Maxims are the condensed good sense of nations.
A vice utterly at variance with the happiness of him who harbors it, and, as such, condemned by self-love.
It is right to be content with what we have, never with what we are.
Praise is the symbol which represents sympathy, and which the mind insensibly substitutes for its recollection and language.
The frivolous work of polished idleness.
Diffused knowledge immortalizes itself.