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

The desire of talking of ourselves, and showing those faults we do not mind having seen, makes up a good part of our sincerity.

Our own distrust gives a fair pretence for the knavery of other people.

We often in our misfortunes take that for constancy and patience which is only dejection of mind; we suffer without daring to holdup our heads, just as cowards let themselves be knocked on the head because they have not courage to strike back.

We give nothing so freely as advice.

The desire which urges us to deserve praise strengthens our good qualities, and praise given to wit, valour, and beauty, tends to increase them.

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