in love with love
     Vexed, act in direct contradiction to their own wishes
     Virtue made friends, but she did not take pupils
     Voice of the heart which alone has power to reach the heart
     Void in her heart, a place made ready for disasters to come
     Walked at the rapid pace characteristic of monomaniacs
     Was I not warned enough of the sadness of everything? 
     Waste all that upon a thing that nobody will ever look at
     We are too happy; we are robbing life
     We had taken the dream of a day for eternal happiness
     We weep, we do not complain
     We are so unhappy that our souls are weak against joy
     We have had a mass celebrated, and it cost us a large sum
     We are not bound to live, while we are bound to do our duty
     We do not understand that others may live on their own account
     We are simple to this degree, that we do not think we are
     Were certain against all reason
     What is a man who remains useless
     What will be the use of having tormented ourselves in this world
     What use is the memory of facts, if not to serve as an example
     What you take for love is nothing more than desire
     What matters it how much we suffer
     What human word will ever express thy slightest caress
     What have you done with the days God granted you
     What a small dwelling joy can live
     When passion sways man, reason follows him weeping and warning
     When one speaks of the devil he appears
     When he sings, it is because he has something to sing about
     When the inattentive spirits are not listening
     When time has softened your grief
     Whether they know or do not know, they talk
     Whether in this world one must be a fanatic or nothing
     Which I should find amusing in any one else,—­any one I loved
     Who has told you that tears can wash away the stains of guilt
     Whole world of politics and religion rushed to extremes
     Why should I read the newspapers? 
     Why mankind has chosen to call marriage a man-trap
     Will not admit that conscience is the proper guide of our action
     Willingly seek a new sorrow
     Wine suffuses the face as if to prevent shame appearing there
     Wiped his nose behind his hat, like a well-bred orator
     Wiping his forehead ostentatiously
     With the habit of thinking, had not lost the habit of laughing
     Without a care or a cross, he grew weary like a prisoner
     Woman is more bitter than death, and her arms are like chains
     Women who are thirty-five should never weep
     Women:  they are more bitter than death
     Women do not always confess it, but it is always their fault
     Word “sacrifice,” so vague on careless lips
     Words are nothing; it is the tone in which they are uttered
     Would not be astonished