There Is Only One Kind Of Love,

Of All Our Faults, The One We Avow Most Easily Is Idleness; We Persuade Ourselves That It Is Allied To All The Peaceable Virtues,and As For The Others, That It Does Not Destroy Them Utterly, But Only Suspends The Exercise Of Their Functions.

As Love Increases, Prudence Diminishes.

How Can We Expect Another To Keep Our Secret If We Have Been Unable To Keep It Ourselves?

However Much We May Distrust Men's Sincerity, We Always Believe They Speak To Us More Sincerely Than To Others.

No Man Deserves To Be Praised For His Goodness, Who Has It Not In His Power To Be Wicked. Goodness Without That Power Is Generally Nothing More Than Sloth, Or An Impotence Of Will.