Every hour in itself, as it respects us in particular, is the only one we can call our own.

How happy the station which every moment furnishes opportunities of doing good to thousands! How dangerous that which every moment exposes to the injuring of millions!

The same common sense which makes an author write good things, makes him dread they are not good enough to deserve reading.

We rarely repent of speaking little, but often of speaking too much.

As riches and honor forsake a man, we discover him to be a fool, but nobody could find it out in his prosperity.

Such a great misfortune, not to be able to be alone.

As a man falls out of favour and his wealth declines, we discover for the first time the ridiculous aspects of his character, which were always there but which wealth and favour had concealed.