Men let themselves out to hire; their faculties are not for themselves, but for those to whom they have enslaved themselves; ’tis their tenants occupy them, not themselves.  This common humour pleases not me.  We must be thrifty of the liberty of our souls, and never let it out but upon just occasions, which are very few, if we judge aright.  Do but observe such as have accustomed themselves to be at every one’s call:  they do it indifferently upon all, as well little as great, occasions; in that which nothing concerns them; as much as in what imports them most.  They thrust themselves in indifferently wherever there is work to do and obligation, and are without life when not in tumultuous bustle: 

“In negotiis sunt, negotii cause,”

     ["They are in business for business’ sake.”—­Seneca, Ep., 22.]

It is not so much that they will go, as it is that they cannot stand still:  like a rolling stone that cannot stop till it can go no further.  Occupation, with a certain sort of men, is a mark of understanding and dignity:  their souls seek repose in agitation, as children do by being rocked in a cradle; they may pronounce themselves as serviceable to their friends, as they are troublesome to themselves.  No one distributes his money to others, but every one distributes his time and his life:  there is nothing of which we are so prodigal as of these two things, of which to be thrifty would be both commendable and useful.  I am of a quite contrary humour; I look to myself, and commonly covet with no great ardour what I do desire, and desire little; and I employ and busy myself at the same rate, rarely and temperately.  Whatever they take in hand, they do it with their utmost will and vehemence.  There are so many dangerous steps, that, for the more safety, we must a little lightly and superficially glide over the world, and not rush through it.  Pleasure itself is painful in profundity: 

                              “Incedis per ignes,
                    Suppositos cineri doloso.”

          ["You tread on fire, hidden under deceitful ashes.” 
          —­Horace, Od., ii. i, 7.]

The Parliament of Bordeaux chose me mayor of their city at a time when I was at a distance from France,—­[At Bagno Della Villa, near Lucca, September 1581]—­and still more remote from any such thought.  I entreated to be excused, but I was told by my friends that I had committed an error in so doing, and the greater because the king had, moreover, interposed his command in that affair.  ’Tis an office that ought to be looked upon so much more honourable, as it has no other salary nor advantage than the bare honour of its execution.  It continues two years, but may be extended by a second election, which very rarely happens; it was to me, and had never been so but twice before:  some years ago to Monsieur de Lansac, and lately to Monsieur de Biron, Marshal of France, in whose place I succeeded; and, I left mine to Monsieur de Matignon, Marshal of France also:  proud of so noble a fraternity—­