Our first and last love is self-love.
It is the passion that is in a kiss that gives to it its sweetness; it is the affection in a kiss that sanctifies it.
In ambition, as in love, the successful can afford to be indulgent toward their rivals. The prize our own, it is graceful to recognize the merit that vainly aspired to it.
Successful love takes a load off our hearts, and puts it upon our shoulders.
Love's sweetest meanings are unspoken; the full heart knows no rhetoric of words.
None but those who have loved can be supposed to understand the oratory of the eye, the mute eloquence of a look, or the conversational powers of the face. Love's sweetest meanings are unspoken; the full heart knows no rhetoric of words, and resorts to the pantomime of sighs and glances.
We cannot reason ourselves into love, nor can we reason ourselves out of it, which suggests that love and reason have little to do with each other.
Love makes a few weeks so rich that all the rest of our lives seems poor in comparison.
Love delights in paradoxes. Saddest when it has most reason to be gay, sighs are the signs of its deepest joy, and silence is the expression of its yearning tenderness.
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