It Is Always By Way Of Pain

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

Thread Of Their Days Without Pity, And In The Midst Of Life, Without Ever Concerning Themselves With This Fatal Moment, Living As Though They Were To Exist For Ever, They Disappear Into The Obscure Cloud Of Immortality, Uncertain Of The Fate Which Lies In Store For Them.

Humane Sentiments Are Baseless, Mad, And Improper; They Are Incredibly Feeble; Never Do They Withstand The Gainsaying Passions, Never Do They Resist Bare Necessity.

Dread Not Infanticide; The Crime Is Imaginary: We Are Always Mistress Of What We Carry In Our Womb, And We Do No More Harm In Destroying This Kind Of Matter Than In Evacuating Another, By Medicines, When We Feel The Need.

I've Already Told You: The Only Way To A Woman's Heart Is Along The Path Of Torment. I Know None Other As Sure.