Dec 2002 The Essays of Montaigne, V12, 1877, Cotton [MN#12][mn12v10.txt]3592 BOOK THE SECOND.--CHAP. XVIII. to XXXI. XVIII. Of giving the lie. XIX. Of liberty of conscience. XX. That we taste nothing pure. XXI. Against idleness. XXII. Of Posting. XXIII. Of ill means employed to a good end. XXIV. Of the Roman grandeur. XXV. Not to counterfeit being sick. XXVI. Of thumbs. XXVII. Cowardice the mother of cruelty. XXVIII. All things have their season. XXIX. Of virtue. XXX. Of a monstrous child. XXXI. Of anger. A man may always study, but he must not always go to school Accursed be thou, as he that arms himself for fear of death All things have their seasons, even good ones All those who have authority to be angry in my family "An emperor," said he, "must die standing" Ancient Romans kept their youth always standing at school And we suffer the ills of a long peace Be not angry to no purpose Best virtue I have has in it some tincture of vice By resenting the lie we acquit ourselves of the fault By the gods," said he, "if I was not angry, I would execute you Children are amused with toys and men with words Consent, and complacency in giving a man's self up to melancholy Defend most the defects with which we are most tainted Emperor Julian, surnamed the Apostate Fortune sometimes seems to delight in taking us at our word Greatest talkers, for the most part, do nothing to purpose Have more wherewith to defray my journey, than I have way to go Hearing a philosopher talk of military affairs How much it costs him to do no worse I need not seek a fool from afar; I can laugh at myself Idleness, the mother of corruption If a passion once prepossess and seize me, it carries me away In sorrow there is some mixture of pleasure Killing is good to frustrate an offence to come, not to revenge Laws cannot subsist without mixture of injustice Least end of a hair will serve to draw them into my discourse Let us not seek our disease out of ourselves; 'tis in us Look on death not only without astonishment but without care Melancholy: Are there not some constitutions that feed upon it? Most cruel people, and upon frivolous occasions, apt to cry. No beast in the world so much to be feared by man as man Our extremest pleasure has some sort of groaning Our fancy does what it will, both with itself and us Owe ourselves chiefly and mostly to ourselves Petulant madness contends with itself Rage it puts them to oppose silence and coldness to their fury Rash and incessant scolding runs into custom Revenge, which afterwards produces a series of new cruelties See how flexible our reason is Seeming anger, for the better governing of my house Shake the truth of our Church by the vices of her ministers Take my last leave of every place I depart from The gods sell us all the goods they give us The storm is only begot by a concurrence of angers Though nobody should read me, have I wasted time