Nature does not bestow virtue; to be good is an art.

The many speak highly of you, but have you really any grounds for satisfaction with yourself if you are the kind of person the many understand?

Why will no man confess his faults? Because he continues to indulge in them; a man cannot tell his dream till he wakes.

The miserable are sacred.

Shall I tell you what the real evil is? To cringe to the things that are called evils, to surrender to them our freedom, in defiance of which we ought to face any suffering.

What is more insane than to vent on senseless things the anger that is felt towards men?

The most miserable mortals are they that deliver themselves up to their palates, or to their lusts; the pleasure is short, and turns presently nauseous, and the end of it is either shame or repentance.