uch the better!
He would work more

I believed in the virtue of work, and
look at me!

In his eyes everything was decided by
luck

Intelligent persons have no remorse

It is the first crime that costs

It is only those who own something who
worry about the price

Leant--and when I did not lose my
friends I lost my money

Leisure must be had for light reading,
and even more for love

Looking for a needle in a bundle of hay

Neither so simple nor so easy as they
at first appeared

One does not judge those whom one loves

People whose principle was never to pay
a doctor

Power to work, that was never disturbed
or weakened by anything

Reason before the deed, and not after

Repeated and explained what he had
already said and explained

She could not bear contempt

The strong walk alone because they need
no one

We are so unhappy that our souls are
weak against joy

We weep, we do not complain

Will not admit that conscience is the
proper guide of our action

You love me, therefore you do not know
me

ZIBELINE, By Phillipe de Massa

All that was illogical in our social
code

Ambiguity has no place, nor has
compromise

But if this is our supreme farewell,
do not tell me so!

Chain so light yesterday, so heavy
to-day

Every man is his own master in his
choice of liaisons

If I do not give all I give nothing

Indulgence of which they stand in need
themselves

Life goes on, and that is less gay than
the stories

Men admired her; the women sought some
point to criticise

Only a man, wavering and changeable

Ostensibly you sit at the feast without
paying the cost

Paris has become like a little country
town in its gossip

The night brings counsel

Their Christian charity did not extend
so far as that

There are mountains that we never climb
but once

You are in a conquered country, which
is still more dangerous

THE CHILD OF A CENTURY, By Alfred de Musset

A terrible danger lurks in the
knowledge of what is possible

Accustomed to call its disguise virtue

Adieu, my son, I love you and I die

All philosophy is akin to atheism

All that is not life, it is the noise
of life

And when love is sure of itself and
knows response

Because you weep, you fondly imagine
yourself innocent

Become corrupt, and you will cease to
suffer

Began to forget my own sorrow in my
sympathy for her

Beware of disgust, it is an incurable
evil