Unhappy is the man, though he rule the world, who doesn't consider himself supremely blessed.

There's some end at last for the man who follows a path; mere rambling is interminable.

It is for the superfluous things of life that men sweat.

It is not death we fear, but the thought of it.

It is a great thing to know the season for speech and the season for silence.

Malice drinks one-half of its own poison.

We should every night call ourselves to an account: What infirmity have I mastered today? What passions opposed! What temptation resisted? What virtue acquired?