People Who Are In Love Suspect Nothing

Love Is Like Some Fresh Spring, First A Stream And Then A River, Changing Its Aspect And Its Nature As It Flows To Plunge Itself In Some Boundless Ocean, Where Restricted Natures Only Find Monotony, But Where Great Souls Are Engulfed In Endless Contemplation.

The Most Real Of All Splendors Are Not In Outward Things, They Are Within Us.

Emulation Admires And Strives To Imitate Great Actions; Envy Is Only Moved To Malice.

The Prodigality Of Millionaires Is Comparable Only To Their Greed Of Gain. Let Some Whim Or Passion Seize Them And Money Is Of No Account. In Fact These Croesuses Find Whims And Passions Harder To Come By Than Gold.

Love Passes Quickly, And Passes Like A Street Arab, Anxious To Mark His Way With Mischief.