Love knows nothing of modesty.
The pleasures of love proceed successively from a distich to a quatrain, from a quatrain to a sonnet, from a sonnet to a ballad, from a ballad to an ode, from an ode to a cantata, and from a cantata to a dithyramb. A husband who begins with the dithyramb is a fool.
The good we do to others is spoilt unless we efface ourselves so completely that those we help have no sense of inferiority.
Modesty is the conscience of the body.