You Cannot, By All The Lecturing In

Where No Man Thinks Himself Under Any Obligation To Submit To Another, And, Instead Of Co-operating In One Great Scheme, Every One Hastens Through By-paths To Private Profit, No Great Change Can Suddenly Be Made; Nor Is Superior Knowledge Of Much Effect, Where Every Man Resolves To Use His Own Eyes And His Own Judgment, And Every One Applauds His Own Dexterity And Diligence, In Proportion As He Becomes Rich Sooner Than His Neighbour.

I Deny The Lawfulness Of Telling A Lie To A Sick Man For Fear Of Alarming Him; You Have No Business With Consequences, You Are To Tell The Truth.

It Is Dangerous For Mortal Beauty, Or Terrestrial Virtue, To Be Examined By Too Strong A Light. The Torch Of Truth Shows Much That We Cannot, And All That We Would Not, See.

Whoever Commits A Fraud Is Guilty Not Only Of The Particular Injury To Him Who He Deceives, But Of The Diminution Of That Confidence Which Constitutes Not Only The Ease But The Existence Of Society.

Spring Is The Season Of Gaiety, And Winter Of Terror; In Spring The Heart Of Tranquility Dances To The Melody Of The Groves, And The Eye Of Benevolence Sparkles At The Sight Of Happiness And Plenty: In Winter, Compassion Melts At Universal Calamity, And The Tear Of Softness Starts At The Wailing Of Hunger And The Cries Of The Creation In Distress