Though the ancient poet in Plutarch tells us we must not trouble the gods with our affairs because they take no heed of our angers and disputes, we can never enough decry the disorderly sallies of our minds.
If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I.
Age imprints more wrinkles in the mind than it does on the face.
How many condemnations I have witnessed more criminal than the crime!
We only labor to stuff the memory, and leave the conscience and the understanding unfurnished and void.
Unless a man feels he has a good enough memory, he should never venture to lie.
