Synopsis

Negligence is the rust of the soul, that corrodes through all her best resolves. A talkative fellow may be compared to an unbraced drum, which beats a wise man out of his wits. Loquacity is ever running, and almost incurable. He hath a poor spirit who is not planted above petty wrongs. He who would be singular in his apparel had need have something superlative to balance that affectation. I love the man that is modestly valiant, that stirs not till he most needs, and then to purpose. A continued patience I commend not.