if I am myself outside

From Montaigne’s On Practice:  Lo here what I daily prove. Let me be under a roofe, in a good chamber, warme-clad, and well at ease, in some tempestuous and stormy night. I am exceedingly perplexed and much grieved for such as are abroad and have no shelter: But let me be in the storme my selfe, I doe not so much as desire to be else-where: Only to be continually pent up in a chamber seemed intolerable to me. (Florio) +++Here is what I experience every day: if I am warmly sheltered in a nice room during a stormy and tempestuous night, I…

unchanging style; unbroken discourse

“…And now, if you would know it, among my most familiar friends I will publish in simple language what I think, on which I have always kept silence and deemed silence fitting. In my view, even the best orators, those who can speak with the utmost ease and elegance, unless they are diffident in approaching a discourse and diffident in beginning it, seem to border on the shameless, although that can never come to pass. For the better the orator, the more profoundly is he frightened of the difficulty of speaking, and of the doubtful fate of a speech, and…

one question

But now, how stands the wind? See, how stands the vanes? The ships are safe, thou say’st, and richly fraught? Why, how now, countrymen? Why flock you thus to me in multitudes? Fond men, what dream you of their multitudes? What at our hands demand ye? How, my lord, my money? Is theft the ground of your religion? What or how can I multiply? What? Bring you scripture to confirm your wrongs? Why stand you thus unmoved by my laments? Why weep you not to think upon my wrongs?  Why pine not I and die in this distress? You partial…

calling it what it once had been

+++ XXIIThe same so sore annoyed has the knight,  That welnigh choked with the deadly stinke, His forces faile, ne can no lenger fight. Whose corage when the feend perceiv’d to shrinke, She poured forth out of her hellish sinke Her fruitfull cursed spawne of serpents small,  Deformed monsters, fowle, and blacke as inke, With swarming all about his legs did crall,And him encombred sore, but could not hurt at all. XXIII As gentle Shepheard in sweete even-tide, When ruddy Phoebus gins to welke in west,  High on an hill, his flocke to vewen wide, Markes which do byte their hasty supper best, A cloud of combrous gnattes do him molest, All striving…

Volpone

With fine delusive sleights when I am lost in blended dust, And hundred such as I am, in succession — like an old smoked wall, on which the rain ran down in streaks, Made all of terms and shreds Within a human compass. O, there spoke… To his drug-lecture draws your itching ears, … or am in love Sir, if I do it not, draw your just sword And score your vengeance on my front and face; Mark me your villain that stop the organs, and, as Plato says, Assassinates our knowledge. …such a hail of words She has let…