The tranquility or agitation of our temper does not depend so much on the big things which happen to us in life, as on the pleasant or unpleasant arrangements of the little things which happen daily.

How deceitful hope may be, yet she carries us on pleasantly to the end of life.

We easily forgive our friends those faults that do no affect us ourselves.

The defects of the mind, like those of the face, grow worse with age.

We rarely think people have good sense unless they agree with us.

It is worth nothing to be young without being beautiful, nor to be beautiful without being young.

When we enlarge upon the affection our friends have for us, this is very often not so much out of a sense of gratitude as from a desire to persuade people of our own great worth, that can deserve so much kindness.