Francois de La Rochefoucauld

Francois de La Rochefoucauld

François VI, Duc de La Rochefoucauld, Prince de Marcillac (15 September 1613 – 17 March 1680) was a noted French author of maxims and memoirs. It is said that his world-view was clear-eyed and urbane, and that he neither condemned human conduct nor sentimentally celebrated it.

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Nature seems at each man's birth to have marked out the bounds of his virtues and vices and to have determined how good or how wicked that man shall be capable of being.

Our actions seem to have their lucky and unlucky stars to which a great part of that blame and that commendation is due which is given to the actions themselves.

No men are oftener wrong than those that can least bear to be so.

Some accidents there are in life that a little folly is necessary to help us out of.

Our aversion to lying is commonly a secret ambition to make what we say considerable and have every word received with a religious respect.

That good disposition which boasts of being most tender is often stifled by the least urging of self-interest.

There are very few things impossible in themselves, and we do not want means to conquer difficulties so much as application and resolution in the use of means.

If we are to judge of love by its consequences it more nearly resembles hatred than friendship.

We are all strong enough to bear other men's misfortunes.

Taste may change but inclination never.

We may sooner be brought to love them that hate us, than them that love us more than we would have them do.

You can find women who have never had an affair but it is hard to find a woman who has had just one.

A man's worth has its season like fruit.

There are but very few men clever enough to know all the mischief they do.

Good advice is something a man gives when he is too old to set a bad example.

There are few virtuous women who are not bored with their trade.

The force we use on ourselves to prevent ourselves from loving is often more cruel than the severest treatment at the hands of one loved.

Ridicule dishonors a man more than dishonor does.

If we judge love by most of its effects it resembles rather hatred than affection.

The desire of talking of ourselves and showing those faults we do not mind having seen makes up a good part of our sincerity.

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