There is a sort of love whose very excessiveness prevents the lover's being jealous.

There is no disguise which can hide love for long where it exists, or simulate it where it does not.

Idiots and lunatics see only their own wit.

Everyone complains of his memory, and nobody complains of his judgment.

Pity is often a reflection of our own evils in the ills of others. It is a delicate foresight of the troubles into which we may fall.

The reason we do not let our friends see the very bottom of our hearts is not so much distrust of them as distrust of ourselves.

Nature makes merit, and fortune puts it to work.