Man Is Free; But Not Unless He

Be The Flame, Not The Moth.

When A Sonnet Is Mediocre It Is Bad, For It Should Be Sublime.

Real Love Is The Love That Sometimes Arises After Sensual Pleasure: If It Does, It Is Immortal; The Other Kind Inevitably Goes Stale, For It Lies In Mere Fantasy.

Love Is Only A Feeling Of Curiousity More Or Less Intense, Grafted Upon The Inclination Placed In Us By Nature That The Species May Be Preserved.

We Love Without Heeding Reason, And Cease To Love In The Same Manner.