Conscience serves us especially to judge of the actions of others.

The grave is a crucible where memory is purified; we only remember a dead friend by those qualities which make him regretted.

Conscience whispers, but interest screams aloud.

The weak-minded man is the slave of his vices and the dupe of his virtues.

Loud indignation against vice often stands for virtue in the eyes of bigots.

Envy, like flame, blackens that which is above it, and which it cannot reach.

It is almost impossible to find those who admire us entirely lacking in taste.