The sciences treat of things too refinedly, after an artificial, very different from the common and natural, way.  My page makes love, and understands it; but read to him Leo Hebraeus—­[Leo the Jew, Ficinus, Cardinal Bembo, and Mario Equicola all wrote Treatises on Love.]—­ and Ficinus, where they speak of love, its thoughts and actions, he understands it not.  I do not find in Aristotle most of my ordinary motions; they are there covered and disguised in another robe for the use of the schools.  Good speed them! were I of the trade, I would as much naturalise art as they artificialise nature.  Let us let Bembo and Equicola alone.

When I write, I can very well spare both the company and the remembrance of books, lest they should interrupt my progress; and also, in truth, the best authors too much humble and discourage me:  I am very much of the painter’s mind, who, having represented cocks most wretchedly ill, charged all his boys not to suffer any natural cock to come into his shop; and had rather need to give myself a little lustre, of the invention of Antigenides the musician, who, when he was asked to sing or play, took care beforehand that the auditory should, either before or after, be satiated with some other ill musicians.  But I can hardly be without Plutarch; he is so universal and so full, that upon all occasions, and what extravagant subject soever you take in hand, he will still be at your elbow, and hold out to you a liberal and not to be exhausted hand of riches and embellishments.  It vexes me that he is so exposed to be the spoil of those who are conversant with him:  I can scarce cast an eye upon him but I purloin either a leg or a wing.

And also for this design of mine ’tis convenient for me for me to write at home, in a wild country, where I have nobody to assist or relieve me; where I hardly see a man who understands the Latin of his Paternoster, and of French a little less.  I might have made it better elsewhere, but then the work would have been less my own; and its principal end and perfection is to be exactly mine.  I readily correct an accidental error, of which I am full, as I run carelessly on; but for my ordinary and constant imperfections, it were a kind of treason to put them out.  When another tells me, or that I say to myself, “Thou art too thick of figures:  this is a word of rough Gascon:  that is a dangerous phrase (I do not reject any of those that are used in the common streets of France; they who would fight custom with grammar are triflers):  this is an ignorant discourse:  this is a paradoxical discourse:  that is going too far:  thou makest thyself too merry at times:  men will think thou sayest a thing in good earnest which thou only speakest in jest.”—­“Yes, I know, but I correct the faults of inadvertence, not those of custom.  Do I not talk at the same rate throughout?  Do I not represent myself to the life?  ’Tis enough that I have done what I designed; all the world knows me in my book, and my book in me.”