Is something an artist, paint he ever so rare,
Has never on canvas shown!

* * * * *

Ancient Menander accounted him happy that had but met the shadow of a
true friend; verily he had reason to say so, especially if he had tasted
of any; for truly, if I compare all the rest of my forepassed life,
which, although I have, by the mere mercy of God, passed at rest and
ease, and except the loss of so dear a friend, free from all grievous
affliction, with an ever quietness of mind, as one that have taken my
natural and original commodities in good payment, without searching any
others; if, as I say, I compare it all unto the four years I so happily
enjoyed the sweet company and most dear society of that worthy man, it
is nought but a vapor, nought but a dark and irksome light.

I do but languish, I do but sorrow; and even those pleasures all things
present me with, instead of yielding me comfort, do but redouble the
grief of his loss. We were co-partners in all things. All things were
with us at half; methinks I have stolen his part from him. I was so
accustomed to be ever two, and so inured to be never single, that
methinks I am but half myself.

--_Montaigne_.

* * * * *

A friend's bosom
Is the inmost cave of our own mind
Where we sit from the wide gaze of day