As to what concerns my other reading, that mixes a little more profit with the pleasure, and whence I learn how to marshal my opinions and conditions, the books that serve me to this purpose are Plutarch, since he has been translated into French, and Seneca.  Both of these have this notable convenience suited to my humour, that the knowledge I there seek is discoursed in loose pieces, that do not require from me any trouble of reading long, of which I am incapable.  Such are the minor works of the first and the epistles of the latter, which are the best and most profiting of all their writings.  ’Tis no great attempt to take one of them in hand, and I give over at pleasure; for they have no sequence or dependence upon one another.  These authors, for the most part, concur in useful and true opinions; and there is this parallel betwixt them, that fortune brought them into the world about the same century:  they were both tutors to two Roman emperors:  both sought out from foreign countries:  both rich and both great men.  Their instruction is the cream of philosophy, and delivered after a plain and pertinent manner.  Plutarch is more uniform and constant; Seneca more various and waving:  the last toiled and bent his whole strength to fortify virtue against weakness, fear, and vicious appetites; the other seems more to slight their power, and to disdain to alter his pace and to stand upon his guard.  Plutarch’s opinions are Platonic, gentle, and accommodated to civil society; those of the other are Stoical and Epicurean, more remote from the common use, but, in my opinion, more individually commodious and more firm.  Seneca seems to lean a little to the tyranny of the emperors of his time, and only seems; for I take it for certain that he speaks against his judgment when he condemns the action of the generous murderers of Caesar.  Plutarch is frank throughout:  Seneca abounds with brisk touches and sallies; Plutarch with things that warm and move you more; this contents and pays you better:  he guides us, the other pushes us on.

As to Cicero, his works that are most useful to my design are they that treat of manners and rules of our life.  But boldly to confess the truth (for since one has passed the barriers of impudence, there is no bridle), his way of writing appears to me negligent and uninviting:  for his prefaces, definitions, divisions, and etymologies take up the greatest part of his work:  whatever there is of life and marrow is smothered and lost in the long preparation.  When I have spent an hour in reading him, which is a great deal for me, and try to recollect what I have thence extracted of juice and substance, for the most part I find nothing but wind; for he is not yet come to the arguments that serve to his purpose, and to the reasons that properly help to form the knot I seek.  For me, who only desire to become more wise, not more learned or eloquent, these logical and Aristotelian dispositions of parts are of no use.  I would