Love Is The Reduction Of

A Jealous Husband Doesnt Doubt His Wife, But Himself.

The Parisan, Sauntering The Streets Idly, Is As Often A Man In Despair As A Lounger.

Chance, My Dear, Is The Sovereign Deity In Child-bearing.

Hatred Like Love Feeds On The Merest Trifles.

Love, According To Our Contemporary Poets, Is A Privilege Which Two Beings Confer Upon One Another, Whereby They May Mutually Cause One Another Much Sorrow Over Absolutely Nothing.