We are more sensible of one little touch of a surgeon’s lancet than of twenty wounds with a sword in the heat of fight.

We are more solicitous that men speak of us, than how they speak.

We are nearer neighbors to ourselves than the whiteness of snow or the weight of stones are to us: if man does not know himself, how should he know his functions and powers?

We are never present with, but always beyond ourselves; fear, desire, hope, still push us on toward the future.

We are not sensible of the most perfect health, as we are of the least sickness.

We easily enough confess in others an advantage of courage, strength, experience, activity, and beauty; but an advantage in judgment we yield to none.

We every day and every hour say things of another that we might more properly say of ourselves, could we but apply our observations to our own concerns.

We only labor to stuff the memory, and leave the conscience and the understanding unfurnished and void.

We owe subjection and obedience to all our kings, whether good or bad, alike, for that has respect unto their office; but as to esteem and affection, these are only due to their virtue.

What kind of truth is it which has these mountains as its boundary and is a lie beyond them?