Happiness is a good that nature sells us.

It is love; love, the comfort of the human species, the preserver of the universe, the soul of all sentient beings, love, tender love.

Prejudices are what fools use for reason.

This self-love is the instrument of our preservation; it resembles the provision for the perpetuity of mankind: it is necessary, it is dear to us, it gives us pleasure, and we must conceal it.

It is impossible to translate poetry. Can you translate music?

The wicked can have only accomplices, the voluptuous have companions in debauchery, self-seekers have associates, the politic assemble the factions, the typical idler has connections, princes have courtiers. Only the virtuous have friends.

Opinion has caused more trouble on this little earth than plagues or earthquakes.