Thomas Browne

“ I bring the day to its close with a murderous weariness of words, I lie sleepless at night, my wakeful nose snores in vain. The moon will die before that lunatic is silent; unless Mercury soothes him down with his wand or turns him into a fish, it is hopeless to think of sleep.
It is useless for you to spread your table, vain to invite your guests; where that pea and nut merchant dines, the cross-river walker or anyone from the bridge will refuse. Even those who cultivate the long shadow are less afraid of a shade from the dead than of your shadower. ”

“ I ask him the time of day and if he stops talking in half an hour I think it laconic; if I ask him how old he is, I am told his life-history, and there he makes a long trail to arrive at trivialities, and finally he lets me go at sunset, riddled with weariness, like a frog in the desert. Reticence and philosophical reserve he considers the dumbness of a madman and an invalid’s whim. He would have Harpocrates hanged, chatters in church and, a Siren in himself, sings even to the deaf. You must hit him with your stick if you want him to stop, it is the only argument he admits. ”

“ Now countrified and uncouth, with his tasteless blanket of words, with his village jokes from beyond the pale, the little wretch, who ought to be sent to the gladiators, stirs my bile and stomach and soaks me in a veritable English sweat.
It is not me alone that he crucifies. That fool talker, that A 1 blatherer, empties the theatre. When he crows every wind-player slips away at once: the flutes, the pipers, the keeners, the singers to the waxing moon, betake themselves to flight. ”