Love is the poetry of the senses.

When women love us, they forgive us everything, even our crimes when they do not love us, they give us credit for nothing, not even our virtues.

Love may be or it may not, but where it is, it ought to reveal itself in its immensity.

True love is eternal, infinite, and always like itself. It is equal and pure, without violent demonstrations: it is seen with white hairs and is always young in the heart.

Nobody loves a woman because she is handsome or ugly, stupid or intelligent. We love because we love.