You wish a rose, not because it is a rose, fresh and fragrant, but because I give it to you." "You wrong me, Gretchen; I love a rose better than I love a woman.

It never smiles falsely, the rose, nor plays with the hearts of men.

I love a rose because it is sweet, and because it was made for man's pleasure and not for his pain." "That sounds like a copy-book," laughed Gretchen.

"The withered rose should teach you a lesson." "What lesson ?" "That whatever a woman gives to man withers in the exchange; a rose, a woman's love." Said I reproachfully: "You are spoiling a very pretty picture.

What do you know about philosophy ?" "What does Herr know about roses ?" defiantly.
"Much; one cannot pick too many fresh ones.