Our Own Distrust Gives A Fair Pretence

We Are Better Pleased To See Those On Whom We Confer Benefits Than Those From Whom We Receive Them.

Reconciliation With Our Enemies Is Simply A Desire To Better Our Condition, A Weariness Of War, Or The Fear Of Some Unlucky Thing From Occurring.

Chance Corrects Us Of Many Faults That Reason Would Not Know How To Correct.

It Seems That Nature, Which Has So Wisely Disposed Our Bodily Organs With A View To Our Happiness, Has Also Bestowed On Us Pride, To Spare Us The Pain Of Being Aware Of Our Imperfections.

We Exaggerate The Glory Of Some Men In Order To Detract From That Of Others.