'Make them like unto a wheel,' is a bitter sarcasm, as all the learned
know, against the grand tour, and that restless spirit for making it,
which David prophetically foresaw would haunt the children of men in the
latter days; and therefore, as thinketh the great bishop Hall, 'tis
one of the severest imprecations which David ever utter'd against the
enemies of the Lord--and, as if he had said, 'I wish them no worse luck
than always to be rolling about.'--So much motion, continues he (for he
was very corpulent)--is so much unquietness; and so much of rest, by the
same analogy, is so much of heaven.

Now, I (being very thin) think differently; and that so much of motion,
is so much of life, and so much of joy--and that to stand still, or get
on but slowly, is death and the devil--

Hollo! Ho!--the whole world's asleep!--bring out the horses--grease the
wheels--tie on the mail--and drive a nail into that moulding--I'll not
lose a moment--

Now the wheel we are talking of, and whereinto (but not whereonto,
for that would make an Ixion's wheel of it) he curseth his enemies,
according to the bishop's habit of body, should certainly be a
post-chaise wheel, whether they were set up in Palestine at that time
or not--and my wheel, for the contrary reasons, must as certainly be a
cart-wheel groaning round its revolution once in an age; and of which
sort, were I to turn commentator, I should make no scruple to affirm,
they had great store in that hilly country.

I love the Pythagoreans (much more than ever I dare tell my dear Jenny)
for their '(Greek)'--(their) 'getting out of the body, in order to think
well.' No man thinks right, whilst he is in it; blinded as he must be,
with his congenial humours, and drawn differently aside, as the bishop
and myself have been, with too lax or too tense a fibre--Reason is, half
of it, Sense; and the measure of heaven itself is but the measure of our
present appetites and concoctions.--

--But which of the two, in the present case, do you think to be mostly
in the wrong?

You, certainly: quoth she, to disturb a whole family so early.

Chapter 3.XCVII.

--But she did not know I was under a vow not to shave my beard till I
got to Paris;--yet I hate to make mysteries of nothing;--'tis the cold
cautiousness of one of those little souls from which Lessius (lib. 13.
de moribus divinis, cap. 24.) hath made his estimate, wherein he setteth
forth, That one Dutch mile, cubically multiplie