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We sauntered after dinner in Sir Alexander's garden, and saw his little grotto, which is hung with pieces of poetry written in a fair hand. It was Non temere incusat tectae putedinis ignes; Nec fictus, febres qui fovet, humor erit, Non bilem ille movet, nulla hic pituita; Salutis Quae spes, si fallax ardeat intus aqua Nec doctas magno rixas ostentat hiatu, Quis ipsis major febribus ardor inest.
Therefore it is that I believe, that as plants, trees, and animals, and all things that have life, are seen to be by nature sufficiently clothed and covered, to defend them from the injuries of weather: "Proptereaque fere res omnes ant corio sunt, Aut seta, ant conchis, ant callo, ant cortice tectae,"
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