No Accidents Are So Unlucky [bad] But

The Truest Comparison We Can Make Of Love Is To Liken It To A Fever; We Have No More Power Over The One Than The Other, Either As To Its Violence Or Duration.

Οur Own Distrust Somewhat Justifies The Deceit Of Others.

Second-rate Minds Usually Condemn Everything Beyond Their Grasp.

When Our Vices Desert Us, We Flatter Ourselves That We Are Deserting Our Vices.

Even The Most Disinterested Love Is, After All, But A Kind Of Bargain, In Which Self-love Always Proposes To Be The Gainer One Wayor Another.