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Man (in good earnest) is a marvellous vain, fickle, and unstable subject, and on whom it is very hard to form any certain and uniform judgment.
We are never present with, but always beyond ourselves: fear, desire, hope, still push us on towards the future, depriving us, in the meantime, of the sense and consideration of that which is to amuse us with the thought of what shall be, even when we shall be no more.--[Rousseau, Emile, livre ii.] "Calamitosus est animus futuri auxius." ["The mind anxious about the future is unhappy." --Seneca, Epist., 98.]
For my part, I shall take care, if I can, that my death discover nothing that my life has not first and openly declared.
even so it is with minds, which if not applied to some certain study that may fix and restrain them, run into a thousand extravagances, eternally roving here and there in the vague expanse of the imagination--
The soul that has no established aim loses itself, for, as it is said-- "Quisquis ubique habitat, Maxime, nusquam habitat." ["He who lives everywhere, lives nowhere."--Martial, vii. 73.]
And we’re off...That Monty Should Be Justly Punished For Being Overly Loquacious In The Titling Of An Essay That In The End Is Almost Shorter Than The Title
