No man would, I think, exchange his existence with any other man, however fortunate. We had as lief not be, as not be ourselves.

The ignorance of the world leaves one at the mercy of its malice.

We grow tired of everything but turning others into ridicule, and congratulating ourselves on their defects.

Love turns, with a little indulgence, to indifference or disgust; hatred alone is immortal.

To give a reason for anything is to breed a doubt of it.

We all wear some disguise, make some professions, use some artifice, to set ourselves off as being better than we are; and yet it is not denied that we have some good intentions and praiseworthy qualities at bottom.

To expect an author to talk as he writes is ridiculous; or even if he did you would find fault with him as a pedant.