Most of our faults are more pardonable than the means we use to conceal them.

Youth is a perpetual intoxication; it is a fever of the mind.

Plenty of people want to be pious, but no one yearns to be humble.

When the soul is ruffled by the remains of one passion, it is more disposed to entertain a new one than when it is entirely curedand at rest from all.

Our self-love can less bear to have our tastes than our opinions condemned.

Before strongly desiring anything, we should look carefully into the happiness of its present owner.

History never embraces more than a small part of reality