He Who Does Not Live In Some

To Divert Myself From A Troublesome Fancy, It Is But To Run To My Books; They Presently Fix Me To Them, And Drive The Other Out Of My Thoughts, And Do Not Mutiny To See That I Have Only Recourse To Them For Want Of Other More, Real, Natural, And Lively Conveniences; They Always Receive Me With The Same Kindness.

How Many Worthy Men Have We Known To Survive Their Own Reputation, Who Have Seen And Suffered The Honor And Glory Most Justly Acquired In Their Youth, Extinguished In Their Own Presence?

Those That Will Combat Use And Custom By The Strict Rules Of Grammar Do But Jest

We Seek And Offer Ourselves To Be Gulled.

Every Place Swarms With Commentaries; Of Authors There Is Great Scarcity.