has taken me so aback that I cannot well reconcile myself to it; I belong to the years wherein we kept another kind of account.  So ancient and so long a custom challenges my adherence to it, so that I am constrained to be somewhat heretical on that point incapable of any, though corrective, innovation.  My imagination, in spite of my teeth, always pushes me ten days forward or backward, and is ever murmuring in my ears:  “This rule concerns those who are to begin to be.”  If health itself, sweet as it is, returns to me by fits, ’tis rather to give me cause of regret than possession of it; I have no place left to keep it in.  Time leaves me; without which nothing can be possessed.  Oh, what little account should I make of those great elective dignities that I see in such esteem in the world, that are never conferred but upon men who are taking leave of it; wherein they do not so much regard how well the man will discharge his trust, as how short his administration will be:  from the very entry they look at the exit.  In short, I am about finishing this man, and not rebuilding another.  By long use, this form is in me turned into substance, and fortune into nature.

I say, therefore, that every one of us feeble creatures is excusable in thinking that to be his own which is comprised under this measure; but withal, beyond these limits, ’tis nothing but confusion; ’tis the largest extent we can grant to our own claims.  The more we amplify our need and our possession, so much the more do we expose ourselves to the blows of Fortune and adversities.  The career of our desires ought to be circumscribed and restrained to a short limit of the nearest and most contiguous commodities; and their course ought, moreover, to be performed not in a right line, that ends elsewhere, but in a circle, of which the two points, by a short wheel, meet and terminate in ourselves.  Actions that are carried on without this reflection—­a near and essential reflection, I mean—­such as those of ambitious and avaricious men, and so many more as run point-blank, and to whose career always carries them before themselves, such actions, I say; are erroneous and sickly.

Most of our business is farce: 

               “Mundus universus exercet histrioniam.”
               —­[Petronius Arbiter, iii. 8.]

We must play our part properly, but withal as a part of a borrowed personage; we must not make real essence of a mask and outward appearance; nor of a strange person, our own; we cannot distinguish the skin from the shirt:  ’tis enough to meal the face, without mealing the breast.  I see some who transform and transubstantiate themselves into as many new shapes and new beings as they undertake new employments; and who strut and fume even to the heart and liver, and carry their state along with them even to the close-stool:  I cannot make them distinguish the salutations made to themselves from those made to their commission, their train, or their mule: