It is difficult to define love; all we can say is, that in the soul it is a desire to rule, in the mind it is a sympathy, and in the body it is a hidden and delicate wish to possess what we love-Plus many mysteries.

If we are to judge of love by its consequences, it more nearly resembles hatred than friendship.

What men have called friendship is only a social arrangement, a mutual adjustment of interests, an interchange of services given and received; it is, in sum, simply a business from which those involved propose to derive a steady profit for their own self-love.

The constancy of the wise is only the talent of concealing the agitation of their hearts.

We have no patience with other people's vanity because it is offensive to our own.

It seems that nature, which has so wisely disposed our bodily organs with a view to our happiness, has also bestowed on us pride, to spare us the pain of being aware of our imperfections.

We would rather see those to whom we do good, than those who do good to us.