Virtue (n.) at ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a distance is like a fixed star: to the eye of reason as luminous as the noonday sun, yet so far off it gives neither light nor heat.

Virtue (n.) stripped ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠of the dismal dress divines put on her shows nothing but gentleness and affability — even, at proper intervals, play, frolic and gaiety; austere pretenders she rejects as hypocrites.

Virtue (n.) cannot ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠be limited to voluntary qualities, for courage, patience and equanimity depend little or not at all on our choice — yet every language calls them virtues.

Virtue (n.) cannot ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠belong to a useful object: a chest of drawers may be as handy as a statesman and as well proportioned as a body, but can we ever be in love with it?

Beauty (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not a quality of the circle: Euclid explained all its properties and never mentioned its beauty, because it lies only in the effect the figure has on a mind so made.

Beauty (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a pillar is in none of its parts: till a sensitive spectator appears, there is only a figure of certain dimensions.

Beauty (n.) arises ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠much from ideas of utility, yet the hunchback paid to let stock-jobbers sign contracts on his hump did not become handsome by his fortune.

Beauty (n.) of ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the body is largely the look of use: broad shoulders, lank belly, firm joints and taper legs are handsome because they are signs of force — which is why Xenophon's horse is still the jockey's horse.

Justice (n.) lives ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠only in the middle: produce extreme abundance or extreme want, perfect kindness or perfect malice, and by making it useless you destroy its very essence.

Justice (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a vault, not a wall: benevolence rises stone by stone, each adding something, but in justice each stone alone would fall, and the fabric stands only by the combination of all.

Justice (n.) differs ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠from superstition in only one respect, but a decisive one: superstition is useless and burdensome, justice is what keeps society in existence.

Justice (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the cautious, jealous virtue: in a world of profuse abundance it would never once have been dreamed of — an idle ceremonial.

Benevolence (n.) need ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠only be some particle of the dove kneaded into our frame along with the elements of the wolf and serpent — too weak to move a finger, yet enough to tip a cool preference.

Benevolence (n.) needs ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠no system: the parent flies to his child without asking how others act, and the rarer the generous man, the more we prize him.

Benevolence (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the praise that silences envy: courage and success only expose a hero to ill-will, but add "humane" and envy itself joins the applause.

Benevolence (n.) may ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠work like hunger: a desire for another's good which, by that very affection, becomes our own good and is then pursued for our own enjoyment too.

Self-love (n.) cannot ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠come first: if I have no vanity, praise gives me no delight; if no ambition, power no enjoyment; without original appetites, self-love would have almost nothing to pursue.

Self-love (n.) cannot ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠explain why we praise a noble deed done two thousand years ago, or one done by an enemy against our own interest.

Self-love (n.) makes ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠no difference even if it is the root of everything: I still esteem the man whose self-love happens to be turned toward others, and despise the one whose is not.

Self-love (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠avarice, ambition and vanity is excluded from the origin of morals not because it is too weak but because it points in the wrong direction: it is not shared.

Property (n.) rests ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠on distinctions, mine and yours, that uninstructed nature never made; things are of themselves foreign to us, and only the interests of society tie them to us.

Property (n.) examined ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠like any object of superstition looks just as whimsical: this tree's fruit I may eat, another's ten paces off it is a crime to touch.

Property (n.) would ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠have no reason to exist where I need only stretch out my hand to something equally good: why call this thing MINE?

Property (n.) by ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠alluvion: land torn from one bank and thrown on another does not become the new owner's until trees and plants have spread their roots into both — before that, the thought does not join them.

Sympathy (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠its ugly offspring too: popular sedition, party zeal and devoted obedience to factious leaders.

Sympathy (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠so delicate that we suffer for a stutterer, and even a silently read line of jarring syllables grates, because we imagine someone pronouncing it.

Sympathy (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠narrow spirits goes no further than a slight feeling of the imagination — enough to hand out praise and blame, never enough to act.

Sympathy (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠much fainter than self-concern, and fainter still for the remote — which is exactly why calm judgement must ignore those differences.

Vanity (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the importunate demand for praise that encroaches on other people's secret vanity — and betrays that you do not feel entitled to it.

Vanity (n.) has ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠a tiny jurisdiction: my name is known to so few that hardly anyone can flatter or mortify me, whereas tyranny anywhere in any age stirs my repugnance.

Vanity (n.) chooses ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠talents over virtues: we display our wit, learning and bravery with care, and are more ambitious to excel in them than in the social virtues that matter far more.

Vanity (n.) among ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the Suevi was martial: they dressed their hair not to love or be loved but to look more terrible to their enemies.

Humanity (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠proved by gouty toes: would any man walking along tread as willingly on a stranger's gouty foot as on the hard pavement?

Humanity (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠weaker than ambition but common to all: one man's ambition is not another's, but the humanity of one man is the humanity of every one.

Humanity (n.) or ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠fellow-feeling needs no further cause: it is enough that it is a principle of human nature — no man is absolutely indifferent to others' happiness and misery, and we must stop somewhere in our examination of causes.

Modesty (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠overpraised for the same reason slenderness is prized where people run fat: men overrate themselves so often that we lean as far as possible from the common deformity.

Modesty (n.) in ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠the young charms everyone partly by flattering their vanity — it presents a docile pupil hanging on every word they utter.

Modesty (n.) is ⁠​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​⁠not to be taken in earnest: only a superficial thinker supposes a man more estimable for being ignorant of his own merits.