I understand with a deep sense of sorrow of the indisposition of your
Son: I fear he hath too much _mind_ for his _body_, and that
superabounds with fancy, which brings him to these fits of distemper,
proceeding from the black humour of melancholy: moreover, I have
observed that he is too much given to his study and self-society,
'specially to converse with dead men, I mean Books: you know anything in
excess is naught. Now, sir, were I worthy to give you advice, I could
wish he were well married, and it may wean him from that bookish and
thoughtful humour.--J. HOWELL. _Familiar Letters._