It is some relief to weep; grief is satisfied and carried off by tears.
Dear to the heart of a girl is her own beauty and charm.
Sleep, rest of nature, O sleep, most gentle of the divinities, peace of the soul, thou at whose presence care disappears, who soothest hearts wearied with daily employments, and makest them strong again for labour!
Wine prepares the heart for love, unless you take too much.
Love is a believing creature.
A lover fears all that he believes.
Concealed sorrow bursts the heart, and rages within us as an internal fire.
When the heart is sick it cannot bear the slightest annoyance.
Sleep, thou repose of all things; sleep, thou gentlest of the deities; thou peace of the mind, from which care flies; who doest soothe the hearts of men wearied with the toils of the day, and refittest them for labor.
Truly it is allowed us to weep: by weeping we disperse our wrath; and tears go through the heart, even like a stream. [Lat., Flere licet certe: flendo diffundimus iram: Perque sinum lacrimae, fluminis instar enim.]
Whether you call my heart affectionate, or you call it womanish: I confess, that to my misfortune, it is soft.
Struggling over my fickle heart, love draws it now this way, and now hate that--but love, I think, is winning. I will hate, if I have strength; if not, I shall love unwilling.
Why should I go into details, we have nothing that is not perishable except what our hearts and our intellects endows us with.
Dear to girls' hearts is their own beauty.
For in this strange anatomy we wear, the head has greater powers than the hand; the spirit, heart, and mind are over all.
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