I like a friend the better for having faults that one can talk about.

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

One is always more vexed at losing a game of any sort by a single hole or ace, than if one has never had a chance of winning it.

The imagination is of so delicate a texture that even words wound it.

I do not think there is anything deserving the name of society to be found out of London.

Reflection makes men cowards.

We talk little when we do not talk about ourselves.