Books Can Warm The Heart With Friendly

Books Never Pall On Me. They Discourse With Us, They Take Counsel With Us, And Are United To Us By A Certain Living Chatty Familiarity. And Not Only Does Each Book Inspire The Sense That It Belongs To Its Readers, But It Also Suggests The Name Of Others, And One Begets The Desire Of The Other.

For Death Betimes Is Comfort, Not Dismay, And Who Can Rightly Die Needs No Delay.

Books Come At My Call And Return When I Desire Them; They Are Never Out Of Humor And They Answer All My Questions With Readiness. Some Present In Review Before Me The Events Of Past Ages; Others Reveal To Me The Secrets Of Nature. These Teach Me How To Live, And Those How To Die; These Dispel My Melancholy By Their Mirth, And Amuse Me By Their Sallies Of Wit. Some There Are Who Prepare My Soul To Suffer Everything, To Desire Nothing, And To Become Thoroughly Acquainted With Itself. In A Word, They Open The Door To All The Arts And Sciences.

Where Are The Numerous Constructions Erected By Agrippa, Of Which Only The Pantheon Remains? Where Are The Splendorous Palaces Of The Emperors?

Do You Suppose There Is Any Living Man So Unreasonable That If He Found Himself Stricken With A Dangerous Ailment He Would Not Anxiously Desire To Regain The Blessing Of Health?