There is a beautiful Carthusian monastery in my neighbourhood, where, at all hours of the day, I find the innocent pleasures which religion offers.

In this sweet retreat I feel no want but that of my ancient friends.

In these I was once rich; but death has taken away some of them, and absence robs me of the remainder.

Though my imagination represents them, still I am not the less desirous of their real presence.

There would remain but few things for me to desire, if fortune would restore to me but two friends, such as you and Socrates.