When we leave this world, and are laid in the earth, the prince walks as narrow a path as the day-laborer.

Happy the man to whom heaven has given a morsel of bread without laying him under the obligation of thanking any other for it than heaven itself.

Nay, what is worse, perhaps turn poet, which, they say, is an infectious and incurable distemper.

For historians ought to be precise, truthful, and quite unprejudiced, and neither interest nor fear, hatred nor affection, should cause them to swerve from the path of truth, whose mother is history, the rival of time, the depository of great actions, the witness of what is past, the example and instruction of the present, the monitor of the future.

Blessed be he who invented sleep, a cloak that covers all a man's thoughts.

I never thrust my nose into other men's porridge. It is no bread and butter of mine; every man for himself, and God for us all.

When we are asleep, we are all equal.