Paradise was made for tender hearts; hell, for loveless hearts.
It is proved...that things cannot be other than they are, for since everything was made for a purpose, it follows that everything is made for the best purpose.
Only your friends steal your books.
It is better to risk saving a guilty man than to condemn an innocent one.
All styles are good except the tiresome kind.
This poem will never reach its destination. On Rousseau's Ode To Posterity