Our virtues are most frequently but vices disguised.
Each of us bears his own Hell.
Every sound alarms.
The perfection of art is to conceal art.
No one is free who does not lord over himself.
Our minds are like our stomaches; they are whetted by the change of their food, and variety supplies both with fresh appetite.
We must form our minds by reading deep rather than wide.
I teach that all men are mad.
Prosperity is the measure or touchstone of virtue, for it is less difficult to bear misfortune than to remain uncorrupted by pleasure.
He who says o’er much I love not is in love.