We trifle when we assign limits to our desires, since nature hath set none.

Men, like musical instruments, seem made to be played upon.

False friends are like our shadow, keeping close to us while we walk in the sunshine, but leaving us the instant we cross into the shade.

Can that which is the greatest virtue in philosophy, doubt (called by Galileo the father of invention), be in religion what the priests term it, the greatest of sins?

Truth, like the sun, submits to be obscured; but, like the sun, only for a time.

There is no tyrant like custom, and no freedom where its edicts are not resisted.

Excessive sensibility is only another name for morbid self-consciousness.