I often sink forward on my huge old Marsilius Ficinus in a fit of laughter.

I should say that there never was a vein of ridicule so rich, at the same time so delicate.

It is superior to Voltaire's; nay, to Pascal's.

Perhaps there are one or two passages in Cervantes, and one or two in Fielding, that might give a modern reader a notion of it.
I have very nearly finished Livy.

I never read him through before.