If there were no falsehood in the world, there would be no doubt, if there were no doubt, there would be no inquiry; if no inquiry, no wisdom, no knowledge, no genius; and Fancy herself would lie muffled up in her robe, inactive, pale, and bloated.

Lying is not only excusable; it is not only innocent, and instinctive; it is, above all, necessary and unavoidable. Without the ameliorations that it offers life would become a mere syllogism, and hence too metallic to be borne.

People on the Continent either tell you the truth or lie; in England they hardly ever lie, but they would not dream of telling you the truth.

I do myself a greater injury in lying than I do him of whom I tell a lie.

In plain truth, lying is an accursed vice. We are not men, nor have other tie upon one another, but by our word.

That lies should be necessary to life is part and parcel of the terrible and questionable character of existence.

A liar should have a good memory.

Repetition does not transform a lie into a truth.

To tell a falsehood is like the cut of a sabre; for though the wound may heal, the scar of it will remain.

A liar goes in fine clothes, A liar goes in rags. A liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.