are proud
     Make himself a name:  he becomes public property
     Make a shroud of your virtue in which to bury your crimes
     Make for themselves a horizon of the neighboring walls and roofs
     Man who expects nothing of life except its ending
     Man who suffers wishes to make her whom he loves suffer
     Man, if he will it, need not grow old:  the lion must
     Man is but one of the links of an immense chain
     Mania for fearing that she may be compromised
     Material in you to make one of Cooper’s redskins
     Mediocre sensibility
     Melancholy problem of the birth and death of love
     Men of pleasure remain all their lives mediocre workers
     Men are weak, and there are things which women must accomplish
     Men admired her; the women sought some point to criticise
     Men forget sooner
     Men doubted everything:  the young men denied everything
     Mild, unpretentious men who let everybody run over them
     Miserable beings who contribute to the grandeur of the past
     Misfortunes never come single
     Mobile and complaisant conscience had already forgiven himself
     Moderation is the great social virtue
     Money troubles are not mortal
     Money is not a common thing between gentlemen like you and me
     Monsieur, I know that I have lived too long
     More disposed to discover evil than good
     More stir than work
     Music—­so often dangerous to married happiness
     My aunt is jealous of me because I am a man of ideas
     My good fellow, you are quite worthless as a man of pleasure
     My patronage has become her property
     Natural longing, that we all have, to know the worst
     Natural only when alone,