Love is to man the perfume of his existence.

She may intoxicate him for a while, may inspire him to poetical effusions, to great deeds, even; but he should hesitate to let her become his mistress, to let her be the tyrant of his existence.

If she would enchain him, he must tear himself away, even if he tear out his own heart.

Man possesses that which is more ennobling than mere feeling; he has intellect--soul." "Ah!" cried Moritz, "it is easy to see that you have never loved madly, despairingly.

You have never seen the woman whom you adore, and who perhaps reciprocates your passion, forced to marry another." A shadow flitted over Goethe's brow, and the flashing brilliancy of his eyes was changed to gloomy sadness.