In An Age That Is

She Had Already Allowed Her Delectable Lover To Pluck That Flower Which, So Different From The Rose To Which It Is Nevertheless Sometimes Compared, Has Not The Same Faculty Of Being Reborn Each Spring.

There Is No More Lively Sensation Than That Of Pain; Its Impressions Are Certain And Dependable, They Never Deceive As May Those Of The Pleasure Women Perpetually Feign And Almost Never Experience.

The More Defects A Man May Have, The Older He Is, The Less Lovable, The More Resounding His Success.

How Delicious To Corrupt, To Stifle All Semblances Of Virtue And Religion In That Young Heart!

They Declaim Against The Passions Without Bothering To Think That It Is From Their Flame Philosophy Lights Its Torch.