Solitude, on the contrary, not only deprives us of both the past and the future, but always inclines the present hour to joyless melancholy, which sooner or later ends in something intractable, Timonean, (pardon the word) or perhaps more fatal.
The rains are the best, and, indeed, the only manure in this island, and they confine their course to the forests, leaving unbedewed the tracts that are cleared.
But, woe is me, other creatures are fraile too, none but man is sinfull; our soule is not more excellent, than this tainture of it, is odious, and deadly […]
I beg that grave note be taken of this just condemnation of the essential character—“the flamboyant”ness—of the architecture which up to this time I had chiefly, and most affectionately, studied.
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DiQt
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