“We are never content with our lot.”

A mountain in labour shouted so loud that everyone, summoned by the noise, ran up expecting that she would be delivered of a city bigger than Paris; she brought forth a mouse.

We read on the foreheads of those who are surrounded by a foolish luxury, that fortune sells what she is thought to give.

Nothing is so oppressive as a secret: women find it difficult to keep one long; and I know a goodly number of men who are women in this regard.

To live lightheartedly but not recklessly; to be gay without being boisterous; to be courageous without being bold; to show trust and cheerful resignation without fatalism – this is the art of living.

Let ignorance talk as it will, learning has its value.

We heed no instincts but our own.

The best laid plot can injure its maker, and often a man’s perfidy will rebound on himself.

All the brains in the world are powerless against the sort of stupidity that is in fashion.

If you deal with a fox, think of his tricks.

Still people are dangerous.

A hare is not caught with a drum.

If every man works at that for which nature fitted him, the cows will be well tended.

Habit, to which all of us are more or less slaves.

It is good to be charitable; but to whom? That is the point. As to the ungrateful, there is not one who does not at last die miserable.

Even if misfortune is only good for bringing a fool to his senses, it would still be just to deem it good for something.

Imitators are a slavish herd and fools in my opinion.