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MADAM,
IN your last Letter you sent me word, that Sir F. O. was retir'd to write his own Life, for he saies, he knows no reason, but he may write his own life as well as Guzman; and since you desire my opinion of his intended work, I can onely say, that his Life for any thing I know to the contrary, hath been as evil as Guzman's, but whether his Wit be as good as Guzman's, I knovv not, yet I doubt the vvorst, and to vvrite
an Evil life vvithout VVit, vvill be but a dull and tedious Story, indeed so tedious and dull, as I believe none will take the pains to read it, unless he himself read of himself: but it is to be hoped, that he will be tir'd of himself, and so desist from his self Story. And if he do write his own Life, it will be as a masking Dolphin, or such like thing, where the outside is painted past-board or canvas, and the inside stuff'd with shreds of paper, or dirty raggs, scrap'd from dunghils: and if he set his Picture before, as a Frontispiece to his Book, it will be like an ill-favour'd masking Vizzard. But if he have any Friends, surely they will perswade him to im∣ploy his time about something else; but some are so unhappy, as they have nothing to imploy Time with; they can waste Time, but not im∣ploy Time; and as they waste Time, so Time wasts them. There's a saying, That men are born to live, and live to dye; but I think some are onely born to dye, and not to live; for they make small use of life, and life makes small use of them; so that in effect they were ready for the Grave, as soon as they came forth from the Womb. Wherefore if Sir F. O. go forward with his work, he will dig his Grave through the story of his Life, and his Soul-less Wit will be buried therein. But leaving his dead Wit to his paper Coffin, and his unprofitable Labours to his black mourning Ink, I rest,
Madam,
Your faithful Fr. and S.