Our Envy Always Outlives The Felicity Of

When Our Hatred Is Violent, It Sinks Us Even Beneath Those We Hate.

We Confess To Little Faults Only To Persuade Ourselves We Have No Great Ones.

The Desire Of Talking Of Ourselves, And Showing Those Faults We Do Not Mind Having Seen, Makes Up A Good Part Of Our Sincerity.

Our Actions Are Like Blank Rhymes, To Which Everyone Applies What Sense He Pleases.

The Pleasure Of Love Is In The Loving; And There Is More Joy In The Passion One Feels Than In That Which One Inspires.