She plays her liberty, her happiness, and she is not allowed to throw the dice; she risks her all, and is forced to be a mere spectator.

I have the right, the will, the power to make my own unhappiness, and I use them, as did my mother, who, won by beauty and led by instinct, married the most generous, the most liberal, the most loving of men.

I know that you are free, a poet, and noble-looking.

Be sure that I should not have chosen one of your brothers in Apollo who was already married.

If my mother was won by beauty, which is perhaps the spirit of form, why should I not be attracted by the spirit and the form united?
Shall I not know you better by studying you in this correspondence than I could through the vulgar experience of "receiving your addresses"?
This is the question, as Hamlet says.
But my proceedings, dear Chrysale, have at least the merit of not binding us personally.