from a novelty
     “I have done nothing to-day”—­“What? have you not lived?”
     I have lived longer by this one day than I should have done
     I have no mind to die, but I have no objection to be dead
     I have not a wit supple enough to evade a sudden question
     I have nothing of my own that satisfies my judgment
     I honour those most to whom I show the least honour
     I lay no great stress upon my opinions; or of others
     I look upon death carelessly when I look upon it universally
     I love stout expressions amongst gentle men
     I love temperate and moderate natures
     I need not seek a fool from afar; I can laugh at myself
     I owe it rather to my fortune than my reason
     I receive but little advice, I also give but little
     I scorn to mend myself by halves
     I see no people so soon sick as those who take physic
     I speak truth, not so much as I would, but as much as I dare
     I take hold of, as little glorious and exemplary as you will
     I understand my men even by their silence and smiles
     I was always superstitiously afraid of giving offence
     I was too frightened to be ill
     “I wish you good health”—­“No health to thee” replied the other
     I would as willingly be lucky as wise
     I would be rich of myself, and not by borrowing
     I write my book for few men and for few years
     Idleness is to me a very painful labour
     Idleness, the mother of corruption
     If a passion once prepossess and seize me, it carries me away
     If I am talking my best, whoever interrupts me, stops me
     If I stand in need of anger and inflammation, I borrow it
     If it be a delicious medicine, take it
     If it be the writer’s wit or borrowed from some other
     If nature do not help a little, it is very hard
     If they can only be kind to us out of pity
     If they chop upon one truth, that carries a mighty report
     If they hear no noise, they think men sleep
     If to philosophise be, as ’tis defined, to doubt
     Ignorance does not offend me, but the foppery of it
     Impotencies that so unseasonably surprise the lover
     Ill luck is good for something
     Imagne the mighty will not abase themselves so much as to live
     Imitating other men’s natures, thou layest aside thy own
     Immoderate either seeking or evading glory or reputation
     Impose them upon me as infallible
     Impostures:  very strangeness lends them credit
     Improperly we call this voluntary dissolution, despair
     Impunity pass with us for justice
     In everything else a man may keep some decorum
     In ordinary friendships I am somewhat cold and shy
     In solitude, be company for thyself—­Tibullus
     In sorrow there is some mixture of pleasure
     In the meantime, their halves were begging at their doors