Hope animates the wise, and lures the presumptuous and indolent who repose inconsiderately on her promises.
Few people are modest enough to be estimated at their true worth.
Consciousness of our strength increases it.
There does not exist a man sufficiently intelligent never to be tiresome.
If our friends do us a service, we think they owe it to us by their title of friend. We never think that they do not owe us their friendship.
Is it against justice or reason to love ourselves? And why is self-love always a vice?