You, O Books, are the golden vessels of the temple, the arms of the clerical militia with which the missiles of the most wicked are destroyed; fruitful olives, vines of Engaddi, fig-trees knowing no sterility; burning lamps to be ever held in the hand.

In books I find the dead as if they were alive; in books I foresee things to come; in books warlike affairs are set forth; from books come forth the laws of peace. All things are corrupted and decay in time; Saturn ceases not to devour the children that he generates; all the glory of the world would be buried in oblivion, unless God had provided mortals with the remedy of books.

Books appear to be the most immediate instruments of speculative delight.

A library of wisdom, then, is more precious than all wealth, and all things that are desirable cannot be compared to it.

Books delight us when prosperity smiles upon us; they comfort us inseparably when stormy fortune frowns on us.

All the glory of the world would be buried in oblivion, unless God had provided mortals with the remedy of books.

You, O Books, are the golden vessels of the temple, the arms of the clerical militia with which the missiles of the most wicked are destroyed; fruitful olives, vines of Engaddi, fig-trees knowing no sterility; burning lamps to be ever held in the hand.