The Secret Thoughts Of A Man Run

Whatsoever Therefore Is Consequent To A Time Of War, Where Every Man Is Enemy To Every Man, The Same Consequent To The Time Wherein Men Live Without Other Security Than What Their Own Strength And Their Own Invention Shall Furnish Them Withal. In Such Condition There Is No Place For Industry... No Knowledge Of The Face Of The Earth; No Account Of Time; No Arts; No Letters; No Society; And Which Is Worst Of All, Continual Fear, And Danger Of Violent Death; And The Life Of Man, Solitary, Poor, Nasty, Brutish, And Short.

From Whence It Happens, That They Which Trust To Books, Do As They That Cast Up Many Little Sums Into A Greater, Without Considering Whether Those Little Sums Were Rightly Cast Up Or Not; And At Last Finding The Error Visible, And Not Mistrusting Their First Grounds, Know Not Which Way To Clear Themselves; But Spend Time In Fluttering Over Their Books, As Birds That Entering By The Chimney, And Finding Themselves Enclosed In A Chamber, Flutter At The False Light Of A Glass Window, For Want Of Wit To Consider Which Way They Came In.

The Secret Thoughts Of A Man Run Over All Things, Holy, Profane, Clean, Obscene, Grave, And Light, Without Shame Or Blame.

As, In Sense, That Which Is Really Within Us, Is (as I Have Said Before) Only Motion, Caused By The Action Of External Objects, But In Appearance; To The Sight, Light And Color; To The Ear, Sound; To The Nostril, Odor, &c.

The Register Of Knowledge Of Fact Is Called History .