All wars are civil wars, because all men are brothers.

It is only imperfection that complains of what is imperfect. The more perfect we are, the more gentle and quiet we become toward the defects of others.

If the riches of the Indies, or the crowns of all the kingdom of Europe, were laid at my feet in exchange for my love of reading, I would spurn them all.

If we were faultless we should not be so much annoyed by the defects of those with whom we associate.