T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.
Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom.
O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.
How well he's read, to reason against reading!
Trust not my reading, nor my observations, Which with experimental seal do warrant The tenor of my book.
I'll read enough When I do see the very book indeed Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself.
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