Every Country Hath Its Machiavel.

Were The Happiness Of The Next World Is As Closely Apprehended As The Felicities Of This, It Were A Martyrdom To Live.

I Could Never Divide Myself From Any Man Upon The Difference Of An Opinion, Or Be Angry With His Judgment For Not Agreeing With Me In That From Which Perhaps Within A Few Days I Should Dissent Myself.

How Shall We Expect Charity Towards Others, When We Are Uncharitable To Ourselves?

Had Not Almost Every Man Suffered By The Press, Or Were Not The Tyranny Thereof Become Universal, I Had Not Wanted Reason For Complaint.

There Is Another Man Within Me That's Angry With Me.