Malice often takes the garb of truth.

Defoe says that there were a hundred thousand country fellows in his time ready to fight to the death against popery, without knowing whether popery was a man or a horse.

We would willingly, and without remorse, sacrifice not only the present moment, but all the interval (no matter how long) that separates us from any favorite object.

Our repugnance to death increases in proportion to our consciousness of having lived in vain.

The vain man makes a merit of misfortune, and triumphs in his disgrace.

Most of the methods for measuring the lapse of time have, I believe, been the contrivance of monks and religious recluses, who, finding time hang heavy on their hands, were at some pains to see how they got rid of it.

A man knows his companion in a long journey and a little inn.