the natural term of its duration; in that part of my being and several
others, are already dead, others half dead, of those that were most
active and in the first rank during my vigorous years; 'tis so I melt and
steal away from myself. What a folly it would be in my understanding to
apprehend the height of this fall, already so much advanced, as if it
were from the very top! I hope I shall not. I, in truth, receive a
principal consolation in meditating my death, that it will be just and
natural, and that henceforward I cannot herein either require or hope
from Destiny any other but unlawful favour. Men make themselves believe
that we formerly had longer lives as well as greater stature. But they
deceive themselves; and Solon, who was of those elder times, limits the
duration of life to threescore and ten years. I, who have so much and so
universally adored that "The mean is best," of the passed time, and who
have concluded the most moderate measures to be the most perfect, shall
I pretend to an immeasurable and prodigious old age? Whatever happens
contrary to the course of nature may be troublesome; but what comes
according to her should always be pleasant:

"Omnia, quae secundum naturam fiunt, sunt habenda in bonis."

["All things that are done according to nature
are to be accounted good."--Cicero, De Senect., c. 19.]

And so, says Plato, the death which is occasioned by wounds and diseases
is violent; but that which comes upon us, old age conducting us to it, is
of all others the most easy, and in some sort delicious:

"Vitam adolescentibus vis aufert, senibus maturitas."

["Young men are taken away by violence, old men by maturity."
--Cicero, ubi sup.]

Death mixes and confounds itself throughout with life; decay anticipates
its hour, and shoulders itself even into the course of our advance.
I have portraits of myself taken at five-and-twenty and five-and-thirty
years of age. I compare them with that lately drawn: how many times is
it no longer me; how much more is my present image unlike the former,
than unlike my dying one? It is too much to abuse nature, to make her
trot so far that she must be forced to leave us, and abandon our conduct,
our eyes, teeth, legs, and all the rest to the mercy of a foreign and
haggard countenance, and to resign us into the hands of art, being weary
of following us herself.

I am not excessively fond either of salads or fruits, except