From The Anatomy of Melancholy (1621 – 1651)
We can say nothing but what hath been said, the composition and method is ours only, and shows a scholar… And for those other faults of barbarism, Doric dialect, extemporanean style, tautologies, apish imitation, a rhapsody of rags gathered together from several dung-hills, excrements of authors, toys and fopperies, confusedly tumbled out, without art, invention, judgement, wit, learning, harsh, raw, rude, fantastical, absurd, insolent, indiscreet, ill-composed, indigested, vain, scurrile, idle, dull and dry; I confess all (‘tis partly affected) thou canst not think worse of me than I do of myself… I am afraid I have over-shot myself, Laudare se vani, vituperare sulti [the vain praise themselves, the foolish blame themselves]… Our style betrays us… Our writings are as so many dishes, our readers guests; our books like beauty, that which one admires another rejects; so are we approved and men’s fancies are inclined.
Pro captu lectoris habent sua fata libelli [The reader’s fancy makes the fate of books]… He respects matter, thou are wholly for words, he loves a loose and free style, thou are all for neat composition, strong lines, hyperboles, allegories; he desires a fine frontispiece, enticing pictures… how shall I hope to express myself to each man’s humour and conceit, our to give satisfaction to all? … I resolve, if you like not my writing, go read something else. I do not much esteem thy censure.
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