When a man is in love, he doubts, very often, what he most firmly believes.
There is only one kind of love, but there are a thousand imitations.
There is no disguise which can hide love for long where it exists, or simulate it where it does not.
There are very few people who are not ashamed of having been in love when they no longer love each other.
We always love those who admire us, but we do not always love those whom we admire.
We are nearer loving those who hate us than those who love us more than we wish.
True love is like ghosts, which everyone talks about and few have seen.
If we judge love by most of its effects, it resembles rather hatred than affection.
If there be a love pure and free from the admixture of our other passions, it is that which lies hidden in the bottom of our heart, and which we know not ourselves.
If we are to judge of love by its consequences, it more nearly resembles hatred than friendship.
In friendship as well as love, ignorance very often contributes more to our happiness than knowledge.
It is with an old love as it is with old age a man lives to all the miseries, but is dead to all the pleasures.
Jealousy is not so much the love of another as the love of ourselves.
Jealousy contains more of self-love than of love.
It is with true love as it is with ghosts; everyone talks about it, but few have seen it.