hrough more editions than any of his others:
Moreri tells us a bookseller in Paris sold twenty thousand at one
impression.

[Illustration: Tailpiece 022]

[Illustration: Erasmus 025]

E R A S M U S's

EPISTLE

TO

Sir THOMAS MORE.

IN my late travels from Italy into England, that I might not trifle
away my time in the rehearsal of old wives' fables, I thought it more
pertinent to employ my thoughts in reflecting upon some past studies,
or calling to remembrance several of those highly learned, as well as
smartly ingenious, friends I had here left behind, among whom you (dear
Sir) were represented as the chief; whose memory, while absent at this
distance, I respect with no less a complacency than I was wont while
present to enjoy your more intimate conversation, which last afforded
me the greatest satisfaction I could possibly hope for. Having therefore
resolved to be a doing, and deeming that time improper for any serious
concerns, I thought good to divert myself with drawing up a panegyrick
upon Folly. How! what maggot (say you) put this in your head? Why, the
first hint, Sir, was your own surname of More, which comes as near
the literal sound of the word,* as you yourself are distant from the
signification of it, and that in all men's judgments is vastly wide.

* Mwpia.

In the next place, I supposed that this kind of sporting wit would be
by you more especially accepted of, by you, Sir, that are wont with this
sort of jocose raillery (such as, if I mistake not, is neither dull nor
impertinent) to be mightily pleased, and in your ordinary converse
to approve yourself a Democritus junior: for truly, as you do from a
singular vein of wit very much dissent from the common herd of mankind;
so, by an incredible affability and pliableness of temper, you have the
art of suiting your humour with all sorts of companies. I hope therefore
you will not only readily accept of this rude essay as a token from
your friend, but take it under your more immediate protection, as being
dedicated to you, and by that tide adopted for yours, rather than to
be fathered as my own. And it is a chance if there be wanting some
quarrelsome persons that will shew their teeth, and pretend these
fooleries are either too buffoon-like for a grave divine, or too
satyrical for a meek christian, and so will exclaim against me as if I
were vamping up some old farce, or acted anew the Lucian again with
a peevish snarling at all things. But