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

The sun shines even on the wicked.

Why does no one confess his sins? Because he is yet in them. It is for a man who has awoke from sleep to tell his dreams.

However wretched a fellow-mortal may be, he is still a member of our common species.

The man who thinks only of his own generation is born for few.

It is the practice of the multitude to bark at eminent men, as little dogs do at strangers.

When one is friend on himself, also is friend of everybody.