Jealousy, An Eminently Credulous And Suspicious Passion,

But Does Not Happiness Come From The Soul Within?

I'm A Great Poet. I Don't Put My Poems On Paper: They Consist Of Actions And Feelings.

I Can No Longer Think Of Anything But You. In Spite Of Myself, My Imagination Carries Me To You. I Grasp You, I Kiss You, I Caress You, A Thousand Of The Most Amorous Caresses Take Possession Of Me.

The Wounds Of Self-love Turn Incurable When The Oxide Of Self-love Gets Into Them.

If We Could But Paint With The Hand What We See With The Eye.