Democritus relates, and in such a manner, as if he gloried in
the good fortune and commodity of it, that when he came to Athens,
nobody there did so much as take notice of him; and Epicurus lived
there very well, that is, lay hid many years in his gardens, so
famous since that time, with his friend Metrodorus: after whose
death, making in one of his letters a kind commemoration of the
happiness which they two had enjoyed together, he adds at last, that
he thought it no disparagement to those great felicities of their
life, that in the midst of the most talked of and talking country in
the world, they had lived so long, not only without fame, but almost
without being heard of. And yet within a very few years afterward,
there were no two names of men more known or more generally
celebrated. If we engage into a large acquaintance and various
familiarities, we set open our gates to the invaders of most of our
time: we expose our life to a Quotidian Ague of frigid
impertinences, which would make a wise man tremble to think of.
Now, as for being known much by sight, and pointed at, I cannot
comprehend the honour that lies in that.
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