|C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.|
| Infidelity, like death, admits of no degrees.|
Mme. de Girardin.
| Doubt the man who swears to his devotion.|
Mme. de Colet.
| How easy it is for the proper-false in womans waxen hearts to set their forms!|
| Stealing her soul with many vows of faith, and neer a true one.|
| The firmest purpose of a womans heart to well-timed, artful flattery may yield.|
| We pardon infidelities, but we do not forget them.|
Mme. de la Fayette.
| O fatal beauty! why art thou bestowed on hapless woman still to make her wretched? Betrayed by thee, how many are undone!|
| It is to be feared that they who marry where they do not love, will love where they do not marry.|
| Theres no trust, no faith, no honesty, in men; all perjured, all forsworn, all nought, all dissemblers.|
| How delightful it would be to love if one loved always! But alas! there are no eternal loves.|
| The reason why women grown bad are worse than men is because it is the best that turns to the worst.|
| The unfaithful woman, if she is known for such by the person concerned, is only unfaithful. If she is thought faithful, she is perfidious.|
| Such an act, that blurs the grace and blush of modesty, calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose from the fair forehead of an innocent love, and sets a blister there.|
| There is not so agonizing a feeling in the whole catalogue of human suffering as the first conviction that the heart of the being whom we most tenderly love is estranged from us.|
| ||Who should be trusted, when ones own right hand|
|Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus,|
|I am sorry I must never trust thee more,|
|But count the world a stranger for thy sake.|
|The private wound is deepest.|