The Passion Of Hatred Is So Long

False Modesty Is The Masterpiece Of Vanity: Showing The Vain Man In Such An Illusory Light That He Appears In The Reputation Of The Virtue Quite Opposite To The Vice Which Constitutes His Real Character; It Is A Deceit.

I Never Have Wit Until I Am Below Stairs. [fr., Je N'ai Jamais D'esprit Qu'au Bas De L'escalier.]

A Man Is Thirty Years Old Before He Has Any Settled Thoughts Of His Fortune; It Is Not Completed Before Fifty. He Falls To Building In His Old Age, And Dies By The Time His House Is In A Condition To Be Painted And Glazed.

A Man Who Is Free And Unmarried, If He Has Some Intelligence, Can Rise Above His Fortune, Mingle In Society And Meet The Best People On An Equal Footing. This Is Harder For A Married Man: Marriage, It Seems, Confines Every Man To His Proper Rank.

From Time To Time There Appear On The Face Of The Earth Men Of Rare And Consummate Excellence, Who Dazzle Us By Their Virtue, And Whose Outstanding Qualities Shed A Stupendous Light. Like Those Extraordinary Stars Of Whose Origins We Are Ignorant, And Of Whose Fate, Once They Have Vanished, We Know Even Less, Such Men Have Neither Forebears Nor Descendants: They Are The Whole Of Their Race.