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One is never fortunate or as unfortunate as one imagines.
In most of mankind gratitude is merely a secret hope of further favors.
Hope, deceiving as it is, serves at least to lead us to the end of our lives by an agreeable route.
Gratitude is merely the secret hope of further favors.
Heat of blood makes young people change their inclinations often, and habit makes old ones keep to theirs a great while.
Those who are incapable of committing great crimes do not readily suspect them in others.
Too great haste to repay an obligation is a kind of ingratitude.
Those that have had great passions esteem themselves for the rest of their lives fortunate and unfortunate in being cured of them.
Our actions seem to have their lucky and unlucky stars, to which a great part of that blame and that commendation is due which is given to the actions themselves.
We only acknowledge small faults in order to make it appear that we are free from great ones.