It was Rome, on the fifteenth of October, 1764, as I sat musing amidst the ruins of the Capitol, while the barefooted friars were singing vespers in the Temple of Jupiter, that the idea of writing the decline and fall of the city first started to my mind.

The desire of perfection became the ruling passion of their soul; and it is well known, that while reason embraces a cold mediocrity, our passions hurry us, with rapid violence, over the space which lies between the most opposite extremes.

Inclined to peace by his temper and situation, it was easy for [Augustus] to discover that Rome, in her present exalted situation, had much less to hope than to fear from the chance of arms; and that, in the prosecution of remote wars, the undertaking became every day more difficult, the event more doubtful, and the possession more precarious and less beneficial.

In the field of controversy I always pity the moderate party, who stand on the open middle ground exposed to the fire of both sides.

[Peace] cannot be honorable or secure, if the sovereign betrays a pusillanimous aversion to war.

Europe is secure from any future irruptions of Barbarians; since, before they can conquer, they must cease to be barbarous.

I darted a contemptuous look at the stately models of superstition.