Coquetry is the essential characteristic, and the prevalent humor of women; but they do not all practice it, because the coquetry of some is restrained by fear or by reason.
Coquetry whets the appetite; flirtation depraves it. Coquetry is the thorn that guards the rose - easily trimmed off when once plucked. Flirtation is like the slime on water-plants, making them hard to handle, and when caught, only to be cherished in slimy waters.
A girl's coquetry is of the simplest, she thinks that all is said when the veil is laid aside; a woman's coquetry is endless, she shrouds herself in veil after veil, she satisfies every demand of man's vanity, the novice responds but to one.
Women know not the whole of their coquetry.
Women can less easily surmount their coquetry than their passions.
What necessity impels a writer who has produced fifty books to write still one more? Why this proliferation, this fear of being forgotten, this debased coquetry?
We show wisdom by a decent conformity to social etiquette; it is excess of neatness or display that creates dandyism in men, and coquetry in women.
Women find it far more difficult to overcome their inclination to coquetry than to overcome their love.
Coquetry is the champagne of love.
Coquetry is the art of successful deception.
The most effective coquetry is innocence.
Coquetry, it's a triumph of the spirit over the senses.
The greatest miracle of love is the cure of coquetry.
Love's greatest miracle is the curing of coquetry.
Neither coquetry nor love is imbued with discretion.
It is a species of coquetry to make a parade of never practising it.
Tis a sort of coquetry to boast that we never coquet.