True sorrow is as rare as true love.

It is very seldom that a person loves anyone they cannot in some way envy.

It's hard to love a woman and do anything.

Love is rare,love is strange,nothing lasts and people change.

That was perhaps the only woman I have ever loved — no — that I ever should have loved. Ah, well! who can tell? Circumstances rule one. And then — and then — all passes.

You can love a woman. To admire her is hard. You are not dealing with something important.

However rare true love is, true friendship is rarer.

Perfect love is rare indeed — for to be a lover will require that you continually have the subtlety of the very wise, the flexibility of the child, the sensitivity of the artist, the understanding of the philosopher, the acceptance of the saint, the tolerance of the scholar and the fortitude of the certain.

Rare as is true love, true friendship is rarer.

How rare true love maybe, it is less so than true friendship.

The latter was in praise of the virtuous wife, rarer than a pearl.

If she doesn't really love you, then it's over. And if she does love you, then love will win out.

A woman whom we love seldom satisfies all our needs, and we deceive her with a woman we do not love.

To have loved and lost, either by that total disenchantment which leaves compassion as the sole substitute for love which can exist no more, or by the slow torment which is obliged to let go day by day all that constitutes the diviner part of love — namely, reverence, belief, and trust, yet clings desperately to the only thing left it, a long-suffering apologetic tenderness — this lot is probably the hardest any woman can have to bear.