14282	----	Proofreading Team. [Transcriber's Note: With the exception of hyphenation at the end of lines, the text version preserves the line breaks of the original; the html version has been treated similar to drama and starts a new paragraph for each change of speaker. An illustration of the title page is included to give an impression of the original.] A mery Dia- logue, declaringe the propertyes of shrowde shrewes, and ho- nest wyues, not onelie verie pleasaunte, but also not a lytle profitable: made by ye famous clerke D. Erasmus. Roteroda- mus. Translated into Englyshe. Anno. M.CCCCC. LVII. Eulalia. God spede, & a thousand mine old acqueintance. xantippa. xan. As many agayn, my dere hert. Eulalia. me semets ye ar waren much faire now of late. Eula. Saye you so? gyue you me a mocke at the first dash. xan. Nay veryly but I take you so. Eula. Happely mi new gown maketh me to loke fayrer then I sholde doe. xan. Sothe you saye, I haue not sene a mynioner this many dayes, I reken it Englishe cloth. Eu. It is english stuff and dyed in Venis. xan. It is softer then sylke what an oriente purpel colore here is who gaue you so rich a gift. Eu. How shoulde honeste women come by their gere? but by their husbandes. xan. Happy arte thou that hathe suche an husband, but I wolde to god for his passyon, that I had maryed an husband of clowts, when I had maried col my good man. Eula. Why say ye so. I pray you, are you at oddes now. xan. I shal neuer be at one with him ye se how beggerly I go. I haue not an hole smock to put on my backe, and he is wel contente with all: I praye god I neuer come in heuen & I be not ashamed oftimes to shewe my head, when I se other wiues how net and trim they go that ar matched with farre porer men then he is. Eula. The apparell of honest wiues is not in the aray of the body, nor in the tirements of their head as saynte Peter the apostle teacheth vs (and that I learned a late at a sermon) but in good lyuynge and honest conuersacion and in the ornamentes of the soule, the common buenes ar painted up, to please manye mennes eies we ar trime ynough yf we please our husbands only. xan. But yet my good man so euyll wylling to bestow ought vpon his wyfe, maketh good chere, and lassheth out the dowrye that hee hadde with mee no small pot of wine. Eulaly, where vpon? xantipha, wheron hym lykethe beste, at the tauerne, at the stewes and at the dyce. Eulalia Peace saye not so. xan. wel yet thus it is, then when he commeth home to me at midnight, longe watched for, he lyeth rowtyng lyke a sloyne all the leue longe nyght, yea and now and then he all bespeweth his bed, and worse then I will say at this tyme. Eulali. Peace thou dyshonesteth thy self, when thou doest dishonesteth thy husband. xantip. The deuyl take me bodye and bones but I had leuer lye by a sow with pigges, then with suche a bedfelowe. Eulali. Doest thou not then take him vp, wel favoredly for stumbling. Xantip. As he deserueth I spare no tonge. Eulalia. what doth he then. xantip. At the first breake he toke me vp vengeably, trusting that he shoulde haue shaken me of and put me to scilence with his crabid wordes. Eula Came neuer your hote wordes vnto handstrokes. xantip. On a tyme we fel so farre at wordes that we wer almost by ye eares togither. Eula what say you woman? xan. He toke vp a staffe wandryng at me, as the deuill had bene on hym ready to laye me on the bones. Eula. were thou not redye to ron in at the bench hole. xanti. Nay mary I warrant the. I gat me a thre foted stole in hand, & he had but ones layd his littell finger on me, he shulde not haue founde me lame. I woulde haue holden his nose to the grindstone Eulalia. A newe found shelde, ye wanted but youre dystaffe to haue made you a speare. xantip. And he shoulde not greatlye a laughed at his parte. Eulali. Ah my frynde. xantyppa. that way is neither good nor godly, xantippa what is neither good nor godly. yf he wyll not vse me, as hys wyfe: I wil not take him for my husbande. Eulalya. But Paule sayeth that wyues shoulde bee boner and buxome vnto their husbandes with all humylytye, and Peter also bryngethe vs an example of Sara, that called her husbande Abrahame, Lorde. xantippa. I know that as well as you then ye same paule say that men shoulde loue theyr wyues, as Christ loues his spouse the churche let him do his duete I wil do myne. Eula. But for all that, when the matter is so farre that the one muste forber the other it is reason that the woman giue place vnto the man, xan. Is he meete to be called my husbande that maketh me his vnderlynge and his dryuel? Eula. But tel me dame xantip. Would he neuer offre the stripes after that xantip. Not a stripe, and therin he was the wyser man for & he had he should haue repented euery vayne in hys harte. Eulali. But thou offered him foule wordes plentie, xantip. And will do. Eula. What doth he ye meane season. xantip. What doth he sometyme cowcheth an hogeshed, somtime he doth nothing but stande and laughe at me, other whyle takethe hys Lute wheron is scarslie three strynges layenge on that as fast as he may dryue because he would not here me. Eula. Doeth that greue thee? xantippa. To beyonde home, manie a tyme I haue much a do to hold my handes. Eula. Neighbour. xantip. wylt thou gyue me leaue to be playn with the. xantippa Good leaue haue you. Eula. Be as bolde on me agayne our olde acquayntaunce and amite, euen from our chyldhode, would it should be so. xantippa. Trueth you saie, there was neuer woman kinde that I fauoured more Elaly Whatsoeuer thy husband be, marke well this, chaunge thou canst not, In the olde lawe, where the deuill hadde cast aboone betwene the man and the wife, at the worste waye they myght be deuorsed, but now that remedie is past, euen till death depart you he must nedes be thy husbande, and thou hys wyfe, xan. Il mote they thryue & thei that taken away that liberty from vs Eulalia. Beware what thou sayest, it was christes act. Xan. I can euil beleue that Eula. It is none otherwyse, now it is beste that eyther of you one beyng with an other, ye laboure to liue at reste and peace. xantyppa. Why? can I forgeue him a new, Eu. It lieth great parte in the women, for the orderinge of theyr husbandes. xan. Leadest thou a mery life with thine. Eula Now all is well. xan. Ergo ther was somwhat to do at your fyrste metying Eula. Neuer no greate busynes, but yet as it, happeneth now and than betwene man & woman, there was foule cloudes a loft, that might haue made a storme but that they were ouer blowen with good humanitie and wyse handlynge. Euery man hath hys maner and euery man hath his seueral aptite or mynde, and thinkes hys owne way best, & yf we list not to lie there liueth no man without faulte, which yf anie were elles, ywis in wedlocke they ought to know and not vtterly hated xan, you say well, Eulalya. It happeneth many times that loue dayes breketh betwene man and wife, before ye one be perfitly knowen vnto the other beware of that in any wife, for when malice is ones begon, loue is but barely redressed agayne, namely, yf the mater grow furthe unto bytter checkes, & shamfull raylinges such things as are fastened with glew, yf a manne wyll all to shake them strayght waye whyle the glew is warme, they soone fal in peces, but after ye glew is ones dried vp they cleue togither so fast as anie thing, wherefore at the beginning a meanes must be made, that loue mai encrease and be made sure betwene ye man & the wife, & that is best brought aboute by gentilnesse and fayre condycions, for the loue that beautie onelie causeth, is in a maner but a cheri faire Xan. But I praye you hartelye tell me, by what pollycy ye brought your good man to folow your daunce. Eula. I wyll tell you on this condicyon, that ye will folowe me. xan. I can. Eula, It is as easy as water if ye can find in your hart to do it, nor yet no good time past for he is a yong man, and you ar but agirle of age, and I trowe it is not a yere ful sins ye wer maried. Xan All thys is true Eulalia. I wyll shew you then. But you must kepe it secret xantip. with a ryght good wyl. Eula. This was my chyefe care, to kepe me alwayes in my housbandes fauoure, that there shulde nothyng angre him I obserued his appetite and pleasure I marked the tymes bothe whan he woulde be pleased and when he wold be all byshrwed, as they tameth the Elephantes and Lyons or suche beastes that can not be wonne by strength xantyppa. Suche a beaste haue I at home. Eula. Thei that goth vnto the Elephantes weare no white garmentes, nor they that tame wylde bulles, weare no blasynge reedes, for experience teacheth, that suche beastes bee madde with those colours, like as the Tygers by the sound of tumbrels be made so wode, that thei plucke theymself in peces. Also thei that breake horses haue their termes and theyr soundes theyr hadlynges, and other knackes to breake their wyldnes, wyth all. Howe much more then is it oure duetyes that ye wyues to use suche craftes toward our husbandes with whom all our lyfe tyme wil we, nyl we is one house, and one bed. xantip. furthwith your tale. Eula, when I had ones marked there thynges. I applied my selfe unto hym, well ware not to displease him. xantip. How could thou do that. Eulalya. Fyrste in the ouerseynge my householde, which is the very charge and cure of wyues, I wayted euer, not onely gyuynge hede that nothing shoulde be forgotten or undoone, but that althynges should be as he woulde haue it, wer it euer so small a trifle. xan. wherin. Eulalia. As thus. Yf mi good man had a fantasye to this thynge, or to that thyng, or if he would haue his meate dressed on this fashion, or that fashion. xan. But howe couldest thou fashyon thye selfe after hys wyll and mynde, that eyther woulde not be at home or elles be as freshe as a saulte heryng. Elali. Abyde a while. I come not at that yet, yf my husband wer very sad at anye tyme, no time to speake to him. I laughed not nor tryfled him as many a woman doth but I looked rufully and heauyly, for as a glasse (if it be a true stone) representeth euer ye physnamy of hym that loketh in it, so lykewyse it becommeth a wedded woman alway to agre vnto the appetite of her husbande, that she be not mery when he murneth, nor dysposed to play when he is sad. And if that at any time he be waiward shrewshaken, either I pacyfye hym with faire wordes, or I let hym alone, vntyll the wynd be ouerblowen gyuing him neuer a word at al, vntil the time come that I may eyther excuse my faute, or tell hym of hys. In lyke wyse when he commeth home wel whitled, I gyue hym gentyll and fayre woordes, so with fayre entreatynge I gette hym to bed. xantyppa, O careful state of wyues, when they muste be gladde and fayne to followe their husbandes mindes, be thei eluyshe, dronken, or doying what myschiefe they liste. Eula. As whoe saieth this gentill dealynge serueth not for bothe partyes, for they spyte of theyr berdes muste suffre many thynges in our demeanor, yet a time ther is, when in a weighty matter it is laufull that the wyfe tell the good man his faute, if that it be matter of substaunce, for at lyght trifles, it is best to play byll under wynge. xantyp. what tune is that Eula. when he is ydle, neither angry, pensife, nor ouersen, then betwixt you two secretly he must be told his faute gently, or rather intreated, that in this thynge or that he play the better husbande to loke better to his good name and fame and to his helth and this tellyng must be myxt with mery conceites and pleasaunt wordes many times I make a meane to tel my tale after this fashyon, that he shall promise me, he shal take no displeasure wyth my thynge, that I a foolyshe woman shall breake vnto hym, that pertayneth eyther to hys helthe worshyppe or welth. When I haue sayde that I woulde, I chop cleane from that communication and falle into some other pastime, for this is all our fautes, neyghbour Xantippa, that when we begyn ones to chat our tounges neuer lie. Xantip. So men say Eulalia. Thus was I well ware on, that I neuer tell my husband his fautes before companie, nor I neuer caried any complaynte furthe a dores: the mendes is soner made when none knoweth it but two, and there were anie suche faute that myght not be wel borne nor amended by ye wyues tellige, it is more laudable that the wife make complaynte vnto the Parentes and kynsfolke of her husband, then vnto her own, and so to moderate her complaynte that she seme not to hate hym but hys vice nor let her play all the blabbe, that in some poynt vnutered, he may know & loue his wiues curteysy. Xantip. She had nede be aswellerned woman, that would do all this. Eu. Mary through suche demeanoure, we shall sterre our husbandes vnto lyke gentylnesse. Xan: There be some that cannot be amended with all the gentyll handlynge in the worlde. Eula: In faith I thyncke nay, but case there be, marke this wel the good man must be for borne, howe soeuer the game goeth, then is it better to haue him alwayes at one point or ells more kinde and louing throw oure gentill handlinge, then to haue him worse and worse throwe our cursednesse, what wyll you say and I tell you of husbandes that hath won theyr wiues by suche curtesie, howe muche more are we bounde to use the same towarde our husbandes. Xantip. Than shall you tell of one farre vnlyke vnto thyne husband. Eula. I am aquented with a certayne gentelman well lerned and a veri honest man, he maried a yonge wyfe, a mayden of. xvii. yeare olde brede and brought vp of a chylde in the countre vnder her fathers and mother wing (as gentilmen delite to dwel in the countre) to hunt & hawke This yong gentilman would haue one that were unbroken, because he might the soner breake her after hys owne mind, he began to entre her in learning syngynge, and playinge, and by lytle and lytle to vse here to repete suche thynges as she harde at sermons, and to instruct her with other things that myght haue doone her more good in time to come. This gere, because it was straunge vnto this young woman which at home was brought vp in all ydelnesse, and with the light communication of her fathers seruantes, and other pastimes, began to waxe greuouse & paynfull, vnto her. She withdrew her good mynde and dylygence and when her husband called vpon her she put ye finger in the eye, and wepte and many times she would fal downe on the grounde, beatynge her head agaynst the floure, as one that woulde be out of thys worlde. When there was no healpe for this gere, the good man as though he hadde bene wel asked his wyfe yf she woulde ryde into the countre with him a sporting vnto her fathers house, so that she graunted anone. When they were commen thyther, the gentilman left his wyfe with her mother & her sisters he went furth an huntynge with his father in lawe, there betwene theym two, he shewed al together, how that he hadde hoped to haue had a louynge companion to lead his lyfe withall, now he hath one that is alwaies blubberynge and pyninge her selfe awaye withoute anye remedie, he prayeth him to lay to hys hande in amendinge his doughters fautes her father answered that he had ones giuen hym his doughter, and yf that she woulde not be rewled by wordes (a goddes name take Stafforde lawe) she was his owne. Then the gentylman sayd agayne, I know that I may do but I had leuer haue her amended eyther by youre good counsell or commaundement, then to come vnto that extreme waies, her father promised that he would fynde a remedye. After a dai or two, he espied time and place when he might be alone with his doughter. Then he loked soureli vpon his doughter, as though he had bene horne woode with her, he began to reherse how foule a beaste she was, how he feared many tymes that she neuer haue bestowed her. And yet sayde he much a doe, vnto my great coste and charg, I haue gotten the one that moughte lye by any Ladyes syde, and she were a quene and yet thou not perceiuying what I haue done for the nor knowynge that thou hast suche a man whiche but of his goodnes myghte thynke thee to euill to be stoye in his kytchen, thou contrariest al his mind to make a short tale he spake so sharpely to her, that she feared that he wold haue beaten her. It is a man of asubtyll and wylye wytte, whyche wythout a vysarde is ready to playe anye maner of parte. Then this yonge wife what for feare, and for trouthe of the matter, cleane stryken oute of countenaunce, fell downe at her fathers fete desyryng hym that he wolde forgette and forgiue her all that was past and euer after she woulde doe her duetye Her father forgaue her, and promised that she shoulde finde him a kynd and a louynge father, yf so be that she perfourmed her promyse. xantippa. How dyd she afterwarde? Eulalya, when she was departed from her father she came backe into a chaumber, and there by chaunce found her husband alone she fel on her knees to hym and said. Man in tymes paste, I neyther knewe you nor my selfe, from this daye froward ye shall se me cleane chaunged, onelye pardon that is past, with that her husbande toke her in his armes & kyssed her sayinge she should lacke nothyng yf she woulde holde her in that mind. xantip. Why did she continue so. Eulalya. Euen tyll her endynge daye, nor there was none so vyle a thynge but that she woulde laye handes on it redely with all her herte, if her husband wolde let her, so great loue was begon and assured betwene them and many a daye after, shee thanked god that euer she met with such a man. For yf she had not she sayd she had ben cleane caste awaye. xan. We haue as greate plentie of suche housbandes, as of white crowes. Eulalya. Now, but for werieng you? I coulde tell you a thynge that chaunced a late in this same citye. xantyppa. I haue litell to doe, and I lyke your communicacyon very well. Eulalia. There was a certaine gentilman he as suche sort of men do, vsed much huntyng in the cuntre, where he happened on a younge damoysell, a very pore womans child on whom he doted a man well stryken in age, and for her sake he lay often out of his owne house his excuse was hunting. This mans wife an exceding honest woman, halfe deale suspecte the mater, tried out her husbandes falshed, on a tyme when he had taken his iourney fourth of the town vnto some other waies, she wente vnto that poore cotage and boulted out all the hoole matter, where he laye on nights, wheron he dranke, what thyng thei had to welcom him withall. There was neither one thyng nor other, but bare walles. This good woman returned home, and sone after came againe brynginge with her a good soft bed, and al therto belongyng and certain plate besydes that she gaue them moneye, chargynge them that if the Gentilman came agayne, they shold entreate him better not beyng knowen al this while that she was his wyfe, but fayued her to be her sister. Not long after her husband stale thether againe, he sawe the howse otherwyse decked, and better fare then he was wounte to haue. He asked, frome whence commeth al this goodly gere? They sayde that an honeste matrone, a kynsewoman of hys hadde broughte it thyther and commaunded thenm that he should be well cherished when so euer he came, by and by his hart gaue him that it was hys wiues dede, whan he came home he demaunded of her yf she hadde bene there or nay, she sayd yea. Then he asked her for what purpose she sente all that housholde stuffe thyther. Man (said she) ye haue ben tenderly brought vp. I perceiued that ye were but corslie handled there, me thought that it was my part, seing it was your wyll and pleasure to be there ye shoulde be better loked to. Xantippa. She was one of goddes fooles. I woulde rather for a bed haue layd vnder him a bundel of nettels: or a burden of thistels. Eula. But here the end her husbande perceyuyng the honeste of her great pacience neuer after laye from her, but made good cheare at home with his owne. I am sure ye knowe Gilberte the holander. Xan. Very well. Eu. He (as it is not vnknowen maried an old wife in his florishing youth. Xan. Per aduenture he maried the good and notthe woman. Eulalia. There sayde ye well, setting lytell stoore by hys olde wife, hunted a callette, with whom he kept much companie abrode, he dined or supped litell at home. What wouldest thou haue sayd to ye gere. Xantip. What woulde I a said? I wolde haue flowen to the hores toppe and I wolde haue crowned myne husbande at hys oute goinge to her with a pysbowle, that he so embawlmed might haue gon vnto his souerayne ladie. Eula. But how much wiselier dyd this woman? She desyred that yonge woman home vnto her, and made her good chere, so by that meanes she brought home also her husband without ani witchraft or sorserie, and yf that at anye season he supped abrode with her she would sende vnto them some good dayntie morsel, and byd him make good chere Xantippa. I had leuer be slayne then I woulde be bawde vnto myne owne husbande. Eulalia. Yea, but consyder all thynges well, was not that muche better, then she shoulde be her shrewyshnesse, haue putte her husbandes minde cleane of from her, and so haue ledde all her life in trouble and heuynesse. Xantippa. I graunte you well, that it was better so but I coulde not abyde it. Eulalya. I wyll tell you a prety story more, and so make an ende One of oure neyghboures, a well disposed and a goddes man, but that he is some what testie, on a day pomeld his wife well and thriftely aboute the pate and so good a woman as euer was borne, she picked her into an inner parler, and there weepynge and sobbynge, eased her heuye harte, anone after, by chaunce her husbande came into the same place, and founde hys wyfe wepyng. What sitest thou heare sayth he seighing & sobbing like a child Then she like a wise woman sayde. Is it not more honesty for me to lamente my dolours here in a secret place, then to make wondering and on oute crye in the strete, as other women do. At so wyfely and womanly a saing his hart melted, promysynge her faythfullye and truelie that he woulde neuer laye stroke on her afterwarde, nor neuer did. Xantippa. No more wil mine god thanke my selfe. Eulalya. But then ye are alwaies one at a nother, agreinge lyke dogges and cattes. Xan. What wouldest thou that I should do? Eu. Fyrst & formest, whatsoeuer thy husbande doeth sayde thou nothinge, for his harte must be wonne by lytell and litel by fayre meanes, gentilnesse and forbearing at the last thou shalte eyther wynne him or at the least waie thou shalt leade a better life then thou doest now. Xantippa. He his beyonde goddes forbode, he wil neuer amende. Eulalia. Eye saye not so, there is no beest so wild but by fayre handling be tamed, neuer mistrust man then. Assay a moneth or two, blame me and thou findest not that my counsell dooeth ease. There be some fautes wyth you thoughe thou se them, be wyse of this especyall that thou neuer gyue hym foule wordes in the chambre, or inbed but be sure that all thynges there bee full of pastyme and pleasure. For yf that place which is ordeined to make amendes for all fautes and so to renew loue, be polluted, eyther with strife or grugynges, then fayre wel al hope of loue daies, or atonementes, yet there be some beastes so wayward and mischeuous, that when theyr husbandes hath them in their arms a bed, they scholde & chyde making that same plesure their lewd condicions (that expelseth all displeasures oute of their husbandes mynde unpleasaunt and lytell set bi corrupting the medecine that shuld haue cured al deadly greifes, & odible offences. xantip. That is no newes to me. Eula. Though the woman shulde be well ware and wyse that she shulde neuer be disobedient vnto her husband yet she ought to be most circumspect that at meting she shew her selfe redy and pleasaunt unto him. xantyppa. Yea vnto a man, holde well withall but I am combred with a beast. Eula. No more of those wordes, most commonly our husbandes ar euyll through our owne faute, but to returne againe vnto our taile they that ar sene in the olde fables of Poetes sai that Venus whome they make chiefe lady of wedlocke (hath a girdle made by the handy worke of Vulcan her Lorde, and in that is thrust al that enforceth love and with that she girdeth her whan so ever she lyeth wyth her housbande xantippa. A tale of a tubbe. Eulalya. A tayle it is, but herken what the taile meaneth. xantippa. Tell me. Eulalia That techeth us that the wyfe ought to dyspose her selfe all the she maye that lieng by her husband she shew him al the plesure that she can; Wherby the honest love of matrimony may reuiue and be renewed, & that there with be clene dispatched al grudges & malice xant. But how shall we come by the thys gyrdle? Eula. We nede neyther wytchraft nor enchauntment, ther is non of them al, so sure as honest condicions accompayned with good feloshyp. xan. I can not fauoure suche an husbande as myne is. Eula, It is moste thy profyt that he be no longer suche. If thou couldest by thy Circes craft chaunge thin husband into an hogge, or a bore wouldest thou do it? xantip. God knoweth. Eu. Art thou in dout? haddest thou leauer marye an hogge than a man. Xantip. Mary I had leauer haue a manne. Eulalia. wel, what and thou coudest by sorcery make him of a dronkarde a soober man, of a vnthrifte a good housbande of an ydell losell a towarde body, woldest thou not doe it? xantip. yes, hardely, woulde I doe it. But where shoulde I learne the cunnyng? Eula. For soth that conning hast thou in the if thou wouldest vtter it, thyn must he be, mauger thy head, the towarde ye makest him, the better it is for the, thou lokest on nothing but on his leude condicions, and thei make the half mad, thou wouldest amende hym and thou puttest hym farther oute of frame, loke rather on his good condicions, and so shalt thou make him better. It is to late calagayne yesterdaie before thou were maryed unto hym. It was tyme to consyder what his fautes were for a women shold not only take her husbande by the eyes but by the eares. Now it is more tyme to redresse fautes then to fynd fautes. xantt. What woman euer toke her gusband by the eares. Eulali. She taketh her husbande by the eyes that loketh on nothyng, but on the beautye and pulcritude of the body. She taketh him by the eares, that harkeneth diligently what the common voice sayth by him xantip. Thy counsaile is good, but it commeth a day after the faire. Eula. Yet it commeth time ynough to bringe thyne husbande to a greate furtheraunce to that shall bee yf God sende you anie frute togither. xantippa. We are spede alredy of that. Eulaly. How long ago. Xantip. A good whyle ago Eulalia. How many monethes old is it. Xantip. It lacketh lytle of. vii. Eula What a tale is this, ye reken the monethes by nightes and dayes double. Xantippa. Not so. Eula. It can not be none other wyse, yf ye reken from the mariage day. xantippa. yea, but what then, I spake with him before we were maried. Eulalia. Be children gotten by speakinge. xantip. It befell so that he mette me alone and begon to ticke at me, and tickled me vnder the arme holes and sydes to make me laugh. I might not awaie with ticklynge, but fell downe backewarde vpon a bedde and he a lofte, neuer leuinge kyssynge on me, what he did els I can not saye, but by sayncte Marie within a while after my bely beganne to swell. Eula. Go now and disprayse thine husbande whiche yf he gette children by playe, what wyll he do when he goeth to it in good ernest. xantippa, I fere me I am payed agayin. Eula. Good locke God hath sent a fruitfull grounde, a good tylman. Xantip. In that thing he might haue lesse laboure and more thanke. Eula. Few wyues finde at theyr husbandes in that behalf but were ye then sure togither. xanti. yea that we were Eula. The offence is the lesse. Is it a man chylde. xantip. yea. Eula. He shal make you at one so that ye wil bow & forbere. What saieth other men by thin husband, they that be his companions, they delite with him abrode xan, They say that he is meruelous gentyl, redy to do euery man pleasure, liberal and sure to his frende. Eula. And that putteth me in good comfort that he wyll be ruled after our counsayll. xantip. But I fynde him not so. Eula. =Order thy selfe to him as I haue tolde thee, and cal me no more true sayer but a lier, if he be not so good vnto the as to anie creature liuinge Again considre this he is yet but a childe, I thinke he passethe not. xxiiij. the blacke oxe neuer trode on hys fote, nowe it is but loste laboure to recken vpon anye deuorse. xantippa. Yet manye a tyme and ofte I haue troubled my braynes withal Eulalia. As for that fantasye whensoeuer it commeth into your mynd first of all counte how naked a thynge woman is, deuorsed from man. It is the hyghest dignitie that longethe to the wyfe to obsequyous vnto her spouse. So hath natyre ordeined so god hath appoynted, that the woman shoulde be ruled al by the man loke onely vppon this whiche is trouth, thine husbande he is, other canste thou none haue. Againe forgette not that swete babe be gotten of both your bodies what thin beste thou to do with that, wilte thou take it awaye with thee? Thou shalte bereue thyne husband his ryght wylt thou leue it with hym? thou shalt spoile thy self of thy chefeste Jewell thou haste. Beside all this tell me trueth hast thou none euyll wyllers, Besyde all thys tell me trueth, hast thou none euyll wyllers. xan. I haue a stepdame I warrant you, and myne husbandes mother euen such another. Eula. Do they hate the so deadly. xantip. They woulde se me hanged. Eula. Then forget not then what greater plesure couldest thou shew them then to se the deuorsed from thine husband and to led a wydowes lyfe. Yea and worse then a wydow, for wydowes be at their choise. xantippa. I holde well with youre counsell, but I can not awaye with the paynes. Eulalia. yet recken what paines ye toke or ye colde teache your paret to speake. xantippa. Exceadynge much. Eu. And thinke you much to labour a lytel in reforming your husband with whom you may liue merely all the dayes of your lyfe. What busines doe men put them self to be wel & easly horsed & shal we think our selues to good to take paines that we mai haue our husbandes gentil & curteise vnto vs. xantip. What shal I do. Eu. I haue told you al redy, se that al thing be clene & trim at home, that no sluttysh or vnclenlye syghtes dryue hym oute a dores. Be your selfe alwayes redy at a becke, berynge continuali in minde what reuerence the wife oweth vnto her husband. Be neyther in your dumpes, nor alwayes on your mery pinnes go nether to homely nor to nycely. Let your meat be cleane dressed, you know yourhusbandes diet. What he loueth best that dresse. Moreouer shewe your selfe louinge and fayre spoken vnto them where he loueth, call them now and then vnto your table. At meate, se that al thinges be well sauored, and make good there, And when that he is toppe heuy playing on his lute, sytte thou by and singe to him so shalte thou make hym keepe home, and lessen hys expences This shall he thynke at length, in faythe I am a fonde felowe that maketh suche chere with a strumpet abroode with greate lossee bothe of substance and name, seyng that I haue a wyfe at home bothe muche fayrer, and one that loueth me ten times better, with whome I may be both clenlyer receiued and dayntelier cherisshed xantip. Beleuest thou that it will take and I put it into a profe. Eulali. Looke on me. I warrante it or ought longe I wyll in hande with thyne husbande, & I will tell hym his part. xantippa. ye marie that is well sayde. But be wyse that he espie not our casle, he would plaie his fages, all the house should be to lytle for hym. Eulalia. Take no thoughte. I shall so conuey my matters, that he shall dysclose all together hym selfe, what busynesse is betwene you, that done I wyll handell him pretelie as I thinke beste, and I truste to make him a new man for the and when I se my time I wyl make a lie for thee, how louinge thou hast spoken of him. xantippa. Chryst spede vs and bringe our pupose well aboute. Eulalia. He will not fayle the so thou do thy good wyll. There was a man that maried a woman whiche hadde great riches and beawtye. Howe bee it she hadde suche an impedyment of nature that she was domme and coulde not speake, whiche thynge made him ryghte pensyfe, and sayd, wherfore vpon a daye as he walked alone ryght heuye in hearte thynkynge vpon his wyfe. There came one to hym and asked him what was the cause of his heuynesse whiche answered that it was onely bycause his wife was borne domme. To whome this other said I shal shewe the soone a remedy and a medicyne (therfore that is thus) go tak an aspen leafe and lay it vnder her tonge this night shee beinge a sleape, and I warrant the that shee shall speake on the morowe whiche man beyng glad of thys medycyne prepared therfore and gathered aspen leaues, wherfore he layd thre of them vnder her tonge whan shee was a sleape. And on the morow when he him selfe awaked he Desyrous to know how hys medicine wrought being in bed with her, he demaunded of her how she did, and sodenly she answered and sayd, I beshrewe thy harte for waking me so early, and so by the vertue of that medycyne she was restored to her speche. But in conclusion her spech encresed day by day and she was so curst of condycyon that euery daie she brauled and chyd with her husbande, so muche at the laste he was more weped, and had much more trouble and disease wyth her shrewed wordes then he hadde before when she was dumme, wherfore as he walked another time alone he happened to mete agayne with the same personne that taught hym the sayde medycine and sayde to hym thys wyse. Syr ye taught me a medicin but late to make my domme wyfe to speake, byddynge me lay an aspen leafe vnder her toung when she sleapte, and I layde three Aspen leaves there. Wherfore nowe she speaketh. But yet she speaketh soo much & so shrewdlye that I am more werier of her now, then I was when she was domme: Wherfore I praie you teache me a medycine to modyfye her that she speake not so muche. This other answered and sayd thus. Sir I am a deuyl of hel but I am one of them that haue least power there. Al be yet I haue power to make a woman to speake, but and yf a woman begin ones to speake, I nor al the deuyls in hel that haue the mooste power be not able to make a woman to be styll, nor to cause her to leue speakyng. The end of this pleasant dialogue declaryng the seueral properties of ye two contrary disposers of the wyues aforesayde. Imprinted at London in Paules church yearde, at the sygne of the Sunne, by Antony Kytson. 
14500	----	Proofreading Team [Transcriber's note: The original text has no page numbers. Page breaks have been marked with double lines || like this. Three apparent typographic errors were corrected and are listed at the end of this text. All other spelling and punctuation are as in the original.] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * [C]Two dyaloges wrytten in laten by the famous clerke. D. Eras- mus of Roterodame/ one called Polyphemus or the gospeller/ the other dysposyng of thynges and names/ translated in to Englyshe by Edmonde Becke. And prynted at Cantorbury in saynt Paules paryshe by Johñ Mychell. [+] * * * * * The preface to the Reader. Lucius Anneus Seneca amonge many other pratie saienges (gentle reder) hathe this also, whiche in my iudgement is as trew as it is wittie. Rogãdo cogit qui rogat superior. And in effecte is thus moch to say, yf a mãnes superior or his better desyre any thige, he might aswell cõmãde it by authoritie as ones to desyre it. A gentleman a nere cosyn of myne, but moch nerer in fryndshyp, eftesones dyd instant and moue me to translate these two dyaloges folowynge, to whose getlenes I am so moch obliged, indetted and bounde, that he myght well haue cõmaunded me to this and more paynes: to whome I do not onely owe seruyce, but my selfe also. And in accõplysshynge of his most honest request (partly by cause I wolde not the moost inhumane fawte of Ingratitude shuld wor||thely be imputed to me, & that I might in this thynge also (accordynge to my bounden dutie) gratifie my frende) I haue hassard my selfe in these daungerous dayes, where many are so capcyous, some prone and redy to malygne & depraue, and fewe whose eares are not so festidious, tendre, and redy to please, that in very tryfles & thynges of small importaunce, yet exacte dylygence and exquisite iudgement is loked for and requyred, of them whiche at this present wyll attempte to translate any boke be it that the matter be neuer so base. But what diligence I have enployed in the translaciõ hereof I referre it to the iudgement of the lerned sort, whiche cõferynge my translacion with the laten dyaloges, I dowte not wyl condone and pardone my boldnesse, in that that I chalenge the semblable lybertie whiche the translatours of this tyme iustlie chalenge. For some heretofore submytting them selfe to seruytude, haue lytle ||respecte to the obseruaciõ of the thyng which in translacyõ is of all other most necessary and requisite, that is to saye, to rendre the sence & the very meanyng of the author, not so relygyouslie addicte to translate worde for worde, for so the sence of the author is oftentimes corrupted & depraued, and neyther the grace of the one tonge nor yet of the other is truely observed or aptlie expressed. The lerned knoweth that euery tonge hathe his peculyer proprietie, phrase, maner of locucion, enargies and vehemêcie, which so aptlie in any other tõg can not be expressed. Yf I shal perceyue this my symple doinge to be thankefully taken, and in good parte accepted, it shall encorage me hereafter to attempte the translaciõ of some bokes dysposing of matters bothe delectable, frutefull, & expedient to be knowen, by the grace of God, who gyuynge me quyetnes of mynde, lybertie, and abylytie, shall not desyste to communicat the frute of my ||spare howers, to such as are not lerned in the laten tonge: to whome I dedycat the fyrste frutes of this my symple translacyon. * * * * * A declaracion of the names. Poliphemus sygnifieth, valyant or noble, and in an other sygnifi- cacion, talcatyfe or clybbe of tong. The name of a Gyant called Cyclops, ha- uynge but one eye in his forhed, of a huge stature and a myghtie personage. And is aplyed here to sygnifie a great freke or a lubber, as this Poliphemus was, whiche beynge a man of warre or a courtyer, had a newe testament in his hande, and loked buselie for some sentence or text of scrypture and that Cannius his companyõ espyed and sayd to hî as fo- loweth. * * * * * [C]The parsons names are Cannius and Poliphemus. Cannius. what hunt Polipheme for here? Poliphemus. Aske ye what I hunt for here, and yet ye se me haue neyther dogges, dart, Jauelyn, nor huntyng staffe. Cannius. Paraduenture ye hunt after some praty nymphe of the couert. Poliphemus. By my trouth and well coniectured, be holde what a goodly pursenet, or a hay I haue here in my hande. Cannius. Benedicite, what a straunge syght is this, me thinke I se Bachus in a lyons skin, Poliphemus with a boke in his hande. This is a dogge in a doblet, a sowe with a sadle, of all that euer I se it is a non decet. Poliphe. I haue not onely paynted and garnyshed my boke with saffron, but also I haue lymmed it withe Sinople, asaphetida, redleed, vermilõ, and byse. Can. It is a warlyke boke, for it is furnished with knottes, tassils ||plates, claspes, and brasen bullyons. Poliphe. Take the boke in your hand and loke within it. Canni. I se it wery well. Truly it is a praty boke, but me thynkes ye haue not yet trymmed it sufficiently for all your cost ye have bestowed upon it. Poliphe. Why what lackes it? Canni. Thou shuldest haue set thyne armes upon it. Poliphemus. what armes I beseche the? Cãnius. Mary the heed of Silenus, an olde iolthed drunkard totynge out of a hoggeshed or a tunne, but in good ernest, wherof dothe your boke dyspose or intreate? dothe it teache the art and crafte to drynke a duetaunt? Poli. Take hede in goddes name what ye say lest ye bolt out a blasphemie before ye be ware. Cãnius. why bydde ye me take hede what I saye? is there any holy matter in the boke? Poli. what mã it is the gospell boke, I trow there is nothynge can be more holye. Cannius. God for thy grace what hathe Poliphemus to do withe the gospell? ||Poli. Nay why do ye not aske what a chrysten man hathe to do with christe? Cannius. I can not tell but me thynkes a rousty byll or a halbard wold become such a great lubber or a slouyn as thou arte a great deale better, for yf it were my chaûce to mete such one and knewe him not upon seeborde, and he loked so lyke a knaue and a ruffyã as thou dost I wolde take hym for a pirate or a rouer upon the see/ and if I met such one in the wood for an arrante thefe, and a man murderer. Poli. yea good syr but the gospell teache vs this same lesson, that we shuld not iudge any person by his loke or by his externall & outwarde apparaunce. For lyke wyse as many tymes vnder a graye freers coote a tyrannous mynde lyeth secretly hyd, eue so a polled heed, a crispe or a twyrled berde, a frowninge, a ferse, or a dogged loke, a cappe, or a hat with an oystrich fether, a soldyers cassocke, a payre of hoose all to cut and manglyd, may co||uer an euangelycall mynde. Cannius. why not, mary God forbyd elles, yea & many tymes a symple shepe lyeth hyd in a wolfes skynne, and yf a man maye credite and beleue the fables of Aesope, an asse maye lye secretely unknowen by cause he is in a lyons skynne. Poliphe. Naye I knowe hym whiche bereth a shepe vpon his heed, and a sore in his brest, to whome I wold wysshe with al my hart that he had as whyte and as fauorable frendes as he hathe blacke eyes. And I wolde wisshe also that he were as well guylt ouer and ouer as he hathe a colour mete to take guyltynge. Canni. Yf ye take hym to were a shepe vpon his heed, that weareth a cappe of woll, howe greuously than art thou lodyn, or what an excedynge heuy burdê bearest thou then I praye the whiche bearest a hoole shepe and an ostryche to vpon thy heed? But what saye ye to hî doth not he more folyssly which beareth a byrd vpon his heed, and an asse in his ||brest. Poliphemus. There ye nypped & taunted me in dede. Cannius. But I wolde saye this geere dyd wonderous wel yf this gospel boke dyd so adourne the with vertue as thou hast adourned lymmed, and gorgiously garnysshed it with many gay goodly glystryng ornamentes. Mary syr thou hast set it forth in his ryght colours in dede, wolde to god it might so adourne the with good cõdiciõs that thou myghtest ones lerne to be an honest man. Poli. There shall be no defaute in me, I tell you I wyll do my diligence. Can. Naye there is no doute of that, there shall be no more faute in you now I dare say then was wonte to be. Poli. Yea but (youre tarte tauntes, and youre churlysshe checkes, and raylynges set asyde) tell me I pray the this one thynge, do you thus disprayse, condempne, or fynde faute with them whiche caryeth aboute with them the newe testament or the gospel boke? Canni. No by my fayth do I not good ||praty man. Poliphe. Call ye me but a praty one and I am hygher then you by ye length of a good asses heed. Can. I thynke not fully so moche yf the asse stretch forth his eares, but go to it skyllis no matter of that, let it passe, he that bare Christ vpon his backe was called Christofer, and thou whiche bearest the gospell boke aboute with the shall for Poliphemus be called the gospeller or the gospell bearer. Polip. Do not you counte it an holy thynge to cary aboute with a man the newe testament? Cãni. why no syr by my trouth do I not, except thou graunte the very asses to be holy to. Poli. How can an asse be holy? Cannius. For one asse alone is able to beare thre hundreth suche bokes, and I thynke suche a great lubber as thou art were stronge inoughe to beare as great a burden, and yf thou had a hansome packesadle sette vpon thy backe. Poliphe. And yet for all your iestynge it is not agaynst good reason to saye ||that ye asse was holy which bore christ. Cannius. I do not enuye you man for this holynes for I had as lefe you had that holynes as I, and yf it please you to take it I wyll geue you an holy & a religious relyke of the selfe same asse whiche christ rode vpon, and whan ye haue it ye may kysse it lycke it and cull it as ofte as ye lyst. Poli. Mary syr I thanke you, ye can not gyue me a more thanckefull gyfte nor do me a greatter pleasure, for that asse withouten any tayle was made as holye as any asse could be by the touchynge of christes body. Cannius. Undouted they touched christes body also whiche stroke and buffeted christ. Poliphe. yea but tell me this one thynge I praye the in good ernest. Is it not a great sygne of holynes in a man to cary aboute the gospel boke or the newe testament? Cannius. It is a token of holynes in dede if it be done without hypocrysie, I meane if it be done without dissimulacion/ and for ||that end, intent & purpose, that it shuld be done for. Poliphe. What the deuyl & a morten tellest thou a man of warre of hypocrisie, away with hypocrisie to the monkes and the freers. Cannius. Yea but bycause ye saye so, tell me fyrste I praye you what ye call hypocrisie. Po. When a man pretendis another thyng outwardly then he meanis secretly in his mynde. Cannius. But what dothe the bearynge aboute of the newe testament sygnyfie. Dothe it not betoken that thy lyfe shulde be conformable to the gospell which thou carryest aboute with the. Poli. I thynke well it dothe. Cannius. Wel then when thy lyfe is not conformable to the boke, is not that playne hypocrisie. Poliph. Tell me thê what you call the trewe carienge of the gospell boke aboute with a man. Cãni. Sõme men beare it aboute with them in theyr hãdes (as the gray freers were wonte to beare the rule of saynt Fraunces) and so the porters of Londõ, Asses ||& horses may beare it as well as they. And there be some other that carry the gospel in theyr mouthes onlie, and such haue no other talke but al of christ and his gospell, and that is a very poynt of a pharysey. And some other carrye it in theyr myndes. But in myne opynion he beares the gospell boke as he shuld do whiche bothe beares it in his hande, cõmunes of it with his mouth whan occasyon of edyfyenge of his neyghboure whan conuenyent oportunytie is mynystred to him, and also beares it in his mynde and thynkes vpon it withe his harte. Poli. Yea thou art a mery felow, where shall a man fynde suche blacke swãnes? Cannius. In euery cathedrall church, where there be any deacons, for they beare the gospel boke î theyr hãde, they synge the gospell aloude, somtyme in a lofte that the people may heare thê, althoughe they do not vnderstand it, and theyr myndes are vpõ it when they synge it. Polphe. And yet for all your ||sayenge all suche deacons are no saynttes that beare the gospell so in theyr myndes. Cannius. But lest ye play the subtyle and capcious sophystryar with me I wyll tell you this one thynge before. No man can beare the gospell in his mynde but he must nedes loue it from the bothum of his harte, no man loueth it inwardly and from the bothû of his harte but he must nedes declare and expresse the gospell in his lyuinge, outwarde maners, & behauour. Poli. I can not skyll of youre subtyle reasonynges, ye are to fyne for me. Can. Thê I wyll commune with you after a grosser maner, and more playnly. yf thou dyddest beare a tankard of good Reynyshe wyne vpon thy shulders onelye, what other thynge were it to the then a burden. Poliphe. It were none other thynge truly, it is no great pleasure so beare wyne. Cannius. What and yf thou dranke asmoche as thou coudest well holde in thy mouthe, after the manner of ||a gargarisme & spyt it out agayne. Po. That wolde do me no good at all, but take me not with suche a faute I trow, for the wyne is very bad and if I do so. Canni. But what and yf thou drynke thy skynne full as thou art wont to do, whê thou comest where good wyne is. Poliphe. Mary there is nothyng more godly or heuynly. Cannius. It warmes you at the stomacke, it settes your body in a heate, it makes you loke with a ruddy face, and setteth your hart vpon a mery pynne. Poliphe. That is suerly so as ye saye in dede. Canni. The gospell is suche a lyke thynge of all this worlde, for after that it hathe ones persed & entered in the veynes of the mynd it altereth, transposeth, and cleane changeth vpsodowne the whole state of mã, and chaungeth hym cleane as it were into a nother man. Polip. Ah ha, nowe I wot wherabout ye be, belyke ye thîke that I lyue not accordynge to the gospell or as a good gospeller shulde do. ||Cannius. There is no man can dyssolue this questiõ better then thy selfe. Poli. Call ye it dissoluynge? Naye and yf a thynge come to dyssoluynge gyue me a good sharpe axe in my hande and I trow I shall dyssolue it well inoughe. Canni. What woldest thou do, I praye the, and yf a man shulde say to thy teth thou lyest falsely, or elles call the by thy ryght name knaue in englysshe. Poli. What wolde I do quod he, that is a question in dede, mary he shulde feele the wayghte of a payre of churlyshe fystes I warrant the. Canni. And what and yf a man gaue you a good cuffe vpon the eare that shulde waye a pounde? Poliphe. It were a well geuen blowe that wolde aduauntage hym. xx. by my trouthe and he escaped so he myght say he rose vpon his ryght syde, but it were maruayle & I cut not of his head harde by his shulders. Canni. Yea but good felowe thy gospell boke teacheth the to geue gentle answers, and fayre wordes ||agayne for fowle, and to hym that geueth the a blowe vpon the ryght cheke to holde forth the lyfte. Poliphe. I do remembre I haue red suche a thinge in my boke, but ye must pardone me for I had quyte forgotten it. Can. Well go to, what saye ye to prayer I suppose ye praye very ofte. Poli. That is euyn as very a touche of a pharesey as any can be. Cannius. I graunt it is no lesse thê a poynte of a pharesey to praye longe and faynedly vnder a colour or pretêce of holynes, that is to saye when a man prayeth not frõ the bothum of his hart but with the lyppes only and from the tethe outward, and that in opyn places where great resort of people is, bycause they wold be sene. But thy gospel boke teacheth the to praye contynually, but so that thy prayer come from the bothu of the hart. Poli. Yea but yet for all my sayenge I praye sumtyme. Can. When I beseche the when ye art a slepe? Poli. When it cometh in to my mynde, ones ||or twyse may chaunce in a weke. Can. what prayer sayst thou? Poliphe. The lordes prayer, the Pater noster. Canni. Howe many tymes ouer? Poli. Onis, & I trowe it is often inoughe, for the gospell forbyddeth often repetynge of one thynge. Canni. Can ye saye your pater noster through to an ende & haue youre mynde runnynge vpon nothynge elles in all that whyle? Poli. By my trouthe and ye wyll beleue me I neuer yet assayed nor proued whether I coulde do it or no. But is it not sufficient to saye it with my mouthe? Can. I can not tell whether it be or no. But I am sure god here vs not excepte we praye from the bothum of our harte. But tell me another thyng I wyll aske the. Doest thou not fast very often? Poli. No neuer in all my lyfe tyme and yf it were not for lacke of meate. Can. And yet thy boke alowes and commendes hyghly bothe fastynge and prayer. Polip. So coulde I alowe them but that my belly can ||not well affare nor a way with fastyng. Cannius. Yea but Paule sayth they are not the seruauntes of Iesus Christe whiche serue theyr belly & make it theyr god. Do you eate fleshe euery day? Po. No neuer when I haue none to eate, but I neuer refuse it when it is set before me, and I neuer aske question not for cõscience but for my belly sake. Can. Yea but these stronge sturdy sydes of suche a chuffe and a lobbynge lobye as thou arte wolde be fed well inoughe with haye and barke of trees. Poliphe. Yea but chryste sayd, that which entereth in at the mouthe defyleth not the man. Canni. That is to be vnderstand thus yf it be measurably taken, and without the offendinge of our christian brother. But Paule the disciple of chryst had rather peryshe & sterue with hunger then onys to offende his weyke brothren with his eatynge, and he exhorteth vs to followe his example that in all thynges we maye please all men. Poli. What tel ||ye me of Paule, Paule is Paule and I am I. Cannius. Do you gladly helpe to releue the poore and the indygent with your goodes? Poli. Howe can I helpe them whiche haue nothynge to gyue them, and scant inoughe for my selfe. Cannius. ye myght spare somthynge to helpe thê with yf thou woldest playe the good husband in lyuynge more warely, in moderatynge thy superfluous expenses, and in fallynge to thy worke lustely. Poliphemus. Nay then I were a fole in dede, a penyworth of ease is euer worth a peny, and nowe I haue found so moch pleasure in ease that I can not fall to no labour. Canni. Do you kepe the commaundementes of god? Polip. Nowe ye appose me, kepe the cõmaundementes quod he, that is a payne in dede. Cannius. Art thou sory for thy synnes and thyne offences, doest thou ernestly repent the for thê. Poliphemus. Christ hath payed the raunsome of synne and satisfied for it alredy. Cannius. Howe ||prouest thou then that thou louest the gospell and fauoris the word of god as thou bearest men in hande thou doest. Poliphemus. I wyll tell you that by & by, and I dare saye you wyl confesse no lesse your selfe then that I am an ernest fauorer of the worde then I haue told you ye tale. There was a certayne gray frere of the order of saynt Fraunces with vs whiche neuer ceased to bable and rayle agaynste the newe testament of Erasmus, I chaunsed to talke with the gêtylman pryuatly where no man was present but he and I, and after I had communed awhyle with hym I caught my frere by the polled pate with my left hande and with my right hãde I drew out my daggar and I pomelled the knaue frere welfauardly aboute his skonce that I made his face as swollen and as puffed as a puddynge. Cannius. what a tale is this that thou tellest me. Poliphemus. How say you is not this a good and a sufficient proue that I fa||uer the gospell. I gaue hym absolucion afore he departed out of my handes with this newe testament thryse layde vpon his pate as harde as I myght dryue yt I made thre bunches in his heed as bygge as thre egges in the name of the father, the sone, & the holy goost. Can. Now by my trouth this was well done & lyke a ryght gospeller of these dayes. Truly this is as they saye to dyffende the gospell with the gospell. Poliphe. I met another graye frere of the same curryshe couent, that knaue neuer had done in raylynge agaynst Erasmus, so sone as I had espyed hym I was styrred and moued with the brenninge zele of the gospell that in thretenyng of him I made hym knele downe vpon his knees and crye Erasmus mercie and desyred me to forgyue hym, I may saye to you it was hyghe tyme for hym to fall downe vpon his marybones, and yf he had not done it by and by I had my hal||barde vp redy to haue gyuen hym betwyxt the necke and the heade, I loked as grymme as modie Mars when he is in furyous fume, it is trewe that I tell you, for there was inoughe sawe the frere and me yf I wolde make a lye. Cannius. I maruayle the frere was not out of his wyt. But to retourne to oure purpose agayne, dost thou lyue chastly? Poliphemus. Peraduenture I maye do here after when I am more stryken in age. But shall I confesse the trouthe to the? Canni. I am no preest man, therfore yf thou wylt be shryuen thou must seke a preest to whome thou maye be lawfully confessed. Poliphe. I am wont styl to cõfesse my selfe to god, but I wyl confesse thus moche to the at this tyme I am not yet become a perfyte gospeller or an euangelical man, for I am but yet as it were one of ye cõmune people, ye knowe wel perde we gospellers haue iiii. gospels wrytten by the .iiii. euange||lystes, & suche gospellers as I am hunt busely, and chefely for .iiii. thynges that we may haue. Unde. to prouyde dayntie fare for the bellie, that nothynge be lackynge to that parte of the body whiche nature hath placed vnder the belly, ye wote what I meane, and to obtayne and procure suche liuinge that we may lyue welthely and at pleasure without carke & care. And fynally that we maye do what we lyst without checke or controlment, yf we gospellars lacke none of all these thynges we crye and synge for ioye, amonge our ful cuppes Io Io we tryumphe and are wonderfull frolycke, we synge and make as mery as cup and can, and saye the gospell is a lyue agayne Chryst rayneth. Cannius. This is a lyfe for an Epycure or a god belly and for no euangelicall persone that professeth the gospell. Poli. I denye not but that it is so as ye saye, but ye knowe well that god is omnipotent and can do al thynges, he can turne vs ||whê his wyll is sodenly in to other maner of men. Cannius. So can he transforme you in to hogges and swyne, the whiche maye soner be done I iudge thê to chaunge you into good men for ye are halfe swynyshe & hoggyshe alredy, your lyuynge is so beastlie. Poliphe. Holde thy peas mã wolde to god there were no men that dyd more hurt in the world then swyne, bullockes, asses, and camelles. A mã may se many men now adayes more crueller then lyons, more rauenynge thê wolues, more lecherous then sparous, and that byte worse then mad dogges, more noysom thê snakes, vepers and adders. Cannius. But nowe good Polipheme remembre and loke vpon thy selfe for it is hyghe tyme for the to laye a syde thy beastly lyuynge, and to be tourned from a brute and a sauage beast in to a man. Poliphemus. I thanke you good neyghbour Cannius for by saynt Mary I thynke your counsayle is good/for the prophetes of this ||tyme sayth the worlde is almost at an end, and we shall haue domes daye (as they call it) shortely. Cannius. We haue therfore more nede to prepare our selues in a redines agaynst that day, and that with as moche spede as maye be possible. Poliphemus. as for my part I loke and wayte styll euery day for the myghty hande and power of christ. Cannius. Take hede therfore that thou, when christ shall laye his myghty hande vpon the be as tendre as waxe, that accordynge to his eternall wyll he maye frayme & fashyon the with his hande. But wherby I praye the dothe these prophetes coniecture & gather that the worlde is almost at an ende. Poliphe. Bycause men (they saye) do the selfe same thinge nowe adayes that they dyd, and were wont to do which were lyuynge in the worlde a lytle whyle before the deluge or Noyes floode. They make solempne feastes, they banket, they quaffe, they booll, they bybbe, they ryot men mary, ||wome are maryed, they go a catterwallynge and horehuntinge, they bye, they sell, they lend to vserie, and borowe vpon vserie, they builde, kîges keepe warre one agaynst another, preestes studie howe they maye get many benefyces and promociõs to make them selfe riche and increase theyr worldly substaunce, the diuynes make insolible sillogismus and vnperfyte argumêtes, they gather conclusyons, monkes and freers rûne, at rouers ouer all the world, the comyn people are in a mase or a hurle burle redy to make insurrections, and to conclude breuelie there lackes no euyll miserie nor myschefe, neyther hõger, thyrst fellonie, robberie, warre, pestilence, sediciõ, derth, and great scarsytie and lacke of all good thynges. And howe say you do not all these thynges argue and sufficientlie proue that the worlde is almost at an ende? Cannius. Yea but tell me I praye the of all thes hoole hepe of euyls and miseries whiche greueth the ||moste? Poliphemus. Whiche thynkes thou, tell me thy fansie and coniecture? Cannius. That the Deuyll (god saue vs) maye daunce in thy purse for euer a crosse that thou hast to kepe hî for the. Poliphe. I pray god I dye and yf thou haue not hyt the nayle vpon the head. Now as chaunceth I come newly from a knotte of good companye where we haue dronke harde euery man for his parte, & I am not behynde with myne, and therfore my wytte is not halfe so freshe as it wyll be, I wyll dyspute of the gospell with the whan I am sobre. Canni. When shal I se the sobre? Poli. When I shall be sobre. Cannius. Whê wyll that be? Poliph. When thou shalt se me, in the meane season god be with you gentle Cannius and well mot you do. Cannius. And I wyshe to you a gayne for my parte that thou ware in dede as valiaunt or pusaunt a felowe as thy name soundeth. Poliphe. And bycause ye shall lose nothynge at my ||hande with wyshynge I pray god that Cannius maye neuer lacke a good can or a stoope of wine or bere, wherof he had his name. F I N I S * * * * * [C]The dialoge of thynges and names. A declaracion of the names. Beatus, is he whiche hathe abun dance of al thinges that is good, and is parfyte in all thynges commen- dable or prayseworthy or to be desyred of a good man. Somtyme it is ta- ken for fortunate, ryche, or noble. Bonifacius, fayre, full of fauor or well fauored. [+] * * * * * [C]The parsons names are Beatus and Bonifacius. _Beatus._ God saue you mayster Boniface. _Bonifacius._ God saue you & god saue you agayne gêtle _Beatus._ But I wold god bothe we were such, and so in very dede as we be called by name, that is to say thou riche & I fayre. _Beatus._ Why do you thynke it nothynge worth at al to haue a goodly glorious name. _Bonifacius._ Truely me thynke it is of no valure or lytle good worthe, onles a man haue the thynge itselfe whiche is sygnified by the name. _Beatus._ Yea you maye well thynke your pleasure, but I am assured that the most part of all mortall men be of another mynde. _Bonifa._ It may wel be I do not denye that they are mortal, but suerly I do not byleue that they are me, which are so beastly mynded. _Bea._ Yes good syr and they be men to laye ||your lyfe, onlesse ye thynke camels and asses do walke about vnder the fygure and forme of men. _Boni._ Mary I can soner beleue that then that they be men whiche esteme and passe more vpon the name, then the thynge. _Bea._ I graunte in certayne kyndes of thinges moost men had rather haue the thynge then the name, but in many thynges it is otherwyse and cleane cõtrary. _Bo._ I can not well tell what ye meane by that. _Bea._ And yet the example of this matter is apparant or sufficiently declared in vs two. Thou arte called Bonifacius and thou hast in dede the thynge wherby thou bearest thy name. Yet if there were no other remedy but eyther thou must lacke the one or the other, whether had you rather haue a fowle and deformed face or elles for Boniface be called Maleface or horner? _Boni._ Beleue me I had rather be called fowle Thersites then haue a monstrous or a deformyed face, whether I haue a good face or no ||I can not tell. _Bea._ And euen so had I for yf I were ryche and there were no remedy but that I must eyther forgoo my rychesse, or my name I had rather be called Irus whiche was a poore beggers name then lacke my ryches. _Boni._ I agree to you for asmoch as ye speake the trouth, and as you thynke. _Bea._ Iudge all them to be of the same mynde that I am of whiche are indued with helthe or other commodities and qualities appartaynynge to the body. _Boni._ That is very trewe. _Bea._ Yea but I praye the cõsyder and marke howe many men we se whiche had rather haue the name of a lerned and a holy man, then to be well lerned, vertuous, & holy in dede. _Boni._ I knowe a good sorte of suche men for my part. _Bea._ Tell me thy fãtasie I pray the do not suche men passe more vpon the name then the thinge? _Boni._ Methynke thy do. _Bea._ Yf we had a logician here whiche could well and clarkelie defyne what were a kynge, what a bysshoppe, ||what a magistrate, what a philosopher is, paduêture we shuld find som amõg these iolly felowes whiche had rather haue the name then the thynge. _Boni._ Surely & so thynke I. Yf he be a kinge whiche by lawe and equyte regardes more the commoditie of his people then his owne lucre/yf he be a bisshop which alwayes is careful for the lordes flocke cõmytted to his pastorall charge/yf he be a magistrate which frankelie and of good wyll dothe make prouysyon, and dothe all thinge for the comyn welthes sake/and yf he be a phylosopher whiche passynge not vpon the goodes of this worlde, only geueth hym selfe to attayn to a good mynde, and to leade a vertuous lyfe. _Bea._ Lo thus ye may perseyue what a nombre of semblable exãples ye may collecte & gether. _Boni._ Undouted a great sorte. _Bea._ But I pray the tel me wyll you saye that all these are no men. _Boni._ Nay I feare rather lest in so sayenge it shulde cost vs our lyues, and ||so myght we our selues shortelye be no men. _Bea._ Yf man be a resonable creature, howe ferre dyffers this from all good reason, that in cõmodities apertayning to the body (for so they deserue rather to be called then goodnes) and in outwarde gyftes whiche dame fortune geues and takes awaye at her pleasure, we had rather haue the thynge then the name, and in the true and only goodnes of the mynd we passe more vpon the name then the thynge. _Boni._ So god helpe me it is a corrupte and a preposterours iudgement, yf a man marke and consyder it wel. _Bea._ The selfe same reason is in contrarie thinges. _Boni._ I wolde gladly knowe what ye meane by that. _Bea._ We maye iudge lykewyse the same of the names of thynges to be eschued, and incommodites which was spoken of thynges to be diffyred and cõmodites. _Boni._ Nowe I haue considered the thynges well, it apereth to be euen so as ye saye in dede. __Bea.__ It shulde be ||more feared of a good prynce to be a tyraunt in dede then to haue the name of a tyraunt. And yf an euyll bysshop be a thefe and a robber, then we shulde not so greatly abhorre and hate the name as the thynge. _Boni._ Eyther so it is or so it shuld be. _Bea._ Nowe gather you of the rest as I haue done of the prynce & the bysshop. _Boni._ Me thynkes I vnderstande this gere wonderouse well. _Bea._ Do not all men hate the name of a fole or to be called a moome, a sotte, or an asse? _Boni._ Yeas as moche as they do any one thynge. _Bea._ And how saye you were not he a starke fole that wold fishe with a goldê bayte, that wolde preferre or esteme glasse better then precious stones, or whiche loues his horse or dogges better then his wyfe and his chyldrê? _Boni._ He were as wyse as waltoms calfe, or madder then iacke of Redyng. _Bea._ And be not they as wyse whiche not assygned, chosen, nor yet ones appoynted by the magistrates, but vpon ||theyr owne heed aduenture to runne to the warres for hoope of a lytle gayne, ieoperdynge theyr bodyes and daungerynge theyr soules? Or howe wyse be they which busie thê selfe to get, gleyne, and reepe to gyther, goodes and ryches when they haue a mynde destitute and lackyng all goodness? Are not they also euen as wyse that go gorgyously apparylled, and buyldes goodly sumptuous houses, when theyr myndes are not regarded but neglect fylthye and with all kynde of vyce fowle corrupted? And how wyse are they whiche are carefull diligent and busie, about the helthe of theyr body neglectynge and not myndynge at all theyr soule, in daunger of so many deedly synnes? And fynally to conclude howe wyse be they whiche for a lytle shorte transytorye pleasure of this lyfe deserue euerlastynge tormentes and punyshementes? _Boni._ Euen reason forseth me to graunt that they are more then frãtyke and folyshe. _Bea._ Yea ||but althoughe all the whole worlde be full of suche fooles, a man can scaselye fynde one whiche can abyde the name of a foole, and yet they deserue to be called so for asmoche as they hate not the thynge. _Boni._ Suerly it is euen so as ye seye. _Bea._ Ye knowe also howe the names of a lyar and a thefe are abhorred and hated of all men. _Boni._ They are spyteful and odious names, and abhorred of all men, and not withe out good cause why. _Bea._ I graunte that, but althoughe to commyt adulterie be a more wycked synne then thefte yet for al that some men reioyse and shewe them selfe glad of that name, whiche wolde be redy by and by to drawe theyr swerdes and fyghte withe a man that wolde or durst call them theues. _Boni._ It is true there are many wolde take it euyll as you saye in dede. _Bea._ And nowe it is commyn to that poynt that thoughe there are many vnthryftes and spêdals whiche consume theyr substaunce at the ||wyne and vpon harlottes, and yet so wyllynge to continewe openly that all the worlde wonders at them, yet they wyll be offended and take peper in the noose yf a man shulde call them ruffyans or baudy knaues. _Boni._ Suche fellowes thynke they deserue prayse for the thynge, and yet for all that they can not abyde the name dewe to the thinge whiche they deserue. _Bea._ There is scarslye any name amonges vs more intollerable or worse can be abydden then to be called a lyar or a lyeng fellowe. _Boni._ I haue knowen some or this whiche haue kylled men for suche a spytefull worde as that is. _Bea._ Yea yea but wolde god suche hasty fellowes dyd as well abhorre the thinge and hate lienge as well as to be called lyers, was it neuer thy chaunce to be dysceyued of any man whiche borowinge mony of the appoyntynge the a certayne daye to repaye the sayd money and so performyd not his appoyntment nor kept his day? ||_Boni._ Yeas many tymes (god knoweth) and yet hath he sworne many a greuous othe and that not one tyme but many tymes. _Bea._ Peraduenture he wolde haue ben so honest as to haue payed it and yf he had had wherwith. _Boni._ Naye that is not so for he was able inoughe, but as he thought it better neuer to paye his dettes. _Bea._ And what call you this in englyshe, is it not playne lyenge? _Boni._ Yes as playne as Dunstable way, there can not be a lowder lye then this is. _Bea._ Durste you be so bolde to pulle one of these good detters of yours by the sleue and saye thus to hym, why hast thou dysceyued me so many tymes and broken promyse with me, or to talke to hym in playne englyshe, why doest thou make me so many lyes? _Boni._ Why no syr by my trouthe durst I not, excepte I were mynded before to chaûge halfe a dosen drye blowes with hym. _Bea._ Dothe not masons Brekelayers, Carpenters, Smy||thes, Goldsmithes, Taylours, disceyue and disapoynt vs after the lyke maner daylye promysynge to do youre worke suche a daye and suche a daye without any fayle, or further delaye, and yet for all that they parforme not theyr promesse althoughe it stande the neuer somoche vpon hande, or that thou shuldest take neuer so moche profyte by it. _Boni._ This is a wonderous and strange vnshamefast knauerye of all that euer I hard of. But and ye speake of breakers of promyse then ye maye reken amongest them lawyers and atturneys at the lawe, which wyl not stycke to promyse or beare you in hande that they wyll be diligent and ernest in the furtheraûce and spedie expedicion of your sute. _Bea._ Reken quod he, naye ye maye reken fyve hundreth mennes names besyde these of sundrye faculties and occupacions whiche wyll promyse more by an ynch of a candle then they wyll performe by a whole pounde. _Boni._ Why ||and ye call this lyenge all the worlde is full of suche lyenge. _Bea._ Ye se also lykewyse that no man can abyde to be called thefe, and yet all men do not abhorre the thynge so greatly. _Boni._ I wolde gladly haue you to declare your mynde in this more playnlye & at large. _Bea._ What difference is there betwene hym whiche stealeth thy money forthe of thy cofer, and hym whiche forsweareth and falsely denyeth that whiche thou cõmytted to his custodie to be reserued and safely kept for thy vse only, or to suche tyme as thou arte mynded to call for it agayne. _Boni._ There is as they say neyther barrell better hearing, but that in my iudgement he is the falser knaue of the twayne whiche robbes a man that puttes his confidence and trust in hym. _Bea._ yea but howe fewe men are there nowe adayes lyuynge whiche are contente to restore agayne that whiche they were put in truste to kepe, or yf they deluer it agayne it is ||so dymynysshed, gelded, nypped, and pynched, that it is not delyuered whollye, but some thinge cleues in theyr fyngers, that the prouerbe may haue place where the horse walloweth there lyeth some heares. _Boni._ I thynke but a fewe that dothe otherwyse. _Bea._ And yet for all that there is none of al these that cã abyde it ones to be called thefe, and yet forsothe they hate not the thing so greatly. _Boni._ That is as trewe as the gospell. _Bea._ Consyder me nowe and marke I beseche the howe the goodes of orphanes, pupylls, wardes, and fatherlesse chyldren be cõmunely ordered and vsed, how wylles and testamentes be executed and performed, how legacyes and bequethes be communelye payde, Naye howe moche cleueth and hangeth fast in the fyngers of the executors or with them that mynyster and intermedle with the goodes of the testatours. _Boni._ Many tymes they retayne and kepe in theyr handes all togy||ther. _Bea._ Yea they loue to playe the thefe well inoughe, but they loue nothynge worse then to here of it. _Boni._ That is very trewe. _Bea._ Howe lytle dyffers he from a thefe whiche boroweth money of one and other and so runneth in dette, with this intent and purpose that yf he maye escape so or fynde suche a crafty colour or a subtyle shyft, he intendeth neuer to paye that he oweth. _Boni._ Paraduenture he maye be called warer or more craftier thê a thefe is in dede but no poynt better, for it is hard chosyng of a better where there is neuer a good of them bothe. _Bea._ yea but althoughe there be in euery place a great nombre of such makeshyftes and slypper marchauntes yet the starkest knaue of thê all can not abyde to be called thefe. _Boni._ God onely knoweth euery mãnes hart and mynd, and therfore they are called of vs men that are runne in dette or fer behynde the hande, but not theues for that soun||deth vnswetely and lyke a playne song note. _Bea._ What skyllys it howe they be called amõge men yf they be theues afore god. And where you say that god onely knoweth euery mannes hart and mynde, euen so euery man knoweth his owne mynde, whether in his wordes & doynges he entende fraude, couyn, dysceyte, and thefte or no. But what say ye by hym whiche when he oweth more then he is worthe, wyll not stycke to lashe prodygallye and set the cocke vpon the hoope, and yet yf he haue any money at all lefte to spende that a waye vnthryftely, and when he hathe played the parte of a knauyshe spendall in one cytie deludinge and disceyuyng his creditours, ronnes out of this countre and getteth hym to some other good towne, and there sekynge for straûgers and newe acquayntaûce whom he may lykewyse begyle, yea and playeth many suche lyke partes and shameful shiftes. I praye the tell me dothe not suche a ||greke declare euydentlye by his crafty dealynge and false demeanour, what mynde is he of? _Boni._ yes suerly as euydentlye as can be possible. But yet suche felowes are wonte to colour and cloke theyr doynges vnder a craftie pretence. _Bea._ With what I beseche the? _Boni._ They saye to owe moche and to dyuers persones is communely vsed of great men, yea and of kynges also as well as of them, and therfore they that intende to be of that disposycyon wyll beare out to the harde hedge the porte of a gentylman and soo they wyll be taken and estemed for gentilmen of the commune people. _Bea._ A gentylman and why or to what entent and purpose a gentylman? _Boni._ It is a straunge thynge to be spoken howe moche they thynke it is mete for a gentylman or a horseman to take vpon hym. _Bea._ By what equytie, authoritie, or lawes. _Boni._ By none other but by the selfe same lawes that the Admiralles of the ||sees chalenge a proprietie in all suche thynges as are cast vpon the shoore by wracke, althoughe the ryghte owner come forthe and chalenge his owne goodes. And also by the same lawes that some other men saye all is theyrs what soeuer is founde aboute a thefe or a robber whê he is takê. _Boni._ Such lawes as these are the arrantest theues that are myght make them selues. _Bea._ yea and ye may be sure they wold gladly with al theyr harts î their bodies make suche lawes yf they coulde mayntayne them or were of power to se them executed, and they myght haue some thynge to laye for theyr excuse if they could proclayme opyn warre before they fell to robbynge. _Boni._ But who gaue that pryuylege rather to a horseman then to a foteman, or more to a gentylman thê to a good yeman. _Bea._ The fauoure that is shewed to men of warre, for by suche shyftes and thus they practyse before to be good men of warre that they ||maye be more redy & hansome to spoyle theyr enemyes when they shall encounter with thê. _Boni._ I thynke Pyrhus dyd so exercyse and breake his yonge souldyers to the warres. _Bea._ No not Pyrrhus but the Lacedemonians dyd. _Boni._ Mary syr hange vp suche practysers or soldyers and theyr practisyng to. But howe come they by the name of horsemen or gentylmen that they vsurpe suche a great prerogatyue? _Bea._ Some of them are gentylmê borne and it cometh to them by auncestrie, some bye it by the meanes of maystrys money, and other some gette it by certayne shyftes. _Boni._ But maye euery man that wyl and lyst come by it by shyftes? _Bea._ Yea why not, euery man maye be a gentylman nowe adayes very well and yf theyr condicions and maners be accordynge. _Boni._ What maners or condicions must suche one haue I beseche the? _Bea._ Yf he be occupyed aboute no goodnesse, yf he can ruffle it ||and swashe in his satens and his silkes and go gorgiously apparelled, yf he can ratle in his rynges vpon the fyngers endes, yf he can playe the ruffyan and the horemonger and kepe a gaye hoore gallantlye, yf he be neuer well at ease but when he is playenge at the dyse, yf he be able to matche as moche an vnthryfte as hym selfe with a newe payre of cardes, yf he spende his tyme lyke an epycure vpon bankettinge, sumptuous fare, and all kynde of pleasures, yf he talke of no rascalles nor beggars, but bragge, bost, face, brace, and crake of castelles, towers, and skyrmysshes, and yf all his talke be of the warres and blody battels, and playe the parte of crackinge Thraso throughly, such gaye grekes, lusty brutes and ionkers may take vpon them to be at defyaunce withe whome they wyll and lyst, thoughe the gentylman haue neuer a fote of lande to lyue vpon. _Boni._ Call ye them horsmen. Mary syr suche horsemen are wel ||worthy to ryde vpõ the gallowes, these are gentylmen of the Iebet of all that euer I haue harde of. _Bea._ But yet there be not afewe suche in that parte of Germany called Nassen or Hessen. F I N I S Trãslated by Edmonde Becke And prynted at Cantorbury in saynt Paules parishe by Johñ Mychell. [+] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * [Transcriber's note: The following typographical errors were corrected. "soldyers cassocke, a payre of hoose all to cut and manglyd, may co||uer an euangelycall mynde." hoose _was_ hoofe "Poliphe. Naye I knowe hym whiche bereth a shepe vpon his heed, and a sore in his brest" sore _was_ fore "orphanes, pupylls, wardes, and fatherlesse chyldren be cõmunely ordered and vsed, how wylles" cõmunely _was_ cõmuuely ] 
39038	----	In this version [~e] and so forth indicate scribal abbreviations over letters. ¶ One dialogue, or Colloquye of Erasmus (entituled Diuersoria) Translated oute of Latten into Englyshe: And Imprinted, to the ende that the Judgem[~e]t of the Learned maye be hadde before the Translator pro- cede in the reste. E. H. [Illustration] ¶ Imprinted at London in Fleetstreete, at the signe of the Faucon by William Griffyth, and are to be solde at his shop in S. Dunstons Churchyard in the west. 1566 * * * * * ¶ The Translator to the indifferent reader. If I were throughlye perswaded (g[~e]tle reader) y^t mine attempt of the learned were in all points allowed and the order in my translation correspondent thereunto, I woulde at this present proceede in mine enterprise, with entent by gods helpe to finishe the translation of the whole boke: But because I am vnlearned & therfore must not be mine owne iudge therein, I geue the here a tast of my store for proofe of mine abilitie: desiring the at the least wise not to be offended at the same so boldly attemted and simplye perfourmed. For sithe mine entent is good, & my good wil not small I dare at this present yelde it to thy curtesye. Fare wel. ¶ Thine in will (though not in power) E.H. * * * * * _Diuersoria._ ¶ The speakers. _Bertulphe._ _William._ Why haue men taken suche pleasure and felicity (I pray you) in tariynge ii. or iii. dayes at Lions together, when they trauaile through the contrey? if I fall to trauailinge once, be fore suche time as I be come vnto my iourneyes ende, me thinks I am neuer at quiet in my mind. William. ¶ Say ye so indeede? And I put you out of doubt, I wonder howe men can bee withdrawen thence againe after they be once come thether. Bertulphe. ¶ Yea doe? And how so I pray you? William. ¶ Mary sir because that is the verye place from whence Ulisses companions coulde in no wise be gotten by perswasion. There are the sweet Mermaides (that are spoken of) I warrant ye. Assuredlie, no man is better vsed at home at his own house then a guest is entertained there in a common Inne. Bertulphe. ¶ Why? What is their order and vsage there? William. ¶ Some woman or other did alwayes attende vpon the table to cheere the company with pleasaunt talke and prety conceites. And I tell you the women are meruailous bewtiful and wel fauoured there. Firste of all the good wife of the house came & welcomed vs, praying vs all there to bee merye, and to take well in woorthe suche poore cheere as shee hadde prouided: when shee was gone, in commeth her Daughter (beeinge a verye proper woman) and tooke her roome: also whose behauioure and tongue were so pleasaunt and delectable, that she was able to make euen the grimme Sire Cato to bee merye and laugh, and besyde that they doe not talke wyth theyr guestes as with men whome they neuer sawe before, but euen so famylyarlye and freendlye, as if they were menne that were of their olde acquaintaunce. Bertulphe. ¶ Yea, thys is the ciuilytye of Fraunce in deede. William. ¶ And because the Mother and the Daughter coulde not bee alwayes in the waye (for that they muste goe aboute theyr houssholde businesse, and welcome their other guestes in other places) a pretye little minion Girle stode forthe there by and by (hauinge learned her liripuppe and lesson alreadye in all pointes I warraunte you) to make all the pastime that mighte be possible, and to aunswere (at omnia quare) all such as shoulde be busye to talke and dally with her, So shee didde prolonge or vpholde the Enterlude, till the goodwifes Daughter came vnto vs againe. For as for the mother she was somewhat striken in yeres. Bertulphe. ¶ Yea but tell vs what good cheere yee had there (I praye you) for a manne cannot fill his bellye with pleasaunte talke you knowe well inoughe. William. ¶ I promise you faithfullye wee had notable good chere there, in so much that I wonder how they can entertaine their guestes so good cheape as they doe. And then when our table was tak[~e] vp, they fedde oure mindes wyth their merye deuises, leaste wee shoulde thinke the time werysome. Me thought I was euen at home at mine owne house, and not a trauayler abroade in a straunge co[~u]try. Bertulphe. ¶ And what was the facion in your bed chambers there? William. ¶ Why? some wenches went in euerye corner giggelinge there, playing the wantons, and dalying with vs, of their owne motion they would aske whether we had any foule gere to washe or no. That they washed and brought vs cleane againe, what should I make a longe proces or circumstance, we sawe nothinge els there but wenches and wemen sauinge in the stable. And yet many times they would fetche their vagaries in thether also. When the guestes be going awaye, they embrace them, and take their leaue sweetlye with suche kindnes and curtesye, as if they were all brethern, or (at least) nighe a kinne the one to the other. Bertulphe. ¶ This behauiour doth well beseme Frenchmen peraduenture, how be it the fashions of Duche lande[1] shall go for my monye when all is done, which are altogether manlike. William. ¶ Yt was neuer my chaunce to see the Contreye yet: and therfore I pray you take so muche paine as to tell in what sorte they entertaine a straunger with them. Bertulphe. ¶ I am not sure whether it be so in euerye place or no, but I will not sticke to reherse that whiche I haue sene with mine owne eyes. There no man biddeth him welcome that comes, lest they shuld seme to go about to procure a guest. And that of all sauces, they accompt a dishonest and beggarly thing, and vnmete for their demurenes & grauetie. After you haue stoode cryinge oute at the doore a good while, at the length some one or other pereth out his hed at the stoue[2] window like as a snaile should pepe out of his shell: for they liue ther in stoues, til the somer be almoste in the Tropick of Cancer. Then must you aske of him, whether you may haue a lodging there or no? yf he do not geue a contrary beck with his hed, you may perceiue, that you shall haue entertainment. To those whiche aske where aboutes the stable standes, he pointes vnto it with the wagging of his hand. There maye you vse youre horse after your own diet, for no seruaunt of the house shall once lay handes vnto it to help you. But if it bee an Inne some what occupied or haunted, th[~e] the seruaunt sheweth there which is the stable, & telleth you also a place where your horse shal stãd, full vnhansomely for that purpose god knoweth for they reserue the better romes for the after commers, specially for the noble men, yf you finde any fault with any thinge, by an by they snub you with this: Sir, if mine Inne please you not, goe seeke an other elsewhere in the name of god in cities, it is longe ere they wil bring you hay forthe for your horse, and when they do bring it, it is after a niuer facion[3] I warraunt you, and yet will they aske asmuch mony of you for it (in a maner) as if it were Otes. After your horse is once dressed you come with all your cariage into the stoue with Bootes, Male, or Packe, and with Dirte, Bag and Baggage and all. Euery man is vsed to this generally. William. ¶ In Fraunce they haue certaine chaumbers for the nonce, where guests may put of their clothes may wipe or make clean th[~e] selues, may warme them selues: yea may take their ease to, if they bee so disposed. Bertulphe. ¶ Yea, but here is no suche facions I tel you. In the stoue, you pul of youre Bootes, you pull on youre Shooes, you chaunge youre Shirt if you bee so minded, you hange vp youre clothes all weate, with raine harde by the Chimney, and to make youre selfe drye doe stande by the same your selfe, you haue also water sette readye for your handes, which moste commonly is so clenlye, that you muste after seeke other water, to washe of that water againe. William. ¶ I commende them as menne not corrupted with to much finenesse or daintinesse. Bertulphe. ¶ Thoughe it be youre chaunce to come thether about iiii. of the clocke at afternoone, yet shall you not go to supper for all that vntill it be nine of the clocke at night, and sometime not before tenne. William. ¶ How so? Bertulphe. ¶ They make nothinge ready til they see all their guestes come in, that they may serue them all vnder one without more adoe. William. ¶ These men seeke the neerest way to woorke, I see wel. Bertulphe. ¶ You say true in deede: They doe so, and therfore often times there come all into one Stooue, lxxx. or xC. Footemen, Horsemen, Marchauntmen, Mariners, Carters, Plowemen, Children, Wemen, hole and sicke. William. ¶ Marye this is a communitye of lyfe in deede. Bertulphe. ¶ One kembes his head there. An other doth rubbe of his sweat there. An other maketh cleane his startops[4] or bootes there. An other belcks out hys Garlicke there. What needes manye wordes? There is as muche mingle mangle of parsons there, as was in the old time at the Towre of Babell. And if they chaunce to see a straunger amonge them, whiche in his apparell semeth somewhat braue, galaunt and gentlemanlike, they all stand prying vpon him with their eyes, gasing and gapinge as if some straunge beaste were brought them out of Aphrick, in so much as after they are once set, they be eye him stil an end and neuer looke of, as men forgetting th[~e] selues that they be now at supper. William. ¶ At Rome, at Parise, and at Venice, no mã maketh any such wonderment at all. Bertulphe. ¶ Nowe it is a sore matter I tell you to call for ought there al this while: when it is farre night and they looke for no more guestes at that time, then commeth forthe an olde stager of the house, with a gray beard, a polled hed, a frowning co[~u]tenaunce, clad in il fauored apparaile. William. ¶ Yea mary suche fellowes as these you speak of, should fill the Cardinals cups at Rome. Bertulphe. ¶ He casting his eyes about, reckeneth vnto him selfe howe manye therebe in the stoue at all, the moe he seeth there, the greater he maketh his fire, though the sonne beside doth greatly annoy with his perching heat. Among them, this is accoumpted the principallest pointe of good entertainment, if they all sweat like Bulles, that they doe euen drop again. But if one not vsed to this choking and smotheringe ayre, should chaunce to open but a chinke of the window to keepe him self from stifeling, he should by and by haue this saied vnto him: Shut it I pray you, if you aunswere that you canne not abide it, ye haue this in your nose for your labor, why? then go seeke you an other Inne, on gods name. William. ¶ But me thinkes there can be no greater daunger for health, then that so many should drawe in and out all one vapour: specially when the body is in a sweat, and in this same place to eat meate together, and to tarye together a great while in company, for now I wil not speak of belchinges that sauour of garlick, nor of fistinge, or fisseling[5] nor of stinking breths, many there be (I tel you) that haue priuy diseases, and euery desease hath his proper infection. And surely the moste of th[~e] haue the spanishe scabbe, or as some terme it the frenche pockes: thoughe now adaies one nation hathe it commonlye asmuche as an other. I suppose (I tel you) that there is as great ieobardye in companyinge with these as it is with lepers, and nowe gesse you howe muche difference is betwene this and the pestilence? Bertulphe. ¶ Tushe man they bee stoute fellowes: they doe scorne theise thinges, and make as it were no accompt of them. William. ¶ But yet they are stout with hazardinge of many a mannes helth I tell you plainely. Bertulphe. ¶ Why? What should a man do? They haue thus vsed them selues euermore, and it is a token of constancy and stabilitie neuer to varye or geue ouer that whiche they haue once taken in hand. William. ¶ But aboue twentye yeeres agone, there was nothinge more vsed amonge the Brabanders, then the common Bathes. And now adaies, the same are laied a side euery where: for this stra[~u]g scabbe (I speake of) hathe taught men to come no more thether. Bertulphe. ¶ But go toe? Harken to the rest of my tale that is behind. That grim bearded Ganimede coms to vs afterwardes againe, and layeth as many tables as he then thinkes will serue for the nomber of his guestes, But Lord, what baggage are the table clothes? if you saw them I dare say you would think them h[~e]pen cloths, that are taken from the sailes of ships: they be so course, for he hath apointed that viii. guests shall sit at one table at the least. Nowe those that are acquainted with the facion of the country, doe sit downe euery man, where he listeth him selfe, for there is no diuersitie or cursye I tell you there, betweene the poore man and the riche, betweene the Master and his seruaunt. They are all one. One as good as an other, there is heere (as they say) no difference betwene the shepherd and his dog. William. ¶ Yea marye: this is the olde facion when all is done, that Tiranny hath now abolished and put away from amõg vs: I think Christ liued iump[6] after this maner on the earth when he was here conuersaunt with his Apostles. Bertulphe. ¶ After they be all set, in commeth the frowning minion againe, and once more falleth to recken what company he hathe there: by and by retourning he layeth euery one a trenchar, and a spone of the same siluer: and then after that, hee setteth downe a drinkinge glasse and within a while bringes in bread which euery manne (at leysure) chippeth and pareth for him selfe, whiles the potage is a sethinge. They sit mopinge after thys manner, otherwhiles a whole houre together, ere they can get any thinge to eate. William. ¶ Why? Doe none of the guestes call earnestlye vpon them to haue in the Supper all this while? Bertulphe. ¶ No, none of them all that knowes the Facion of the countrye. At the laste they are serued with Wyne: but youe woulde wonder to see what small geare it is, Scoolemen or Sophisters shoulde drinke none other by myne aduise, because it is so thinne and tarte: how bee it if a guest shoulde chaunce (beside his shotte) to offer Monye to one, and desyre him to gette some better Wyne thenne that some other where, because he lykes it not: they firste make as though they hearde him not: but yet they bee eye hym with suche a bigge an frowning countenaunce as if the Deuyl should loke ouer LINCOLN (as they doe saye) If you will not linne[7] callinge vppon them, thenne they make youe this aunswere. So many EARLES and MARQUESES, haue lodged here in our house, & yet the time is yet to come, that euer they founde any fault with our wine. And therefore if ye fancy it not, get ye packing in the name of God, and seeke an other Inne where ye liste. For they accompt great men and noble men for men onely in their contrye I tell you, setting their armes abroade in euery corner of their house for a shewe. Now by this time they are serued with a soupe, to alay and pacify their pore hongry and crookling stomackes, well nigh loste for meat, hard at the heeles of that comes forthe the dishes with greate ceremonie, pompe or solemnitie. For the firste course they haue soppes or slices of bread, soaked in fleshe brothe, or if it be a fishe day, in the broth of pulce. Then nexte they haue an other brothe: and after that they are serued wyth fleshe twise sod[8], or fishe twise het. And yet, after this, they haue potage once againe, immediatly after, they haue some stiffer meate til suche time as they world beinge well amended with them, they set roste on the table, or sodde[8] freshe fishe, whiche a man can not all together mislike. But when it comes to that once they make spare and whip it away at a sodaine I warraunt you, they facion out euery thinge in his dew time & place. And as the players of Enterludes or comedies, are wonte in their Scenes, to entermedle theyr Chories, so doe these Duche men serue forthe to their guests, Soppes and Potage enterchañgeably or by course. But they prouide that the latter inde of the feast be best furnished. William. ¶ And this (I tell you) is the poynte of a good Poet. Bertulphe. ¶ Besides this it were a sore offence for one all this while to say: Away with this dishe, no man doth eat of it, here you must sit out your time appointed, being so euen and iumpe, that I thinke they measure it oute by some water clockes. At l[~e]gth that bearded Grimson[9] comes forth againe or els the Inholder him selfe, litle or nothing differing from his seruauntes in his apparaile and brauery. He asketh what cheere is with vs: by & by some stronger wine is brought, and they caste a great loue to him that drinketh lustely: wheras he payes no more money that drinketh moste then he, that drinketh least. William. ¶ I put you out of doubt, it is a wonderful nature of the countrey. Bertulphe. ¶ Yea, this doe they in deede: whereas there bee sometime there, that drink two times somuche in wine, as they paye in all for the shot. But before I doe make an end of this Supper, it is a wonderful thing to tell what noise and iangeling of tongues there is, after they begin all to bee well whitled with wine. What shoulde I neede manye wordes? All things there haue lost their hearing and are becom deafe. And many times disguised patches or coxecomes doe come amonge them to make sporte: whiche kinde of men, althoughe of all other it be most to be abhorred, yet you wil scant beleue howe muche the Germaines are delighted with them. They keepe sike a coile with their singinge, theire chatting, their hoopinge and hallowinge, theire praunsinge, theire bounsinge, that the Stooue seemeth as if it woulde fall downe vpon their heds, and none can heare what an other saith. And yet all thys while they, perswade them selues, that they liue as well as hearte canne thinke, or, as the day is broad and longe to. William. ¶ Wel nowe make an ende of this Supper, I pray: for I am weary of so tedious a Supper my selfe to. Bertulphe. ¶ So I will. At the laste when the cheese is ones taken vp, whiche scantly pleaseth their aptite, onlesse it craule ful of magots, that old Siuicoxe[10] comes forth againe, bringinge with hym a meate Trenchoure in his hande, vppon the whiche with chalke he hath made certaine rundelles and halfe rundelles: that same he layeth downe vpon the table, loking very demurelye & sadlye all the while. They that are acquainted with those markes or skoares, doe laye downe their monye, after them an other, then another, vntill suche time as the trenchoure bee couered, then markinge those whiche layed downe anye thinge, he counteth or maketh reckening softely vnto him selfe: if he misse nothing of that which the reckening comes to, hee maketh a becke or dieugard with his hed. William. ¶ What if theer be any ouerplus there? Bertulphe. ¶ Peraduenture he woulde giue it them againe, and some whiles they doeso, if it strike in their braines. William. ¶ And is there none that speaketh againste this vnegall reckening? Bertulphe. ¶ No, none that hathe any witte in his head, for by and by they woulde saye thus vnto hym. What kinde of man arte thou? I tell thee thou shalt paye no more for thy Supper heere, then other men do. William. ¶ Marye this kinde of people is franke and free I see wel. Bertulphe. ¶ But if one (beeinge werye with trauaile) should desire to go to bed as soone as Supper is done, they will him tarye, till all the other go to bed to. William. ¶ Me thinkes I se Platoes common welth heere. Bertulphe. ¶ Then euerye mannes Cabin is shewed him, & in deede, nothinge elles but a bare chaumber for all that is there, is but beddes, and the Deuill a whit there is else beside there, eyther to occupye or els to steale. William. ¶ There is neatnesse or clenlinesse I warraunt you. Bertulphe. ¶ Yea by roode, euen suche as was at the Supper. The Sheetes peraduenture were washed halfe a yeere before. William. ¶ And how fayres your horses all this while. Bertulphe. ¶ They are vsed after the same rate that the m[~e] bee. William. ¶ But is this maner of entertainement in eueryplace there? Bertulphe. ¶ In some place it is more curteous, in some place againe, it is more currishe then I haue made rehersall, howbeit generallye it is euen after this order. William. ¶ What would you say if I should now tell you how strañgers are entreated in that part of Italy which they call Lõbardy, and again in spaine howe they be vsed, and how in Englande and in Wales for Englishe men in conditions are halfe Frenche, halfe Dutche as men indifferente betweene both. Of theise two contries, Welche men say that they are the right Brittaines first inhabiting the land. Bertulphe. ¶ Mary I pray thee hartely tell me, for it was neuer my fortune to trauaile into them. William. ¶ Nay, I haue no laysure nowe at this time, for the Mariner bad me bee with him at three of the clock, except I would be left behinde, and he hath a Packette of mine. Another time wee shall haue laysure enough to tell of these thinges our bellies full. [Illustration] * * * * * 
14746	----	[Transcriber's note: The original text has no page numbers; instead, the first few leaves of each 16-page signature are marked. This information is shown between paired double lines: || A iij.||. Other page breaks have been marked with double lines || A few apparent typographic errors were corrected and are listed at the end of the text. Other possible errors are also noted but were left unchanged. All other spelling and punctuation are as in the original.] * * * * * A dialoge or communication of two persons, deuysyd and set forthe in the la- tê tonge, by the noble and famose clarke. _Desiderius Erasmus_ intituled ye pyl- gremage of pure de- uoty- on. Newly trãslatyd into Englishe. * * * * * || [+] ij.|| To the reder. Amongest the writinges of all men, dearly belouyd reder, not onely of the diuersyte of tongues, but also the noble drawghts of so artificyall paynted figures, whiche haue so lyuely expressed to ye quycke ymage, the nature, ordre, & proporcyon of all states, as concernynge the gouernaunce of a Christen comêwealthe, that ther is (as I suppose) no parte of the scripture, which is not so enpowndyde, furnysshed, and set forthe, but that euery Christen man, therby may lerne his dewty to god, hys prynce, and hys nebure, and so consequently passe thourough the strayte pathe of the whiche scripture doth testyfye vpõ, very fewe can fynde ye entrye, wherby thorough faythe in the redêptyon of the worlde thorowe ye bloode of Christe the sone of god, to rayne || with the father and the holy goste eternally, accordynge to the promyse of Christe, sayinge. In my fathers hawse ther be many placys to dwell in, we wyll come to hym and make a mansyon place with hym and I haue and shall open thy name vnto them, that the same loue with the whiche thou louydest me, may be in theym, and I in thê, and thys is the kyngdome of god so often mouyd to vs in holy scripture, whiche all faythfull shall possesse and inheret for euermore: where as ye vnfaythfull, vnryghtswye, and synner shall not entre in to the kyngdome of god, bycause, of chaûgynge the glory of gode immortall in to the ymage of a corruptyble man, and therfore to incentiously he hathe suffrede them to wandre in theyr clowdes of ygnoraunce, preferrynge the lyes and corrupte || [+] iij.|| iudgmentes of man the veryte and the truthe of god, rather seruynge the creature then the creator, amongest all the parties of the whiche (as was spoken at the begynnyng) thys alwaye not alonely in the newe law, but also in the olde Testament was as a thynge moost abhomynable and displesant in the sight of gode prohybyte and forbyden: but our nature whiche hath in hym, the dampnable repugnaûce of synne agaynst the omnypotêt power of gode, lest euyn frome owre fyrst father Adam, is so enclyned to vyces, amongest the whiche it hath not gyuen the least parte to thys desperate synne of ydolatrye, agaynst the immaculate, and fearefull commandement of god. Thou shalt haue no straunge Gods in my syght, that it is sore to be dreadde the same iudgement to be gyuyn || vpon vs that was gyuen vpon the cytye of Ninyue to be absorped of the yerthe in to the yre and vengeannce of gode, whiche hathe ben the cause that so many wryters bothe of late dayes, and many yeres passede, haue euyn to deathe, resisted thes dampnable bolsterers of ydolatrye, gyuen theyr selues to the crosse in example of reformacyon to theyr bretherne, bothe in wrytinge and cownsell, exhortynge the flocke of Christe frome soche prophane doctryne, amongest whome the noble and famouse clerke _Desiderius Erasmus_ hath setforthe to the quycke ymage, before mennys eyes, the supersticyouse worshype and false honor gyuyn to bones, heddes, iawes, armes, stockes, stones, shyrtes, smokes, cotes, cappes, hattes, shoes, mytres, slyppers, sadles, rynges, bedes, gyrdles, bolles, || [+] iiij.|| belles, bokes, gloues, ropes, taperes, candelles, bootes, sporres, (my breath was almost past me) with many other soche dampnable allusyones of the deuylle to use theme as goddes contrary to the immaculate scripture of gode, morouer he notethe as it were of arrogancye the pryuate iudgment of certayne that of theyr owne brayne wolde cast out ymages of the temple, with out a comen consent and authoryte, some there be that alway seke halowes, and go vpon pylgramages vnder a pretense of holynes, whervpon thes brotherhoddes and systerhoodes be now inuented, morouer they that haue ben at Hierusalem be called knightes of the sepulcre, and call one an other bretherne, and vpon palme-sondaye they play the foles sadely, drawynge after them an asse in a || rope, when they be not moche distante frome the woden asse that they drawe. The same do they conterfayte that haue ben at saynt Iames in Compostella. But they be more pernycyouse, that set forthe vncertayn relyques, for certayne, and attrybute more to them than they oughte to haue, and prostytute or sett theym forthe for fylthye lukre. But now whan they perceyue, that this theyr dãpnable *Corbane [*A tresure boxe of ye Iewes.] dothe decay, and that theyr most to be lamented blyndnes and longe accustomed errours shuld be redressed, they, all fayre bothe of god and man set asyde, rebelle and make insurrectyones contrary to the ordynaunce of gode, agaynst theyr kynge and liege lorde, prouokynge and allurynge the symple comynaitye to theyre dampnable ypocrysye and conspyracy, myndyng || [+] v.|| and goynge about to preuente our most soueraigne lordes iudgment, not yet gyuê vpon theyr Sodomiticall actes, and most horryble ypocrysy. But the worde of the lorde whiche they so tyrannously go aboute to suppresse with all the fauerours therof shall ouercome & destroy all soch most to be abhorred & deceyuable inuegelers & dysturbers of ye symple people to soch detestable treason. And that it may so do to the terryble example of thes and a11 other rebelles and most dysloyal subiectes, and to ye greate comforthe & cõsolacyõ of his gracys faythfull and true comens. I requyre him which brethethe where he willithe and raygnethe eternall gode to graût vnto our seyde most dradde soueraygne lorde whose maiesty as it euydently appereth onely applieth his diligence to the aduaunsynge || & lettynge forthe of the most holsome documenth and teachyng of almyghty god, to the redres of long accustome euylls and damnable sectes, to the supportacion and mayntenaunce of godly and alowable ceremonyes, to the suppressynge and most to be desired abolishyng of the deuelishe and detestable vsurped aucthoryties, dampnable errours and prophane abuses brought in by that myghty Golyas, that obdurated Phareo, that proude Nembroth (whome god amêde) the byshope of Rome, to graunte (I say) vnto hys hyghnes, suche hys godly ayde and assistence, that hys grace with hys moost honorable counsell (agaynst whome this arrogant conspyracy is nowe moued and begonne) may ouercome and debelle the stud traytres as in tymes paste hys maiestye hath prudently || do other, that haue hertofore attempted to perpetrate and brynge to passe like sedicyous mishief, and so to establishe the hartes of hys gracys true subiectes that they may wyllyngly and according to theyr dueties, obey and fulfyll hys most lawfull and godly ordened lawes and commaundements wherby they shall not onely do the thyng agreable to goddes wylle and teachynges, in that he willeth euery soule to be subiected to the hygher power and obedyent to theyr prynce, but also (to theyr greate laude and prayse) shall shewe them selfe to be redy and confirmable to do theyr dueties in aydyng hys excellent hyghnes to the reformacyon of all pernicious abuses & chiefly of detestable ydolatrye, whiche is so muche prohibited in holy scripture and most displeasant to god, || for whiche intent and purpose the sayd most noble and famous clarke _Desiderius Erasmus_, compiled & made this dialoge in Laten, as it foloweth herafter nowe lately translated into our mother the Englishhe tonge. Auoyd therfore, most deare readere, all abuses whereby any inconuenyence may growe, other to the hynderaunce of godes worde, to the displeasure of thy prynce, (whome thou arte so straytly commaunded to obaye, or to the domage of a publike weale, whiche aboue all vices is noted most to be abhorred, not alonely of the most holy wryteres and expownderes of scripture, but also of prophane gentylles, whiche neuer perceyuyd other thinge than nature enclyned theyr hartes vnto, and so consequently to obtayne the fruytion of the godhode thorowe the faythe that was || spoken of at the begynnynge to the whiche the lorde Iesus Chri- ste brynge vs all with a perfaycte quyetnes, So be it. + * * * * * || A.|| A pylgremage, for pure deuocyõ. _Menedemus._ [*Signifieth to forsake.] What new thynge ys it, that I se? doo I nat see _Ogygyus_ my neybur, whom no mã could espie of all thes sex monthes before? yt was a sayng that he was deed, It is euen he, except that I be ferre deceyuyd. I wyll go to hym, & byd hym good morow. Good morow Ogygyus.[*was faynyd of an old kynge of Thebanes.] Good morow to you Menedemus. _Mene._ I pray you frome what contray do you come to vs ayen so saffe. For here was a great comunicacyõ that you dyd sayle streght to hell. _Ogy._ No, thankyd be god, I haue faryd as well syns I went hens, as euer I dyd in all my lyffe. _Me._ Well, a man may well perceyue that all soche rumours be but vanytye. But I pray you what araye is this that you be in, me thynke that you be clothyd with cokle schelles, and be || ladê on euery syde with bruches of lead and tynne. And you be pretely garnyshyd with wrethes of strawe & your arme is full of *snakes egges.[*Signifyeth bedes. Malsyngam ys callyd parathalassia by cause it is ny to ye see.] _Ogy._ I haue bene on pylgremage at saynt Iames in Compostella, & at my retourne I dyd more relygyously vysyte our lady of Walsyngã in England, a very holy pylgremage, but I dyd rather vysyte her. For I was ther before within this thre yere. _Me._ I trowe, it was but for your pleasure. _Ogy._ Nay, it was for pure deuocyon. _Me._ I suppose you learnyd that relygyõ of the Grecyanes. _Ogy._ My mother in law dyd make a vowe that if her dougther shuld be delyueryd of a man chyld alyue, than that I shuld go to saynt Iames on pylgremage, and ther to salute and thãke hym. _Me._ Dyd you salute saynt Iames alonly in your name, and your mothers. _Ogy._ No, in the name of all owre house. _Me._ || A ij.|| Verely I thynke that your howshold as well shold haue prosperd, in case you had not salutyd hym at all. But I pray you what answer dyd he make to your salutacyon. _Ogy._ Nothynge at all. But whã I dyd offre, me tought he dyd lawghe vpon me, and becke at me with hedde, & dyd reche to me this cokleshell. _Me._ Wherfore dothe he gyue rather suche schelles, than other thynges. _Ogygy._ For the see, whiche is nye vnto hym dothe mynystre plenty of suche. _Me._ O holy saynt Iames, that bothe is a mydwyffe to women with chyld, and also dothe helpe his pylgrymes. But I pray you what new kynd of makyng vowes is that that whan a mã is ydle he shall put the burden apon an other mannes bakke? In case that you doo bynd youre selffe with a vowe, that yf ye matter chaunche happyly whiche you haue in hande, that I for you || shall fast twyse in on weke, do you beleue that I can fulfyl youre vow? _Ogy._ No, I doo not beleue it if that you dyd vowe it in youre awne name. It is but a sport with yow to mokke sayntes. But this was my mother in law, I must nedys obey her, you know womenes affectyones, & I must obaye heres. _Me._ If that you had not perfourmyd your vowe, what iopertye had you be in? _Ogy._ I graunt, he could not haue had an accyon ayenst me in ye law, but he myght from hensforthe be deafe to my vowes, orels pryuyly send some calamytye or wretchednes amongste my housholde, yow know well enuffe the maneres of great men. _Me._ Tell me now what that same honest mã saynt Iames dothe, and howe he farythe. _Ogy._ Moche colder thã he was wontyd to do. _Me._ What is the cause of it? His age? _Ogy._ Oh you scoffer, yow || A iij.|| know wel enoghe that sayntes wax nat olde. But this new learnynge, whiche runnythe all the world ouer now a dayes, dothe cause hym to be vysytyd moche lesse than he was wontyd to be, for if any doo come thay salute him alonly, but they offre lytle or nothinge, and say that theyr monaye may bettre be disposyd amongste pore people. _Me._ O a wykyd comunicacyon. _Ogy._ Ye & so great an Apostle whiche was wõtyd to stand all in precyous stones & gold, now stãdythe all of wodde hauynge before hym skaresly a wax candle. _Me._ If it be trew that I here, it is great ioperdy lest that same chance to all the rest of the sayntes. _Ogy._ I thynk it wel, for ther is an epistle abrode whiche our lady dyd wryte apon the same matter. _Me._ What lady? _Ogy._ *She that hathe her name of a stone.[*Our ladi of stone in Raurachia whiche is a certayne cuntre.] _Me._ I trawe it is in Raurachia. _Ogy._ That same || is it. _Me._ yow tell me of a stony lady, But to whome dyd she wryte? _Ogy._ The epistle dothe playnely shew his name. _Me._ By whome was it sent? _Ogy._ No dowbt but by an angell, whiche dyd lay the wrytynges apõ the aultre, wherof he prechythe to whome it was sent. And lest there shuld be any suspectyõ of crafty cõuayance in you, you shall se the epistle wryten with his owne hande. _Me._ Do you know so well the hand of thangell whiche is secretary to our lady? _Ogy._ Yee why nat? _Me._ By what argumêt? _Ogy._ I haue redde that *Epithaphe [*Is a scripture wryten on a graue.] of Bede which was grauyd of the angell: and the letteres agre in all thynges. I haue redde also ye obligacyõ whiche was sent to saynt Gyles as dothe aper. Dothe not thes argumentes proue that mater to be good enoghe. _Me._ May a man loke apon them? _Ogy._ ye and if you wyll swere to kepe it || A iiij.|| preuy. _Me._ Oh you shall speake to a stone. _Ogy._ Ther be stones now a dayes of that name very slawnderous, that wyll hyde nothynge. _Me._ you shall speake to a domme man, & yow trust nat a stone. _Ogy._ Apon ye condycyon I wyll tell it, loke that you here with bothe youre eyares. _Me._ So I doo. [The epistle of our Lady.] _Ogy._ Mary the mother of Iesu to *Glaucoplutus [*Glaucoplutus desirus of ryches.] sêdythe gretynge. Insomoche as you folowe Luther, you nobly perswade, that it is but in vayne to call apõ sayntes, do ye well know for that to be grettly in my fauore. For vntyll thys day I haue almost be slayne with the importunate prayers of men. Of me alone they askyd althynges, as who shuld say my sone were alway a babe, because he is so faynyd and payntyd apõ my breste, that yet he wold be at my commaundemêt and durst nat denye my petycyon, dredynge that if he denye my petycyon, || that I shuld denye hym my teate whan he is a thurst: and very oft thay requyre that of me, whiche a shamfast yongman dare scantly aske of a Bawde, yee they be suche thynges as I am ashamyd to put in wrytynge. Now comythe ye marchauntman and he redy to sayle into Spayne for a vantage, dothe cõmytte hys wyues honesty to me. Than commythe thet lytle preaty Nunne and she castythe away her vayle redy to runne away, she leuythe with me the good name of her vyrgynytye, whiche shortly she entendythe to take monay for. Than cryeth the wykyd soudyer purposyd to robbe & saythe, blessyd lady send me a good praye. Now cõmythe the vnthryfty dyasser and cryethe, send me good chance Lady & thow shalt haue parte of my wynnynges: and if the dyasse runne ayenst hym, he blasphemes, and cursythe me, bycause || I wyll nat fauor his noghtynes. Now cryeth she that sellythe her selffe for fylthye lukre & saythe, swete lady send me some costomers, & if I denye it, they exclame ayenst me & say, thou arte not the mother of marcy. Moreouer the vowes of some women be no lesse wykyd thã folishe. The mayd cryeth & saythe, O swet Mary send me a fayre and riche husbond. The maryed womã saythe send me goodly chylderen. Now laborythe the woman with chyld, and cryeth dere lady dylyuer me of my bondes. Than cõmythe ye olde wyffe, and saythe flowre of all women send me to lyue longe withowt coghe and drynes. Now crepythe the the dotynge old man & saythe, lady send me for to wax yonge ayê. Thã cõmythe forth the phylosopher and cryethe send me some argumêtis that be îsoluble. The great prest cryeth send me a fat benefyce. Thã || saythe the bysshope kepe well my churche. Thã cryethe ye hye Iustyce shew me thy sone or I passe out of this worlde. Thã saythe ye Cowrtyer send me trwe confession at the howre of my deathe. The husbondman saythe send vs temperate wether. The mylke wyffe cryethe owt blessyd lady saue our catell. Now if I denye anythynge by & by I am crwell. If I cõmytte it to my sone, I here them say, he wyll what so euer you wyll. Shall I than alone bothe a woman and a mayd helpe maryneres, sawdyeres, marchantmen, dyasseres, maryed mê, women with chyld, iudges, kynges, and husbondmen? ye and this that I haue sayd is the least parte of my payne. But I am nat now so moche trobled with soche busynes, for that I wold hartely thanke you, but that this commodytye dothe brynge a greater discõmodytye with hym. I || haue now more ease, but lesse honor & profett. Before this tyme I was callyd quene of heuen, lady of the world, but now any man wyll skarsly say aue Maria or hayle Mary. Before I was clothyd with precyous stones and gold, and had my chaunges, and dayly ther was offeryd gold and precyous stones, now I am skarsly coueryd with halffe a gowne and that is all beeyten with mysse. My yerly rentes be now so smalle that I am skarsly able to fynde my pore quere kepar to light a wax cãdle before me. Yet all this myght be sufferyd, but you be abowt to pluke away greater thynges, you be abowt (as they say) that what so euer any saynte hathe in any place, to take hyt frome the churches, but take hede what you doo. For ther is no saynte without a way to reuêge his wronge. If you cast saynt Petre forthe of the churche, he may serue || you of the same sauce, and shite vp heuyngates ayenst you. ye saynt Paule hathe his sworde. Barthylmew is nat withowt his great knyffe. Saynt Wyllyam is harnysyd vnder his monkes cloke, nat withowt a greate speare. What canst thou doo ayenst saynt George whiche is bothe a knyght & all armyd with hys longe spere and his fearfull sword? Nor saynt Antony is nat withowt hys weapenes for he hathe holy fyre with hym. Ye the rest of the sayntes haue theyr weapones or myschefues, whiche they send apon whome they liste. But as for me thou canst not cast owt, except thou cast owt my sone, whiche I hold in myne armes. I wyll nat be seperat frome hym, other thou shalt cast hym owt with me or els thou shalt let vs bothe be, except that you wold haue a temple withowt a Christe. These be the thynges that I wold || yow shall know ymagyne you therfore what shal be your answer. For this thinge pleasythe me very well. Frome oure stony churche the calendes of Auguste, the yere frome my sonnes passyon a M. CCCCC. xiiij. I stony lady subscrybyd thys with myne owne hande. _Me._ Trewly that was a soro and fearfull epistle, I suppose that Glaucoplutus wyll beware frõ hêsforthe. _Ogy._ Ye & if he be wyse. _Me._ Wherfore dyd nat that good saynt Iames wryte to that man of the same mater. _Ogy._ I can nat tell, except it be bycause he is so ferre of, and now a dayes men be moche searchyd for suche maters, & in theyr iornaye theyr lettres takê frome them. _Me._ I pray you, what god dyd send you into Englõd? _Ogy._ I saw the wynd maruelouse prosperouse thyderward, and I had almoste promysyd this to that blessyd lady of Walsyngã that I wold seke || her within .ij. yere, _Me._ What wold you axe of her. _Ogy._ No new thyngs at all, but suche as be comen, as to kepe saffe and sownd my housholde, to encreasse my goodes, and in thys world to haue a lõge and mery liffe, and whã I dye euerlastynge lyffe in another worlde. _Me._ May nat owr lady grante the same at home with vs? She hathe at Antwarpe a moche more lordly temple thã at Walsyngame. _Ogy._ I denye nat but it may be so, but in dyuers places she grantes dyuers thynges, wether it be her pleasur so to do, or bycause she is so gentle, that as cõcernynge this purpose, she wyll gyue her selfe to our affectyões. _Me._ I haue harde oft of saynt Iames, but I pray you describe to me the kyngdome of Walsyngam. _Ogy._ Verely I shall tell you as shortly as I canne. Yt is the most holy name in all England, and you may fynde some in || that yle, that suppose thayr substãce shal nat prospayre except they vysyte her with thayr offerynge euery yere ones as thay be able to gyue. _Me._ Wher dothe she dwell? _Ogy._ At the vttermost parte of all England betwyxt the Northe and the Weste, nat vary ferre from the see, skarsly iii myles, the towne is almost susteynyd by the resort of pylgrymes. The college is of Canões, but thay be suche as hathe thayr name of the Laten tonge and be called Seculares, a kynd betwyxte monkes & Chanones. _Me._ What you tell me of *Amphybyanes, [*Amphybyanes be thynges doutfull.] suche as ye mõstre *Fyber is.[*Fyber is a beste of ye see & ye land.] _Ogy._ No thay be rather suche as the *Cocatrice. [*A Cocatrice wil kyll a man with a loke,] But withowt dissimulation, I shall put you owt of this dowte in thre wordes. To them that thay hate, thay be Chanones, and to them that thay loue thay be Monkes _Menede._ Yet yowe doo nat open thys redle. _Ogy._ || I shall paynte it before youre eyes, if the bysshope of Rome doo shot hys thonderbowlt amõgst all monkes, thay wyll than be chanones, & nat monkes, but and if he wold suffre all monkes to take wyues, thã wyll they be monkes, _Me._ O new partakeres, I wold to god they wold take away my wyffe. _Ogy._ But to come to our purpose, the college hathe skarsly any other *emolumêtes [*Rêttes.] but of the liberalite of our lady. For the great offeryngs be kepyd stylle, but if ther be any litle some of monaye offerid that goith to the comens of the company, & the mayster whome thay call pryoure. _Me._ Be thay of a vertuous lyffe? _Ogy._ Nat to be dispraysyd, thay be more vertuous thã ryche of thayr yerely renttes. The temple ys goodly & goregious, but oure Lady dwellythe nat in it, but that was purchasyd for the honor of her sone. She hathe her owne temple, || B.|| that she may be of the ryght hand of her sone. _Me._ Apon the right hãd. Whiche way dothe her sonne loke than? _Ogy._ It is well remembryd. Whan he lokythe to the West, his mother is apõ his right hand, but whã he turnythe hym to the Este she is apon the lefte hand. But yet she dwellythe nat in that churche, for it is nat yet buyldyd all vpe, and the wynde runnythe thorow euery parte with open wyndowes & dowres, and also nat ferre of is the Occiane seye father of all wyndes. _Me._ what doo yow tell me wher dothe she dwell thã? _Ogy._ In ye same churche whiche I told you was nat all fynyshyd, ther is a lytle chapell seelyd ouer with wodde, on ether syde a lytle dore wher ye pylgrymes go thorow, ther is lytle light, but of ye taperes, with a fragrant smell. _Me._ All these be mete for religyon. _Ogy._ Ye Menedemus if you loke within you || wyll say that it is a seate mete for sayntes, all thynges be so bright in gold, syluer, and precyous stones. _Me._ You almost moue me to go thyther also. _Ogy._ It shalnat repente you of your iornay. _Me._ Spryngithe ther no holy oyle? _Ogy._ I trowe you dote, that spryngythe nat but owt of the sepulchres of sayntes, as saynt Andrew, & saynt Katerê, owr lady was nat beried. _Me._ I graût I sayd amysse, but tell on your tale. _Ogy._ So moche more as thay persayue youre deuocyõ, so moche larger reliques wyl thay shew to you. _Me._ Ye and peraduêture that thay may haue larger offerynges, as is sayd that, many lytle offerynges makythe a heuy boxe. _Ogygy._ Her chaplens be alway at hand. _Me._ Be thay of ye Chanones? _Ogy._ No, thay be nat permyttyd to be with her, lest that peraduenture by occasyon of that religyon, thay shuld be plukkyd || B ij.|| frome thayr owne religyõ, and whylst thay kepe that virgyne, thay regard very lytle thayr awne virgynyte, alonly in that inner chapell whiche is our ladyes preuy chãbre, ther standithe a certayne Chanõ at the autre. _Me._ For what purpose? _Ogy._ To receyue and kepe, that whiche is offeryd. _Me._ dothe any man gyue ayenst hys wyll. _Ogy._ No, but many men hathe suche a gentle shamfastnes, that thay wyll gyue some thynge to hym that standythe by, other thay wyll offre more largely, whiche thay wold nat doo perauêture if that he were absent, that standithe there. _Me._ You tell me of mannes affectiones, whiche I my selffe prouyd very ofte. _Ogy._ Ye trewly there be some so gyuê to our blessyd lady, that whan thay apere to put vpe thayr handes to offre, with a pure cõusyance, thay stayl that whiche other men hathe gyuen. _Me._ Than || lett no man be there, wyll nat oure Lady shote her thonderbowlte at suche. _Ogy._ Wherfor shuld our lady rather doo so, than God hymselffe, whom thay be nat affrayd to pluke owt hys robes, & breake ye churche walles therfore. _Mene._ I am in a great doubt whether I shuld, rather maruayle apon thayre wykyd boldnes, or Goddys great gêtlenes and longe sufferynge. _Ogy._ Apõ the Northe parte ther is a certayne gaate, but lest that you should make a lye, it is nat of the churche, but of the pale that compassithe a bowte the churche yarde, and that hathe a lytle wykyt, suche as be in great mennes gaates, that who so euer wyll entre, must fyrst putin hys legge, nat withowt some ioperdie, and than bowe downe hys hedde. _Me._ It is ioperdie to goo thorow suche a dore, to a mannes enemye. _Ogy._ So it is, the sexten dyd tell me that || B iij.|| ther was ones a knyght whiche fleeynge hys enemye, than aprochynge, dyd ride thorow ye wykyte, and than the wretche dispayrynge in hym selffe, apon a soden motion, dyd commend hymselffe to ye blessyd virgyne, whiche was than at hand. But now commythe the myrakle. By and by that knyght was all in the churche yarde, and hys aduersary was ragynge at the dore wowte. _Me._ And dyd he tell you so maruylous a myrakle for a trewthe? _Ogy._ No dowte. _Me._ But I suppose that he could nat so lyghtely doo that to you so a great a philosopher. _Ogy._ He dyd shewe to me in that same wykytte in a plate of coper, the ymage of the knyght fastenyd with nayles and with the same garmentes that the Englishmen were wontyd to wayre at that tyme, as you may see in that olde pictures, whiche wyl nat lye, Barbours had || but lytle lyuynge at that tyme: and dieres & websteres gotte but litle monay. _Me._ Why so? _Ogy._ For he had a berd like a goote, and his cote had neuer a plyte, & it was so litle, that with strayte gyrdynge it mayd hys body to apere lesse than it was. Ther was another plate, that was in quantyte and fourme like to a cheste. _Me._ Well now it is nat to be doubtyd apõ. _Ogy._ Under ye wykyte ther was a grate of yrne, that no man cã passe theryn but a footemã, for it is nat conuenyent that any horsse shuld tread after apon ye place, whiche the knyght dyd cõsecrate to owr lady. _Me._ Nat withowt a good cause. _Ogy._ Frome that parte toward the Este, there is a litle chapell, full of maruayles and thyther I wête, ther was I receyuyd of another of our ladyes chaplenes, ther we knelyd downe, to make our litle prayeres. By & by, he broght forthe || B iiij.|| the ioynte of a mannes fynger, the greatyste of thre, which I kyssyd, & askyd whose relyques thay were, he dyd say that thay were saynt Petres. What thapostle sayd I. Ye sayd he. Than I dyd better beholde the ioynte, whiche for hys greatenes myght well haue be a Gyãtes ioynte, rather than a mannes. Than sayd I, saynt Peter must nedys be a great man of stature. But at that word, ther was one of the gentlemê that stode by, that could not forbere lawghynge, for the which I was very sory. For if he had holden hys pease, we had sene all the relyques, yet we metely well pleasyd mayster Sextê, with gyuynge hym .ij. or .iij. grotes. Before that chapell there was a litle howsse, which he sayd ones in wynter tyme whan that there was litle rowme to couer the reliques, that it was sodenly broght & sett in that place. Under that house || there was a couple of pittes, bothe fulle of water to the brynkys, and thay say that ye sprynge of thos pittes is dedicate to our lady, that water is very colde, and medycynable for the hede ake and that hartburnynge. _Me._ If that cold water wyll hele the paynes in the hede and stomake, than wyll oyle put owte fyre from hensforthe. _Ogy._ It is a myrakle that I tell, good syr, or els what maruayle shuld it be, that cowld water shuld slake thurste? _Me._ This may well be one parte of your tale. _Ogy._ Thay say that the fowntayne dyd sodenly sprynge owte of the erthe at the commaundement of our lady, & I dilygently examenynge althynges, dyd aske hym how many yeres it was sythe that howsse was so sodenly broght thyther. Many yeres agone saythe he. Yet, sayde I, the wallys doo nat apere so old. He dyd nat denay it. No mor thes woden || B v.|| pyleres. He cowld nat denay but that they were sette there nat longe agoo, and also the mater dyd playnly testyfye ye same. Afterward, sayd I, thys roffe which is all of rede dothe apere nat to be very olde, & he granted also, thes greete bemes which lye ouerthwerte, and these rafteres that hold vpe that howsse were nat sett longe agone. He affyrmyd my saynge. Well sayd I seynge that no parte of the housse is lefte but all is new, how can yow say that this was the house whiche was broght hyther so longe agoo. _Me._ I pray you how dyd the howskeper, auoyde hymselffe frome your argumêt. _Ogy._ By & by he dyd shew to vs the mater by the skyne of a bayre whiche had hangyd be the rafteres a longe season, and dyd almost moke the symplenes of owre wyttes that could nat perceyue so manyfeste an argumête we beynge || perswadyd by this argument, askid pardon of our ignorance, and callid into our communycacyon the heuêly mylke of our lady. _Me._ O how like to the sone is the mother, for he hath left to vs so moche blood here in erthe, & she so moche mylke, that a man wyl skarysly beleue a woman to haue so moche mylke of one chylde, in case the chyld shuld sukke none at all. _Ogy._ Thay saye the same of the holy crosse, whiche is shewyd in so many places bothe openly, and pryuately, that if ye fragmentes were gathered apon one heape, they wold apere to be a iuste fraghte for a shipe, and yet Christe dyd bere all his crosse hymselffe. _Me._ But do nat you maruayll at this? _Ogy._ It may welbe a strãge thynge, but no maruayle, seynge that the lord whiche dothe encreasse this at hys pleasure, is almyghty. _Me._ It is very gently expownded, but I am || afrayd, that many of thes be faynyd for lukre. _Ogy._ I suppose that God wold nat suffre hymselffe to be deludyd of suche a fasshion. _Mene._ Yis, haue nat you sene that whã bothe the mother, the sone, the father, and the holy ghoste hathe be robbyd of thes sacrilegyous theues, that thay woldnat ones moue, or styre nother with bekke or crakke wherby thay myght fray away the theues. So great is the gentles of God. _Ogy._ So it is, but here out me tale. This mylke is kepyd apon the hye aultre, and in the myddys ther is Christe, with his mother apon hys ryght hand, for her honor sake, the mylke dothe represente the mother. _Me._ It may be sene than? _Ogy._ It is closyd in crystalle. _Me._ It is moyste thã? _Ogy._ What tell you me of moystenes, whã it was mylkyd more than a thowsand and fyue hunthrithe yere agone, it is so congelyd, that a mã wold || saye that it were chalke temperyd with the whyte of a egge. _Me._ Ye, but do thay sette it forthe bare? _Ogy._ No, lest so holy mylke shuld be defowlyd with the kyssynge of men. _Me._ You say well. For I suppose that ther be many that kysse it, whiche be nother clene mouthyd, nor yet be pure virgynes. _Ogy._ Whan ye sexten sawe vs, he dyd runne to the aultre, & put apon hym his surplese, & his stole about his nekke, knelyd downe relygyously, and worshipyd it, and streghtforthe dyd offre the mylke to vs to kysse. And at the ende of the aultre we knelyd downe deuoutly, & the fyrste of all we salutyd Christe, & than after we callyd apon our lady with thys prayer, whiche we had mayd redy for the same purpose. O mother & mayde, whiche dyd gyue sukke with thy virgynes teates the lorde of heuen and yerthe, thy sone Iesus Christe, we beynge puryfyed || thorowe hys precyous blode, do desyre that we may attayne, and come to that blessyd infancye of thy colombynes meknes, whiche is immaculate without malice, frawde, or diseyte, and with all affectyon of harte dothe couett and stody for the heuenly mylke of the euangelicall doctryne, to go forthe and encrease with it into a perfaycte man, into the mesure of the plentefulnes of Christe, of whose cõpany thou haste the fruycyon, togyther with the father, & the holy ghost for euermore, so be it. _Me._ Uerely thys is a holy prayer. But what dyd she? _Ogygy._ Thay bothe bekkyd at vs, excepte my eyes waggyd, and me thoght that the mylke daunsyd. In the meanseson the sexten came to vs, withowt any wordes, but he held out a table suche as the Germanes vse to gather tolle apon bridges. _Me._ By my trothe I haue cursyd veryofte suche || crauynge boxes, whan I dyd ryde thorowe Germany. _Ogy._ We dyd gyue hym certayne monay whiche he offeryd to our lady. Thã I axyd by a certayne yonge man, yt was well learnyd, whiche dyd expownde and tell vs the saynge of ye Sextê, hys name (as fere as I remembre) was Robert alderisse, by what tokenes or argumêtes he dyd know that it was the mylke of owr lady. And that I very fayne, & for a good purpose desyred to knowe, that I myght stope the mowthes of certayne newfanglyd felowes, that be wotyd to haue suche holy relyques in derysyon and mokage. Fyrst of all the Sexten with a froward cowntenãce wold nat tell, but I desyryd the yong man to moue hym more instantly, but somwhat more gently he so courtesly behauyd hymselffe, that and he had prayd owr lady herselffe || after that fashion, she wold nat haue be dysplesyd therwith. And thã this mystycall chapleyn, as and if he had be inspyryd with ye holy ghoste, castynge at vs a frounynge loke, as & if he wold haue shote at vs ye horryble thonderbolte of the greate curse, what nede you (saythe he) to moue suche questyones, whan yow see before your eyes so autentycall & old a table. And we were afrayd lest that he wold haue cast vs out of the churche for heretykes, but that oure monay dyd tempte hys greate furye. _Mene._ What dyd you in the meaneseason? _Ogygyus._ What suppose you? We were amasyd as and if a man had stryke vs with a clube, or we had be slayne with a thonderclape, and we very lowly axid pardon of oure folishe boldenes, and gote vs frome thens. For so must we entreate holy thynges. || Frome thens we went in to ye howse where owre lady dwellithe, and whan we came there, we sawe another Sexten whiche was but a noues, he lokyd famylarly as and if he had knowê vs, and whã we came a litle further in, we sawe another, that lokyd moch after suche a fashion, at the last came the thyrd. _Me._ Perauenture thay desyryd to descrybe you. _Ogy._ But I suspecte another mater. _Mene._ What was it? _Ogygy._ There was a certayne theffe that had stole almost all owr ladyes frontlet, and I supposyd that they had me in suspycyon thereof. And therfore whan I was within the chapell I mayd my prayers to our lady after thys fashiõ. Oh cheffe of all women Mary the mayd, most happy mother, moste pure virgyne, we vnclene, and synners, doo vysyte the pure & holy, and after our abylytye we haue offeryd vnto the, we pray thy that thy || C.|| sone may grante this to vs, that we may folow thy holy lyffe, and that we may deserue thorow the grace of the holy ghoste, spirytually to cõceyue the lord Iesus Christ, & after that conceptyon neuer to be separat from hym, Amen. This done I kyssyd the aultre, and layd downe certayne grotes for myne offerynge and went my waye. _Me._ What dyde our lady now, dyd nat she make one sygne, that you myght know that she had hard youre prayeres. _Ogy._ The lyght (as I told you before) was but litle, and she stode at the ryght ende of the aultre in the derke corner, at the last the communicatyõ of the fyrst Sexten had so discoregyd me, that I durst not ones loke vpe with myne eyes. _Me._ This pylgremage came but to smale effecte. _Ogy.._ Yes, it had a very good & mery ende. _Me._ You haue causyd me to take harte of grasse, for (as Homere || saythe) my harte was almost in my hose. _Ogy._ Whan dynar was done, we returnyd to ye temple. _Me._ Durste you goo & be susspecte of felonye? _Ogy._ Perauenture so, but I had nat my selffe in suspiciõ, a gyltles mynde puttythe away feare. I was very desyrous to see that table whiche the holy Sexten dyd open to vs. At the last we fownde it, but it was hãgyd so hye that very fewe could rede it. My eyes be of that fashion, that I can nother be callyd *Linceus, [*Linceus ys a beaste so quike eyed that it wyll see thorow any wall] nother purre blynd. And therefore I instantly desyryd Alldryge to rede it, whose redynge I folowyd with myne owne eyes, because I wold skarsly truste hym in suche a mater. _Me._ Well, now all doubtes be discussyd. _Ogy._ I was ashamyd that I doubtyd so moche, ye mater was so playne set forthe before oure eyes, bothe the name, the place, the thynge it selffe as it was || C ij.|| done, to be breffe, there was nothynge lefte owte. There was a mane whos name was Wylyam whiche was borne in Parise, a man very deuoute in many thyngs but pryncypally excedynge relygyous in searchynge for the relyques of all sayntes thorowowt all the world. He after that he had vysytyd many places, contrayes, and regyones, at the laste came to Cõstantynenople. For Wylhelmes brother was there byshope, whiche dyd make hym pry to a certayne mayde, whiche had professyd chastyte, that hadde parte of oure ladyes mylke, which were an excedynge precyous relyque, if that other with prayer, or monaye, or by any crafte it myghte be gotte. For all the reliques that he hadde gotte before were but tryfles to so holy mylke. Wyllyam wold not rest there tyll that he had gotte halffe of that holy mylke, but whan he had || it, he thoghte that he was richer than Croeseus. _Me._ Why nat, but was it nat withowt any goodhope? _Ogy._ He went thã streght home, but in hys iornay he fell seke. _Me._ Iesu there is nothynge in thys worlde that is other permanent, or alwayes in good state. _Ogy._ But whan he sawe & perceyuyd that he was in greate ioperdye of his lyffe, he callyd to him a frenchman, whiche was a very trusty companyon to hym in hys iornay. And commaundyd all to auoyd the place, and make sylence, & pryuyly dyd betake to hym thys mylke, apon this condycyõ, that if it chãcyd to come home saffe & sownde he wuld offre that precyous tresure to our ladyes aultre in Paryse, whiche standythe in the myddys of the ryuere Sequana, whiche dothe apere to separat hymselffe to honor and obaye our blessyd lady. But to make short tale. Wylyam is deade, & || C iij.|| buryed, the Frenchman mayd hym redy to departe apon hys iornay, & sodêly fell seke also. And he in great dyspayre of amendynge, dyd commyth ye mylke to an Englishmã, but nat withowt great instance, and moche prayer he dyd that whiche he was mouyd to doo. Than dyed he. And ye other dyd take the mylke, and put it apon an aultre of ye same place the Chanones beynge present, whiche were yt as we call Regulares. Thay be yet in the abbaye of saynt Genofeffe. But ye Englishmã obtaynyd the halffe of that mylke, & caryed it to Walsyngã in England, the holy ghost put suche in hys mynde. _Me._ By my trothe this is a godly tale. _Ogy._ But lest there shuld be any doubte of this mater, ye Byshopes whiche dyd grante pardon to it thayre names be wryten there, as thay came to vysyte it, nat withowt thayre offerynges, and thay haue || gyuen to it remyssyon, as moche as thay had to gyue by thayre authorite. _Me._ How moche is that? _Ogy._ Fowrty dayes. _Mene._ Yee is there dayes in hell. _Ogy._ Trewly ther is tyme. Ye but whan thay haue grãtyd all thayre stynte, thay haue no more to grante. _Ogy._ That is nat so for whan one parte is gone another dothe encrease, and it chansythe dyuersly euyn as the tonne of Canaidus. For that althoghe it be incontynently fyllyd, yet it is alway emptye: and if thou be takynge owt of it, yet there is neuer the lesse in the barell. _Me._ If thay grãte to an hunderithe thowsand mê fowrty dayes of pardone, wuld euery man haue elyke? _Ogy._ No doubte of that. _Me._ And if any haue forty byfore dynar, may he axe other forty at after souper, is there any thynge left than to gyue him? _Ogy._ Ye, & if thou aske it ten tymes in one howre. _Me._ I wold || C iiij.|| to God that I had suche a pardon bagge, I wold aske but .iij. grotes, and if thay wold flowe so faste. _Ogy._ Ye but you desyre to be to ryche, if that you myght for wyshynge, but I wyl turne to my tale, but there was some good holy man whiche dyd gyue this argumente of holynes to that mylke, and sayd that our Ladyes mylke whiche is in many other places, is precyous & to be worshipyd but thys is moche more precyous, & to be honoryd, bycause the other was shauen of stones, but this is the same that came out of the virgynes brest. _Me._ How kno you that? _Ogy._ The mayd of Cõstantynople, which dyd gyue it, dyd saye so. _Me._ Perauenture saynt Barnard dyd gyue it to her. _Ogy._ So I suppose. For whã he was an old man, yet he was so happy that he sukkyd of ye same mylke, that Iesus hymselffe sukkyd apon. _Me._ But I maruayle why he was || rather callyd a hony sukker than a mylke sukker. But how is it callyd oure ladyes mylke that came neuer owt of her breste? _Ogy._ Yes it came owt at her breste, but perauenture it light apon the stone that he whiche sukkyd knelyd apon, and ther was receyuyd, and so is encreasyd, & by ye wyll of god is so multyplyed. _Me._ It is wel sayd. _Ogy._ Whan we had sene all thys, whyle that we were walkynge vpe & downe, if that any thynge of valure were offeryd, so that anybody were present to see thaym ye Sextens mayd great haste for feare of crafty cõuayêce, lokynge apõ thaym as thay wold eate thaym. Thay poynte at hym with there fynger, thay runne, thay goo, thay come, thay bekke one to an other, as tho thay wold speake to thaym that stand by if thay durste haue be bold. _Mene._ Were you afrayd of nothynge there? _Ogy._ Yis I dyd loke || C v.|| apõ hym, lawghynge as who shold saye I wold moue him to speake to me, at laste he cam to me, and axid me what was my name, I told him. He axid me if yt were nat I that dyd hange vpe there a table of my vowe writen in Hebrew, within .ij. yere before. I confessid that it was ye same. _Me._ Cã you wryte hebrewe? _Ogygy._ No but all that thay cãnat vnderstond, thay suppose to be Hebrewe. And than (I suppose he was send for) came the posterior pryor. _Me._ What name of worshipe is that? Haue thay nat an abbate? _Ogy._ No _Me._ Why so? _Ogy._ For thay cannat speake Hebrew. _Me._ Haue thay nat a Bishope? _Ogy._ No. _Me._ What is ye cause? _Ogy._ For oure lady is nat as yet so ryche, that she is able to bye a crosse, & a mytre, whiche be so deare, _Me._ Yet at least haue thay nat a presedente? _Ogy._ No veryly. What lettythe thaym? _Ogy._ That is a name || of dygnyte and nat of relygyõ. And also for that cause suche abbayes of Chanones, doo nat receyue the name of an abbate, thay doo call thaym maysters? _Me._ Ye, but I neuer hard tell of pryor posterior before. _Ogy._ Dyd you neuer learne youre grãmere before. _Me._ Yis I know prior posterior amõgst the fygures. _Ogy._ That same is it. It is he that is nexte to the prioure, for there priour is posterior. _Me._ You speake apon the supprioure. _Ogy._ That same dyd entertayne me very gently, he told me what greate labure had be abowt ye readynge of thos verses, & how many dyd rubbe thayr spectakles abowt thaym. As oft as any old ancyent doctor other of deuynyte or of the lawe, resorted thyder, by and by he was broght to that table, some sayd that thay were lettres of Arabia, some sayd thay were faynyd lettres. Well || at the last came one that redde the tytle, it was wryten in laten with greate Romayne lettres, ye Greke was wryten with capytale lettres of Greke, whiche at the fyrst syght do apere to be capytale latê lettres, at thayr desyer I dyd expownde ye verses in laten, trãslatynge thaym word for word. But whã thay wold haue gyuyn me for my labour, I refusyd it, seynge that ther was nothynge so hard that I wold not doo for our blessyd ladyes sake, ye thogh she wold commaûd me to bere this table to Hierusalê. _Me._ What nede you to be her caryoure, seynge that she hathe so many angelles bothe at her hedde and at her fette. _Ogy._ Than he pullid owt of hys purse a pece of wodde, that was cutt owte of the blokke that our ladye lenyd apon. I perceyuyd by and by thorow the smell of it, that it was a holy thynge. Than whan I sawe so || greate a relyque, putt of my cappe, and fel down flatte, & very deuoutly kyssyd it .iij. or .iiii tymes, poppyd it in my pursse. _Me._ I pray you may a man see it? _Ogy._ I gyue you good leue. But if you be nat fastynge, or if you accompanyed with yowre wyffe the nyght before, I conceyle you nat to loke apon it. _Me._ O blessed arte thou that euer thou gotte this relyque. _Ogy._ I may tell you in cowncell, I wold nat gyue thys litle pece for all ye gold that Tagus hathe, I wyll sett it in gold, but so that it shall apere thorow a crystall stone. And than the Supprioure whã he sawe that I dyd take the relyque so honorably, he thoght it shuld nat be lost, in case he shuld shew me greater mysteries, he dyd aske me whether I hadde euer sene our ladyes secretes, but at that word I was astonyed, yet I durst nat be so so bold as to demande what thos || secretes were. For in so holy thynges to speake a mysse is no small danger. I sayd that I dyd neuer se thaym but I sayd that I wold be very glade to see thaym. But now I was broght in, and as I had be inspired with the holy ghost, than thay lyghted a couple of taperes, & set forthe a litle ymage, nat couryously wroght, nor yet very gorgeous, but of a meruelous virtue. _Me._ That litle body hathe smale powre to worke myrakles. I saw saynt Christopher at Parise, nat a carte lode, but as moche as a greate hylle, yet he neuer dyd myrakles as farre as euer I herd telle. _Ogy._ At our ladyes fette there is a precyous stone, whos name as it is nother in Greke nor Laten. The Frenchemã gaue it the name of a tode, bycause it is so like, that no man (althoghe he be conynge) can set it forthe more lyuely. But so moche greater is || the myrakle, that the stone is litle, the fourme of the tode dothe nat apere, but it shynythe as it were enclosyd within that precyous stone. _Me._ Perauenture they ymagyne ye symylytude of a tode to be there, euyn as we suppose whan we cutte ye fearne stalke there to be an egle, and euyn as chyldren (whiche they see nat indede) in ye clowdes, thynke they see dragones spyttynge fyre, & hylles flammynge with fyre, & armyd mê encownterynge. _Ogy._ No, I wold you shuld know it, there is no lyuynge tode that more euydêtly dothe expresse hymselffe than it dyd there playnly apere. _Me._ Hetherto I haue sufferyd thy lyes, but now get the another that wyll beleue the, thy tale of a tode. _Ogy._ No maruayle Menedemus thogh you be so disposyd, for all the world cannot make me to beleue yt, not & all doctoures of dyuynyte wold swere || it were trewe. But that I sawe it with myne eyes, ye with thes same eyes, dyd I proue it. But in ye meanseson me thynke you regard naturall phylosophye but litle. _Me._ why so, because I wyll nat beleue ye asses flye? _Ogy._ An do you nat se, how nature the worker of all thynges, dothe so excell in expressynge ye fourme bewty, & coloure of thaym maruylously in other thynges, but pryncypaly in precyous stones? moreouer she hathe gyuen to ye same stones wonderouse vertu and strêkthe that is almost incredyble, but that experience dothe otherwyse testyfye. Tell me, do you beleue that a Adamand stone wold drawe vnto him stele withowt any towchynge therof, and also to be separate frome him ayen of hys owne accorde, excepte that yow had sene it with yowre eyes. _Me._ No verely, nat and if .x. Arystoteles wold perswade me || to the contrarye. _Ogy._ Therfore bycause you shuld nat say thys were a lye, in case you here any thynge, whiche you haue not sene prouyd. In a stone callyd Ceraunia we see ye fashon of lightnynge, in the stone Pyropo wyldfyre, Chelazia dothe expresse bothe the coldnes and the fourme of hayle, and thoghe thou cast in to the hote fyre, an Emrode, wyll expresse the clere water of the seye. Carcinas dothe counterfayte ye shape of a crabfishe. Echites of the serpente vyper. But to what purpose shuld I entreat, or inuestygate the nature of suche thynges whiche be innumerable, whã there is no parte of nature nor in the elementes, nother in any lyuynge creature, other in planetes, or herbes ye nature euyn as it were all of pleasure hathe not expressyd in precyous stones? Doo yow maruayle thã that in thys stone at owre ladies fote, || D.|| is the fourme and fashon of a tode. _Me._ I maruayle that nature shuld haue so moche lesure, so to counterfayt the nature of althynges. _Ogy._ It was but to exercyse, or occupye the curyosytye of mannes wytte, and so at the lest wyse to kepe vs frome ydlenes, and yet as thoghe we had nothynge to passe ye tyme with all, we be in a maner made apon foles, apon dyesse, and crafty iogeleres. _Me._ You saye very truthe. _Ogy._ There be many men of no smale grauytye, that wyll say thys kynd of stones, if that you put it in vynagre, it wyll swyme, thoge you wold thruste it downe with violence. _Me._ Wherfore do thay sette a tode byfore our lady? _Ogy._ Bycause she hathe ouercome, trode vnderfote, abolyshyd all maner of vnclennes, poysõ, pryde, couytousnes, and all wordly affectyones that raygne in man. _Me._ Woo be to vs, that hathe so many todes in owre hartes. || _Ogygy._ We shal be purgyd frome thaym all, if we dylygêtly worshipe owre lady. _Me._ How wold she be worshipyd. _Ogy._ The most acceptable honor, that thou canste doo to her is to folowe her lyuynge. _Me._ You haue told all at ones. But this is hard to brynge to pass. _Ogy._ You saye truthe, but it is an excellente thynge. _Me._ But go to, and tell on as you begane. _Ogy._ After thys to come to owre purpose, the Supprioure shewyed to me ymages of gold and syluer, and sayd, thes be pure gold, and thes be syluer and gyltyd, he told the pryce of euery one of thaym, and the patrone. Whan I wonderyd, reioycynge of so maruelous ryches, as was abowt our lady, than saythe the Sextê bycause I percayue, that you be so vertuously affecte, I suppose it greate wronge, to hyde any thynge frome you, but now you shall see the pryuytyes || D ij.|| of our lady, and than he pullyd owt of the aultre a whole world of maruayles, if I shuld tell you of all, a whole daye wold nat suffyse, & so thys pylgremage chansyd to me most happy. I was fyllyd euyn full withe goodly syghts, and I brynge also with me this wonderous relyque, whiche was a tokê gyuen to me frõe our lady. _Me._ Haue you nat it prouyd, what valewre your woden relyque is on? _Ogy._ Yis, that I haue, in a certayne Inne within thys thre dayes, ther I fownde a certayne man that was bestraght of hys wytte, whiche shuld haue be bownde, but thys woden relyque was put vnder hys nekke pryuyly, wherapon he gad a sadde and sownd sleape, but in the mornynge he was hole and sownde as euer he was before. _Me._ It was nat the phrenysy, but the dronkê dropsye, sleape ys wontyd to be a good medicyne for ye dysease. || _Ogy._ Whã you be dysposyd to skoffe Menedemus, yt ys best that you gette a nother maner of gestynge stokke than thys, for I tell you it is nother good nor holsome, to bowrde so with sayntes. For thys same mã dyd say, that a woman dyd apere to hym, in hys sleape, after a maruelouse fashion, which shold gyue hym a cuppe to drynke apon. _Mene._ I suppose it was *Elleborû. [*Elleborum wyll restore a man to hys senses that hathe lost thê.] _Ogy._ That is vncertayne, but I kno well ye mã was well broght into hys mynde ayen. _Me._ Dyd you other come or goo by Sante Thomas of Cantorbury that good archebishope. _Ogy._ What els/there ys no pylgremage more holy. _Me._ I wold fayne here of yt, and I shold nat trouble you. _Ogy._ I pray you here, & take good hedd. Kente ys callyd that parte of England, that buttythe apon Fraûce and Flanders, the cheffe cytye there of ys Cantorburye, in yt there be ij. || D iij.|| Abbayes, bothe of thaym be of Saynte Benedycts ordre, but that which ys callyd Saynte Augustyns dothe apere to be the oldre, that whiche ys callyd now Saynte Thomas dothe apere to haue be the Archebyshope of Cantorburys see, where as he was wontyd to lyue with a sorte of monkes electe for hymselffe, as Byshopes now adayes be wontyd to haue thayr howses nye vnto the churche, but aparte frome other canons howses. In tymes paste bothe Byshopes & Chanones were wontyde to be monkes, as may be playnly prouyd by many argumentes. The churche which ys dedycate to Saynte Thomas, dothe streche vpe apon heght so gorgeously, that it wyll moue pylgrymes to deuocion a ferre of, and also withe hys bryghtnes and shynynge he dothe lyght hys neybures, & the old place whiche was wontyd to be most holy, || now in respecte of it, is but a darke hole and a lytle cotage. There be a couple of great hye toures, which doo seme to salute strangeres aferre of, and thay dow fyll all the contray abowt bothe farre and nere, with the sownde of great belles, in the fronte of the temple, whiche is apõ the southe syde, there stand grauen in a stone thre armyd men, whiche with thayr cruell handes dyd sleye the most holy saynte Thomas, and there is wryten thayr surnames Tracy, Breton, and Beryston. _Me._ I pray you wharfore doo thay suffer thos wykyd knyghtes be so had in honoure. _Ogy._ Euyn suche honor is gyuen to thaym as was gyuê to Iudas, Pylate, and Caiphas, & to the compauy of the wykyd sowdyeres, as you may se payntyd in the tables that be sett before aultres. Thayr surnames be putto lest any man hereafter shuld vsurpe any || D iiij.|| cause of thayr prayse. Thay be payntyd byfore mennes eyes, bycause that no cowrtyer after thys shuld laye violêt handes other apõ Byshopes, or the churche goodes. For thes thre of this garde strayght apon that wykyd acte, wente starke madde, nor thay had neuer had thayr mynde ayen, but that thay prayd to blessyd saynt Thomas. _Me._ O blessyd pacyence of suche martyres. _Ogy._ At our entre in, lord what a pryncely place dyd apere vnto vs, where as euery mã that wyll may goo in. _Me._ Is there no maruayle to be sene. _Ogy._ Nothynge but the greate wydnes of the place, and a sorte of bokes, that be bownde to pyleres wherein is the gospell of Nicodemus, and I cannat tell whos sepulkre. _Me._ What than? _Ogy._ Thay do so dylygêtle watche lest any mã shulde entre in to the quere of yron, that thay wyll skarsly suffre a man || to loke apon it, whiche is betwyxte the greate churche & the hye quere (as thay calle it) a man that wyll go thyther must clyme vp many stayres byfore, vndre the whiche there is a certayne wykyt with a barre that openythe the dore apon the northe syde. There standythe forthe a certayne aultre whiche is dedycate to our lady, it is but a lytle one, and I suppose set there for no other purpose, but to be a olde monumêt or sygne, that in thos dayes there was no greate superfluyte. There thay saye that thys blessyd martyr sayd his last good nyght to our lady, whã he shuld departe hensse. In ye aultre is the poynte of the sword that styryd abowt the braynes of thys blessyd martyr. And there lye his braynes shed apon the yerthe, whereby you may well knowe yt he was nere deade. But the holly ruste of thys grat I deuoutly kyssed for loue of ye || D v.|| blessyd martyr. From thens we wêt vndre the crowdes, whiche is nat withowt hys chaplaynes, & there we sawe the brayne panne of that holy martyr whiche was thraste quyte thorow, all the other was coueryd with syluer, the ouerparte of the brayne panne was bare to be kyssyd, and there with all is seth forthe a certayn leden table hauynge grauyd in hym a tytle of saynte Thomas of Acrese. There hange also the sherte of heyre, & hys gyrdle with hys heren breches where with that noble champyõ chastnyd hys body, thay be horryble to loke apon, and greatly reproue oure delycate gorgeousnes. _Me._ Ye perauêture so thay do the mõkes slotefulnes. _Ogy._ As for that mater I cãnat affyrme nor yet denye, nor yet it is no poynte of my charge. _Me._ Ye saye truthe. _Ogy._ Frome thens we returnyd in to the quere, & apon || ye northe syde be ye relyques shewyd, a wonderouse thynge to se, what a sort of bones be broght forthe, skulles, iawes, thethe, handes, fyngres, hole armes, whã we had worshipyd thaym all, we kyssyd thaym, that I thoght we shuld neuer haue mayd an ende, but that my pylgremage felow whiche was an vnmete companyon for suche a busynes, prayd thaym to make an end of sethynge forthe thayre relyques. _Me._ What felowe was that? _Ogy._ He was an Englyshma callyd Gratiane colte a man bothe vertuouse and well learnyd, but he had lesse affectyon toward pylgremages than I wold that he shuld haue. _Me._ One of Wyclyffes scoleres I warrante you? _Ogy._ I thynke nat, althoghe he had redde hys bokes, how he came by thaym I cannat tell. _Me._ He dysplesyd mayster Sextê greuosly. _Ogy._ Thã was there broght forthe || an arme whiche had yet the redde fleshe apon it, he abhorryd to kysse it, a man myght se by hys countenance that he was nothynge well pleasyd, & than by and by mayster Sexten put vp hys relyques. But than we lokyd apõ the table whiche was apõ the aultre, and all hys gorgeousnes, aftrewarde thos thyngs that were hydde vnder the aultre. ther was nothynge but riches excedynge, a man wold accompte both Midas and Cresus beggers in respecte of thos riches that ther was sett abrode. _Me._ Was ther no more kyssynge thê? _Ogy._ No, but an other affection and desyre came apõ me. _Me._ What was that? _Ogy._ I syghed that I had no suche relyques at home. _Me._ Oh a wycked desyre & an euyl thought _Ogy._ I graunt, and therefore I axyd, forgyfnes of saynt Thomas before I remouyd one fote, to departe out of the church. After || thes thus we were brought in to ye reuestry, o good lorde what a goodly syght was ther of vestmêtes of veluet & clothe of golde, what a some of candlestykes of gold? We sawe ther saynt Thomas crosse staffe, ther was seê also a rede ouerlayed with syluer, it was but of a smalle wyght, vnwrought, nor no longer then wold retch vnto a mans mydgle. _Me._ Was ther no crosse? _Ogy._ I sawe none at all, ther was shewed vs a robe of sylke treuly, but sowed with cowrse threde, garnysshyd with nother gold nor stone. Ther was also a napkyn full of swette blody, wher with saynt Thomas wypyd bothe hys nose and hys face, these thynges as monumêtes of auncyent sobernes we kyssed gladely. _Me._ Be not these thynges showed to euery body? _Ogy._ No for sothe good syr. _Me._ How happened it that you were in so good credens, that no || secret thynges were hyd frome you? _Ogy._ I was well acquyntede with the reuerende father Gwylyame warham the archbyshope. He wrote .ij. or .iij. wordes in my fauour. _Me._ I here of many that he is a mã of syngler humanite. _Ogy._ But rather thou woldest call hym humanite it selfe if thou dydest well know hym. For ther is in hym soche lernynge, so vertuouse lyffe, soche purenes of maneres, that a mã cowld wyshe no gyfte of a parfayte Byshope in him, that he hathe nat. Frome thens afterward we were ladde to greater thynges. For behynde the hyghe aultre, we ascêdyd as it were in to a nother new churche, ther was shewed vs in a chapell the face of the blessed man ouergylted and with many precyous stones goodly garnysshed. A soden chaunse here had almost marred the matter and put vs out of conceyte. _Me._ I tary || to knowe what euyl chaunse yow wyll speke of. _Ogy._ Here my companyõ Gratiã gote hym lytle fauoure, for he, after we had mad an ende of praynge, inquyred of hym that sate by the hede, herke, he seyd, good father, is it true that I here, that saynt Thomas whyl he it lyued was mercyfull toward ye poer people? That is very true saythe he, and he begã to tell greatly of his liberalyte and compassyon that he shewede to the poer and nedy. Then sayd Gratiã: I thynke that affection and good mynd in him not to be chaungyde, but that it is now moche better. Unto this graunted ye keper of the hede, agayn sayd he, then in as moche as thys holy man was so gratyouse vnto ye poer, whan he was yet poer, & he hym selfe had nede of monay for ye necessarys of hys body, thynke ye nat that he wold be contêt, now that he is so ryche, and also nedethe || nothynge, that if a poer womã hauynge at home chylderne lakynge mete and drynke, or els doughters beynge in danger to lose ther virginite, for defaute of ther substaunce to mary them with, or hauynge her husbande sore syke, and destitute of all helpe, in case she askyd lycens, & pryuyly stole away a small porcyon of so greate riches, to sukkre her howshold, as and if the shold haue it of one that wold other leane, or gyue it to herre? And whan he wold nat answere that kepyd the golden hedde, Gracyane, as he is som what hasty, I, saythe he, doo suppose playnly, that this holy man wold be gladde, yf that she, now beynge deade, myght sustayne the necestiye of pore people. But there mayster parson begone to frowne, & byte hys lyppe, with hys holowe eyes lyke to *Gorgone [*A mõster that hathe snakes for heares apon her hedde.] ye monstre to luke apõ vs. I doo not dowbte he wold haue || cast vs out of the temple, and spytte apõ vs, but that he dyd knowe that we were comendyd of the archebsyhope. But I dyd somwhat myttygate the manes ire, with my fayre wordes, saynge that Gratiane dyd nat speake as he thoghte, but that he gestyd as he was wontyd to doo, and stoppyd hys mouthe with a fewe pens. _Mene._ Treuly I do greatly alow your goodly fashion, but oftentymes ernestly I cõsyder, by what meaynes they may be acõpted without faute & blame, that bestow so moche substance in buyldyng churchys, in garnysshynge, and enrychynge them without all mesure. I thynke as touchyng the holy vestmentes, & the syluer plate of the temple ther ought to be gyuyn, to the solempne seruys, hys dygnyte and comlynes, I wyll also that the buyldyng of the churche shall haue hys maiesty decent and || E.|| conuenyent. But to what purpose seruyth so many holy water pottes, so many cãdlestyckes, so many ymages of gold. What nede there so many payre of organes (as thay call them) so costely & chargeable? For one payre can not serue vs: what profyteth ye musicall criynge out in the temples that is so derely bought and payed for, whan in the meaneseson our brothers and systers the lyuely temples of Christe liynge by the walles/dye for hungre & colde. _Ogy._ Ther is no vertuouse or wyse man, that wold nat desyre a meane to be hadde in thes thynges. But in as moche as thys euyl is growen and spronge vp of superstityon beyond mesure, yet may it better be sufferde, specially when we consyder on the other syde the euyll conscience and behauyor of them that robb the churches of what so euer iuellys ther may be so founde, thes || ryches were gyuen in a maner great men, & of pryncys, the whiche they wold haue bestowede vpon a worse vse, that is to say other at the dyce or in the warres. And if a man take any thynge from thense. Fyrst of all it is taken sacrylege, then they hold ther handes that were accustomed to gyfe, besyde that morouer they be allured & mouyde to robbynge & vaynynge. Therfore thes mene be rather the kepers of thys treasures thê lordes. And to speake a worde for all, me thynket it is a better syght to beholde a temple rychely adourned, as ther be some with bare wolles, fylthy and euyl fauorde, more mete for stables to put horses then churches for Chrysten people. _Me._ Yet we rede that Byshopes in tymes paste were praysede and cõmended bycause they solde the holy vesseles of theyr churches, and with that money helped and releued the || E ij.|| nedy and poure people. _Ogy._ Thay be praysede also now in our tyme, but thay be praysed onely, to folow ther doynge (I suppose) thay may not, nor be any thynge dysposede. _Me._ I interrupte and lett yowr cõmunycatyon. I loke now for the cõclusyon of ye tale. _Ogy._ Gyffe audyence, I wyll make an ende shortly. In the meane seson comyth forthe he that is the cheffe of them all. _Me._ Who is he? the abbot of the place? _Ogy._ He werythe a mytre, he may spend so moche as an abbot, he wãted nothynge but ye name, and he is called prior for this cause tharchebyshope is takê in the abbotes sted. For in old tyme who so euer was archbyshope of ye dyocese, the same was also a monke. _Me._ In good faythe I wold be content to be namyde a Camelle, if I myght spende yerely the rentes and reuennes of an abbot. _Ogy._ Me semede he was a || man bothe vertuous and wyse, and not vnlearnede Duns diuinite. He opened the shryne to vs in whiche ye holle body of the holy mã, thay say, dothe rest and remayne. _Me._ Dydste thou see hys bones. _Ogy._ That is not conuenient, nor we cowld not come to it, except we sett vp laders, but a shryne of wod couerede a shryne of gold, when that is drawne vp with cordes, thã apperith treasure and riches inestimable. _Me._ What do I here? the vilest part and worst was golde, all thynges dyd shyne, florishe, and as it were with lyghtnynge appered with precyouse stones and those many and of great multitude: some were greater than a gowse egge. Dyuerse of ye monks stode ther aboute with greate reuerence, the couer takyn a way, all we kneled downe and worshyped. The pryor with a whyte rodde showed vs euery stone, addynge therto the || E iij.|| frenche name, the value, & the autor of the gyfte, for the cheffe stonys were sent thyther by great prynces. _Me._ He ought to be a man of an excedyng witt & memory. _Ogy._ You gesse well, how beit exercyse & vse helpeth moche, for euyn the same he dothe oftentymes. He brought vs agayne in to the crowdes. Our lady hathe ther an habitacyon, but somwhat darke, closed rownde aboute with double yren grats. _Me._ What feared she? _Ogy._ Nothinge I trow, except theues. For I saw neuer any thing more laden with riches synse I was borne of my mother. _Me._ You show vnto me blinde ryches. _Ogy._ Whê they brought vs candells we saw a sight passynge ye ryches of any kynge. _Me._ Dothe it excede our lady of walsyngã? _Ogy._ To loke vpõ this, is richer, the secret tresure she knoweth her selfe, but this is not shewede, but to great || men, or to specyall frendes. At the last we were brought agayne in to the reuettry, there was taken out a cofer couered with blacke lether, it was sett downe apon the table, it was sett open, by and by euery body kneled downe and worshipyd. _Me._ What was in it? _Ogy._ Certayne torne ragges of lynnen clothe, many hauynge yet remaynynge in them the token of the fylthe of the holy mannes nose. With these (as they say) saynt Thomas dyd wype a way the swett of hys face or hys neke, ye fylthe of hys nose, or other lyke fylthynes with whiche mannes body dothe abownde. Then my companyon Gratian, yet ones agayn, got hym but smalle fauour. Unto hym an Englyshe man and of famylyare acquayntenance and besyde that, a man of no smalle authorite, the Prior gaff gentylly one of the lynnê ragges, thynkynge to haue gyuen || E iiij.|| a gyfte very acceptable & pleasaunt, But Gratian there with lyttle plea sede and content, not with out an euydent synge of dyspleasure, toke one of them betwene hys fyngers, and dysdaynyngly layd it down agayne, made a mocke and a mow at it, after the maner of puppettes, for thys was hys maner, if any thing lykede hym not, that he thought worthy to be despysede. Wher at I was bothe ashamed and wonderously afrayed. Not withstondynge the Prior as he is a man not at all dull wytted, dyd dyssemble the matter, & after he had caused vs drinke a cuppe of wyne, gentylly he let vs departe. When we came agayne to London. _Me._ What shuld ye do at Londo: seynge ye were not farre from the see cost, to seale in to yowr cuntre? _Ogy._ It is true. But that see cost I refused and gladely dyd fle from it, as from a place that is || noted and more euyl spoken of it, for robbyng, stelynge, and vntrue dealynge, then is of dangerouse ioperdy in the see, be that hyll Malea wher many shyppes be drowned & vtterly destroyed for euer. I wyll tell the what I dyd se the last passage, at my commynge ouer. We were many caryed in a bote frome Calys shore to go to the shyppe. Amongest vs all was a pour yõge mã of Fraûce, and barely appayrelled. Of hym he demauuded halfe a grote. For so moche thay dow take and exacte of euery one for so smalle a way rowynge. He allegede pouerty, then for ther pastyme thay searched hym, plucked of his shoes, and betwene the shoo and the soule, thay fownde .x. or .xij. grotes, thay toke thê from hym laughyng at the mater: mockinge and scornyng the poer & myserable Frenchman. _Me._ What dyd ye fellow than? _Ogy._ What thyng dyd || E v.|| he? He wept. _Me._ Whether dyd they thys by any authoryte? _Ogy._ Suerly by the same authoryte that thay steyle and pycke straungers males and bowgettes, by the whiche they take a way mennes pursys, if they se tyme and place conuenyent. _Me._ I meruayll that they dare be so bold to doo soch a dede, so many lokynge vpon them. _Ogy._ They be so accustomed, that they thynk it well done. Many that were in the shyp lokede owt and sawe it also, in the bote were dyuerse Englyshe marchauntes, whiche grudged agaynst it, but all in vayne. The botemê as it had ben a tryflyng mater reiosed and were glade that they had so taken and handelyd the myserable Frenchman. _Me._ I wold play and sporte with these see theues, & hange them vpon the gallowes. _Ogy._ Yet of such both the shores swarme full. Here tell me, I pray the. What || wyll great mê do, whê theues take vpõ them to enterpryse soch masterys. Therfore, herafter I had leuer go fourty myllys aboute, thê to go that way, thoffe it be moche shorter. Morouer euyn as ye goynge downe to hell, is easy and leyght, but ye cõmynge frome thens of greate dyffyculty, so to take shyppynge of this syde the see, is not very easy, and the landynge very hard & dangeroufe. Ther was at London dyuerse maryners of Antwerpe, with them I purposed to take the see. _Me._ Hathe that cûtre so holy maryners? _Ogy._ As an ape is euer an ape, I graûte, so is a maryner euer a maryner: yet if thou compare them vnto these, ye lyfe by robbynge, and pyllynge and pollynge, they be angelles. _Me._ I will remembre thy saynge, if at any tyme I be dysposed to go and se Englãde. But come agayne in to ye waye, frome whens I broght the || E vi.|| owt. _Ogy._ Then as we whent toward London not farre from Canterbury, we came in to a great hollow and strayt way, morouer bowyng so downe, with hyllys of eyther syde, that a man can not escape, nor it cannot be auoyed, but he must nedes ryde that way. Upõ the lefte hand of the way, ther is an almes howse for olde people, frome them runnyth on owt, as sone as they here a horseman commynge, he casteth holy water vpon hym, and anone he offereth hym the ouerlether of a shoo bownde abowte with an yerne whope, wherin is a glasse lyke a precyouse stone, they that kysse it gyf a pece of monay. _Me._ In soche a way I had leuer haue an almes howse of olde folkes, then a company of stronge theues. _Ogy._ Gratian rode vpon my lefte hande nerer the almes howse, he caste holy water vpon hym, he toke it in worthe so so, || when the shoo was proferred hym, he asked what he ment by it, saythe he, it is saynt Thomas shoo. There at he turned and was very angry, & turned toward me: what (saythe he) meane these bestes, that wold haue vs kysse ye shoes of euery good man? Why doo they not lyke wyse gyue vs to kysse the spottel, & other fylthe & dyrt of the body? I was sory for the old mã, & gaue hym a pece of money to cõforthe hym with all. _Me._ In myn opynyõ Gratian was not all together angry with owt a good cause. If shoes and slyppers were kept for a tokê of sobre lyuynge, I wold not be moch dyscontent ther with, but me thynks it is a shame full fashyon for shoes, slyppers, and breches to be offered to kysse to any man. If some wold do it by there owne fre wyll, of a certene affectyõ of holynes, I thynke they were whorthy of pardon. _Ogy._ It were || better not to thes thynges, if I may say as I thynke, yet owt of thes thynges that cannat forthwith be amended, it is my maner if ther be any goodnes thereyn, to take it out, and apply it to the best. In ye meanseson that contemplacyõ and light delited my mynde, that a good mã is lykened to a shepe, an euyll man to a benemouse best. The serpent after she is dede, cã stynge no more, not withstondyng with her euyll sauour and poyson she infecteth and corruptyth other. The shepe as lõge as she is a lyue norryseth with her mylke, clothet with her wolle, makyth riche with her lambes, when she is deade she gyueth vs good and profytable lether, and all her body is good meat. Euen so, cruell men, gyuen all to the world, so longe as they lyue be vnprofitable to all mê, when they be deade, what with ryngyng of bellys, and pompyouse || funeralles they greue them that be on lyue, and often tymes vexe ther successours with new exactyones. Good men of the other syde at all assais be profytable to all men, and hurtfull to noo man. As thys holy man, whyle he was yet alyue, by hys good example, hys doctryne, his goodly exhortatyons prouokyd vs to vertuouse lyuynge, he dyd cõfort the cõforthlesse, he helped ye poure, ye and now that he is deade, he is in a maner more profytable. He hathe buylded thys costly & gorgeouse churche, he hath caused greate authoryte thorough out all Englande vnto the ordre and presthode. At ye last, thys pece of the show dothe susteyne a company of poure people. _Me._ Thys is of my faythe a godely cõtemplacyõ, but I maruayll greatly, seyng you ar thus mynded, that ye neuer dyd vysyte saynt Patryckes purgatory in Yerlande, of the || whiche the comyn people boost many wonderouse thynges, whiche seme to me not lyke to be true. _Ogy._ Of a suerty ther is not so meruelouse talkynge of it here, but the thynge it selffe doth fare excede. _Me._ Hast thou bene ther than, & gonne thorow saynt Patryckes purgatory? _Ogy._ I haue saylede ouer a ryuer ot hell, I went downe vnto the gates of hell, I saw what was dõe ther. _Me._ Thou dost me a greate pleasure, if thou wyll wotsaue to tell me. _Ogy._ Lett this be the prohemy or begynnynge of owr communycatyon, longe enough as I suppose. I wyll gett me home, & cause my souper to be made redy, for I am yet vndynede. _Me._ Why haue you not yet dyned? is it bycause of holynes? _Ogy._ Noo of a truthe, but it is bycause of enuy and euyll will. _Me._ Owe ye euyll wyll to yowr bely? _Ogy._ No, but to the couetyse || tauerners euer catchynge and snatchynge the whiche when they wyll not sett afore a man that is mete & conuenyent, yet they are not afearde to take of straûgers that, whiche is bothe vnright and agaynst good consciens. Of thys fashyõ I am acustomed to be auengede vpon thê. If I thynke to fare well at souper other with myne acquayntauns, or with some host som what an honest man, at dyner tyme I am sycke in my stomacke, but if I chaunce to fare after myne appetyte at dyner, before souper also I begynne to be well at ease in my stomacke. _Me._ Wre ye not ashamede to be taken for a couetouse fellow & a nygerde? _Ogy._ Menedeme they that make cost of shame in soche thynges, beleue me, bestow theyr money euyll. I haue lerned to kepe my shame for other purposys. _Me._ Now I longe for the rest of yowr comunycacyon, || wherfore loke to haue me yowr geste at souper, where ye shall tell it more conuenyently. _Ogy._ For sothe I thanke you, that ye offere yowr selfe to be my gest vndesyred, when many hertely prayed refuse it, but I wyll gyue yow double thankes, if ye wyll soupe to day at home. For I must passe that tyme in doynge my dewty to my howsehold. But I haue counsell to eyther of vs moche more profytable. To morrow vnto me and my wyfe, prepare our dyner at yowr howse, then and if it be to souper tyme, we will not leyue of talkynge, vntyll you say that ye are wery, and if ye wyll at souper also we wyll not forsake you. Why, claw you your hede? prepare for vs in good fayth we wyll come. _Me._ I had leuer haue no tales at all. Well go to, you shall haue a dyner, but vnsauery, except you spyce it with good & mery tales. _Ogy._ But here || you, are ye not mouyd and styrrede in your mynde, to take vpon yow these pylgremages? _Me._ Perauenture it wyll sett me a fyre, after ye haue told me the resydew, as I am now mynded, I haue enough to do with my statyons of Rome. _Ogy._ Of Rome, that dyd neuer see Rome?. _Me._ I wyll tell you, thus I go my statyons at home, I go in to the parler, and I se vnto the chast lyuynge of my doughters, agayne frome thense I go in to my shope, I beholde what my seruauntes, bothe men and women be doynge. Frome thense into the kytchyn, lokynge abowt, if ther nede any of my cownsell, frome thense hyther and thyther obseruynge howe my chylderne be occupyed, what my wyffe dothe, beynge carefull that euery thynge be in ordre, these be statyons of Rome. _Ogy._ But these thynges saynt Iames wold dow || for yow. _Mene._ That I shuld se vn- to these thynges holy scriptu- re commaundethe, that I shuld commyt the charge to sayntes I dyd rede yt neuer com- maun- ded. God saue the kynge FINIS. * * * * * [Corrected Errors: _v_ = verso (back of page) [+] iiij. the pryuate iudgmegt of certayne _was_ iudgmegt [+] v. cõsolacyõ of his gracys faythfull and true comens _was_ ofh is [+] v. _v_ prudently _was_ prudenly, but catchword has _prudently_ [+] vi. but also (to theyr greate laude and prayse) _was_ prayse( [+] vi. _v_ Desiderius Erasmus _was_ Dsiderius Erasmus B Whan he lokythe to the West _was_ te West D iij. _v_ to the company of the wykyd sowdyeres _was_ compauy D v. Frome thens we returnyd in to the quere _was_ returuyd E ij. _v_ Me semede he was a man bothe vertuous and wyse word _a_ printed only as catchword E viij. I haue saylede ouer a ryuer to hell _was_ ot Additional Problems: [+] iiij. to use theme as goddes _u_ printed for _v_ whervpon thes brotherhoddes and systerhoodes _v_ printed for _u_ A Good morow Ogygyus. / Good morow to you Menedemus. change of speaker not marked C v. _Ogy._ No veryly. What lettythe thaym? _Ogy._ That is a name of dygnyte and nat of relygyõ. change of speaker not marked E ij. _v_ What do I here? the vilest part and worst was golde, change of speaker unclear 
16246	----	[Transcriber's note: The printed text marks the first few leaves of each 16-page signature: ||A.i.||, ||A.ii.||... Other page breaks are marked in this e-text with double lines || A few apparent typographic errors were corrected and are listed at the end of the text. Other irregularities are noted but were left unchanged. All other spelling, capitalization and punctuation are as in the original.] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * A VE- ry pleasaunt & fruitful Dio- loge called the *Epicure*, made by that fa- mous clerke Eras mus of Rotero- dame, newly translated. 1545. * * * * * _S. Paule to the Ephesians_ You that haue professed Christ, suffre not your selues to be deceyued vvith false doctrine, nor vaine and noughtie talkyng, but herken vnto all Godly thynges, and especially too the doctryne of the Gospell. ||A.ii.|| THE HABOVN- daunt mercie and grace of our heauenly father Iesu Christ, maye alwaies strengthen and defende oure noble & vertuous Prynce Ed- ward too the mainte- naunce of the liue- ly woord of God. Whereas manye histories of olde & auncient antiquitie, and also al godly & Christiã writers most playnely consêt together, and agree in this, that dignitie, riches, kinred, worldly pompe, and renoume, doo neither make men better, ne yet happiar, contrarie too the blynde & fonde iudgement of the most part of menne: but by the power and strength of the mynde, that is, learnyng, wysedome, || and vertue, all menne are hyghly enriched, ornated, & most purely beutified, for these bee thinges bothe notable, eternall, and verye familiar betwene the heauenly father & vs. It is therefore euidente (most excellent Prince) that the fittest ornamêtes for your graces tender age, bee, eruditiõ and vertue. Wherunto you are bothe so ernestly addicte and therin so wõderfully doo preuaile, that I nede not too exhorte & exstimulate your grace vnto the study thereof. For that God him self hath wrought, and fourmed your mynde so apt and desirous too attayne and diligêtly too seeke for al godly doctrine, that euê now you doo shewe in all youre saiynges and dooinges suche a wonderfull pleasaûtes much lyke vnto a certayne swete musike or harmonie, that any honest hart exceadinglye woulde reioyce in the sight therof. Verely, your grace thinketh plainly all time lost, that is not bestowed vpon learnyng, which is a verie rare thyng in anye childe, and rarest of all in a Prince. Thus youre noblenes, rather desireth vertue and ||A.iii.|| learning the most surest and excellent treasures, which farre surmounte all worldly ryches, then anye vanities or trifles. Nowe youre grace prepareth for the holsome and pleasaunt foode of the mynde. Now you seke for that whiche you shal fynd most surest helper and faythfulst councellour in all your affaires. Now your magnificêt mynde studieth that, whiche all Englyshe menne with meke and humile heartes shuld desire GOD to endue your grace with all. Now with diligent labour you searche for a thyng, as one most myndeful of this saiyng: Happy is that realme that hath a lerned Prince. Nowe you trauaile for that, whiche conquereth, and kepeth doune all greuous tourmentes & outragious affections of the mynde, too the furderaunce of good liuyng, and maintenaûce of vertue, I meane holsome erudition and learnyng. Many Heathen Princes forsoth, are highly magnified with most ample prayses, which gaue them selues too the study of Philosophie, or knowledge of tongues, for their owne commoditie, and || especially for the weale of their subiectes. Who is nowe more celebrated and worthelier extolled then Mithridates? that noble kyng of Pont and Bithinia, which, (as Aulus Gellius writeth) vnderstoode so perfitly the languages of .xxii. sondrye countries that were vnder his dominiõ, that he neuer vsed any interpretour too answer his subiectes, but spake their lãguages so finelye, as thoughe he had been of the same coûtrie. Ageyn, that honorable manne Quintus Ennius saied: that he had .iii. heartes, because he coulde speake Greke, Italian, and Latin. Yea, and breuely, the most famaus writers, as well the Heathen, as the Christien, with an vniuersall consent, playnly affirme: Whan thei had weied the nature and condiciõ of the purest thinges vnder heauen, thei sawe nothyng faire, or of any pryce, or that ought too be accõpted ours, but onely vertue and learning. Euen now too acknowledge that same, it is yeouê you from aboue, for your grace delecteth in nothyng more then too bee occupied in the holye Byble: wherin, ||A.iiii.|| you beginne too sauer & smelle furth the treasure of wisedome, knowledge and fulnes of the deuyne power, that is a studie most conuenient for euery Christien Prince, that kynd of studye cannot haue sufficient laude and commendation. Whose Princely heart forsoth, is raueshed on suche a godlie and vertuous studie, it can neuer haue condigne and worthie praises, but deserueth alwaies too bee had in great price, estimation, and honour. Who dooeth not know? that Prince which is yeouen vnto the scriptures of God and with a stoute stomake and valiãt heart, both searcheth furth and also defendeth ye true doctrine of the Gospell, too bee inrolled in the assemble of Christ. Who dooeth not see? that Prince too bee moost surelye armed, which carieth in his heart the swerd of ye spirit, which is the blessed woord of God. Who is ignoraunt? that euer lastyng lyfe consisteth in the knoweledge of God. What Prince woulde not studie to maintaine that, which is written for the health, and saluation of all menne weiyuge with himselfe || that a Prince can not deserue, neither by conquest, ciuel policie, nor yet by anye other meane vnder heauen, thys name high or honorable, so wourthely as by the setting forward of Goddes woorde. What young Prince humily defendyng doune intoo him selfe and callyng to memory his bounden dutie woulde not with a glad hearte and a chearfull mynde, gredelye desyre too knowe, enlarge, and amplifie the glory and maiestie of hys derely beloued father? Your grace (forsoth) hath professed God too bee your father: Blessed are you then if you obey vnto hys word, and walke in his waies. Blessed are you, yf you supporte suche as preache the Gospell. Blessed are you, yf your mind bee full furnished with the testament of Christ, and shew your selfe too bee the most cruel too and enemy agaynst ypocrisie, supersticion, and all papistical phantasies, wherwith the true religion of God hathe been dusked and defaced these many yeres Blessed are you, if you reade it daye & nighte, that your grace maye knowe what GOD dooeth forbyd you, and ||A.v.|| euer submit your selfe therunto with seruiceable lowlines chiefly desiring to florysh and decke your mynd with godly knowledge. And most blessed are you, if you apply your self vnto al good workes, & plant surely in your heart the scriptures of Christ, If you thus doo, nether the power of any papistical realme, nor yet of hel can preuaile at any time against your grace. Nowe therfore, with humile hearte, faithfully receiue the swete promises of the Gospel. If you kepe the woordes of the Lorde and cleaue fast vnto them: there is promised you the kingdome of heauen: You are promised a weale publick most riche and welthy You are promised too bee deliuered from the deceiptes of all youre priuie enemyes. You are promised also, too conquere great and mightie nations. Agayne, let your grace bee most fully perswaded in this, that ther was neuer Kyng nor Prince, that prospered whiche tooke parte against Goddes woord, and that the greatest abhomination that can bee, either for Kyng, Prince, or any other manne, is too || forsake the true woord of God. O with howe rebukefull woordes & greuous iudgement thei be condemned, which dispice & set lytle by the holy Byble & most blessed Testamêt of God, wherin there is contained all the wil & pleasure of our heauêly father toward vs most miserable & ignoraunt wretches Who would not quake, too beholde the terrible feares & threatenynges of God ageinst al suche? Who would not lament & gladly helppe their obstinate blyndenes? Who woulde not weepe? to heare and reade in how many places, they be openly accursed by the scriptures of Christ. God him self playnely affirmeth, that he wyll sodênly consume them with the breath of his anger. Yea, besides that whoso euer declyneth from the word of God is accursed in all his doynges, whether he be Kyng, or Prynce, riche, or poore, or of what estate soeuer he bee. This fearfull saiyng (most excellent Prynce) shulde moue all men to take hede vnto their duties and to praie that gods word maie take place emõgist vs. O that al men would ||fantasie the scriptures of God, and saye with the vertuous man Iob. Wee will not bee ageynst the woordes of the holy one. Truth it is, God taketh diligent care too haue vs al know his woord. Woulde God therfore, that all wee were now willing to haue the syncere woorde of God & all holsom doctrine too go forward. O that all we would consent togither in the Gospell, brotherly admonishyng, and secretelye prouokyng one an other too true religion & vertue. O that no man would sow emongist the people pernitious doctryne, but with all lowly diligêce and Godlye monition euer prouoke, tempt, and stere them, tyll their heartes were remoued frõ their olde dautyng dreames and supersticiõ, which haue been long grafted in them thorow popyshe doctrine. By this meane wee shuld euer haue concorde emongist vs, whiche in all thynges is necessary, but most nedefull and expedient in Gods holi woord. Now truely the godlyest thynge that can bee deuysed, for any christian realme, is to haue emongist them one maner and || fourme of doctryne, & too trace trueli the steppes of God and neuer to seeke any other bywayes. Who hath not redde in ye scriptures? but that realme is endued with godly ornamentes & riches, where all men prospere, go for ward and florishe in gods woord, delectyng day and night in the swete cõsolations of the holy testament. By this way we shuld especially set forth the glory of God, and of our sauiour Iesu Christ, if we would reuerently shew one an other that whiche God hath taught vs. Yea & in this doyng all men shulde well perceaue that we were the true disciples of Christ, being knitte and coupled fast together in mynde and iudgement, preachyng God with one mouth and also with one assent euer promotyng his gloryous testament. O the good happe and grace of that king or prynce emongist whose subiectes there is such an hole consent and iudgement in the woord of God, for that most assuredly byndeth & adiuigneth ye hartes of al subiectes too their kyng. The strength of the Gospell is euen suche in this puincte, || that there was neuer man, which did humily receaue it, that would murmour ageynst his Prince. It teacheth how wyllyngly all men shulde obey their kyng. It sheweth verye lyuely and most apertly vnto euery man his ful dutie. It euer prouoketh vs from all wicked, cursed, and most obstinate disobedience. It euer instructeth men too shewe them selues most lowly, humile, and obesaunt toward their Prynce. Whosoeuer hath tasted fully therof, will declare hym selfe in al thynges, too bee a faithful subiect. Furthermore, it is clearer then the light (most vertuous prince) that it woulde make muche for the weale of this noble realme, yf all mê with heart and mynde, would nowe as well expulse the pernitious and deuelyshe doctryne af that Romishe bishop, as his name is blotted î bookes. There is none so ignoraunt, but he knoweth that, thorough hym we were brought into a wõderful blindnes, thorough hym we did sauer of nothyng, but of stynkyng Ydolatry, through hym we were deceiued with || false Ypocrisie. Now let euery blind stiffe hearted, and obstinate creature compare his abhomination with the gospell, and if he be not shameles, he will abashe to smell of his papistrie, and to walow still in ignoraunce, vn lest he bee priuely confederate and in heart consent with the detestable felowship of al wicked papistes. Now would God all suche men would reduce ageyn their heartes vnto ye gospell of Christ, would god they would bee prouoked by some meane to desire knowledge. O that god woulde yeoue them a couragious mynde too reade the gospel, there they shal sone fynde all the venoume of the romishe sort most playnely detected. Forsoth wee see dayly, that lacke of knowledge of the gospel maketh some busserdes runne hedlong on all rockes, daungers, & extreme perilles: yea, and beside that, olde popysh doctryne whiche lyeth folded vp & locked faste in their heartes, doeth so sore blynd thê that they haue neither fauour ne affectiõ too printe in their myndes, the expressed coûcels, admonitions, and || preceptes of the holy scripture, but too slepe stil in their owne conceites, dreames, & fonde phansies. Wherfore let your dignitie note well this, that all those whiche bee not wyllyng that gods woord should bee knowen, and that blyndenes should be clean expulsed from all men, whiche be baptised in ye blessed bludde of Christ, bewray themselues playne papistes: for in very deede that most deceatful wolfe and graund maister papist with his totiens quotiens, and a pena et culpa blesseth all suche as will bee blynde stil, maintaine his põpe, drinke of his cuppe of fornication, trust in his pardounes, liue in popery, ypocrisie, and dãnable ydolatrie, shut vp the kingdome of heauen, & neuer regarde the gospel. Cõtrarie too this, christ bi his holy Prophete calleth al those blessed that seke for his testimonies, al those his elect & chosê childrê, which turne frõ synne, ypocrisie, & ydolatrie, all those goddes that heare his word, yea, & breuely, al those which set it forward honorable mê. & in this puincte your grace shoulde euer beare in mynde, || that noble and vertuous kyng Hezekiah, whiche shewed hymselfe very honorable in settîg forward ye woord of God, and therby gotte hym glory and fame immortall, so that nowe he is most highly praysed amongtst all men. Ageyn his subiectes dyd obey his commaundement feynedly with Ypocrisie, but in their heartes they abhorred gods woord. O the miserie that dyd afterwarde sodeinly ensue vpon them, O the wonderfull wrath of God that was poured vpon them, O their great and obstinate blindnes whiche caused them most greuously too be scourged: Their plage was no lesse then too bee vtterly spoyled of their enemies, Their plage was no lesse then to eate one an other: Yea, their plage was no lesse then to eate their owne sonnes and doughters. This calamitie and sorow (most noble prynce) happened them because they dyd not regarde the lawes of God, but tourned too their olde abhominable Ydolatrie, and lightelye estemed gods holy woord. Wherfore euen now whosoeuer is an enemie ||B.i.|| to the holy Bible, that is, neither studiyng it himselfe, nor willyng that other men shulde knowe it, he can in no wyse be a right christian man: although he fast, pray, doo almes, & all the good workes vnder heauen. And he that hath suche a mynde, is ye most cursed and cruel enemie too god, a playne sower of sedition, and a deuelishe disquieter of all godly men. For truly those that reade the gospel of Christ, and labour diligêtly therin: doo fynde wonderfull rest & quietnes, from all woofull miserie, perturbatiõ, and vanities of this world. And surely none but ypocrites or els deuilles would go about too stoppe or allure men from suche a treasure and godly study. And it were conuenient, that all they whiche wyll remayne styll necligent, styffe, & blind: shuld set before their faces the feare of paynes infernall, and if thei haue any grace at all, their spirites ought to be moued: too note the great plages that haue happened the slouthful in gods woord, & those that haue been stubburne ageynst the settyng || out of it. There bee a thousand recordes and examples in the holy Bible agaynst such as be farre wyde from knowledge, and lye now walteryng styl in ignoraunce and will not looke vpon the bible. It woulde seme, they hope for a thyng, but their hope is in vaine: For saint Paule plainely writeth the hope of suche ypocrites shall coo[~m] too nought. And too conclude (most honorable Prince) seeyng wee haue suche knowledge opened vnto vs, as neuer had englishe mê, and are clearly deliuered from the snares and deceiptes of al false and wicked doctrine, if we shuld not now thãkefully receaue the gospell, and shewe our selues naturally enclyned to set it forwarde, yea, and pray daye and night vnto God, for the preseruatiõ and health of the kynges highnes, your graces deare, and most entierly beloued father, we were neither true subiectes nor ryght christen men. Forsoth, through the absolute wisedome, and the most godly and politike prudencie of his grace, the swete sounde of gods woorde is gone ||B.ii.|| thorough out all this realme, the holye Bible and blessed testament of oure sauiour Christ are coo[~m]ne to lighte, and thousandes haue faithfully receiued those pleasaunt, ioyfull, and most comfortable promises of God. Surely this thyng before all other, is acceptable too god. This thyng especially swageth ye ire of god. This thyng in all holi scriptures god most chiefly requireth of his elect & faithfull seruaûtes, euen too haue his lytell flocke knowe his blessed woorde, whiche woulde bee muche better knowê & more thankefulli receaued, yf al agees and degrees of men with one mynd, wyll, & voice, would nowe drawe after one lyne, leauyng their owne priuate affections, and shewe theim selues euer vigilant, prompt, & ready helpers & workers with God, (accordynge to the councell of sainct Paule) & especially priestes, scolemaisters & parêtes, which accordyng too ye Prophete Dauid are blessed, if they gladly requite ye lawe of God. They shuld therfore reade ye bible & purdge theyr mindes of al papistry: for theyr || necligence, in dooyng their duties & slugishnes toward ye blessed woord of god, dooeth too muche appere. Through them forsoth the gospel of Christ shuld bee most strongely warded and defended, for almost all the Prophetes, and a great parte of the scripture beside teache them their duties, and shew playnely what maner of men they shulde bee: Yea, and how greuously the holy Prophetes crie out vpon false and ignoraunt priestes, the thyng is very euident. But through the helppe of God all those that be ignoraunt, or els learned (as they take them selues) wyll leaue of, and repent them of their wicked and obstinate blyndnes, and bowe them selues with all oportunitie too draw mens heartes too the holy testament of God: consideryng, that in the terrible day of iudgement, euery mã shall yeoue accompte of his Beliwicke, where neither ignoraûce shall excuse vs, ne yet any worldly põpe may defêd vs. Most happye thê shall they bee, whiche haue walked iustely in the sight of the Lorde, and ||B.iii.|| that haue syncerely preached his testament and lyuely woord withoute flattery or iuggelyng: Yea, and in that fearful day, all they (as writeth S. Augustine) shal fynde mercie at the handes of god, whiche haue entised and allured other vnto goodnes and vertue. Weiyng this with my self, (most excellent, and vnto all kynd of vertues most prõpt & prestãt Prince) I thought it good too translate this Dialoge, called the Epicure, for your grace: whiche semed too me, too bee very familiar, & one of ye godliest Dialoges that any mã hath writtê in ye latin tong. Now therfore I most humili praie, that this my rude & simple trãslation may bee acceptable vnto your grace, trustyng also that your most approued gentilnes, wil take it in good part. There as I doo not folow ye latyn, woord for woord, for I omytte that of a certaine set purpose. _Your humile seruaunt, Philyppe_ Gerrard, groume of your graces Chambre. * * * * * The interlocutours {HEDONIVS} {SPVDEVS} What meaneth hit _Spudeus_, too applye hys booke so ernestlye I praye you what is the matter you murmour so with yourselfe? _SPVDEVS._ The truth is (O _Hedoni_) I seke too haue knowledge of a thing, but as yet I cannot fynde that whych maketh for my purpose. _HEDO_ What booke haue you there in your bosome? _SPVDE. Ciceros_ ||dialoge of the endes of goodnes. _HEDO._ It had bene farre more better for you, too haue sought for the begynnynges of godly thynges, then the endes. _SPVDE._ Yea, but _Marcus Tullius_ nameth that the ende of godlines which is an exquisite, a far passing, and a very absolute goodnes in euerye puincte, wherein there is contained all kynde of vertu: vnto the knowledge ther of whosoeuer can attaine, shuld desire none other thîg, but hold himselfe hauyng onely that, as one most fully content and satisfied. _HED._ That is a worke of very great learning and eloquence. But doo you thynke, that you haue preuailed in any thîg there, whereby you haue the ||rather come too the knowledge of the truth? _SPE._ I haue had such fruite and cõmoditie by it, that now verelye hereafter I shall doubt more of the effect and endes of good thinges, then I did before. _HEDO._ It is for husbãd menne too stande in doubt how farre the limittes and merebãkes extend. _SPE._ And I cannot but muse styll, yea, and wonder very muche, why ther hath been so great controuersie in iudgementes vpon so weightie a matter (as this is) emongist so well learned menne: especially suche as bee most famous and auncient writers. _HEDO._ This was euen the cause, where the verite of a thyng is playne and manifest, cõtrarily, ye errour through || ignoraunce againe in the same, is soone great & by diuers meanes encreaseth, for that thei knewe not the foundation and first beginnyng of the whole matter, they doo iudge at all auentures and are very fondly disceaued, but whose sentence thynke you too bee truest? _SPE._ Whan I heare _MARCVS Tullius_ reproue the thyng, I then fãtasie none of all their iudgementes, and whan I heare hym agayne defende the cause: it maketh me more doubtfull thê euer I was and am in suche a studie, that I can say nothyng. But as I suppose ye Stoickes haue erred the lest, and nexte vnto thê I commend the _Peripatetickes_. _HEDo._ Yet I lyke none of their opinions || so well as I doo the Epicures. _SPV._ And emõgist all the sectes: the _Epicures_ iudgement is most reproued and condemned with the whole consent and arbitremêt of all menne. _HED._ Let vs laye a side all disdayne and spite of names, and admitte the Epicure too bee suche one, as euery man maketh of hym. Let vs ponder and weighe the thyng as it is in very deed. He setteth the high and principall felicitie of man in pleasure, and thiketh that lyfe most pure and godly, whiche may haue greate delectatiõ and pleasure, and lytle pensiuenes. _SPV._ It is euen so. _HED._ What more vertuouser thyng, I praye you, is possible too bee spokê then this || saiyng. _Spu._ Yea, but all menne wonder and crye out on it, and saye: it is the voyce of a bruite beast, and not of manne. _Hedo._ I knowe thei doo so, but thei erre in ye vocables of theise thinges, and are very ignoraunt of the true and natiue significations of the woordes, for if wee speake of perfecte thynges, no kinde of menne bee more righter _Epicures_, then Christen men liuing reuerêtly towardes God and mã, and in the right seruice and worshiping of Christ. _SPV_ But I thinke the _Epicures_ bee more nerer and agree rather with the _Cynickes_, then with the Christien sorte: forsoth ye Christiens make them selues leane || with fastynge, bewayle and lament their offences, and eyther they bee nowe poore, or elles theyr charitie and liberalitie on the nedye maketh theim poore, thei suffer paciently to bee oppressed of mêne that haue great power and take many wronges at their handes, and many men also laughe theim too skorne. Nowe, if pleasure brynge felicitie wyth it, or helpe in anye wyse vnto the furderaunce of vertue: we see playnly that this kynde of lyfe is fardest from al pleasures. _Hedonius._ But doo you not admitte _Plautus_ too bee of authoritie? _Speudeus._ Yea, yf he speake vprightely. _Hedonius._ Heare nowe them, and beare awaye wyth you the saiynge of || an vnthriftie seruaunt, whyche is more wyttier then all the paradoxes of the Stoickes. _SPE._ I tarie to heare what ye wil say. _HEDO._ Ther is nothyng more miserable then a mynd vnquiet & agreued with it selfe. _SPE._ I like this saiyng well, but what doo you gather of it? _HEDO._ If nothing bee more miserable thê an vnquiet mynde, it foloweth also, that there is nothing happiar, then a mynde voyde of all feare, grudge, and vnquietnes. _SPEV._ Surely you gather the thing together with good reasõ but that notwithstandynge, in what countrie shall you fynde any such mynde, that knoweth not it selfe gyltie and culpable in some kynde of euell, _HEDO._ || I call that euyll, whiche dissolueth the pure loue and amitie betwixt God and manne. _SPV._ And I suppose there bee verye fewe, but that thei bee offêders in this thynge. _HEDO._ And in good soth I take it, that al those that bee purdged, are clere: whych wiped out their fautes with lee of teares, and saltpeter of sorowfull repentaunce, or els with the fire of charitie, their offêces nowe bee not only smalle grefe and vnquietnes too them, but also chaunce oftê for some more godlier purpose, as causing thê too lyue afterward more accordyngly vnto Gods commaûdemêtes. _SPV._ In deede I knowe saltpeter and lee, but yet I neuer hearde before, that faultes || haue been purdged with fire. _H._ Surely, if you go to the minte you shall see gould fyned wyth fyre, notwithstãdyng that ther is also, a certaine kynde of linê that brenneth not if it bee cast in ye fyre, but loketh more whiter then any water coulde haue made it, & therefore it is called _Linum asbestinum_, a kynde of lynen, whyche canne neither bee quenched with water nor brent with fyre. _Spu._ Nowe in good faith you bring a paradox more wõderful then all the maruailous and profound thynges of the Stoickes: lyue thei pleasasauntly whom Chryst calleth blessed for that they mourne & lament? _Hedonius._ Thei seme too the worlde too mourne, but || verely they lyue in greate pleasure, and as the commune saiynge is, thei lyue all together in pleasure, in somuche that _SARDANAPALVS_, _Philoxenus_, or _Apitius_ compared vnto them: or anye other spoken of, for the greate desyre and study of pleasures, did leade but a sorowefull and a myserable lyfe. _Spe._ These thinges that you declare bee so straunge and newe, that I can scarcelye yeoue any credite vnto them. _Hedo._ Proue and assaye them ones, and you shall fynde all my saiynges so true as the Gospell, and immediatly I shal bryng the thynge too suche a conclusion (as I suppose) that it shall appeare too differ very lytle from the truth ||C.i|| _SPV._ make hast then vnto your purpose. _HED._ It shalbe doone if you wyll graunt me certayne thynges or I begynne. _Spu._ If in case you demaunde suche as bee resonable. _Hedo._ I wyl take myne aduauntage, if you confesse the thyng that maketh for mine intent. _Spu._ go too. _Hedo._ I thynke ye wyll fyrste graunt me, that ther is great diuersitie betwxt the solle and the bodye _Spu._ Euen as much as there is betwene heauen and yearth, or a thyng earthly and brute, & that whiche dieth neuer, but alwayes cõtaineth in it the godly nature. _Hedo._ And also, that false deceiueable & coûterfetted holy thynges, are not too bee taken for those, which in very dede be || godly. _Spude._ No more then the shaddowes are too bee estemed for the bodies, or the illusions and wonders of wytchcraftes or the fantasies of dreames, are too bee taken as true thynges. _HE._ Hitherto you answer aptly too my purpose, and I thynke you wyl graunt me this thyng also, that true and godly pleasure can reste and take place no where but only on such a mynd that is sobree and honest. _SPV._ What elles? for no man reioyseth too beholde the Sunne, if his eyes bee bleared or elles delecteth in wyne, if the agew haue infected hys tast. _HED._ And the _Epicure_ hymselfe, or elles I am disceiued, would not clippe & enbrace that pleasure, whiche ||C.ii.|| would bring with it farre greater payne and suche as would bee of long continuaunce. _SPV_ I thynke he woulde not, if he had any wytte at all. _HED._ Nor you wyll not denye this, that God is the chiefe and especiall goodnes, then whõ there is nothyng fayrer, there is nothyng ameabler, ther is nothing more delicious and swetter. _SPVDE._ No man wyll deny thys except he bee very harde hearted and of an vngentler nature then the _Ciclopes_. _HED._ Nowe you haue graunted vnto me, that none lyue in more pleasure, then thei whyche lyue vertuouslye, and agayne, none in more sorowe and calamytie then those that || lyue vngratiously. _Spu._ Then I haue graûted more thê I thought I had. _He._ But what thing you haue ones cõfessed too bee true (as _Plato_ sayth) you should not deny it afterward. _SPV._ Go furth with your matter. _HEDO_ The litle whelpe that is set store and greate price by, is fed most daintely, lieth soft, plaieth and maketh pastime continually, doo you thinke that it lyueth plesaûtly? _SPV._ It dooeth truely. _HEDO._ Woulde you wyshe to haue suche a lyfe? _SPV._ God forbyd that, excepte I woulde rather bee a dogge then a man, _HEDO._ Then you confesse that all the chief pleasures arise and spring frõ the mynd, as though it were from a welspryng. _SPV._ ||C.iii|| That is euident ynough. _HE._ Forsoth the strength and efficacy of the minde is so great, that often it taketh away the felyng of al externe and outward pain & maketh that pleasaunt, which by it selfe is very peynful. _SPV._ We se that dayly in louers, hauyng great delight to sytte vp long & too daunce attendaunce at their louers doores all the colde wynter nyghtes. _HEDo._ Now weigh this also, if the naturall loue of man, haue suche great vehemency in it, which is a cõmune thyng vnto vs, both with bulles and dogges, howe much more should all heauenly loue excell in vs, which cõmeth of ye spirit of Christ, whose strêgthe is of suche power, that it ||would make death a thîg most terrible, too bee but a pleasure vnto vs. _Spu._ What other men thîke inwardly I know not, but certes thei wãt many pleasures which cleaue fast vnto true and perfect vertue. _He._ What pleasures? _Spu._ Thei waxe not rich, thei optein no promotiõ, thei bãket not, thei daûce not, thei sing not, thei smell not of swete oyntmêtes, thei laugh not, thei play not. _He._ We should haue made no mention in thys place of ryches and prefermente, for they bryng wyth them no pleasaunt lyfe, but rather a sadde and a pêsiue. Let vs intreate of other thynges, suche as they chiefely seeke for, whose desyre is to liue deliciously, see ye not daily ||C.iiii|| drõkerdes, fooles, and mad menne grinne and leape? _SPV._ I see it _HED._ Do you thynke that thei liue most pleasaûtly? _SPV_ God send myne enemies such myrth & pleasure. _HE._ Why so? _Sp._ For ther lacketh emongist thê sobrietie of mind. _HE._ Then you had leuer sit fastyng at your booke, then too make pastime after any suche sorte. _SP._ Of thê both: truly I had rather chose to delue. _H._ For this is plaine that betwixt the mad mã & the drûkerd ther is no diuersitie, but that slepe wil helpe the one his madnes, & with much a doo ye cure of _Physicions_ helpeth the other, but the foole natural differeth nothing frõ a brute beast except by shape and portrature of body, yet thei || be lesse miserable whom nature hathe made verye brutes, then those that walowe theim selues in foule and beastly lustes. _SP._ I confesse that. _Hedo._ But now tell me, whether you thynke thê sobre and wyse, which for playn vanities and shadowes of plesure, booth dispice the true and godlye pleasures of the mynde and chose for them selues suche thynges as bee but vexacion & sorowe. _SPV._ I take it, thei bee not. _Hedo._ In deede thei bee not drûke with wyne, but with loue with anger, with auarice, with ambicion, and other foule and filthie desires, whiche kynde of drunkenes is farre worse, thê that is gotten with drinking of wine. Yet _Sirus_ that leude cõspaniõ ||of whom mention is made in ye commedie, spake witty thynges after he had slepte hym self soobre, and called too memorie his greate and moost beastlye drunkenes: but the minde that is infected with vicious & noughty desire, hath muche a doo too call it selfe whom agein? How many yeares doeth loue, anger, spite, sensualitie, excesse, and ambition, trouble and prouoke the mynde? How many doo wee see, whiche euen from their youth, too their latter dais neuer awake nor repêt them of the drunkennes, of ambitiõ, nigardnes, wanton lust, & riatte? _Spu._ I haue knowen ouermany of that sorte. _Hedo._ You haue graûted that false and fayned good || thinges, are not too bee estemed for the pure and godly. _Sp._ And I affirme that still. _Hedo._ Nor that there is no true and perfect pleasure, except it bee taken of honest and godly thynges. _Spud._ I confesse that. _He._ Then (I pray you) bee not those good that the commune sorte seeke for, they care not howe? _Spu._ I thinke they be not. _Hedo._ Surely if thei were good, they would not chaunce but onely too good men: and would make all those vertuous that they happen vntoo. What maner of pleasure make you that, doo you thinke it too bee godly, which is not of true & honest thynges, but of deceatfull: and coometh out of ye shadowes of good thynges? _Sp._ || Nay in noo wyse. _He._ For pleasure maketh vs to liue merely. _Spu._ Yea, nothyng so muche. _He._ Therfore no man truely liueth pleasauntly, but he that lyueth godly: that is, whiche vseth and delecteth onli in good thynges: for vertue of it selfe, maketh a man to habound in all thynges that bee good, perfete, & prayse worthy: yea, it onely prouoketh God the fountaine of all goodnes, too loue and fauour man. _SP._ I almost consent with you. _HED._ But now marke howe far they bee from all pleasure, whiche seeme openly emongist all men too folowe nothyng, but the inordinate delectation in in thynges carnall. || First their mynde is vile, and corrupted with the sauour and taste of noughtie desires, in so muche that if any pleasaunt thing chaunce them, forthwith it waxeth bitter, and is nought set by, in like maner as where ye welle hed is corrupted and stynketh, there ye water must nedes be vnsauery. Agein ther is no honest pleasure, but that whiche wee receaue with a sobre and a quiet mynde. For wee see, nothyng reioyseth the angry man more, thê too bee reuenged on his offenders, but that pleasure is turned into pain after his rage bee past, and anger subdued. _Spu._ I say not the contrary. _He._ Finally, suche leude pleasures bee taken of fallible thinges, therefore || it foloweth that they be but delusiõs and shadowes. What woulde you say furthermore, if you saw a mã so deceaued with sorcerie & also other detestable witchecraftes, eat, drynke, leap, laugh, yea, and clappe handes for ioye, when ther wer no such thyng there in very dede, as he beleueth he seeth. _Spu._ I wolde say he were both mad and miserable. _Hedo._ I my self haue been often in place, where the lyke thyng hath been doone. There was a priest whiche knewe perfectly by longe experience and practise, the arte to make thynges seme that they were not, otherwise called, _deceptio visus_. _Sp._ He did not lerne that arte of the holy scripture? _Hedo._ Yea, || rather of most popeholy charmes and witchecraftes: that is too saye, of thinges, cursed, dampnable, and wourthy too bee abhorred. Certayne ladies & gentlewomen of the courte, spake vnto hym oftentimes: saiyng, they woulde coo[~m] one day too his house and see what good chere he kept: reprouyng, greatly vile and homly fare, and moderate expenses in all thynges. He graunted they shulde bee welcome, and very instauntly desired them. And they came fastyng because they would haue better appetites. Whã they wer set to dyner (as it was thought) ther wãted noo kynde of delitious meat: they filled thê selues haboûdantly: after ye feast was || doone, they gaue moost hearty thanckes, for their galaunte cheare, and departed, euery one of them vnto their owne lodgynges: but anone their stomackes beganne too waxe an hungred, they maruayled what this shuld meane, so soone to be an hungred and a thirste, after so sumptuous a feast: at the last the matter was openly knowen and laught at. _Spu._ Not without a cause, it had been muche better for thê too haue satisfied their stomackes at their owne chãbers with a messe of potage, thê too be fed so delitiousli with vain illusiõs. _H._ And as I thîk ye cõmune sort of men ar muche more too bee laught at, whiche in steede of Godlye thynges, ||chose vaine and transitory shadowes, and reioyce excedyngly in suche folishe phansies that turne not afterwarde in too a laughter, but into euerlasting lamentation and sorow. _Spudeus_ The more nerelier I note your saiynges, the better I like thê. _Hedo._ Go too, let vs graunt for a tyme these thynges too bee called pleasaunt, that in very dede ar not. Would yow saye that meeth were swete: whiche had more Aloes myngled with it, then honye? _Spud._ I woulde not so say and if there were but the third part of an ounce of Aloes mixt with it. _Hedo._ Or els, would you wishe to bee scabbed because you haue some pleasure too scratch? _Spud._ Noo, if I wer ||D.i|| in my right mynd. _HED._ Then weigh with your self how great peyne is intermyngled wyth these false and wrongly named pleasures, that vnshamefast loue filthie desire, much eatyng and drinking bring vs vnto: I doo omitte now that, which is principall grudge of cõscience, enemitie betwixt God and mã, and expectation of euerlastyng punishêment. What kynd of pleasure, I pray you is ther in these thinges, that dooeth not bryng with it a greate heape of outeward euilles? _SPV._ What bee thei? _HEDO._ We ought to let passe and forbeare in this place auarice, ambition, wrath, pryde enuy, whiche of their selues bee heuy and sorowful euylles and || let vs conferre and compare all those thynges together, that haue the name of some chief and special pleasure: wher as the agew the hedache, the swelling of the belly, dulnes of witte, infamy, hurt of memory, vomyting, decaye of stomacke, tremblyng of the body succede of ouer muche drynking: thynke you, that the _Epicure_ would haue estemed any suche lyke pleasure as thys, cõuenient and wourthy desire? _SPV._ He woulde saye it wer vtterly too bee refused. _HEDONi._ Wheras young men also with hauntynge of whores (as it is dayly seene) catche the newe leprosie, nowe otherwyse named Jobs agew, and some cal it the scabbes of Naples, throughe ||D.ii|| which desease they feele often ye most extreme and cruell paines of deathe euen in this lyfe, and cary about a bodye resemblyng very much some dead coarse or carryn, do you thynke that thei apply them selues vnto godlye pleasure. _SPVD._ Noo, for after thei haue been often familiar with their prety ones, then they must goo streighte too the barbours, that chaunceth continuallye vnto all whoremongers. _HED._ Now fayne that ther wer a lyke measure of pain and plesure, would ye then require too haue the toothache so longe as the pleasure of quaffing & whordome endured? _SPV._ Verely I had rather wãt them booth, for ther is no commoditie nor || vantage to bye pleasure with payn but only to chaûg one thing for another, but the best choise is nowe not too affectionate anye such leudnes, for _MAR. Tullius_ calleth that an inward greife & sorow. _He._ But now ye prouocation & entisemêt of vnleful plesure, besides that it is much lesse then the pain which it bringeth with it, it is also a thing of a very short time: but if the leprosye bee ones caught, it tourmêteth mê al their life daies very pitifully & oftentimes cõstraineth them to wyshe for death before thei cã dye. _SP._ Such disciples as those then, the _Epicure_ would not knowe. _HED._ For the most part pouertie, a very miserable and painfull burden, foloweth ||D.iii.|| lechery, of immoderate lust cõmeth the palsie, tremblyng of ye senewes, bleardnes of eyes, and blyndnes, the leprosie and not these only, is it not a proper pece of worke (I pray you) to chaûg this short pleasure neyther honest nor yet godly, for so manye euylles far more greuouse and of muche longer continuance. _SP._ Although there shoulde no pain com of it, I esteme hym to bee a very fond occupier, which would chaûge precious stones for glasse. _HE._ You meane that would lose the godly pleasures of the mynde, for the coloured pleasures of ye body. _SP._ That is my meanyng. _HE._ But nowe let vs come to a more perfecter supputation, neither the agewe || nor yet pouerty foloweth alwaies carnal pleasure, nor the new leprosy or els the palsy wait not on at al times the great & excessiue vse of lecherye, but grudge of cõsiêce euermore is a folower & sure companiõ of al vnleaful pleasure, then the which as it is plainly agreed betwixt vs, nothyng is more miserable. _SPV._ Yea, rather it grudgeth their cõscience sometyme before hande, & in the self pleasure it pricketh their mynde, yet ther bee some that you woulde say, want this motion and feelyng. _HE._ Thei bee nowe therfore in worse estate & cõditiõ. Who would not rather feele payne, then too haue hys body lacke any perfecte sence, truly from some ether intemperatnes ||D.iiii.|| of euel desires, euen like as it were a certayne kynde of drunkenes, or els wont and cõmune haunt of vice which ar so hardened in them, that they take a way ye felyng & cõsideration of euyl in their youth, so that whã agee commeth vpõ them beside other infinitie hurtes and perturbations agaynst whose commyng thei should haue layd vp the deedes of their former lyfe, as a special iuwel and treasure: then thei stande greatly in fear of death, a thyng emongist all other most ineuitable, & that no man canne shonne: yea, and the more they haue heretofore been dysmayed and lacked their sences, the greater now is their vnquietnes and grudge of || conscience, then truely the mynde is sodenly awaked whether it wol or noo, and verely wher as olde agee is alwayes sad and heuy of it selfe for as muche as it is in subiection and bondage vnto many incommodities of nature, but then it is farre more wretchede and also fylthye, if the mynde vnquiet with it selfe shal trouble it also: feastes, ryotous banketyng, syngyng, and daunsynge, with manye suche other wanton toyes & pastimes which he was communely yeouê vnto & thought very plesaût when he was young, bee nowe paynfull vnto hym beyng olde and crooked, ne agee hath nothyng too comforte and fortifi || it selfe withall, but onely too remembre that it hath passed ouer the course of yeares in vertue and godly liuyng and conceaue a special trust too obtaine herafter a better kynde of life. These be the two staues wherevpon age is stayed, & if in their steed you wyll lay on hym these two burdens: that is, memorie how synfully he hath ledde his life, and desperation of the felicitie that is too coome, I praye you what liuyng thyng can bee feyned too suffre sorer punishement and greater miserie? _spu._ Verely I can see nothyng although some man woulde saye an olde horse. _hedo._ Then to cõclude it is too late to waxe wise And that saiyng appereth now || too bee very true. Carefull mornynges doo oftentymes folowe mery euentides, and all vayne and outragious mirth euer turneth into sorowfull sighes: yea, & they shulde haue considered both that there is noo pleasure aboue ye ioyfulnes of the heart, and that chearefull mynde maketh agee too florishe, an heauy spirit consumeth the boones, & also that all the dayes of the poore are euell: that is, sorowfull and wretched. And agayne a quiet mynde is lyke a contynuall feaste. _SPVDEVS._ Therfore they bee wyse, that thryue in tyme, and gather too gether necessaries for that agee coo[~m]. _HEDONI._ The holy scripture intreateth not soo wordely || as too measure the felicitie and highe consolation of manne, by the goodes of fortune, onely he is very poore, that is destitute and voyde of al grace & vertue, and standeth in boundage and debette, bothe of bodye & solle vnto that tyranne oure moost foo & mortall enemie the deuill. _SPV._ Surely he is one that is veri rigorous and impatient in demaundynge of his dutie. _HE._ Moreouer that man is ryche, whiche fyndeth mercye and foryeouenes at the handes of god. What shuld he feare, that hath suche a protectour? Whether men? where as playnely theyr hole power may lesse do agaêst God, then the bytyng of a gnat, || hurteth the Elephant. Whether death? truly that is a right passage for good men vnto all sufficient ioy and perfection accordyng too the iust reward of true religion and vertue. Whether hell? For as in that the holy prophete speaketh boldely vnto God. Although I shulde walke in the middest of the shadow of death, I wil not feare any euils because ye art with me. Wherfore shulde he stande in feare of deuils, whiche beareth in his heart hym, that maketh the deuils too tremble and quake. For in diuers places the holye scripture praiseth and declareth opêly the mynde of a vertuous man, too bee the right temple of God. And this to bee so true that || that it is not too bee spoken agaynst, ne in any wise shuld bee denied. _SPV._ Forsoth I can not see, by what reason these saiynges of yours can be confuted al thoughe they seme too varye muche from the vulgar and cõmune opinion of men. _HEDO._ Why doo they soo? _SPV._ After your reasonyng euery honest poore man, shulde liue a more pleasaunt life, then any other, how much soeuer he did haboûd in riches, honour, and dignitie: and breuely though he had all kynde of pleasures. _HE._ Adde this too it (if it please you) too bee a kyng, yea, or an emperour if you take away a quiet mynd with it selfe, I dare boldely say, that the poore man sklenderlye || and homely appareled, made weake with fastyng, watchyng, great toile and labour, and that hath scarcely a groat in all the worlde, so that his mynde bee godly, he lyueth more deliciously then that man whiche hathe fyue hûdreth times greater pleasures & delicates, then euer had _Sardanapalus_. _SP._ Why is it thê, that we see communely those that bee poore looke farre more heuely then riche men. _HED._ Because some of them bee twise poore, eyther some desease, nedines, watchyng, labour, nakednesse, doo soo weaken the state of their bodyes, that by reason therof, the chearefulnes of their myndes neuer sheweth it selfe, neyther in these thinges, || nor yet in their deathe. The mynde, forsooth thoughe it bee inclosed within this mortal bodye, yet for that it is of a stronger nature, it sõwhat trãsfourmeth and fascioneth the bodie after it selfe, especially if the vehement instigation of the spirit approche the violent inclination of nature: this is the cause we see oftentymes suche men as bee vertuous die more cherefully, then those that make pastyme contynually, & bee yeouê vnto all kynd of pleasures. _SP._ In very dede, I haue meruayled oftten at that thyng. _HED_ Forsoothe it is not a thyng too bee marueyled at, though that there shulde bee vnspeakeable || ioy and comforte where God is present, whiche is the heed of all mirth and gladnes, nowe this is no straunge thyng, althoughe the mynde of a godly man doo reioyce contynually in this mortall bodye: where as if the same mynde or spirit discended into the lowest place of hell shuld lose no parte of felicitie, for whersoeuer is a pure mynd, there is god, wher God is: there is paradise, ther is heauen, ther is felicitie, wher felicitie is: ther is the true ioy and synsere gladnes. _SP._ But yet they shuld liue more pleasauntly, if certein incommodities were taken from them, and had suche pastymes as eyther they dispise orels can not get nor attaine vnto. _HE._ ||E.i.|| (I praye you) doo you meane, suche incommodities as by the commune course of nature folow the cõdition or state of mã: as hunger, thirst, desease, werynes, age, death, lyghtnyng yearthquake, fluddes & battail? _SPV._ I meane other, and these also. _HEDO._ Then we intreate styll of mortal thynges and not of immortal, & yet in these euils the state of vertuous men, may bee better borne withal, then of suche as seeke for the pleasures of the body they care not howe. _SPV._ Why so: _HEDO._ Especyally because their myndes bee accustomed and hardened with most sure and moderate gouernaunce of reason against al outragious affections of the mind || and they take more patiently those thynges that cannot bee shonned then the other sort doo Furthermore, for as muche as thei perceiue, all such thynges ar sent of god, either for the punishment of their faultes, or els too excitate and sturre them vp vnto vertue, then thei as meeke and obediente chyldren receiue them from the hãd of their mercifull father, not only desireously, but also chearefully and geue thankes also, namely for so merciful punyshment and inestimable gaines. _SPV._ But many doo occatiõ griefes vnto thê selues. _HEDO._ But mo seeke remedye at the _Phisicions_, either to preserue their bodies in helth or elles if they bee sycke, too ||E.ii.|| recouer health, but willyngly too cause their owne sorowes, that is, pouertie, sickenes, persecution, slaunder, excepte the loue of God compel vs therto, it is no vertue but folishnes: but as often as thei bee punyshed for Christ and iustice sake, who dar bee so bold as too cal them beggers & wretches? whã the Lord himself very famyliarly calleth them blessed, and commaûdeth vs to reioyse for their state and condition. _SPV._ Neuerthelesse, these thynges haue a certayne payne and griefe. _HEDO._ Thei haue, but on the onesyde, what for fear of hel, and the other for hoope of euerlastynge ioye, the payne is sone past and forgottê Now tell me if you knewe that || you myghte neuer bee sycke, or elles that you shoulde feele no payne of your body in your life tyme, if you woulde but ones suffer your vtter skinne too bee prycked with a pynnes puinct, would you not gladly and with all your very heart suffer then so lytle a payne as that is? _SPV_ Verye gladlye, yea, rather if I knewe perfectlye that my teeth would neuer ake, I would willynglye suffer too bee prycked depe with a nedle, and too haue both mine eares bored through with a bodkin. _HEDO._ Surely what payne soeuer happeneth in this lyfe, it is lesse and shorter, compared with the eternall paines, then is the soden pricke of a needle, incomparisõ of the ||E.iii.|| lyfe of man though it bee neuer so long, for there is no conuenience or proportion of the thyng that hath ende, and that whych is infinite. _SPV._ You speake very truly. _HEDO._ Now if a man coulde fully perswade you, that you should neuer feele payne in al your life, if you did but ones deuide the flame of ye fyre, with your hande, whyche thyng vndoughtely _Pithagoras_ forbade, woulde you not gladlye doo it? _SPV._ Yea, on that condicion I had liefer doo it an hundred times, if I knew precisely the promiser would kepe touch. _HE._ It is playne God cannot deceaue. But now that feelyng of paine in the fyre is longer vnto the whole lyfe of man, then is the ||lyfe of mã, in respect of the heauenlye ioye, althoughe it were thrise so long as ye yeares of _Nestor_, for that casting of the hand in the fyre thoughe it bee neuer so shorte, yet it is some parte of hys lyfe, but the whole lyfe of man is noo portion of tyme in respect of the eternal lyfe. _SPV._ I haue nothyng too saye against you. _HEDO._ Doo you then thyncke that anye affliction or tourment can disquiet those that prepare them selues wyth a chearful hearte and a stedfast hoope vnto the kyngedome of God, wher as the course of this lyfe is nowe so shorte? _SPVDE._ I thinke not, if thei haue a sure perswasion and a constant hope too attayne it. _HEDO._ I coome ||E.iiii.|| now vnto those pleasures, whiche you obiected agaynst me, they do wythdrawe them selues from daunsynge, bankettynge, from pleasaunte seeghtes, they dispyce all these thynges, as thus: for to haue the vse of thinges farre more ioyfulle, and haue as great pleasure as these bee, but after another sorte: the eye hath not seene, the eare hath not heard, nor the heart of man cannot thyncke what consolations _GOD_ hathe ordeined for them that loue hym. Sayncte Paule knewe what maner of thynges shoulde bee the songes, queeres, daunsynges, and bankettes of vertuous myndes, yea, in this lyfe. _SPVDEVS_ but there bee some leafull || pleasures, whyche they vtterlye refuse. _HEDONIVS._ That maye bee, for the immoderate vse of leafull and godly games or pastymes, is vnleaful: and if you wyll excepte this one thing onlye, in al other thei excelle whiche seeme too leade a paynfull lyfe, and whome we take too bee ouerwhelmed with all kynd of miseries. Now I prai you what more roialler sight can ther be, then ye cõtêplatiõ of this world? and such men as ye be in fauour of god keping his holy cõmaûdemêtes & loue his most blessed testamêt, receiue far geater pleasure in the syght therof, then thother sorte doo, for while thei behold wyth ouercurious eyes, ye wõderful worke, their mynde || is troubled because they can not compasse for what purpose he doeth such thinges, then thei improue the moost righte and wise gouernour of all and murmour at his doinges as though they were goddes of reprehension: and often finde faute with that lady nature, and saye that she is vnnaturall, whiche taunt forsooth with as muche spite as can bee shewed with woordes, greueth nature: but truely it reboundeth on hym, that made nature, if there bee any at all. But the vertuous man with godly & simple eyes beholdeth with an excedyng reioyce of heart the workes of his Lorde and father highly praysyng thê all, and neither reprehêdeth nor || findeth faut with any of thê, but for euery thyng yeoueth moste hearty thankes, when he considereth that al were made for the loue of man. And so in al thynges, he praieth vnto the infinite power, deuine wisedome, & goodnes of the maker, wherof he perceiueth moste euident tokens in thynges that bee here created. Now fain that there were suche a palace in verie deede as _Apuleus_ faineth, or els one that were more royall and gorgeouse, and that you shoulde take twoo thither with you too beholde it, the one a straunger, whiche gooeth for this intent onely too see the thyng, and the other the seruaût or soonne of hym that firste causeth this buyldyng, whether || will haue more delectie in it? the straunger, too whom suche maner of house dooeth nothyng appartain, or the soonne whiche beholdeth with greate ioye and pleasure, the witte, riches, and magnificence of his deerely beloued father, especially when he dooeth consider all this worke was made for his sake. _Sp._ Your question is too plain: for they most cõmunely that bee of euill condicions, knowe that heauen and all thinges contained therin, were made for mannes sake. _HEDO._ Almoste al knowe that, but some dooe not remembre it, shewyng thêselues vnthãkeful for the great and exhuberãt benefittes of god, & al though thei remember it, yet that mã taketh || greater delight in the sight of it whiche hath more loue vnto the maker therof, in like maner as, he more chearfully wyll behold the element whiche aspireth towarde the eternall life. _SPV._ Your saiynges are muche like too bee true. _HED._ Nowe the pleasures of feastes dooeth not consist in the delicates of the mouth, nor in the good sauces of cookes, but in health of body and appetite of stomacke. You may not thynke that any delicious person suppeth more pleasauntly hauyng before hym partriches, turtelles, leuerettes, bekers, sturgeon, and lamprayes: then a vertuous man hauyng nothîg too eat, but onely bread potage, or wortes: and nothyng || too drynke, but water, single bere, or wyne well alayde, be cause he taketh these thinges as prepared of God vnto all lyuyng creatures, and that they bee now yeouê vnto him of his gentyll and mercifull father, praier maketh euery thyng too sauour well. The petition in ye begynnyng of dyner sanctifieth all thynges and in a while after there is recited some holy lesson of the woorde of God: whiche more refresheth the minde, then meate the body, and grace after all this. Finally he riseth from the table, not ful: but recreated, not laden, but refreshed: yea, refreshed both in spirit and bodie, thynke you that any chief deuiser of these muche vsed bãkets, & || deintye delicaces fareth nowe more deliciously? _SPudeus._ But in _Venus_ there is greate delectacions if we beleue _Arestotell_. _Hed._ And in this behalfe the vertuous manne far excelleth as well as in good fare, wiegh you now the matter as it is, the better a manne loueth his wife, the more he delecteth in the good felowship and familiaritie that is betwene theim after the course of nature. Furthermore, no menne louê their wiues more vehemêtly then thei that loue theim euê soo, as Christ loued the churche. For thei that loue thê for the desire of bodely pleasure, loue thê not. More ouer, the seldomer any man dooeth accompany with his wife, the greater pleasure, it || is to hym afterwarde, and that thyng the wãtõ poete knew full well whiche writeth, rare and seldome vse stereth vp pleasures. Albeit, the lest parte of pleasure is in the familiare company betwene theim. There is forsothe far greater in the continuall leadyng of their liues too gether, whiche emongest none can be so plesaunt as those that loue syncerely and faithfully together in godly and christian loue, and loue a like one the other. In the other sort, oftê whêthe pleasure of ye body decaieth & waxeth old loue waxeth coold & is sone forgottõ, but emõgest right christê mê, the more ye the lust of ye flesh decreaseth & vanisheth away, ye more thê al godly loue encreseth || Are you not yet perswaded that none lyue more pleasauntly thê they whiche liue continually in vertue and true religiõ of god? _SP._ Would god all men were as well perswaded in that thyng. _He._ And if they bee Epicures that lyue pleasauntli: none bee righter Epicures then they that liue vertuously, and if we wyll that euery thyng haue it right name none deserueth more ye cogname of an Epicure, then that Prince of all godly wisedome too whõ most reuerêtly we ought alwaies too praye: for in the greeke tonge an Epicure signifieth an helper. Nowe whan the lawe of nature was first corrupted with sinne, whê the law of Moses did rather prouoke euil desires ||F.i.|| then remedy them. Whã the tyraunte Sathanas reygned in this worlde freely and wythout punishement, then thys prynce onely, dyd sodenlye helpe mankynde redy to perishe: wherfore thei erre shamefully which scoff and bable that _CHRIST_ was one that was sadd and of a malancolye nature, & that he hath prouoked vs vnto an vnpleasaunt kynde of lyfe, for onely he did shewe a kind of liuing most godly and fullest of al true pleasure, if we might haue the stone of _Tantalus_ taken awaye from vs. _SPVD._ What darke saiyng is this? _EDO._ It is a mery tale too laugh at, but this bourd induceth verye graue and sadde thynges. _SPV._ I tary too heare ||this mery conceite, that you name too bee so sage a matter. _HE_ Thei whiche gaue their studye and diligence to colour and set furth the preceptes of Philosophie wyth subtil fables, declare that there was one _Tantalus_ broughte vnto the table of the goddes, whych was euer furnished wyth all good fare, and most nete and sumptuous that myght bee, whan thys straunger shoulde take hys leave, Iupyter thought it was for his great liberalitie and highe renoume, that his guest shuld not depart wythout some rewarde, he wylled him therfore too aske what he woulde, and he shoulde haue it: _Tantalus_ (forsooth) lyke a verye leude and foolyshe person, ||F.ii.|| for that he sette all the felicitie and pleasure of man in the delectation of the bely, and glotonye, desired but only too sytte at suche a table all the dayes of hys life, Iupiter graunted him his desire, and shortly his vow was there stablished and ratifyed. _Tantalus_ nowe sytteth at the table furnyshed wyth all kindes of delicates, such drinke as the goddes druncke of was set on the table, and there wanted no rooses nor odours that could yeoue any swete smel before the Goddes, _Ganymedes_ the buttler or one lyke vnto hym, standeth euer redye, the _Muses_ stande rounde aboute syngyng pleasauntly, mery _Silenus_ daunseth, ne ther wanted noo fooles || too laugh at, and breuely, there was euerye thynge that coulde delyght any sence of mã but emongist all these, _Tantalus_ sytteth all sadde, syghyng, and vnquiet with hym selfe, neither laughing nor yet touching such thynges as were set before hym _SPVDE._ What was the cause? _HED._ Over his head as he sate there hãged by an heere a great stone euer lyke too fall. _SPV._ I woulde then haue conueied my selfe from suche a table. _HEDO_ But his vowe had bound hym too the contrarye, for Iupyter is not so easye too intreate as oure _GOD_, which dooeth vnloose the pernitious vowes of menne, that bee made contrary vnto his holy woord, if thei bee ||F.iii.|| penitent and sorye therfore, or elles it myght bee thus, the same stoone that woulde not suffer hym too eate, would neither suffer hym to ryse, for if he had but ones moued he shuld haue been quashed al in peeses with the fall thereof. _SPVDE._ You haue shewed a very mery fable _HEDON._ But nowe heare that thing, which you wil not laugh at: the commune people seeke too haue a pleasaunt life in outwarde thynges, where as noothyng can yeoue that, but onely a constant and a quiet mind: for surely a far heuier stone hangeth ouer these that grudge with them selues, then hanged ouer _Tantalus_: it only hangeth not ouer them, but greueth and || oppresseth the mynde, ne the mind is not troubled wyth any vayn hoope, but looketh euery houre to bee caste in too the paynes of hell, I praye you what can bee so pleasaunt emongist all thinges that bee yeouen vnto man, that coulde reioyse the mynde, whyche were oppressed wyth suche a stoone? _SPVDE._ Truely there is nothyng but madnes, or elles incredulitie. _HEDO._ Yf younge menne woulde weygh these thynges, that bee quyckly prouoked and entised with pleasure as it were wyth the cuppe of _Circes_, whiche in steade of theyr greatest pleasures receiue poysone myxte with honye. Howe circumspecte would they bee too doo anye thynge ||F.iiii|| vnaduisedly that shoulde grudge their mindes afterward? What thinge is it that thei would not doo too haue suche a godly treasure in store against their latter daies? that is a minde knowyng it selfe cleane & honest and a name that hath not been defiled at any time. But what thyng now is more miserable then is agee? Whan it beholdeth, and loketh backward on thinges that be past seeth plainly with great grudg of conscience howe fayre thynges he hathe despiced and sette lyght by, (that is, howe farre he hath discented and gone astray from the promyses made vnto God in baptime) & agayn, how foule & noughty thîges he hath clipped and enbraced, and whã || hee looketh forwarde, hee seeth then the daye of iudgemente drawe neere, and shortely after the eternall punyshemente of of hell. _SPVDE._ I esteme theim most happie whych haue neuer defyled theyr youthe, but euer haue increased in vertu, til thei haue coomne vnto the last puincte of age. _HEDO._ Next them thei ar too bee commended that haue wythdrawne theim selues from the folie of youth in tyme. _SPVDE._ But what councel wil you yeoue agee that is in suche great myserie. _HEDO._ No man shoulde dispayre so long as life endureth, I wyl exhorte him to flee for helpe vnto the infinitie mercye & gentilnes of God. _SP._ But the longer that he hath liued || the heape of his synnes hath euer waxen greate and greater, so that nowe it passeth the nomber of the sandes in the sea, _HE_ But the mercies of our lord far excede those sãdes, for although the sande can not bee numbred of manne, yet hit hath an ende, but the mercie of God neither knoweth ende, ne measure. _SP._ Yea but he hath no space that shall dye by and by, _HEDONI._ The lesse tyme he hath the more feruêtly he should cal vnto god for grace, that thyng is long inough before God, whiche is of suche power as too ascende from the yearth vnto heauê, for a short prayer forsoth streght entreth heauê, if it bee made with a vehemêt spirit. It is written, that || ye womã synner spoken of in the gospell did penaunce al her life dayes: but with how fewe wordes again did the thief obtain Paradise in the houre of death? If he will crye with hearte and mynde, God haue mercie on me after thy great mercie: God wil take awaye from hym _Tantalus_ stone and yeoue in his hea- ryng ioye and cõfort and his bones hu- miled throughe cõtrition, wil reioyse that he hath his synnes foryeouen hym. *FINIS.* * * * * * Imprinted at London within the precinct of the late dissolued house of the gray Friers, by Richarde Grafton, Printer too the Princes grace. the. XXIX. daie of Iuly, the yere of our Lorde. M.D.XLV. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * [Typographic Errors: arabic numeral = unnumbered page _v_ = verso (back of page) A.5 _v_ most blessed Testament _was_ bessed B.5 _v_ - B.6 then this || saiyng. _end of B.5v reads_ sai-/yng _including catchword_ C.7 _v_ in too a laughter _was_ in too a/a laughter _at line break_ D.7 _v_ where god is present _was_ where god is/is present _at line break_ E.iii it is no vertue but folishnes: but as often as thei bee punyshed _was_ it is no-/vertue _at line break_ _and_ but as of-/often _at line break_ E.8 _v_ - F.i rather prouoke euil desires || then remedy them _end of E.8v reads_ thê/reme _including catchword_ F.i _v_ to colour and set furth the preceptes _was_ set-/furth _at line break_ F.ii _v_ breuely, there was _was_ breuely, there/there was _at line break_ Irregularities in text (not changed): D.5 the two staues wherevpon age is stayed _text reads_ ...where-/vpon _at line break_ D.6 oure moost foo & mortal enemie _unchanged_: ?fool (foul) Mismatched catchwords (text uses second form): C.iiii - C.iiii _v_ [bee] || be C.7 _v_ - C.8 [done] || doone D.iiii _v_ - D.5 [hym] || it D.8 - D.8 _v_ [ioye] || ioy D.8 _v_ - E.i [I] || (I... E.ii _v_ - E.iii [life] || lyfe E.iii _v_ - E.iiii [nowe] || now E.iiii - E.iiii _v_ plea-[sure] || sures E.5 - E.5 _v_ [fyndeth] || findeth E.7 - E.7 _v_ [deyntie] || deintye F.iiii - F.iiii _v_ [he] || hee F.5 - V.5 _v_ [the] || [ye] ] 
39487	----	produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) THE HUMANISTS' LIBRARY Edited by Lewis Einstein II ERASMUS AGAINST WAR ERASMUS AGAINST WAR [Illustration] WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY J·W·MACKAIL THE MERRYMOUNT PRESS BOSTON, MDCCCCVII Copyright, 1907, by D. B. Updike CONTENTS Introduction ix Against War 3 INTRODUCTION The Treatise on War, of which the earliest English translation is here reprinted, was among the most famous writings of the most illustrious writer of his age. Few people now read Erasmus; he has become for the world in general a somewhat vague name. Only by some effort of the historical imagination is it possible for those who are not professed scholars and students to realize the enormous force which he was at a critical period in the history of civilization. The free institutions and the material progress of the modern world have alike their roots in humanism. Humanism as a movement of the human mind culminated in the age, and even in a sense in the person, of Erasmus. Its brilliant flower was of an earlier period; its fruits developed and matured later; but it was in his time, and in him, that the fruit set! The earlier sixteenth century is not so romantic as its predecessors, nor so rich in solid achievement as others that have followed it. As in some orchard when spring is over, the blossom lies withered on the grass, and the fruit has long to wait before it can ripen on the boughs. Yet here, in the dull, hot midsummer days, is the central and critical period of the year's growth. The life of Erasmus is accessible in many popular forms as well as in more learned and formal works. To recapitulate it here would fall beyond the scope of a preface. But in order to appreciate this treatise fully it is necessary to realize the time and circumstances in which it appeared, and to recall some of the main features of its author's life and work up to the date of its composition. That date can be fixed with certainty, from a combination of external and internal evidence, between the years 1513 and 1515; in all probability it was the winter of 1514-15. It was printed in the latter year, in the "editio princeps" of the enlarged and rewritten Adagia then issued from Froben's great printing-works at Basel. The stormy decennate of Pope Julius II had ended in February, 1513. To his successor, Giovanni de' Medici, who succeeded to the papal throne under the name of Leo X, the treatise is particularly addressed. The years which ensued were a time singularly momentous in the history of religion, of letters, and of the whole life of the civilized world. The eulogy of Leo with which Erasmus ends indicates the hopes then entertained of a new Augustan age of peace and reconciliation. The Reformation was still capable of being regarded as an internal and constructive force, within the framework of the society built up by the Middle Ages. The final divorce between humanism and the Church had not yet been made. The long and disastrous epoch of the wars of religion was still only a dark cloud on the horizon. The Renaissance was really dead, but few yet realized the fact. The new head of the Church was a lover of peace, a friend of scholars, a munificent patron of the arts. This treatise shows that Erasmus, to a certain extent, shared or strove to share in an illusion widely spread among the educated classes of Europe. With a far keener instinct for that which the souls of men required, an Augustinian monk from Wittenberg, who had visited Rome two years earlier, had turned away from the temple where a corpse lay swathed in gold and half hid in the steam of incense. With a far keener insight into the real state of things, Machiavelli was, at just this time, composing The Prince. In one form or another, the subject of his impassioned pleading for peace among beings human, civilized, and Christian, had been long in Erasmus's mind. In his most celebrated single work, the Praise of Folly, he had bitterly attacked the attitude towards war habitual, and evilly consecrated by usage, among kings and popes. The same argument had formed the substance of a document addressed by him, under the title of Anti-Polemus, to Pope Julius in 1507. Much of the substance, much even of the phraseology of that earlier work is doubtless repeated here. Beyond the specific reference to Pope Leo, the other notes of time in the treatise now before us are few and faint. Allusions to Louis XII of France (1498-1515), to Ferdinand the Catholic (1479-1516), to Philip, king of Aragon (1504-1516), and Sigismund, king of Poland (1506-1548), are all consistent with the composition of the treatise some years earlier. At the end of it he promises to treat of the matter more largely when he publishes the Anti-Polemus. But this intention was never carried into effect. Perhaps Erasmus had become convinced of its futility; for the events of the years which followed soon showed that the new Augustan age was but a false dawn over which night settled more stormily and profoundly than before. For ten or a dozen years Erasmus had stood at the head of European scholarship. His name was as famous in France and England as in the Low Countries and Germany. The age was indeed one of those in which the much-abused term of the republic of letters had a real and vital meaning. The nationalities of modern Europe had already formed themselves; the notion of the Empire had become obsolete, and if the imperial title was still coveted by princes, it was under no illusion as to the amount of effective supremacy which it carried with it, or as to any life yet remaining in the mediaeval doctrine of the unity of Christendom whether as a church or as a state. The discovery of the new world near the end of the previous century precipitated a revolution in European politics towards which events had long been moving, and finally broke up the political framework of the Middle Ages. But the other great event of the same period, the invention and diffusion of the art of printing, had created a new European commonwealth of the mind. The history of the century which followed it is a history in which the landmarks are found less in battles and treaties than in books. The earlier life of the man who occupies the central place in the literary and spiritual movement of his time in no important way differs from the youth of many contemporary scholars and writers. Even the illegitimacy of his birth was an accident shared with so many others that it does not mark him out in any way from his fellows. His early education at Utrecht, at Deventer, at Herzogenbosch; his enforced and unhappy novitiate in a house of Augustinian canons near Gouda; his secretaryship to the bishop of Cambray, the grudging patron who allowed rather than assisted him to complete his training at the University of Paris--all this was at the time mere matter of common form. It is with his arrival in England in 1497, at the age of thirty-one, that his effective life really begins. For the next twenty years that life was one of restless movement and incessant production. In England, France, the Low Countries, on the upper Rhine, and in Italy, he flitted about gathering up the whole intellectual movement of the age, and pouring forth the results in that admirable Latin which was not only the common language of scholars in every country, but the single language in which he himself thought instinctively and wrote freely. Between the Adagia of 1500 and the Colloquia of 1516 comes a mass of writings equivalent to the total product of many fertile and industrious pens. He worked in the cause of humanism with a sacred fury, striving with all his might to connect it with all that was living in the old and all that was developing in the newer world. In his travels no less than in his studies the aspect of war must have perpetually met him as at once the cause and the effect of barbarism; it was the symbol of everything to which humanism in its broader as well as in its narrower aspect was utterly opposed and repugnant. He was a student at Paris in the ominous year of the first French invasion of Italy, in which the death of Pico della Mirandola and Politian came like a symbol of the death of the Italian Renaissance itself. Charles VIII, as has often been said, brought back the Renaissance to France from that expedition; but he brought her back a captive chained to the wheels of his cannon. The epoch of the Italian wars began. A little later (1500) Sandro Botticelli painted that amazing Nativity which is one of the chief treasures of the London National Gallery. Over it in mystical Greek may still be read the painter's own words: "This picture was painted by me Alexander amid the confusions of Italy at the time prophesied in the Second Woe of the Apocalypse, when Satan shall be loosed upon the earth." In November, 1506, Erasmus was at Bologna, and saw the triumphal entry of Pope Julius into the city at the head of a great mercenary army. Two years later the league of Cambray, a combination of folly, treachery and shame which filled even hardened politicians with horror, plunged half Europe into a war in which no one was a gainer and which finally ruined Italy: "bellum quo nullum," says the historian, "vel atrocius vel diuturnius in Italia post exactos Gothos majores nostri meminerunt." In England Erasmus found, on his first visit, a country exhausted by the long and desperate struggle of the Wars of the Roses, out of which she had emerged with half her ruling class killed in battle or on the scaffold, and the whole fabric of society to reconstruct. The Empire was in a state of confusion and turmoil no less deplorable and much more extensive. The Diet of 1495 had indeed, by an expiring effort towards the suppression of absolute anarchy, decreed the abolition of private war. But in a society where every owner of a castle, every lord of a few square miles of territory, could conduct public war on his own account, the prohibition was of little more than formal value. Humanism had been introduced by the end of the fifteenth century in some of the German universities, but too late to have much effect on the rising fury of religious controversy. The very year in which this treatise against war was published gave to the world another work of even wider circulation and more profound consequences. The famous Epistolae Obscurorum Virorum, first published in 1515, and circulated rapidly among all the educated readers of Europe, made an open breach between the humanists and the Church. That breach was never closed; nor on the other hand could the efforts of well-intentioned reformers like Melancthon bring humanism into any organic relation with the reformed movement. When mutual exhaustion concluded the European struggle, civilization had to start afresh; it took a century more to recover the lost ground. The very idea of humanism had long before then disappeared. War, pestilence, the theologians: these were the three great enemies with which Erasmus says he had throughout life to contend. It was during the years he spent in England that he was perhaps least harassed by them. His three periods of residence there--a fourth, in 1517, appears to have been of short duration and not marked by any very notable incident--were of the utmost importance in his life. During the first, in his residence between the years 1497 and 1499 at London and Oxford, the English Renaissance, if the name be fully applicable to so partial and inconclusive a movement, was in the promise and ardour of its brief spring. It was then that Erasmus made the acquaintance of those great Englishmen whose names cannot be mentioned with too much reverence: Colet, Grocyn, Latimer, Linacre. These men were the makers of modern England to a degree hardly realized. They carried the future in their hands. Peace had descended upon a weary country; and the younger generation was full of new hopes. The Enchiridion Militis Christiani, written soon after Erasmus returned to France, breathes the spirit of one who had not lost hope in the reconciliation of the Church and the world, of the old and new. When Erasmus made his second visit to England, in 1506, that fair promise had grown and spread. Colet had become dean of Saint Paul's; and through him, as it would appear, Erasmus now made the acquaintance of another great man with whom he soon formed as close an intimacy, Thomas More. His Italian journey followed: he was in Italy nearly three years, at Turin, Bologna, Venice, Padua, Siena, Rome. It was in the first of these years that Albert Dürer was also in Italy, where he met Bellini and was recognized by the Italian masters as the head of a new transalpine art in no way inferior to their own. The year after Erasmus left Italy, Botticelli, the last survivor of the ancient world, died at Florence. Meanwhile, Henry VIII, a prince, young, handsome, generous, pious, had succeeded to the throne of England. A golden age was thought to have dawned. Lord Mountjoy, who had been the pupil of Erasmus at Paris, and with whom he had first come to England, lost no time in urging Henry to send for the most brilliant and famous of European scholars, and attach him to his court. The king, who had already met and admired him, needed no pressing. In the letter which Henry himself wrote to Erasmus entreating him to take up his residence in England, the language employed was that of sincere admiration; nor was there any conscious insincerity in the main motive which he urged. "It is my earnest wish," wrote the king, "to restore Christ's religion to its primitive purity." The history of the English Reformation supplies a strange commentary on these words. But the first few years of the new reign (1509-1513), which coincide with the third and longest sojourn of Erasmus in England, were a time in which high hopes might not seem unreasonable. While Italy was ravaged by war and the rest of Europe was in uneasy ferment, England remained peaceful and prosperous. The lust of the eyes and the pride of life were indeed the motive forces of the court; but alongside of these was a real desire for reform, and a real if very imperfect attempt to cultivate the nobler arts of peace, to establish learning, and to purify religion. Colet's great foundation of Saint Paul's School in 1510 is one of the landmarks of English history. Erasmus joined the founder and the first high master, Colet and Lily, in composing the schoolbooks to be used in it. He had already written, in More's house at Chelsea, where pure religion reigned alongside of high culture, the Encomium Moriae, in which all his immense gifts of eloquence and wit were lavished on the cause of humanism and the larger cause of humanity. That war was at once a sin, a scandal, and a folly was one of the central doctrines of the group of eminent Englishmen with whom he was now associated. It was a doctrine held by them with some ambiguity and in varying degrees. In the Utopia (1516) More condemns wars of aggression, while taking the common view as to wars of so-called self-defence. In 1513, when Henry, swept into the seductive scheme for a partition of France by a European confederacy, was preparing for the first of his many useless and inglorious continental campaigns, Colet spoke out more freely. He preached before the court against war itself as barbarous and unchristian, and did not spare either kings or popes who dealt otherwise. Henry was disturbed; he sent for Colet, and pressed him hard on the point whether he meant that all wars were unjustifiable. Colet was in advance of his age, but not so far in advance of it as this. He gave some kind of answer which satisfied the king. The preparations for war went forward; the Battle of Spurs plunged the court and all the nation into the intoxication of victory; while at Flodden-edge, in the same autumn, the ancestral allies of France sustained the most crushing defeat recorded in Scottish history. When both sides in a war have invoked God's favour, the successful side is ready enough to believe that its prayers have been answered and its action accepted by God. Erasmus was now reader in Greek and professor of divinity at Cambridge; but Cambridge was far away from the centre of European thought and of literary activities. He left England before the end of the year for Basel, where the greater part of his life thenceforth was passed. Froben had made Basel the chief literary centre of production for the whole of Europe. Through Froben's printing-presses Erasmus could reach a wider audience than was allowed him at any court, however favourable to pure religion and the new learning. It was at this juncture that he made an eloquent and far-reaching appeal, on a matter which lay very near his heart, to the conscience of Christendom. The Adagia, that vast work which was, at least to his own generation, Erasmus's foremost title to fame, has long ago passed into the rank of those monuments of literature "dont la reputation s'affermira toujours parcequ'on ne les lit guère." So far as Erasmus is more than a name for most modern readers, it is on slighter and more popular works that any direct knowledge of him is grounded on the Colloquies, which only ceased to be a schoolbook within living memory, on the Praise of Folly, and on selections from the enormous masses of his letters. An Oxford scholar of the last generation, whose profound knowledge of humanistic literature was accompanied by a gift of terse and pointed expression, describes the Adagia in a single sentence, as "a manual of the wit and wisdom of the ancient world for the use of the modern, enlivened by commentary in Erasmus's finest vein." In its first form, the Adagiorum Collectanea, it was published by him at Paris in 1500, just after his return from England. In the author's epistle dedicatory to Mountjoy he ascribes to him and to Richard Charnock, the prior of Saint Mary's College in Oxford, the inspiration of the work. It consists of a series of between eight and nine hundred comments in brief essays, each suggested by some terse or proverbial phrase from an ancient Latin author. The work gave full scope for the display, not only of the immense treasures of his learning, but of those other qualities, the combination of which raised their author far above all other contemporary writers, his keen wit, his copiousness and facility, his complete control of Latin as a living language. It met with an enthusiastic reception, and placed him at once at the head of European men of letters. Edition after edition poured from the press. It was ten times reissued at Paris within a generation. Eleven editions were published at Strasburg between 1509 and 1521. Within the same years it was reprinted at Erfurt, The Hague, Cologne, Mayence, Leyden, and elsewhere. The Rhine valley was the great nursery of letters north of the Alps, and along the Rhine from source to sea the book spread and was multiplied. This success induced Erasmus to enlarge and complete his labours. The Adagiorum Chiliades, the title of the work in its new form, was part of the work of his residence in Italy in the years 1506-9, and was published at Venice by Aldus in September, 1508. The enlarged collection, to all intents and purposes a new work, consists of no less than three thousand two hundred and sixty heads. In a preface, Erasmus speaks slightingly of the Adagiorum Collectanea, with that affectation from which few authors are free, as a little collection carelessly made. "Some people got hold of it," he adds, (and here the affectation becomes absolute untruth,) "and had it printed very incorrectly." In the new work, however, much of the old disappears, much more is partially or wholly recast; and such of the old matter as is retained is dispersed at random among the new. In the Collectanea the commentaries had all been brief: here many are expanded into substantial treatises covering four or five pages of closely printed folio. The Aldine edition had been reprinted at Basel by Froben in 1513. Shortly afterwards Erasmus himself took up his permanent residence there. Under his immediate supervision there presently appeared what was to all intents and purposes the definitive edition of 1515. It is a book of nearly seven hundred folio pages, and contains, besides the introductory matter, three thousand four hundred and eleven headings. In his preface Erasmus gives some details with regard to its composition. Of the original Paris work he now says, no doubt with truth, that it was undertaken by him hastily and without enough method. When preparing the Venice edition he had better realized the magnitude of the enterprise, and was better fitted for it by reading and learning, more especially by the mass of Greek manuscripts, and of newly printed Greek first editions, to which he had access at Venice and in other parts of Italy. In England also, owing very largely to the kindness of Archbishop Warham, more leisure and an ampler library had been available. Among several important additions made in the edition of 1515, this essay, the text of which is the proverbial phrase "Dulce bellum inexpertis," is at once the longest and the most remarkable. The adage itself, with a few lines of commentary, had indeed been in the original collection; but the treatise, in itself a substantial work, now appeared for the first time. It occupied a conspicuous place as the first heading in the fourth Chiliad of the complete work; and it was at once singled out from the rest as of special note and profound import. Froben was soon called upon for a separate edition. This appeared in April, 1517, in a quarto of twenty pages. This little book, the Bellum Erasmi as it was called for the sake of brevity, ran like wildfire from reader to reader. Half the scholarly presses of Europe were soon employed in reprinting it. Within ten years it had been reissued at Louvain, twice at Strasburg, twice at Mayence, at Leipsic, twice at Paris, twice at Cologne, at Antwerp, and at Venice. German translations of it were published at Basel and at Strasburg in 1519 and 1520. It soon made its way to England, and the translation here utilized was issued by Berthelet, the king's printer, in the winter of 1533-4. Whether the translation be by Richard Taverner, the translator and editor, a few years later, of an epitome or selection of the Chiliades, or by some other hand, there are no direct means of ascertaining; nor except for purposes of curiosity is the question an important one. The version wholly lacks distinction. It is a work of adequate scholarship but of no independent literary merit. English prose was then hardly formed. The revival of letters had reached the country, but for political and social reasons which are readily to be found in any handbook of English history, it had found a soil, fertile indeed, but not yet broken up. Since Chaucer, English poetry had practically stood still, and except where poetry has cleared the way, prose does not in ordinary circumstances advance. A few adventurers in setting forth had appeared. More's Utopia, one of the earliest of English prose classics, is a classic in virtue of its style as well as of its matter. Berners's translation of Froissart, published in 1523, was the first and one of the finest of that magnificent series of translations which from this time onwards for about a century were produced in an almost continuous stream, and through which the secret of prose was slowly wrung from older and more accomplished languages. Latimer, about the same time, showed his countrymen how a vernacular prose, flexible, well knit, and nervous, might be written without its lines being traced on any ancient or foreign model. Coverdale, the greatest master of English prose whom the century produced, whose name has just missed the immortality that is secure for his work, must have substantially completed that magnificent version of the Bible which appeared in 1535, and to which the authorized version of the seventeenth century owes all that one work of genius can owe to another. It is not with these great men that the translator of this treatise can be compared. But he wrought, after his measure, on the same structure as they. It is then to the original Latin, not to this rude and stammering version, that scholars must turn now, as still more certainly they turned then, for the mind of Erasmus; for with him, even more eminently than with other authors, the style is the man, and his Latin is the substance, not merely the dress, of his thought. When he wrote it he was about forty-eight years of age. He was still in the fullness of his power. If he was often crippled by delicate health, that was no more than he had habitually been from boyhood. In this treatise we come very near the real man, with his strange mixture of liberalism and orthodoxy, of clear-sighted courage and a delicacy which nearly always might be mistaken for timidity. His text is that (in the translator's words) "nothing is either more wicked or more wretched, nothing doth worse become a man (I will not say a Christian man) than war." War was shocking to Erasmus alike on every side of his remarkably complex and sensitive nature. It was impious; it was inhuman; it was ugly; it was in every sense of the word barbarous, to one who before all things and in the full sense of the word was civilized and a lover of civilization. All these varied aspects of the case, seen by others singly and partially, were to him facets of one truth, rays of one light. His argument circles and flickers among them, hardly pausing to enforce one before passing insensibly to another. In the splendid vindication of the nature of man with which the treatise opens, the tone is rather that of Cicero than of the New Testament. The majesty of man resides above all in his capacity to "behold the very pure strength and nature of things;" in essence he is no fallen and corrupt creature, but a piece of workmanship such as Shakespeare describes him through the mouth of Hamlet. He was shaped to this heroic mould "by Nature, or rather god," so the Tudor translation reads, and the use of capital letters, though only a freak of the printer, brings out with a singular suggestiveness the latent pantheism which underlies the thought of all the humanists. To this wonderful creature strife and warfare are naturally repugnant. Not only is his frame "weak and tender," but he is "born to love and amity." His chief end, the object to which all his highest and most distinctively human powers are directed, is coöperant labour in the pursuit of knowledge. War comes out of ignorance, and into ignorance it leads; of war comes contempt of virtue and of godly living. In the age of Machiavelli the word "virtue" had a double and sinister meaning; but here it is taken in its nobler sense. Yet, the argument continues, for "virtue," even in the Florentine statesman's sense, war gives but little room. It is waged mainly for "vain titles or childish wrath;" it does not foster, in those responsible for it, any one of the nobler excellences. The argument throughout this part of the treatise is, both in its substance and in its ornament, wholly apart from the dogmas of religion. The furies of war are described as rising out of a very pagan hell. The apostrophe of Nature to mankind immediately suggests the spirit as well as the language of Lucretius. Erasmus had clearly been reading the De Rerum Natura, and borrows some of his finest touches from that miraculous description of the growth of civilization in the fifth book, which is one of the noblest contributions of antiquity towards a real conception of the nature of the world and of man. The progressive degeneration of morality, because, as its scope becomes higher, practice falls further and further short of it, is insisted upon by both these great thinkers in much the same spirit and with much the same illustrations. The rise of empires, "of which there was never none yet in any nation, but it was gotten with the great shedding of man's blood," is seen by both in the same light. But Erasmus passes on to the more expressly religious aspect of the whole matter in the great double climax with which he crowns his argument, the wickedness of a Christian fighting against another man, the horror of a Christian fighting against another Christian. "Yea, and with a thing so devilish," he breaks out in a mingling of intense scorn and profound pity, "we mingle Christ." From this passionate appeal he passes to the praises of peace. Why should men add the horrors of war to all the other miseries and dangers of life? Why should one man's gain be sought only through another's loss? All victories in war are Cadmean; not only from their cost in blood and treasure, but because we are in very truth "the members of one body," "redeemed with Christ's blood." Such was the clear, unmistakable teaching of our Lord himself, such of his apostles. But the doctrine of Christ has been "plied to worldly opinion." Worldly men, philosophers following "the sophistries of Aristotle," worst of all, divines and theologians themselves, have corrupted the Gospel to the heathenish doctrine that "every man must first provide for himself." The very words of Scripture are wrested to this abuse. Self-defence is held to excuse any violence. "Peter fought," they say, "in the garden,"--yes, and that same night he denied his Master! "But punishment of wrong is a divine ordinance." In war the punishment falls on the innocent. "But the law of nature bids us repel violence by violence." What is the law of Christ? "But may not a prince go to war justly for his right?" Did any war ever lack a title? "But what of wars against the Turk?" Such wars are of Turk against Turk; let us overcome evil with good, let us spread the Gospel by doing what the Gospel commands: did Christ say, Hate them that hate you? Then, with the tact of an accomplished orator, he lets the tension relax, and drops to a lower tone. Even apart from all that has been urged, even if war were ever justifiable, think of the price that has to be paid for it. On this ground alone an unjust peace is far preferable to a just war. (These had been the very words of Colet to the king of England.) Men go to war under fine pretexts, but really to get riches, to satisfy hatred, or to win the poor glory of destroying. The hatred is but exasperated; the glory is won by and for the dregs of mankind; the riches are in the most prosperous event swallowed up ten times over. Yet if it be impossible but war should be, if there may be sometimes a "colour of equity" in it, and if the tyrant's plea, necessity, be ever well-founded, at least, so Erasmus ends, let it be conducted mercifully. Let us live in fervent desire of the peace that we may not fully attain. Let princes restrain their peoples; let churchmen above all be peacemakers. So the treatise passes to its conclusion with that eulogy of the Medicean pope already mentioned, which perhaps was not wholly undeserved. To the modern world the name of Leo X has come down marked with a note of censure or even of ignominy. It is fair to remember that it did not bear quite the same aspect to its contemporaries, nor to the ages which immediately followed. Under Rodrigo Borgia it might well seem to others than to the Florentine mystic that antichrist was enthroned, and Satan let loose upon earth. The eight years of Leo's pontificate (1513-21) were at least a period of outward splendour and of a refinement hitherto unknown. The corruption, half veiled by that refinement and splendour, was deep and mortal, but the collapse did not come till later. By comparison with the disastrous reign of Clement VII, his bastard cousin, that of Giovanni de' Medici seemed a last gleam of light before blackness descended on the world. Even the licence of a dissolute age was contrasted to its favour with the gloom, "tristitia," that settled down over Europe with the great Catholic reaction. The age of Leo X has descended to history as the age of Bembo, Sannazaro, Lascaris, of the Stanze of the Vatican, of Raphael's Sistine Madonna and Titian's Assumption; of the conquest of Mexico and the circumnavigation of Magellan; of Magdalen Tower and King's College Chapel. It was an interval of comparative peace before a long epoch of wars more cruel and more devastating than any within the memory of men. The general European conflagration did not break out until ten years after Erasmus's death; though it had then long been foreseen as inevitable. But he lived to see the conquest of Rhodes by Soliman, the sack of Rome, the breach between England and the papacy, the ill-omened marriage of Catherine de' Medici to the heir of the French throne. Humanism had done all that it could, and failed. In the sanguinary era of one hundred years between the outbreak of the civil war in the Empire and the Peace of Westphalia, the Renaissance followed the Middle Ages to the grave, and the modern world was born. The mere fact of this treatise having been translated into English and published by the king's printer shows, in an age when the literary product of England was as yet scanty, that it had some vogue and exercised some influence. But only a few copies of the work are known to exist; and it was never reprinted. It was not until nearly three centuries later, amid the throes of an European revolution equally vast, that the work was again presented in an English dress. Vicesimus Knox, a whig essayist, compiler, and publicist of some reputation at the time, was the author of a book which was published anonymously in 1794 and found some readers in a year filled with great events in both the history and the literature of England. It was entitled "Anti-Polemus: or the Plea of Reason, Religion, and Humanity against War: a Fragment translated from Erasmus and addressed to Aggressors." That was the year when the final breach took place in the whig party, and when Pitt initiated his brief and ill-fated policy of conciliation in Ireland. It was also the year of two works of enormous influence over thought, Paley's Evidences and Paine's Age of Reason. Among these great movements Knox's work had but little chance of appealing to a wide audience. "Sed quid ad nos?" the bitter motto on the title-page, probably expressed the feelings with which it was generally regarded. A version of the treatise against war, made from the Latin text of the Adagia with some omissions, is the main substance of the volume; and Knox added a few extracts from other writings of Erasmus on the same subject. It does not appear to have been reprinted in England, except in a collected edition of Knox's works which may be found on the dustiest shelves of old-fashioned libraries, until, after the close of the Napoleonic wars, it was again published as a tract by the Society for the Promotion of Permanent and Universal Peace. Some half dozen impressions of this tract appeared at intervals up to the middle of the century; its publication passed into the hands of the Society of Friends, and the last issue of which any record can be found was made just before the outbreak of the Crimean war. But in 1813 an abridged edition was printed at New York, and was one of the books which influenced the great movement towards humanity then stirring in the young Republic. At the present day, the reactionary wave which has overspread the world has led, both in England and America, to a new glorification of war. Peace is on the lips of governments and of individuals, but beneath the smooth surface the same passions, draped as they always have been under fine names, are a menace to progress and to the higher life of mankind. The increase of armaments, the glorification of the military life, the fanaticism which regards organized robbery and murder as a sacred imperial mission, are the fruits of a spirit which has fallen as far below the standard of humanism as it has left behind it the precepts of a still outwardly acknowledged religion. At such a time the noble pleading of Erasmus has more than a merely literary or antiquarian interest. For the appeal of humanism still is, as it was then, to the dignity of human nature itself. J. W. Mackail AGAINST WAR DULCE BELLUM INEXPERTIS It is both an elegant proverb, and among all others, by the writings of many excellent authors, full often and solemnly used, Dulce bellum inexpertis, that is to say, War is sweet to them that know it not. There be some things among mortal men's businesses, in the which how great danger and hurt there is, a man cannot perceive till he make a proof. The love and friendship of a great man is sweet to them that be not expert: he that hath had thereof experience, is afraid. It seemeth to be a gay and a glorious thing, to strut up and down among the nobles of the court, and to be occupied in the king's business; but old men, to whom that thing by long experience is well known, do gladly abstain themselves from such felicity. It seemeth a pleasant thing to be in love with a young damsel; but that is unto them that have not yet perceived how much grief and bitterness is in such love. So after this manner of fashion, this proverb may be applied to every business that is adjoined with great peril and with many evils: the which no man will take on hand, but he that is young and wanteth experience of things. Aristotle, in his book of Rhetoric, showeth the cause why youth is more bold, and contrariwise old age more fearful: for unto young men lack of experience is cause of great boldness, and to the other, experience of many griefs engendereth fear and doubting. Then if there be anything in the world that should be taken in hand with fear and doubting, yea, that ought by all manner of means to be fled, to be withstood with prayer, and to be clean avoided, verily it is war; than which nothing is either more wicked, or more wretched, or that more farther destroyeth, or that never hand cleaveth sorer to, or doth more hurt, or is more horrible, and briefly to speak, nothing doth worse become a man (I will not say a Christian man) than war. And yet it is a wonder to speak of, how nowadays in every place, how lightly, and how for every trifling matter, it is taken in hand, how outrageously and barbarously it is gested and done, not only of heathen people, but also of Christian men; not only of secular men, but also of priests and bishops; not only of young men and of them that have no experience, but also of old men and of those that so often have had experience; not only of the common and movable vulgar people, but most specially of the princes, whose duty had been, by wisdom and reason, to set in a good order and to pacify the light and hasty movings of the foolish multitude. Nor there lack neither lawyers, nor yet divines, the which are ready with their firebrands to kindle these things so abominable, and they encourage them that else were cold, and they privily provoke those to it that were weary thereof. And by these means it is come to that pass that war is a thing now so well accepted, that men wonder at him that is not pleased therewith. It is so much approved, that it is counted a wicked thing (and I had almost said heresy) to reprove this one thing, the which as it is above all other things most mischievous, so it is most wretched. But how more justly should this be wondered at, what evil spirit, what pestilence, what mischief, and what madness put first in man's mind a thing so beyond measure beastly, that this most pleasant and reasonable creature Man, the which Nature hath brought forth to peace and benevolence, which one alone she hath brought forth to the help and succour of all other, should with so wild wilfulness, with so mad rages, run headlong one to destroy another? At the which thing he shall also much more marvel, whosoever would withdraw his mind from the opinions of the common people, and will turn it to behold the very pure strength and nature of things; and will apart behold with philosophical eyes the image of man on the one side, and the picture of war on the other side. Then first of all if one would consider well but the behaviour and shape of man's body shall he not forthwith perceive that Nature, or rather God, hath shaped this creature, not to war, but to friendship, not to destruction, but to health, not to wrong, but to kindness and benevolence? For whereas Nature hath armed all other beasts with their own armour, as the violence of the bulls she hath armed with horns, the ramping lion with claws; to the boar she hath given the gnashing tusks; she hath armed the elephant with a long trump snout, besides his great huge body and hardness of the skin; she hath fenced the crocodile with a skin as hard as a plate; to the dolphin fish she hath given fins instead of a dart; the porcupine she defendeth with thorns; the ray and thornback with sharp prickles; to the cock she hath given strong spurs; some she fenceth with a shell, some with a hard hide, as it were thick leather, or bark of a tree; some she provideth to save by swiftness of flight, as doves; and to some she hath given venom instead of a weapon; to some she hath given a much horrible and ugly look, she hath given terrible eyes and grunting voice; and she hath also set among some of them continual dissension and debate--man alone she hath brought forth all naked, weak, tender, and without any armour, with most soft flesh and smooth skin. There is nothing at all in all his members that may seem to be ordained to war, or to any violence. I will not say at this time, that where all other beasts, anon as they are brought forth, they are able of themselves to get their food. Man alone cometh so forth, that a long season after he is born, he dependeth altogether on the help of others. He can neither speak nor go, nor yet take meat; he desireth help only by his infant crying: so that a man may, at the least way, by this conject, that this creature alone was born all to love and amity, which specially increaseth and is fast knit together by good turns done eftsoons of one to another. And for this cause Nature would, that a man should not so much thank her, for the gift of life, which she hath given unto him, as he should thank kindness and benevolence, whereby he might evidently understand himself, that he was altogether dedicate and bounden to the gods of graces, that is to say, to kindness, benevolence, and amity. And besides this Nature hath given unto man a countenance not terrible and loathly, as unto other brute beasts; but meek and demure, representing the very tokens of love and benevolence. She hath given him amiable eyes, and in them assured marks of the inward mind. She hath ordained him arms to clip and embrace. She hath given him the wit and understanding to kiss: whereby the very minds and hearts of men should be coupled together, even as though they touched each other. Unto man alone she hath given laughing, a token of good cheer and gladness. To man alone she hath given weeping tears, as it were a pledge or token of meekness and mercy. Yea, and she hath given him a voice not threatening and horrible, as unto other brute beasts, but amiable and pleasant. Nature not yet content with all this, she hath given unto man alone the commodity of speech and reasoning: the which things verily may specially both get and nourish benevolence, so that nothing at all should be done among men by violence. She hath endued man with hatred of solitariness, and with love of company. She hath utterly sown in man the very seeds of benevolence. She hath so done, that the selfsame thing, that is most wholesome, should be most sweet and delectable. For what is more delectable than a friend? And again, what thing is more necessary? Moreover, if a man might lead all his life most profitably without any meddling with other men, yet nothing would seem pleasant without a fellow: except a man would cast off all humanity, and forsaking his own kind would become a beast. Besides all this, Nature hath endued man with knowledge of liberal sciences and a fervent desire of knowledge: which thing as it doth most specially withdraw man's wit from all beastly wildness, so hath it a special grace to get and knit together love and friendship. For I dare boldly say, that neither affinity nor yet kindred doth bind the minds of men together with straiter and surer bands of amity, than doth the fellowship of them that be learned in good letters and honest studies. And above all this, Nature hath divided among men by a marvellous variety the gifts, as well of the soul as of the body, to the intent truly that every man might find in every singular person one thing or other, which they should either love or praise for the excellency thereof; or else greatly desire and make much of it, for the need and profit that cometh thereof. Finally she hath endowed man with a spark of a godly mind: so that though he see no reward, yet of his own courage he delighteth to do every man good: for unto God it is most proper and natural, by his benefit, to do everybody good. Else what meaneth it, that we rejoice and conceive in our minds no little pleasure when we perceive that any creature is by our means preserved. Moreover God hath ordained man in this world, as it were the very image of himself, to the intent, that he, as it were a god on earth, should provide for the wealth of all creatures. And this thing the very brute beasts do also perceive, for we may see, that not only the tame beasts, but also the leopards, lions, and other more fierce and wild, when they be in any great jeopardy, they flee to man for succour. So man is, when all things fail, the last refuge to all manner of creatures. He is unto them all the very assured altar and sanctuary. I have here painted out to you the image of man as well as I can. On the other side (if it like you) against the figure of Man, let us portray the fashion and shape of War. Now, then, imagine in thy mind, that thou dost behold two hosts of barbarous people, of whom the look is fierce and cruel, and the voice horrible; the terrible and fearful rustling and glistering of their harness and weapons; the unlovely murmur of so huge a multitude; the eyes sternly menacing; the bloody blasts and terrible sounds of trumpets and clarions; the thundering of the guns, no less fearful than thunder indeed, but much more hurtful; the frenzied cry and clamour, the furious and mad running together, the outrageous slaughter, the cruel chances of them that flee and of those that are stricken down and slain, the heaps of slaughters, the fields overflowed with blood, the rivers dyed red with man's blood. And it chanceth oftentimes, that the brother fighteth with the brother, one kinsman with another, friend against friend; and in that common furious desire ofttimes one thrusteth his weapon quite through the body of another that never gave him so much as a foul word. Verily, this tragedy containeth so many mischiefs, that it would abhor any man's heart to speak thereof. I will let pass to speak of the hurts which are in comparison of the other but light and common, as the treading down and destroying of the corn all about, the burning of towns, the villages fired, the driving away of cattle, the ravishing of maidens, the old men led forth in captivity, the robbing of churches, and all things confounded and full of thefts, pillages, and violence. Neither I will not speak now of those things which are wont to follow the most happy and most just war of all. The poor commons pillaged, the nobles overcharged; so many old men of their children bereaved, yea, and slain also in the slaughter of their children; so many old women destitute, whom sorrow more cruelly slayeth than the weapon itself; so many honest wives become widows, so many children fatherless, so many lamentable houses, so many rich men brought to extreme poverty. And what needeth it here to speak of the destruction of good manners, since there is no man but knoweth right well that the universal pestilence of all mischievous living proceedeth at once from war. Thereof cometh despising of virtue and godly living; thereof cometh, that the laws are neglected and not regarded; thereof cometh a prompt and a ready stomach, boldly to do every mischievous deed. Out of this fountain spring so huge great companies of thieves, robbers, sacrilegers, and murderers. And what is most grievous of all, this mischievous pestilence cannot keep herself within her bounds; but after it is begun in some one corner, it doth not only (as a contagious disease) spread abroad and infect the countries near adjoining to it, but also it draweth into that common tumult and troublous business the countries that be very far off, either for need, or by reason of affinity, or else by occasion of some league made. Yea and moreover, one war springeth of another: of a dissembled war there cometh war indeed, and of a very small, a right great war hath risen. Nor it chanceth oftentimes none otherwise in these things than it is feigned of the monster, which lay in the lake or pond called Lerna. For these causes, I trow, the old poets, the which most sagely perceived the power and nature of things, and with most meet feignings covertly shadowed the same, have left in writing, that war was sent out of hell: nor every one of the Furies was not meet and convenient to bring about this business, but the most pestilent and mischievous of them all was chosen out for the nonce, which hath a thousand names, and a thousand crafts to do hurt. She being armed with a thousand serpents, bloweth before her her fiendish trumpet. Pan with furious ruffling encumbereth every place. Bellona shaketh her furious flail. And then the wicked furiousness himself, when he hath undone all knots and broken all bonds, rusheth out with bloody mouth horrible to behold. The grammarians perceived right well these things, of the which some will, that war have his name by contrary meaning of the word Bellum, that is to say fair, because it hath nothing good nor fair. Nor bellum, that is for to say war, is none otherwise called Bellum, that is to say fair, than the furies are called Eumenides, that is to say meek, because they are wilful and contrary to all meekness. And some grammarians think rather, that bellum, war, should be derived out of this word Belva, that is for to say, a brute beast: forasmuch as it belongeth to brute beasts, and not unto men, to run together, each to destroy each other. But it seemeth to me far to pass all wild and all brute beastliness, to fight together with weapons. First, for there are many of the brute beasts, each in his kind, that agree and live in a gentle fashion together, and they go together in herds and flocks, and each helpeth to defend the other. Nor is it the nature of all wild beasts to fight, for some are harmless, as does and hares. But they that are the most fierce of all, as lions, wolves, and tigers, do not make war among themselves as we do. One dog eateth not another. The lions, though they be fierce and cruel, yet they fight not among themselves. One dragon is in peace with another. And there is agreement among poisonous serpents. But unto man there is no wild or cruel beast more hurtful than man. Again, when the brute beasts fight, they fight with their own natural armour: we men, above nature, to the destruction of men, arm ourselves with armour, invented by craft of the devil. Nor the wild beasts are not cruel for every cause; but either when hunger maketh them fierce, or else when they perceive themselves to be hunted and pursued to the death, or else when they fear lest their younglings should take any harm or be stolen from them. But (O good Lord) for what trifling causes what tragedies of war do we stir up? For most vain titles, for childish wrath, for a wench, yea, and for causes much more scornful than these, we be inflamed to fight. Moreover, when the brute beasts fight, then war is one for one, yea, and that is very short. And when the battle is sorest fought, yet is there not past one or two, that goeth away sore wounded. When was it ever heard that an hundred thousand brute beasts were slain at one time fighting and tearing one another: which thing men do full oft and in many places? And besides this, whereas some wild beasts have natural debate with some other that be of a contrary kind, so again there be some with which they lovingly agree in a sure amity. But man with man, and each with other, have among them continual war; nor is there league sure enough among any men. So that whatsoever it be, that hath gone out of kind, it hath gone out of kind into a worse fashion, than if Nature herself had engendered therein a malice at the beginning. Will ye see how beastly, how foul, and how unworthy a thing war is for man? Did ye never behold a lion let loose unto a bear? What gapings, what roarings, what grisly gnashing, what tearing of their flesh, is there? He trembleth that beholdeth them, yea, though he stand sure and safe enough from them. But how much more grisly a sight is it, how much more outrageous and cruel, to behold man to fight with man, arrayed with so much armour, and with so many weapons? I beseech you, who would believe that they were men, if it were not because war is a thing so much in custom that no man marvelleth at it? Their eyes glow like fire, their faces be pale, their marching forth is like men in a fury, their voice screeching and grunting, their cry and frenzied clamour; all is iron, their harness and weapons jingling and clattering, and the guns thundering. It might have been better suffered, if man, for lack of meat and drink, should have fought with man, to the intent he might devour his flesh and drink his blood: albeit, it is come also now to that pass, that some there be that do it more of hatred than either for hunger or for thirst. But now this same thing is done more cruelly, with weapons envenomed, and with devilish engines. So that nowhere may be perceived any token of man. Trow ye that Nature could here know it was the same thing, that she sometime had wrought with her own hands? And if any man would inform her, that it were man that she beheld in such array, might she not well, with great wondering, say these words? "What new manner of pageant is this that I behold? What devil of hell hath brought us forth this monster. There be some that call me a stepmother, because that among so great heaps of things of my making I have brought forth some venomous things (and yet have I ordained the selfsame venomous things for man's behoof); and because I have made some beasts very fierce and perilous: and yet is there no beast so wild nor so perilous, but that by craft and diligence he may be made tame and gentle. By man's diligent labour the lions have been made tame, the dragons meek, and the bears obedient. But what is this, that worse is than any stepmother, which hath brought us forth this new unreasonable brute beast, the pestilence and mischief of all this world? One beast alone I brought forth wholly dedicate to be benevolent, pleasant, friendly, and wholesome to all other. What hath chanced, that this creature is changed into such a brute beast? I perceive nothing of the creature man, which I myself made. What evil spirit hath thus defiled my work? What witch hath bewitched the mind of man, and transformed it into such brutishness? What sorceress hath thus turned him out of his kindly shape? I command and would that the wretched creature should behold himself in a glass. But, alas, what shall the eyes see, where the mind is away? Yet behold thyself (if thou canst), thou furious warrior, and see if thou mayst by any means recover thyself again. From whence hast thou that threatening crest upon thy head? From whence hast thou that shining helmet? From whence are those iron horns? Whence cometh it, that thine elbows are so sharp and piked? Where hadst thou those scales? Where hadst thou those brazen teeth? Of whence are those hard plates? Whence are those deadly weapons? From whence cometh to thee this voice more horrible than of a wild beast? What a look and countenance hast thou more terrible than of a brute beast? Where hast thou gotten this thunder and lightning, both more fearful and hurtful than is the very thunder and lightning itself? I formed thee a goodly creature; what came into thy mind, that thou wouldst thus transform thyself into so cruel and so beastly fashion, that there is no brute beast so unreasonable in comparison unto man?" These words, and many other such like, I suppose, the Dame Nature, the worker of all things, would say. Then since man is such as is showed before that he is, and that war is such a thing, like as too oft we have felt and known, it seemeth to me no small wonder, what ill spirit, what disease, or what mishap, first put into man's mind, that he would bathe his mortal weapon in the blood of man. It must needs be, that men mounted up to so great madness by divers degrees. For there was never man yet (as Juvenal saith) that was suddenly most graceless of all. And always things the worst have crept in among men's manners of living, under the shadow and shape of goodness. For some time those men that were in the beginning of the world led their lives in woods; they went naked, they had no walled towns, nor houses to put their heads in: it happened otherwhile that they were sore grieved and destroyed with wild beasts. Wherefore with them first of all, men made war, and he was esteemed a mighty strong man, and a captain, that could best defend mankind from the violence of wild beasts. Yea, and it seemed to them a thing most equable to strangle the stranglers, and to slay the slayers, namely, when the wild beast, not provoked by us for any hurt to them done, would wilfully set upon us. And so by reason that this was counted a thing most worthy of praise (for hereof it rose that Hercules was made a god), the lusty-stomached young men began all about to hunt and chase the wild beasts, and as a token of their valiant victory the skins of such beasts as they slew were set up in such places as the people might behold them. Besides this they were not contented to slay the wild beasts, but they used to wear their skins to keep them from the cold in winter. These were the first slaughters that men used: these were their spoils and robberies. After this, they went so farforth, that they were bold to do a thing which Pythagoras thought to be very wicked; and it might seem to us also a thing monstrous, if custom were not, which hath so great strength in every place: that by custom it was reputed in some countries a much charitable deed if a man would, when his father was very old, first sore beat him, and after thrust him headlong into a pit, and so bereave him of his life, by whom it chanced him to have the gift of life. It was counted a holy thing for a man to feed on the flesh of his own kinsmen and friends. They thought it a goodly thing, that a virgin should be made common to the people in the temple of Venus. And many other things, more abominable than these: of which if a man should now but only speak, every man would abhor to hear him. Surely there is nothing so ungracious, nor nothing so cruel, but men will hold therewith, if it be once approved by custom. Then will ye hear, what a deed they durst at the last do? They were not abashed to eat the carcases of the wild beasts that were slain, to tear the unsavoury flesh with their teeth, to drink the blood, to suck out the matter of them, and (as Ovid saith) to hide the beasts' bowels within their own. And although at that time it seemed to be an outrageous deed unto them that were of a more mild and gentle courage: yet was it generally allowed, and all by reason of custom and commodity. Yet were they not so content. For they went from the slaying of noisome wild beasts, to kill the harmless beasts, and such as did no hurt at all. They waxed cruel everywhere upon the poor sheep, a beast without fraud or guile. They slew the hare, for none other offence, but because he was a good fat dish of meat to feed upon. Nor they forbare not to kill the tame ox, which had a long season, with his sore labour, nourished the unkind household. They spared no kind of beasts, of fowls, nor of fishes. Yea, and the tyranny of gluttony went so farforth that there was no beast anywhere that could be sure from the cruelty of man. Yea, and custom persuaded this also, that it seemed no cruelty at all to slay any manner of beast, whatsoever it was, so they abstained from manslaughter. Now peradventure it lieth in our power to keep out vices, that they enter not upon the manners of men, in like manner as it lieth in our power to keep out the sea, that it break not in upon us; but when the sea is once broken in, it passeth our power to restrain it within any bounds. So either of them both once let in, they will not be ruled, as we would, but run forth headlong whithersoever their own rage carrieth them. And so after that men had been exercised with such beginnings to slaughter, wrath anon enticed man to set upon man, either with staff, or with stone, or else with his fist. For as yet, I think they used no other weapons. And now had they learned by the killing of beasts, that man also might soon and easily be slain with little labour. But this cruelty remained betwixt singular persons, so that yet there was no great number of men that fought together, but as it chanced one man against another. And besides this, there was no small colour of equity, if a man slew his enemy; yea, and shortly after, it was a great praise to a man to slay a violent and a mischievous man, and to rid him out of the world, such devilish and cruel caitiffs, as men say Cacus and Busiris were. For we see plainly, that for such causes, Hercules was greatly praised. And in process of time, many assembled to take part together, either as affinity, or as neighbourhood, or kindred bound them. And what is now robbery was then war. And they fought then with stones, or with stakes, a little burned at the ends. A little river, a rock, or such other like thing, chancing to be between them, made an end of their battle. In the mean season, while fierceness by use increaseth, while wrath is grown great, and ambition hot and vehement, by ingenious craft they arm their furious violence. They devise harness, such as it is, to fence them with. They invent weapons to destroy their enemies with. Thus now by few and few, now with greater company, and now armed they begin to fight. Nor to this manifest madness they forget not to give honour. For they call it Bellum, that is to say, a fair thing; yea, and they repute it a virtuous deed, if a man, with the jeopardy of his own life, manly resist and defend from the violence of his enemies, his wife, children, beasts, and household. And by little and little, malice grew so great, with the high esteeming of other things, that one city began to send defiance and make war to another, country against country, and realm against realm. And though the thing of itself was then most cruel, yet all this while there remained in them certain tokens, whereby they might be known for men: for such goods as by violence were taken away were asked and required again by an herald at arms; the gods were called to witness; yea, and when they were ranged in battle, they would reason the matter ere they fought. And in the battle they used but homely weapons, nor they used neither guile nor deceit, but only strength. It was not lawful for a man to strike his enemy till the sign of battle was given; nor was it not lawful to fight after the sounding of the retreat. And for conclusion, they fought more to show their manliness and for praise, than they coveted to slay. Nor all this while they armed them not, but against strangers, the which they called hostes, as they had been hospites, their guests. Of this rose empires, of the which there was never none yet in any nation, but it was gotten with the great shedding of man's blood. And since that time there hath followed continual course of war, while one eftsoons laboureth to put another out of his empire, and to set himself in. After all this, when the empires came once into their hands that were most ungracious of all other, they made war upon whosoever pleased them; nor were they not in greatest peril and danger of war that had most deserved to be punished, but they that by fortune had gotten great riches. And now they made not war to get praise and fame, but to get the vile muck of the world, or else some other thing far worse than that. I think not the contrary, but that the great, wise man Pythagoras meant these things when he by a proper device of philosophy frightened the unlearned multitude of people from the slaying of silly beasts. For he perceived, it should at length come to pass, that he which (by no injury provoked) was accustomed to spill the blood of a harmless beast, would in his anger, being provoked by injury, not fear to slay a man. War, what other thing else is it than a common manslaughter of many men together, and a robbery, the which, the farther it sprawleth abroad, the more mischievous it is? But many gross gentlemen nowadays laugh merrily at these things, as though they were the dreams and dotings of schoolmen, the which, saving the shape, have no point of manhood, yet seem they in their own conceit to be gods. And yet of those beginnings, we see we be run so far in madness, that we do naught else all our life-days. We war continually, city with city, prince with prince, people with people, yea, and (it that the heathen people confess to be a wicked thing) cousin with cousin, alliance with alliance, brother with brother, the son with the father, yea, and that I esteem more cruel than all these things, a Christian man against another man; and yet furthermore, I will say that I am very loath to do, which is a thing most cruel of all, one Christian man with another Christian man. Oh, blindness of man's mind! at those things no man marvelleth, no man abhorreth them. There be some that rejoice at them, and praise them above the moon: and the thing which is more than devilish, they call a holy thing. Old men, crooked for age, make war, priests make war, monks go forth to war; yea, and with a thing so devilish we mingle Christ. The battles ranged, they encounter the one the other, bearing before them the sign of the Cross, which thing alone might at the leastwise admonish us by what means it should become Christian men to overcome. But we run headlong each to destroy other, even from that heavenly sacrifice of the altar, whereby is represented that perfect and ineffable knitting together of all Christian men. And of so wicked a thing, we make Christ both author and witness. Where is the kingdom of the devil, if it be not in war? Why draw we Christ into war, with whom a brothel-house agreeth more than war? Saint Paul disdaineth, that there should be any so great discord among Christian men, that they should need any judge to discuss the matter between them. What if he should come and behold us now through all the world, warring for every light and trifling cause, striving more cruelly than ever did any heathen people, and more cruelly than any barbarous people? Yea, and ye shall see it done by the authority, exhortations, and furtherings of those that represent Christ, the prince of peace and very bishop that all things knitteth together by peace and of those that salute the people with good luck of peace. Nor is it not unknown to me what these unlearned people say (a good while since) against me in this matter, whose winnings arise of the common evils. They say thus: We make war against our wills: for we be constrained by the ungracious deeds of other. We make war but for our right. And if there come any hurt thereof, thank them that be causers of it. But let these men hold their tongues awhile, and I shall after, in place convenient, avoid all their cavillations, and pluck off that false visor wherewith we hide all our malice. But first as I have above compared man with war, that is to say, the creature most demure with a thing most outrageous, to the intent that cruelty might the better be perceived: so will I compare war and peace together, the thing most wretched, and most mischievous, with the best and most wealthy thing that is. And so at last shall appear, how great madness it is, with so great tumult, with so great labours, with such intolerable expenses, with so many calamities, affectionately to desire war: whereas agreement might be bought with a far less price. First of all, what in all this world is more sweet or better than amity or love? Truly nothing. And I pray you, what other thing is peace than amity and love among men, like as war on the other side is naught else but dissension and debate of many men together? And surely the property of good things is such, that the broader they be spread, the more profit and commodity cometh of them. Farther, if the love of one singular person with another be so sweet and delectable, how great should the felicity be if realm with realm, and nation with nation, were coupled together, with the band of amity and love? On the other side, the nature of evil things is such, that the farther they sprawl abroad, the more worthy they are to be called evil, as they be indeed. Then if it be a wretched thing, if it be an ungracious thing, that one man armed should fight with another, how much more miserable, how much more mischievous is it, that the selfsame thing should be done with so many thousands together? By love and peace the small things increase and wax great, by discord and debate the great things decay and come to naught. Peace is the mother and nurse of all good things. War suddenly and at once overthroweth, destroyeth, and utterly fordoeth everything that is pleasant and fair, and bringeth in among men a monster of all mischievous things. In the time of peace (none otherwise than as if the lusty springtime should show and shine in men's businesses) the fields are tilled, the gardens and orchards freshly flourish, the beasts pasture merrily; gay manours in the country are edified, the towns are builded, where as need is reparations are done, the buildings are heightened and augmented, riches increase, pleasures are nourished, the laws are executed, the common wealth flourisheth, religion is fervent, right reigneth, gentleness is used, craftsmen are busily exercised, the poor men's gain is more plentiful, the wealthiness of the rich men is more gay and goodly, the studies of most honest learnings flourish, youth is well taught, the aged folks have quiet and rest, maidens are luckily married, mothers are praised for bringing forth of children like to their progenitors, the good men prosper and do well, and the evil men do less offence. But as soon as the cruel tempest of war cometh on us, good Lord, how great a flood of mischiefs occupieth, overfloweth, and drowneth all together. The fair herds of beasts are driven away, the goodly corn is trodden down and destroyed, the good husbandmen are slain, the villages are burned up, the most wealthy cities, that have flourished so many winters, with that one storm are overthrown, destroyed, and brought to naught: so much readier and prompter men are to do hurt than good. The good citizens are robbed and spoiled of their goods by cursed thieves and murderers. Every place is full of fear, of wailing, complaining, and lamenting. The craftsmen stand idle; the poor men must either die for hunger, or fall to stealing. The rich men either stand and sorrow for their goods, that be plucked and snatched from them, or else they stand in great doubt to lose such goods as they have left them: so that they be on every side woebegone. The maidens, either they be not married at all, or else if they be married, their marriages are sorrowful and lamentable. Wives, being destitute of their husbands, lie at home without any fruit of children, the laws are laid aside, gentleness is laughed to scorn, right is clean exiled, religion is set at naught, hallowed and unhallowed things all are one, youth is corrupted with all manner of vices, the old folk wail and weep, and wish themselves out of the world, there is no honour given unto the study of good letters. Finally, there is no tongue can tell the harm and mischief that we feel in war. Perchance war might be the better suffered, if it made us but only wretched and needy; but it maketh us ungracious, and also full of unhappiness. And I think Peace likewise should be much made of, if it were but only because it maketh us more wealthy and better in our living. Alas, there be too many already, yea, and more than too many mischiefs and evils, with the which the wretched life of man (whether he will or no) is continually vexed, tormented, and utterly consumed. It is near hand two thousand years since the physicians had knowledge of three hundred divers notable sicknesses by name, besides other small sicknesses and new, as daily spring among us, and besides age also, which is of itself a sickness inevitable. We read that in one place whole cities have been destroyed with earthquakes. We read, also, that in another place there have been cities altogether burnt with lightning; how in another place whole regions have been swallowed up with opening of the earth, towns by undermining have fallen to the ground; so that I need not here to remember what a great multitude of men are daily destroyed by divers chances, which be not regarded because they happen so often: as sudden breaking out of the sea and of great floods, falling down of hills and houses, poison, wild beasts, meat, drink, and sleep. One hath been strangled with drinking of a hair in a draught of milk, another hath been choked with a little grapestone, another with a fishbone sticking in his throat. There hath been, that sudden joy hath killed out of hand: for it is less wonder of them that die for vehement sorrow. Besides all this, what mortal pestilence see we in every place. There is no part of the world, that is not subject to peril and danger of man's life, which life of itself also is most fugitive. So manifold mischances and evils assail man on every side that not without cause Homer did say: Man was the most wretched of all creatures living. But forasmuch these mischances cannot lightly be eschewed, nor they happen not through our fault, they make us but only wretched, and not ungracious withal. What pleasure is it then for them that be subject already to so many miserable chances, willingly to seek and procure themselves another mischief more than they had before, as though they yet wanted misery? Yea, they procure not a light evil, but such an evil that is worse than all the others, so mischievous, that it alone passeth all the others; so abundant, that in itself alone is comprehended all ungraciousness; so pestilent, that it maketh us all alike wicked as wretched, it maketh us full of all misery, and yet not worthy to be pitied. Now go farther, and with all these things consider, that the commodities of Peace spread themselves most far and wide, and pertain unto many men. In war if there happen anything luckily (but, O good Lord, what may we say happeneth well and luckily in war?), it pertaineth to very few, and to them that are unworthy to have it. The prosperity of one is the destruction of another. The enriching of one is the spoil and robbing of another. The triumph of one is the lamentable mourning of another, so that as the infelicity is bitter and sharp, the felicity is cruel and bloody. Howbeit otherwhile both parties wept according to the proverb, Victoria Cadmaea, Cadmus victorie, where both parties repented. And I wot not whether it came ever so happily to pass in war, that he that had victory did not repent him of his enterprise, if he were a good man. Then seeing Peace is the thing above all other most best and most pleasant, and, contrariwise, war the thing most ungracious and wretched of all other, shall we think those men to be in their right minds, the which when they may obtain Peace with little business and labour will rather procure war with so great labour and most difficulty? First of all consider, how loathly a thing the rumour of war is, when it is first spoken of. Then how envious a thing it is unto a prince, while with often tithes and taxes he pillageth his subjects. What a business hath he to make and entertain friends to help him? what a business to procure bands of strangers and to hire soldiers? What expenses and labours must he make in setting forth his navy of ships, in building and repairing of castles and fortresses, in preparing and apparelling of his tents and pavilions, in framing, making, and carrying of engines, guns, armour, weapons, baggage, carts, and victual? What great labour is spent in making of bulwarks, in casting of ditches, in digging of mines, in keeping of watches, in keeping of arrays, and in exercising of weapons? I pass over the fear they be in; I speak not of the imminent danger and peril that hangeth over their heads: for what thing in war is not to be feared? What is he that can reckon all the incommodious life that the most foolish soldiers suffer in the field? And for that worthy to endure worse, in that they will suffer it willingly. Their meat is so ill that an ox of Cyprus would be loath to eat it; they have but little sleep, nor yet that at their own pleasure. Their tents on every side are open on the wind. What, a tent? No, no; they must all the day long, be it hot or cold, wet or dry, stand in the open air, sleep on the bare ground, stand in their harness. They must suffer hunger, thirst, cold, heat, dust, showers; they must be obedient to their captains; sometimes they be clapped on the pate with a warder or a truncheon: so that there is no bondage so vile as the bondage of soldiers. Besides all this, at the sorrowful sign given to fight, they must run headlong to death: for either they must slay cruelly, or be slain wretchedly. So many sorrowful labours must they take in hand, that they may bring to pass that thing which is most wretched of all other. With so many great miseries we must first afflict and grieve our own self, that we may afflict and grieve other! Now if we would call this matter to account, and justly reckon how much war will cost, and how much peace, surely we shall find that peace may be got and obtained with the tenth part of the cares, labours, griefs, perils, expenses, and spilling of blood, with which the war is procured. So great a company of men, to their extreme perils, ye lead out of the realm to overthrow and destroy some one town: and with the labour of the selfsame men, and without any peril at all, another town, much more noble and goodly, might be new edified and builded. But you say, you will hurt and grieve your enemy: so even that doing is against humanity. Nevertheless, this I would ye should consider, that ye cannot hurt and grieve your enemies, but ye must first greatly hurt your own people. And it seemeth a point of a madman, to enterprise where he is sure and certain of so great hurt and damage, and is uncertain which way the chance of war will turn. But admit, that either foolishness, or wrath, or ambition, or covetousness, or outrageous cruelty, or else (which I think more like) the furies sent from hell, should ravish and draw the heathen people to this madness. Yet from whence cometh it into our minds, that one Christian man should draw his weapon to bathe it in another Christian man's blood? It is called parricide, if the one brother slay the other. And yet is a Christian man nearer joined to another than is one brother to another: except the bonds of nature be stronger than the bonds of Christ. What abominable thing, then, is it to see them almost continually fighting among themselves, the which are the inhabitants of one house the Church, which rejoice and say, that they all be the members of one body, and that have one head, which truly is Christ; they have all one Father in heaven; they are all taught and comforted by one Holy Spirit; they profess the religion of Christ all under one manner; they are all redeemed with Christ's blood; they are all newborn at the holy font; they use alike sacraments; they be all soldiers under one captain; they are all fed with one heavenly bread; they drink all of one spiritual cup; they have one common enemy the devil; finally, they be all called to one inheritance. Where be they so many sacraments of perfect concord? Where be the innumerable teachings of peace? There is one special precept, which Christ called his, that is, Charity. And what thing is so repugnant to charity as war? Christ saluted his disciples with the blessed luck of peace. Unto his disciples he gave nothing save peace, saving peace he left them nothing. In those holy prayers, he specially prayed the Father of heaven, that in like manner as he was one with the Father, so all his, that is to say, Christian men, should be one with him. Lo, here you may perceive a thing more than peace, more than amity, more than concord. Solomon bare the figure of Christ: for Solomon in the Hebrew tongue signifieth peaceable or peaceful. Him God would have to build his temple. At the birth of Christ the angels proclaimed neither war nor triumphs, but peace they sang. And before his birth the prophet David prophesied thus of him: Et factus est in pace locus ejus, that is to say, His dwelling place is made in peace. Search all the whole life of Christ, and ye shall never find thing that breathes not of peace, that signifieth not amity, that savoureth not of charity. And because he perceived peace could not well be kept, except men would utterly despise all those things for which the world so greedily fighteth, he commanded that we should of him learn to be meek. He calleth them blessed and happy that setteth naught by riches, for those he calleth poor in spirit. Blessed be they that despise the pleasures of this world, the which he calleth mourners. And them blessed he calleth that patiently suffer themselves, to be put out of their possessions, knowing that here in this world they are but as outlaws; and the very true country and possession of godly creatures is in heaven. He calleth them blessed which, deserving well of all men, are wrongfully blamed and ill afflicted. He forbade that any man should resist evil. Briefly, as all his doctrine commandeth sufferance and love, so all his life teacheth nothing else but meekness. So he reigned, so he warred, so he overcame, so he triumphed. Now the apostles, that had sucked into them the pure spirit of Christ, and were blessedly drunk with that new must of the Holy Ghost, preached nothing but meekness and peace. What do all the epistles of Paul sound in every place but peace, but long-suffering, but charity? What speaketh Saint John, what rehearseth he so oft, but love? What other thing did Peter? What other thing did all the true Christian writers? From whence then cometh all this tumult of wars amongst the children of peace? Think ye it a fable, that Christ calleth himself a vine tree, and his own the branches? Who did ever see one branch fight with another? Is it in vain that Paul so oft wrote, The Church to be none other thing, than one body compact together of divers members, cleaving to one head, Christ? Whoever saw the eye fight with the hand, or the belly with the foot? In this universal body, compact of all those unlike things, there is agreement. In the body of a beast, one member is in peace with another, and each member useth not the property thereto given for itself alone, but for the profit of all the other members. So that if there come any good to any one member alone, it helpeth all the whole body. And may the compaction or knitting of Nature do more in the body of a beast, that shortly must perish, than the coupling of the Holy Ghost in the mystical and immortal body of the Church? Do we to no purpose pray as taught by Christ: Good Lord, even as thy will is fulfilled in heaven, so let it be fulfilled in the earth? In that city of heaven is concord and peace most perfect. And Christ would have his Church to be none other than a heavenly people in earth, as near as might be after the manner of them that are in heaven, ever labouring and making haste to go thither, and always having their mind thereon. Now go to, let us imagine, that there should come some new guest out of the lunar cities, where Empedocles dwelleth, or else out of the innumerable worlds, that Democritus fabricated, into this world, desiring to know what the inhabitants do here. And when he was instructed of everything, it should at last be told him that, besides all other, there is one creature marvellously mingled, of body like to brute beasts and of soul like unto God. And it should also be told him, that this creature is so noble, that though he be here an outlaw out of his own country, yet are all other beasts at his commandment, the which creature through his heavenly beginning inclineth alway to things heavenly and immortal. And that God eternal loved this creature so well, that whereas he could neither by the gifts of nature, nor by the strong reasons of philosophy attain unto that which he so fervently desired, he sent hither his only begotten son, to the intent to teach this creature a new kind of learning. Then as soon as this new guest had perceived well the whole manner of Christ's life and precepts, would desire to stand in some high place, from whence he might behold that which he had heard. And when he should see all other creatures soberly live according to their kind, and, being led by the laws and course of nature, desire nothing but even as Nature would; and should see this one special creature man given riotously to tavern haunting, to vile lucre, to buying and selling, chopping and changing, to brawling and fighting one with another, trow ye that he would not think that any of the other creatures were man, of whom he heard so much of before, rather than he that is indeed man? Then if he that had instructed him afore would show him which creature is man, now would he look about to see if he could spy the Christian flock and company, the which, following the ordinance of that heavenly teacher Christ, should exhibit to him a figure or shape of the evangelical city. Think ye he would not rather judge Christians to dwell in any other place than in those countries, wherein we see so great superfluity, riot, voluptuousness, pride, tyranny, discord, brawlings, fightings, wars, tumults, yea, and briefly to speak, a greater puddle of all those things that Christ reproveth than among Turks or Saracens? From whence, then, creepeth this pestilence in among Christian people? Doubtless this mischief also is come in by little and little, like as many more other be, ere men be aware of them. For truly every mischief creepeth by little and little upon the good manners of men, or else under the colour of goodness it is suddenly received. So then first of all, learning and cunning crept in as a thing very meet to confound heretics, which defend their opinions with the doctrine of philosophers, poets, and orators. And surely at the beginning of our faith, Christian men did not learn those things; but such as peradventure had learned them, before they knew what Christ meant, they turned the thing that they had learned already, into good use. Eloquence of tongue was at the beginning dissembled more than despised, but at length it was openly approved. After that, under colour of confounding heretics, came in an ambitious pleasure of brawling disputations, which hath brought into the Church of Christ no small mischief. At length the matter went so farforth that Aristotle was altogether received into the middle of divinity, and so received, that his authority is almost reputed holier than the authority of Christ. For if Christ spake anything that did little agree with our life, by interpretation of Aristotle it was lawful to make it serve their purpose. But if any do never so little repugn against the high divinity of Aristotle, he is quickly with clapping of hands driven out of the place. For of him we have learned, that the felicity of man is imperfect, except he have both the good gifts of body and of fortune. Of him we have learned, that no commonweal may flourish, in which all things are common. And we endeavour ourselves to glue fast together the decrees of this man and the doctrine of Christ--which is as likely a thing as to mingle fire and water together. And a gobbet we have received of the civil laws, because of the equity that seemeth to be in them. And to the end they should the better serve our purpose, we have, as near as may be, writhed and plied the doctrine of the gospel to them. Now by the civil law it is lawful for a man to defend violence with violence, and each to pursue for his right. Those laws approve buying and selling; they allow usury, so it be measurable; they praise war as a noble thing, so, it be just. Finally all the doctrine of Christ is so defiled with the learning of logicians, sophisters, astronomers, orators, poets, philosophers, lawyers, and gentles, that a man shall spend the most part of his life, ere he may have any leisure to search holy scripture, to the which when a man at last cometh, he must come infected with so many worldly opinions, that either he must be offended with Christ's doctrines, or else he must apply them to the mind and of them that he hath learned before. And this thing is so much approved, that it is now a heinous deed, if a man presume to study holy scripture, which hath not buried himself up to the hard ears in those trifles, or rather sophistries of Aristotle. As though Christ's doctrine were such, that it were not lawful for all men to know it, or else that it could by any means agree with the wisdom of philosophers. Besides this we admitted at the beginning of our faith some honour, which afterward we claimed as of duty. Then we received riches, but that was to distribute to relieve poor men, which afterwards we turned to our own use. And why not, since we have learned by the law civil, that the very order of charity is, that every man must first provide for himself? Nor lack there colours to cloak this mischief: first it is a good deed to provide for our children, and it is right that we foresee how to live in age; finally, why should we, say they, give our goods away, if we come by them without fraud? By these degrees it is by little and little come to pass, that he is taken for the best man that hath most riches: nor never was there more honour given to riches among the heathen people, than is at this day among the Christian people. For what thing is there, either spiritual or temporal, that is not done with great show of riches? And it seemed a thing agreeable with those ornaments, if Christian men had some great jurisdiction under them. Nor there wanted not such as gladly submitted themselves. Albeit at the beginning it was against their wills, and scantly would they receive it. And yet with much work, they received it so, that they were content with the name and title only: the profit thereof they gladly gave unto other men. At the last, little by little it came to pass, that a bishop thought himself no bishop, except he had some temporal lordship withal; an abbot thought himself of small authority, if he had not wherewith to play the lordly sire. And in conclusion, we blushed never a deal at the matter, we wiped away all shamefastness, and shoved aside all the bars of comeliness. And whatever abuse was used among the heathen people, were it covetousness, ambition, riot, pomp, or pride, or tyranny, the same we follow, in the same we match them, yea, and far pass them. And to pass over the lighter things for the while, I pray you, was there ever war among the heathen people so long continually, or more cruelly, than among Christian people? What stormy rumblings, what violent brays of war, what tearing of leagues, and what piteous slaughters of men have we seen ourselves within these few years? What nation hath not fought and skirmished with another? And then we go and curse the Turk; and what can be a more pleasant sight to the Turks, than to behold us daily each slaying other? Xerxes doted, when he led out of his own country that huge multitude of people to make war upon the Greeks. Trow ye, was he not mad, when he wrote letters to the mountain called Athos, threatening that the hill should repent except it obeyed his lust? And the same Xerxes commanded also the sea to be beaten, because it was somewhat rough when he should have sailed over. Who will deny but Alexander the Great was mad also? He, the young god, wished that there were many worlds, the which he might conquer--so great a fever of vainglory had embraced his young lusty courage. And yet these same men, the which Seneca doubted not to call mad thieves, warred after a gentler fashion than we do; they were more faithful of their promise in war, nor they used not so mischievous engines in war, nor such crafts and subtleties, nor they warred not for so light causes as we Christian men do. They rejoiced to advance and enrich such provinces as they had conquered by war; and the rude people, that lived like wild beasts without laws, learning, or good manners, they taught them both civil conditions and crafts, whereby they might live like men. In countries that were not inhabited with people, they builded cities, and made them both fair and profitable. And the places that were not very sure, they fenced, for safeguard of the people, with bridges, banks, bulwarks; and with a thousand other such commodities they helped the life of man. So that then it was right expedient to be overcome. Yea, and how many things read we, that were either wisely done, or soberly spoken of them in the midst of their wars. As for those things that are done in Christian men's wars they are more filthy and cruel than is convenient here to rehearse. Moreover, look what was worst in the heathen peoples' wars, in that we follow them, yea, we pass them. But now it is worth while to hear, by what means we maintain this our so great madness. Thus they reason: If it had not been lawful by no means to make war, surely God would never have been the author to the Jews to make war against their enemies. Well said, but we must add hereunto, that the Jews never made war among themselves, but against strangers and wicked men. We, Christian men, fight with Christian men. Diversity of religion caused the Jews to fight against their enemies: for their enemies worshipped not God as they did. We make war oftentimes for a little childish anger, or for hunger of money, or for thirst of glory, or else for filthy meed. The Jews fought by the commandment of God; we make war to avenge the grief and displeasure of our mind. And nevertheless if men will so much lean to the example of the Jews, why do we not then in like manner use circumcision? Why do we not sacrifice with the blood of sheep and other beasts? Why do we not abstain from swine's flesh? Why doth not each of us wed many wives? Since we abhor those things, why doth the example of war please us so much? Why do we here follow the bare letter that killeth? It was permitted the Jews to make war, but so likewise as they were suffered to depart from their wives, doubtless because of their hard and froward manners. But after Christ commanded the sword to be put up, it is unlawful for Christian men to make any other war but that which is the fairest war of all, with the most eager and fierce enemies of the Church, with affection of money, with wrath, with ambition, with dread of death. These be our Philistines, these be our Nabuchodonosors, these be our Moabites and Ammonites, with the which it behooveth us to have no truce. With these we must continually fight, until (our enemies being utterly vanquished) we may be in quiet, for except we may overcome them, there is no man that may attain to any true peace, neither with himself, nor yet with no other. For this war alone is cause of true peace. He that overcometh in this battle, will make war with no man living. Nor I regard not the interpretation that some men make of the two swords, to signify either power spiritual or temporal. When Christ suffered Peter to err purposely, yea, after he was commanded to put up his sword, no man should doubt but that war was forbidden, which before seemed to be lawful. But Peter (say they) fought. True it is, Peter fought; he was yet but a Jew, and had not the spirit of a very Christian man. He fought not for his lands, or for any such titles of lands as we do, nor yet for his own life, but for his Master's life. And finally, he fought, the which within a while after forsook his Master. Now if men will needs follow the example of Peter that fought, why might they not as well follow the example of him forsaking his Master? And though Peter through simple affection erred, yet did his Master rebuke him. For else, if Christ did allow such manner of defence, as some most foolishly do interpret, why doth both all the life and doctrine of Christ preach no other thing but sufferance? Why sent he forth his disciples again tyrants, armed with nothing else but with a walking-staff and a scrip? If that sword, which Christ commanded his disciples to sell their coats to buy, be moderate defence against persecutors, like as some men do not only wickedly but also blindly interpret, why did the martyrs never use that defence? But (say they) the law of nature commandeth, it is approved by the laws, and allowed by custom, that we ought to put off from us violence by violence, and that each of us should defend his life, and eke his money, when the money (as Hesiod saith) is as lief as the life. All this I grant, but yet grace, the law of Christ, that is of more effect than all these things, commandeth us, that we should not speak ill to them that speak shrewdly to us; that we should do well to them that do ill to us, and to them that take away part of our possessions, we should give the whole; and that we should also pray for them that imagine our death. But these things (say they) appertain to the apostles; yea, they appertain to the universal people of Christ, and to the whole body of Christ's Church, that must needs be a whole and a perfect body, although in its gifts one member is more excellent than another. To them the doctrine of Christ appertaineth not, that hope not to have reward with Christ. Let them fight for money and for lordships, that laugh to scorn the saying of Christ: Blessed be the poor men in spirit; that is to say, be they poor or rich, blessed be they that covet no riches in this world. They that put all their felicity in these riches, they fight gladly to defend their life; but they be those that understand not this life to be rather a death, nor they perceive not that everlasting life is prepared for good men. Now they lay against us divers bishops of Rome, the which have been both authors and abettors of warring. True it is, some such there have been, but they were of late, and in such time as the doctrine of Christ waxed cold. Yea, and they be very few in comparison of the holy fathers that were before them, which with their writings persuade us to flee war. Why are these few examples most in mind? Why turn we our eyes from Christ to men? And why had we rather follow the uncertain examples, than the authority that is sure and certain? For doubtless the bishops of Rome were men. And it may be right well, that they were either fools or ungracious caitiffs. And yet we find not that any of them approved that we should still continually war after this fashion as we do, which thing I could with arguments prove, if I listed to digress and tarry thereupon. Saint Bernard praised warriors, but he so praised them, that he condemned all the manner of our warfare. And yet why should the saying of Saint Bernard, or the disputation of Thomas the Alquine, move me rather than the doctrine of Christ, which commandeth, that we should in no wise resist evil, specially under such manner as the common people do resist. But it is lawful (say they) that a transgressor be punished and put to death according to the laws: then is it not lawful for a whole country or city to be revenged by war? What may be answered in this place, is longer than is convenient to reply. But this much will I say, there is a great difference. For the evil-doer, found faulty and convicted, is by authority of the laws put to death. In war there is neither part without fault. Whereas one singular man doth offend, the punishment falleth only on himself; and the example of the punishment doth good unto all others. In war the most part of the punishment and harm falls upon them that least deserve to be punished; that is, upon husbandmen, old men, honest wives, young children, and virgins. But if there may any commodity at all be gathered of this most mischievous thing, that altogether goeth to the behoof of certain most vengeable thieves, hired soldiers, and strong robbers, and perhaps to a few captains, by whose craft war was raised for that intent, and with which the matter goeth never better than when the commonweal is in most high jeopardy and peril to be lost. Whereas one is for his offence grievously punished, it is the wealthy warning of all other: but in war to the end to revenge the quarrel of one, or else peradventure of a few, we cruelly afflict and grieve many thousands of them that nothing deserved. It were better to leave the offence of a few unpunished than while we seek occasion to punish one or two, to bring into assured peril and danger, both our neighbours and innocent enemies (we call them our enemies, though they never did us hurt); and yet are we uncertain, whether it shall fall on them or not, that we would have punished. It is better to let a wound alone, that cannot be cured without grievous hurt and danger of all the whole body, than go about to heal it. Now if any man will cry out and say: It were against all right, that he that offendeth should not be punished; hereunto I answer, that it is much more against all right and reason, that so many thousands of innocents should be brought into extreme calamity and mischief without deserving. Albeit nowadays we see, that almost all wars spring up I cannot tell of what titles, and of leagues between princes, that while they go about to subdue to their dominion some one town, they put in jeopardy all their whole empire. And yet within a while after, they sell or give away the same town again, that they got with shedding of so much blood. Peradventure some man will say: Wouldst not have princes fight for their right? I know right well, it is not meet for such a man as I am, to dispute overboldly of princes' matters, and though I might do it without any danger, yet is it longer than is convenient for this place. But this much will I say: If each whatsoever title be a cause convenient to go in hand with war, there is no man that in so great alterations of men's affairs, and in so great variety and changes, can want a title. What nation is there that hath not sometime been put out of their own country, and also have put other out? How oft have people gone from one country to another? How oft have whole empires been translated from one to another either by chance or by league. Let the citizens of Padua claim now again in God's name the country of Troy for theirs, because Antenor was sometime a Trojan. Let the Romans now hardily claim again Africa and Spain, because those provinces were sometime under the Romans. We call that a dominion, which is but an administration. The power and authority over men, which be free by Nature, and over brute beasts, is not all one. What power and sovereignty soever you have, you have it by the consent of the people. And if I be not deceived, he that hath authority to give, hath authority to take away again. Will ye see how small a matter it is that we make all this tumult for? The strife is not, whether this city or that should be obeisant to a good prince, and not in bondage of a tyrant; but whether Ferdinand or Sigismund hath the better title to it, whether that city ought to pay tribute to Philip or to King Louis. This is that noble right, for the which all the world is thus vexed and troubled with wars and manslaughter. Yet go to, suppose that this right or title be as strong and of as great authority as may be; suppose also there be no difference between a private field and a whole city; and admit there be no difference between the beasts that you have bought with your money and men, which be not only free, but also true Christians: yet is it a point for a wise man to cast in his mind, whether the thing that you will war for, be of so great value, that it will recompense the exceedingly great harms and loss of your own people. If ye cannot do in every point as becometh a prince, yet at the leastways do as the merchantman doeth: he setteth naught by that loss, which he well perceiveth cannot be avoided without a greater loss, and he reckoneth it a winning, that fortune hath been against him with his so little loss. Or else at the leastwise follow him, of whom there is a merry tale commonly told. There were two kinsmen at variance about dividing of certain goods, and when they could by no means agree, they must go to law together, that in conclusion the matter might be ended by sentence of the judges. They got them attorneys, the pleas were drawn, men of law had the matter in hand, they came before the judges, the complaint was entered, the cause was pleaded, and so was the war begun between them. Anon one of them remembering himself, called aside his adversary to him and said on this wise: "First it were a great shame, that a little money should dissever us twain, whom Nature hath knit so near together. Secondly, the end of our strife is uncertain, no less than of war. It is in our hands to begin when we will, but not to make an end. All our strife is but for an hundred crowns, and we shall spend the double thereof upon notaries, upon promoters, upon advocates, upon attorneys, upon judges, and upon judges' friends, if we try the law to the uttermost. We must wait upon these men, we must flatter and speak them fair, we must give them rewards. And yet I speak not of the care and thought, nor of the great labour and travail, that we must take to run about here and there to make friends; and which of us two that winneth the victory, shall be sure of more incommodity than profit. Wherefore if we be wise, let us rather see to our own profit, and the money that shall be evil bestowed upon these bribers, let us divide it between us twain. And forgive you the half of that ye think should be your due, and I will forgive as much of mine. And so shall we keep and preserve our friendship, which else is like to perish, and we shall also eschew this great business, cost, and charge. If you be not content to forgo anything of your part, I commit the whole matter into your own hands; do with it as you will. For I had liefer my friend had this money, than those insatiable thieves. Methinks I have gained enough, if I may save my good name, keep my friend, and avoid this unquiet and chargeable business." Thus partly the telling of the truth, and partly the merry conceit of his kinsman, moved the other man to agree. So they ended the matter between themselves, to the great displeasure of the judges and servants, for they, like a sort of gaping ravens, were deluded and put beside their prey. Let a prince therefore follow the wisdom of these two men, specially in a matter of much more danger. Nor let him not regard what thing it is that he would obtain, but what great loss of good things he shall have, in what great jeopardies he shall be, and what miseries he must endure, to come thereby. Now if a man will weigh, as it were in a pair of balances, the commodities of war on the one side and the incommodities on the other side, he shall find that unjust peace is far better than righteous war. Why had we rather have war than peace? Who but a madman will angle with a golden fish-hook? If ye see that the charges and expenses shall amount far above your gain, yea, though all things go according to your mind, is it not better that ye forgo part of your right than to buy so little commodity with so innumerable mischiefs? I had liefer that any other man had the title, than I should win it with so great effusion of Christian men's blood. He (whosoever he be) hath now been many years in possession; he is accustomed to rule, his subjects know him, he behaveth him like a prince; and one shall come forth, who, finding an old title in some histories or in some blind evidence, will turn clean upside down the quiet state and good order of that commonweal. What availeth it with so great troubling to change any title, which in short space by one chance or other must go to another man? Specially since we might see, that no things in this world continue still in one state, but at the scornful pleasure of fortune they roll to and fro, as the waves of the sea. Finally, if Christian men cannot despise and set at naught these so light things, yet whereto need they by and by to run to arms? Since there be so many bishops, men of great gravity and learning; since there be so many venerable abbots; since there be so many noble men of great age, whom long use and experience of things hath made right wise: why are not these trifling and childish quarrels of princes pacified and set in order by the wisdom and discretion of these men? But they seem to make a very honest reason of war, which pretend as they would defend the Church: as though the people were not the Church, or as though the Church of Christ was begun, augmented, and stablished with wars and slaughters, and not rather in spilling of the blood of martyrs, sufferance, and despising of this life, or as though the whole dignity of the Church rested in the riches of the priests. Nor to me truly it seemeth not so allowable, that we should so oft make war upon the Turks. Doubtless it were not well with the Christian religion, if the only safeguard thereof should depend on such succours. Nor it is not likely, that they should be good Christians, that by these means are brought thereto at the first. For that thing that is got by war, is again in another time lost by war. Will ye bring the Turks to the faith of Christ? Let us not make a show of our gay riches, nor of our great number of soldiers, nor of our great strength. Let them see in us none of these solemn titles, but the assured tokens of Christian men: a pure, innocent life; a fervent desire to do well, yea, to our very enemies; the despising of money, the neglecting of glory, a poor simple life. Let them hear the heavenly doctrine agreeable to such a manner of life. These are the best armours to subdue the Turks to Christ. Now oftentimes we, being ill, fight with the evil. Yea, and I shall say another thing (which I would to God were more boldly spoken than truly), if we set aside the title and sign of the Cross, we fight Turks against Turks. If our religion were first stablished by the might and strength of men of war, if it were confirmed by dint of sword, if it were augmented by war, then let us maintain it by the same means and ways. But if all things in our faith were brought to pass by other means, why do we, then (as we mistrusted the help of Christ), seek such succour as the heathen people use? But why should we not (say they) kill them that would kill us? So think they it a great dishonour, if other should be more mischievous than they. Why do ye not, then, rob those that have robbed you before? Why do ye not scold and chide at them that rail at you? Why do ye not hate them that hate you? Trow ye it is a good Christian man's deed to slay a Turk? For be the Turks never so wicked, yet they are men, for whose salvation Christ suffered death. And killing Turks we offer to the devil most pleasant sacrifice, and with that one deed we please our enemy, the devil, twice: first because a man is slain, and again, because a Christian man slew him. There be many, which desiring to seem good Christian men, study to hurt and grieve the Turks all that ever they may; and where they be not able to do anything, they curse and ban, and bid a mischief upon them. Now by the same one point a man may perceive, that they be far from good Christian men. Succour the Turks, and where they be wicked, make them good if ye can; if ye cannot, wish and desire of God they may have grace to turn to goodness. And he that thus doeth, I will say doeth like a Christian man. But of all these things I shall entreat more largely, when I set forth my book entitled Antipolemus, which whilom when I was at Rome I wrote to Julius, bishop of Rome, the second of that name, at the same time, when he was counselled to make war on the Venetians. But there is one thing which is more to be lamented then reasoned: That if a man would diligently discuss the matter, he shall find that all the wars among us Christian men do spring either of foolishness, or else of malice. Some young men without experience, inflamed with the evil examples of their forefathers, that they find by reading of histories, written of some foolish authors (and besides this being moved with the exhortations of flatterers, with the instigation of lawyers, and assenting thereto of the divines, the bishops winking thereat, or peradventure enticing thereunto), have rather of foolhardiness than of malice, gone in hand with war; and with the great hurt and damage of all this world they learn, that war is a thing that should be by all means and ways fled and eschewed. Some other are moved by privy hatred, ambition causeth some, and some are stirred by fierceness of mind to make war. For truly there is almost now no other thing in our cities and commonweals than is contained in Homer's work Iliad, The wrath of indiscreet princes and people. There be those who for no other cause stir up war but to the intent they may by that means the more easily exercise tyranny on their subjects. For in the time of peace, the authority of the council, the dignity of the rulers, the vigour and strength of the laws, do somewhat hinder, that a prince cannot do all that him listeth; but as soon as war is once begun, now all the handling of matters resteth in the pleasure of a few persons. They that the prince favoureth are lifted up aloft, and they that be in his displeasure, go down. They exact as much money as pleaseth them. What need many words? Then they think themselves, that they be the greatest princes of the world. In the meantime the captains sport and play together, till they have gnawed the poor people to the hard bones. And think ye that it will grieve them, that be of this mind, to enter lightly into war, when any cause is offered? Besides all this, it is worth while to see by what means we colour our fault. I pretend the defence of our religion, but my mind is to get the great riches that the Turk hath. Under colour to defend the Church's right, I purpose to revenge the hatred that I have in my stomach. I incline to ambition, I follow my wrath; my cruel, fierce and unbridled mind compelleth me; and yet will I find a cavillation and say, the league is not kept, or friendship is broken, or something (I wot not what myself) concerning the laws of matrimony is omitted. And it is a wonder to speak, how they never obtain the very thing that they so greatly desire. And while they foolishly labour to eschew this mischief or that, they fall into another much worse, or else deeper into the same. And surely if desire of glory causeth them thus to do, it is a thing much more magnificent and glorious to save than to destroy; much more gay and goodly to build a city than to overthrow and destroy a city. Furthermore admit that the victory in battle is got most prosperously, yet how small a portion of the glory shall go unto the prince: the commons will claim a great part of it, by the help of whose money the deed was done; foreign soldiers, that are hired for money, will challenge much more than the commons; the captains look to have very much of that glory; and fortune has the most of all, which striking a great stroke in every matter, in war may do most of all. If it come of a noble courage or stout stomach, that you be moved to make war: see, I pray you, how far wide ye be from your purpose. For while ye will not be seen to bow to one man, as to a prince your neighbour, peradventure of your alliance, who may by fortune have done you good: how much more abjectly must ye bow yourself, what time ye seek aid and help of barbarous people; yea, and, what is more unworthy, of such men as are defiled with all mischievous deeds, if we must needs call such kind of monsters men? Meanwhile ye go about to allure unto you with fair words and promises, ravishers of virgins and of religious women, men-killers, stout robbers and rovers (for these be thy special men of war). And while you labour to be somewhat cruel and superior over your equal, you are constrained to submit yourselves to the very dregs of all men living. And while ye go about to drive your neighbour out of his land, ye must needs first bring into your own land the most pestilent puddle of unthrifts that can be. You mistrust a prince of your own alliance, and will you commit yourself wholly to an armed multitude? How much surer were it to commit yourself to concord! If ye will make war because of lucre, take your counters and cast. And I will say, it is better to have war than peace, if ye find not, that not only less, but also uncertain winning is got with inestimable costs. Ye say ye make war for the safeguard of the commonweal, yea, but noway sooner nor more unthriftily may the commonweal perish than by war. For before ye enter into the field, ye have already hurt more your country than ye can do good getting the victory. Ye waste the citizens' goods, ye fill the houses with lamentation, ye fill all the country with thieves, robbers, and ravishers. For these are the relics of war. And whereas before ye might have enjoyed all France, ye shut yourselves from many regions thereof. If ye love your own subjects truly, why revolve you not in mind these words: Why shall I put so many, in their lusty, flourishing youth, in all mischiefs and perils? Why shall I depart so many honest wives and their husbands, and make so many fatherless children? Why shall I claim a title I know not, and a doubtful right, with spilling of my subjects' blood? We have seen in our time, that in war made under colour of defence of the Church, the priests have been so often pillaged with contributions, that no enemy might do more. So that while we go about foolishly to escape falling in the ditch, while we cannot suffer a light injury, we afflict ourselves with most grievous despites. While we be ashamed of gentleness to bow to a prince, we be fain to please people most base. While we indiscreetly covet liberty, we entangle ourselves in most grievous bondage. While we hunt after a little lucre, we grieve ourselves and ours with inestimable harness. It had been a point of a prudent Christian man (if he be a true Christian man) by all manner of means to have fled, to have shunned, and by prayer to have withstood so fiendish a thing, and so far both from the life and doctrine of Christ. But if it can by no means be eschewed, by reason of the ungraciousness of many men, when ye have essayed every way, and that ye have for peace sake left no stone unturned, then the next way is, that ye do your diligence that so ill a thing may be gested and done by them that be evil, and that it be achieved with as little effusion of man's blood as can be. Now if we endeavour to be the selfsame thing that we hear ourselves called,--that is, good Christian men,--we shall little esteem any worldly thing, nor yet ambitiously covet anything of this world. For if we set all our mind, that we may lightly and purely part hence; if we incline wholly to heavenly things; if we pitch all our felicity in Christ alone; if we believe all that is truly good, truly gay and glorious, truly joyful, to remain in Christ alone; if we thoroughly think that a godly man can of no man be hurt; if we ponder how vain and vanishing are the scornful things of this world; if we inwardly behold how hard a thing it is for a man to be in a manner transformed into a god, and so here, with continual and indefatigable meditation, to be purged from all infections of this world, that within a while the husk of this body being cast off, it may pass hence to the company of angels; finally, if we surely have these three things, without which none is worthy of the name of a Christian man,--Innocency, that we may be pure from all vices; Charity, that we may do good, as near as we can, to every man; Patience, that we may suffer them that do us ill, and, if we can, with good deeds overcome wrongs to us done: I pray you, what war can there be among us for trifles? If it be but a tale that is told of Christ, why do we not openly put him out of our company? Why should we glory in his title? But if he be, as he is in very deed, the true way, the very truth, and the very life, why doth all the manner of our living differ so far asunder from the true example of him? If we acknowledge and take Christ for our author, which is very Charity, and neither taught nor gave other thing but charity and peace, then go to, let us not in titles and signs, but in our deeds and living, plainly express him. Let us have in our hearts a fervent desire of peace, that Christ may again know us for his. To this intent the princes, the prelates, and the cities and commonalties should apply their counsels. There hath been hitherto enough spilt of Christian man's blood. We have showed pleasure enough to the enemies of the Christian religion. And if the common people, as they are wont, make any disturbance, let the princes bridle and quail them, which princes ought to be the selfsame thing in the commonweal that the eye is in the body, and the reason in the soul. Again, if the princes make any trouble, it is the part of good prelates by their wisdom and gravity to pacify and assuage such commotion. Or else, at the least, we being satiate with continual wars, let the desire of peace a little move us. The bishop exhorteth us (if ever any bishop did Leo the Tenth doth, which occupieth the room of our peaceable Solomon, for all his desire, all his intent and labour, is for this intent) that they whom one common faith hath coupled together, should be joined in one common concord. He laboureth that the Church of Christ should flourish, not in riches or lordships, but in her own proper virtues. Surely this is a right goodly act, and well beseeming a man descended of such a noble lineage as the Medici: by whose civil prudence the noble city of Florence most freshly flourished in long-continued peace; whose house of Medici hath been a help unto all good letters. Leo himself, having alway a sober and a gentle wit, giving himself from his tender youth to good letters of humanity, was ever brought up, as it were, in the lap of the Muses, among men most highly learned. He so faultless led his life, that even in the city of Rome, where is most liberty of vice, was of him no evil rumour, and so governing himself came to the dignity to be bishop there, which dignity he never coveted, but was chosen thereto when he least thought thereon, by the provision of God to help to redress things in great decay by long wars. Let Julius the bishop have his glory of war, victories, and of his great triumphs, the which how evil they beseem a Christian bishop, it is not for such a one as I am to declare. I will this say, his glory, whatsoever it be, was mixed with the great destruction and grievous sorrow of many a creature. But by peace restored now to the world, Leo shall get more true glory than Julius won by so many wars that he either boldly begun, or prosperously fought and achieved. But they that had liefer hear of proverbs, than either of peace or of war, will think that I have tarried longer about this digression than is meet for the declaration of a proverb. FINIS OF THIS VOLUME WHICH IS EDITED BY JOHN W. MACKAIL WITH TYPES & DECORATIONS BY HERBERT P. HORNE CCCIII COPIES WERE PRINTED [Illustration: OPTIMUM VIX SATIS] BY D. B. UPDIKE AT THE MERRYMOUNT PRESS BOSTON MASSACHUSETTS IN THE MONTH OF AUGUST MCM VII 
30201	----	[Illustration: Frontispiece] IN PRAISE OF FOLLY By Erasmus Illustrated with many curious CUTS, Designed, Drawn, and Etched by Hans Holbein, WITH PORTRAIT, LIFE OF ERASMUS, AND HIS Epistle addressed to Sir Thomas More. LONDON: REEVES & TURNER, 196, STRAND, W.C. 1876. THE LIFE OF ERASMUS. ERASMUS, so deservedly famous for his admirable writings, the vast extent of his learning, his great candour and moderation, and for being one of the chief restorers of the Latin tongue on this side the Alps, was born at Rotterdam, on the 28th of October, in the year 1467. The anonymous author of his life commonly printed with his Colloquies (of the London edition) is pleased to tell us that _de anno quo natus est apud Batavos, non constat_. And if he himself wrote the life which we find before the Elzevir edition, said to be _Erasmo autore_, he does not particularly mention the year in which he was born, but places it _circa annum 67 supra millesintum quadringentesimum_. Another Latin life, which is prefixed to the above-mentioned London edition, fixes it in the year 1465; as does his epitaph at Basil. But as the inscription on his statue at Rotterdam, the place of his nativity, may reasonably be supposed the most authentic, we have followed that. His mother was the daughter of a physician at Sevenbergen in Holland, with whom his father contracted an acquaintance, and had correspondence with her on promise of marriage, and was actually contracted to her. His father's name was Gerard; he was the youngest of ten brothers, without one sister coming between; for which reason his parents (according to the superstition of the times) designed to consecrate him to the church. His brothers liked the notion, because, as the church then governed all, they hoped, if he rose in his profession, to have a sure friend to advance their interest; but no importunities could prevail on Gerard to turn ecclesiastic Finding himself continually pressed upon so disagreeable a subject, and not able longer to bear it, he was forced to fly from his native country, leaving a letter for his friends, in which he acquainted them with the reason of his departure, and that he should never trouble them any more. Thus he left her who was to be his wife big with child, and made the best of his way to Rome. Being an admirable master of the pen, he made a very genteel livelihood by transcribing most authors of note (for printing was not in use). He for some time lived at large, but afterwards applied close to study, made great progress in the Greek and Latin languages, and in the civil law; for Rome at that time was full of learned men. When his friends knew he was at Rome, they sent him word that the young gentlewoman whom he had courted for a wife was dead; upon which, in a melancholy fit, he took orders, and turned his thoughts wholly to the study of divinity. He returned to his own country, and found to his grief that he had been imposed upon; but it was too late to think of marriage, so he dropped all farther pretensions to his mistress; nor would she after this unlucky adventure be induced to marry. The son took the name of Gerard after his father, which in German signifies _amiable_, and (after the fashion of the learned men of that age, who affected to give their names a Greek or Latin turn) his was turned into Erasmus, which in Greek has the same signification. He was chorister of the cathedral church of Utrecht till he was nine years old; after which he was sent to Deventer to be instructed by the famous Alexander Hegius, a Westphalian. Under so able a master he proved an extraordinary proficient; and it is remarkable that he had such a strength of memory as to be able to say all Terence and Horace by heart. He was now arrived to the thirteenth year of his age, and had been continually under the watchful eye of his mother, who died of the plague then raging at Deventer. The contagion daily increasing, and having swept away the family where he boarded, he was obliged to return home. His father Gerard was so concerned at her death that he grew melancholy, and died soon after: neither of his parents being much above forty when they died. Erasmus had three guardians assigned him, the chief of whom was Peter Winkel, schoolmaster of Goude; and the fortune left him was amply sufficient for his support, if his executors had faithfully discharged their trust Although he was fit for the university, his guardians were averse to sending him there, as they designed him for a monastic life, and therefore removed him to Bois-le-duc, where, he says, he lost near three years, living in a Franciscan convent The professor of humanity in this convent, admiring his rising genius, daily importuned him to take the habit, and be of their order. Erasmus had no great inclination for the cloister; not that he had the least dislike to the severities of a pious life, but he could not reconcile himself to the monastic profession; he therefore urged his rawness of age, and desired farther to consider better of the matter. The plague spreading in those parts, and he having struggled a long time with a quartan ague, obliged him to return home. His guardians employed those about him to use all manner of arguments to prevail on him to enter the order of monk; sometimes threatening, and at other times making use of flattery and fair speeches. When Winkel, his guardian, found him not to be moved from his resolution, he told him that he threw up his guardianship from that moment Young Erasmus replied, that he took him at his word, since he was old enough now to look out for himself. When Winkel found that threats did not avail, he employed his brother, who was the other guardian, to see what he could effect by fair means. Thus he was surrounded by them and their agents on all sides. By mere accident, Erasmus went to visit a religious house belonging to the same order, in Emaus or Steyn, near Goude, where he met with one Cornelius, who had been his companion at Deventer; and though he had not himself taken the habit, he was perpetually preaching up the advantages of a religious life, as the convenience of noble libraries, the helps of learned conversation, retirement from the noise and folly of the world, and the like. Thus at last he was induced to pitch upon this convent. Upon his admission they fed him with great promises, to engage him to take the holy cloth; and though he found almost everything fall short of his expectation, yet his necessities, and the usage he was threatened with if he abandoned their order, prevailed with him, after his year of probation, to profess himself a member of their fraternity. Not long after this, he had the honour to be known to Henry a Bergis, bishop of Cambray, who having some hopes of obtaining a cardinal's hat, wanted one perfectly master of Latin to solicit this affair for him; for this purpose Erasmus was taken into the bishop's family, where he wore the habit of his order. The bishop not succeeding in his expectation at Rome, proved fickle and wavering in his affection; therefore Erasmus prevailed with him to send him to Paris, to prosecute his studies in that famous university, with the promise of an annual allowance, which was never paid him. He was admitted into Montague College, but indisposition obliged him to return to the bishop, by whom he was honourably entertained. Finding his health restored, he made a journey to Holland, intending to settle there, but was persuaded to go a second time to Paris; where, having no patron to support him, himself says, he rather made a shift to live, than could be said to study. He next visited England, where he was received with great respect; and as appears by several of his letters, he honoured it next to the place of his nativity. In a letter to Andrelinus, inviting him to England, he speaks highly of the beauty of the English ladies, and thus describes their innocent freedom: "When you come into a gentleman's house you are allowed the favour to salute them, and the same when you take leave." He was particularly acquainted with Sir Thomas More, Colet, dean of Saint Paul's, Grocinus, Linacer, Latimer, and many others of the most eminent of that time; and passed some years at Gam-bridge. In his way for France he had the misfortune to be stripped of everything; but he did not revenge this injury by any unjust reflection on the country. Not meeting with the preferment he expected, he made a voyage to Italy, at that time little inferior to the Augustan age for learning. He took his doctor of divinity degree in the university of Turin; stayed about a year in Bologna; afterward went to Venice, and there published his book of Adages from the press of the famous Aldus. He removed to Padua, and last to Rome, where his fame had arrived long before him. Here he gained the friendship of all the considerable persons of the city, nor could have failed to have made his fortune, had he not been prevailed upon by the great promises of his friends in England to return thither on Henry VIIIth coming to the crown. He was taken into favour by Warham, archbishop of Canterbury, who gave him the living of Aldington, in Kent; but whether Erasmus was wanting in making his court to Wolsey, or whether the cardinal viewed him with a jealous eye, because he was a favourite of Warham, between whom and Wolsey there was perpetual clashing, we know not; however, being disappointed, Erasmus went to Flanders, and by the interest of Chancellor Sylvagius, was made counsellor to Charles of Austria, afterward Charles V., emperor of Germany. He resided several years at Basil; but on the mass being abolished in that city by the Reformation, he retired to Friberg in Alsace, where he lived seven years. Having been for a long time afflicted with the gout, he left Friberg, and returned to Basil. Here the gout soon left him, but he was seized by a dysentery, and after labouring a whole month under that disorder, died on the 22nd of July, 1536, in the house of Jerome Frobenius, son of John, the famous printer. He was honourably interred, and the city of Basil still pays the highest respect to the memory of so great a man. Erasmus was the most facetious man, and the greatest critic of his age. He carried on a reformation in learning at the same time he advanced that of religion; and promoted a purity of style as well as simplicity of worship. This drew on him the hatred of the ecclesiastics, who were no less bigotted to their barbarisms in language and philosophy, than they were to their superstitious and gaudy ceremonies in religion; they murdered him in their dull treatises, libelled him in their wretched sermons, and in their last and most effectual efforts of malice, they joined some of their own execrable stuff to his compositions: of which he himself complains in a letter addressed to the divines of Louvain. He exposed with great freedom the vices and corruptions of his own church, yet never would be persuaded to leave her communion. The papal policy would never have suffered Erasmus to have taken so unbridled a range in the reproof and censure of her extravagancies, but under such circumstances, when the public attack of Luther imposed on her a prudential necessity of not disobliging her friends, that she might with more united strength oppose the common enemy; and patiently bore what at any other time she would have resented. Perhaps no man has obliged the public with a greater number of useful volumes than our author; though several have been attributed to him which he never wrote. His book of Colloquies has passed through more editions than any of his others: Moreri tells us a bookseller in Paris sold twenty thousand at one impression. [Illustration: Tailpiece 022] [Illustration: Erasmus 025] E R A S M U S's EPISTLE TO Sir THOMAS MORE. IN my late travels from Italy into England, that I might not trifle away my time in the rehearsal of old wives' fables, I thought it more pertinent to employ my thoughts in reflecting upon some past studies, or calling to remembrance several of those highly learned, as well as smartly ingenious, friends I had here left behind, among whom you (dear Sir) were represented as the chief; whose memory, while absent at this distance, I respect with no less a complacency than I was wont while present to enjoy your more intimate conversation, which last afforded me the greatest satisfaction I could possibly hope for. Having therefore resolved to be a doing, and deeming that time improper for any serious concerns, I thought good to divert myself with drawing up a panegyrick upon Folly. How! what maggot (say you) put this in your head? Why, the first hint, Sir, was your own surname of More, which comes as near the literal sound of the word,* as you yourself are distant from the signification of it, and that in all men's judgments is vastly wide. * Mwpia. In the next place, I supposed that this kind of sporting wit would be by you more especially accepted of, by you, Sir, that are wont with this sort of jocose raillery (such as, if I mistake not, is neither dull nor impertinent) to be mightily pleased, and in your ordinary converse to approve yourself a Democritus junior: for truly, as you do from a singular vein of wit very much dissent from the common herd of mankind; so, by an incredible affability and pliableness of temper, you have the art of suiting your humour with all sorts of companies. I hope therefore you will not only readily accept of this rude essay as a token from your friend, but take it under your more immediate protection, as being dedicated to you, and by that tide adopted for yours, rather than to be fathered as my own. And it is a chance if there be wanting some quarrelsome persons that will shew their teeth, and pretend these fooleries are either too buffoon-like for a grave divine, or too satyrical for a meek christian, and so will exclaim against me as if I were vamping up some old farce, or acted anew the Lucian again with a peevish snarling at all things. But those who are offended at the lightness and pedantry of this subject, I would have them consider that I do not set myself for the first example of this kind, but that the same has been oft done by many considerable authors. For thus several ages since, Homer wrote of no more weighty a subject than of a war between the frogs and mice, Virgil of a gnat and a pudding-cake, and Ovid of a nut Poly-crates commended the cruelty of Busiris; and Isocrates, that corrects him for this, did as much for the injustice of Glaucus. Favorinus extolled Thersites, and wrote in praise of a quartan ague. Synesius pleaded in behalf of baldness; and Lucian defended a sipping fly. Seneca drollingly related the deifying of Claudius; Plutarch the dialogue betwixt Gryllus and Ulysses; Lucian and Apuleius the story of an ass; and somebody else records the last will of a hog, of which St. Hierom makes mention. So that if they please, let themselves think the worst of me, and fancy to themselves that I was all this while a playing at push-pin, or riding astride on a hobby-horse. For how unjust is it, if when we allow different recreations to each particular course of life, we afford no diversion to studies; especially when trifles may be a whet to more serious thoughts, and comical matters may be so treated of, as that a reader of ordinary sense may possibly thence reap more advantage than from some more big and stately argument: as while one in a long-winded oration descants in commendation of rhetoric or philosophy, another in a fulsome harangue sets forth the praise of his nation, a third makes a zealous invitation to a holy war with the Turks, another confidently sets up for a fortune-teller, and a fifth states questions upon mere impertinences. But as nothing is more childish than to handle a serious subject in a loose, wanton style, so is there nothing more pleasant than so to treat of trifles, as to make them seem nothing less than what their name imports. As to what relates to myself, I must be forced to submit to the judgment of others; yet, except I am too partial to be judge in my own case, I am apt to believe I have praised Folly in such a manner as not to have deserved the name of fool for my pains. To reply now to the objection of satyricalness, wits have been always allowed this privilege, that they might be smart upon any transactions of life, if so be their liberty did not extend to railing; which makes me wonder at the tender-eared humour of this age, which will admit of no address without the prefatory repetition of all formal titles; nay, you may find some so preposterously devout, that they will sooner wink at the greatest affront against our Saviour, than be content that a prince, or a pope, should be nettled with the least joke or gird, especially in what relates to their ordinary customs. But he who so blames men's irregularities as to lash at no one particular person by name, does he (I say) seem to carp so properly as to teach and instruct? And if so, how am I concerned to make any farther excuse? Beside, he who in his strictures points indifferently at all, he seems not angry at one man, but at all vices. Therefore, if any singly complain they are particularly reflected upon, they do but betray their own guilt, at least their cowardice. Saint Hierom dealt in the same argument at a much freer and sharper rate; nay, and he did not sometimes refrain from naming the persons: whereas I have not only stifled the mentioning any one person, but have so tempered my style, as the ingenious reader will easily perceive I aimed at diversion rather than satire. Neither did I so far imitate Juvenal, as to rake into the sink of vices to procure a laughter, rather than create a hearty abhorrence. If there be any one that after all remains yet unsatisfied, let him at least consider that there may be good use made of being reprehended by Folly, which since we have feigned as speaking, we must keep up that character which is suitable to the person introduced. But why do I trouble you, Sir, with this needless apology, you that are so peculiar a patron; as, though the cause itself be none of the best, you can at least give it the best protection. Farewell. [Illustration: Tailpiece 033] On the Argument and Design of the following Oration. WHATEVER the modern satyrs o' th' stage, To jerk the failures of a sliding age, Have lavishly expos'd to public view, For a discharge to all from envy due, Here in as lively colours naked lie, With equal wit, and more of modesty, Those poets, with their free disclosing arts, Strip vice so near to its uncomely parts, Their libels prove but lessons, and they teach Those very crimes which they intend t' impeach: While here so wholesome all, tho' sharp t' th' taste, So briskly free, yet so resolv'dly chaste; The virgin naked as her god of bows, May read or hear when blood at highest flows; Nor more expense of blushes thence arise, Than while the lect'ring matron does advise To guard her virtue, and her honour prize. Satire and panegyric, distant be, Yet jointly here they both in one agree. The whole's a sacrifice of salt and fire; So does the humour of the age require, To chafe the touch, and so foment desire. As doctrine-dangling preachers lull asleep Their unattentive pent-up fold of sheep; The opiated milk glues up the brain, And th' babes of grace are in their cradles lain; ( xxiv) While mounted Andrews, bawdy, bold, and loud, Like cocks, alarm all the drowsy crowd, Whose glittering ears are prick'd as bolt-upright, As sailing hairs are hoisted in a fright. So does it fare with croaking spawns o' th' press, The mould o' th' subject alters the success; What's serious, like sleep, grants writs of ease, Satire and ridicule can only please; As if no other animals could gape, But the biting badger, or the snick'ring ape. Folly by irony's commended here, Sooth'd, that her weakness may the more appear. Thus fools, who trick'd, in red and yellow shine, Are made believe that they are wondrous fine, When all's a plot t' expose them by design. The largesses of Folly here are strown. Like pebbles, not to pick, but trample on. Thus Spartans laid their soaking slaves before The boys, to justle, kick, and tumble o'er: Not that the dry-lipp'd youngsters might combine To taste and know the mystery of wine, But wonder thus at men transform'd to swine; And th' power of such enchantment to escape, Timely renounce the devil of the grape. So here, Though Folly speaker be, and argument, Wit guides the tongue, wisdom's the lecture meant. So here, Though Folly speaker be, and argument, Wit guides the tongue, wisdom's the lecture meant. [Illustration: Header 036] ERASMUS's Praise of FOLLY. _An oration, of feigned matter, spoken by Folly in her own person_. [Illustration: Letter H 036] HOW slightly soever I am esteemed in the common vogue of the world, (for I well know how disingenuously Folly is decried, even by those who are themselves the greatest fools,) yet it is from my influence alone that the whole universe receives her ferment of mirth and jollity: of which this may be urged as a convincing argument, in that as soon as I appeared to speak before this numerous assembly all their countenances were gilded oyer with a lively sparkling pleasantness: you soon welcomed me with so encouraging a look, you spurred me on with so cheerful a hum, that truly in all appearance, you seem now flushed with a good dose of reviving nectar, when as just before you sate drowsy and melancholy, as if you were lately come out of some hermit's cell. But as it is usual, that as soon as the sun peeps from her eastern bed, and draws back the curtains of the darksome night; or as when, after a hard winter, the restorative spring breathes a more enlivening air, nature forthwith changes her apparel, and all things seem to renew their age; so at the first sight of me you all unmask, and appear in more lively colours. That therefore which expert orators can scarce effect by all their little artifice of eloquence, to wit, a raising the attentions of their auditors to a composedness of thought, this a bare look from me has commanded. The reason why I appear in this odd kind of garb, you shall soon be informed of, if for so short a while you will have but the patience to lend me an ear; yet not such a one as you are wont to hearken with to your reverend preachers, but as you listen withal to mountebanks, buffoons, and merry-andrews; in short, such as formerly were fastened to Midas, as a punishment for his affront to the god Pan. For I am now in a humour to act awhile the sophist, yet not of that sort who undertake the drudgery of tyrannizing over school boys, and teach a more than womanish knack of brawling; but in imitation of those ancient ones, who to avoid the scandalous epithet of wise, preferred this title of sophists; the task of these was to celebrate the worth of gods and heroes. Prepare therefore to be entertained with a panegyrick, yet not upon Hercules, Solon, or any other grandee, but on myself, that is, upon Folly. [Illustration: Folly 038] And here I value not their censure that pretend it is foppish and affected for any person to praise himself: yet let it be as silly as they please, if they will but allow it needful: and indeed what is more befitting than that Folly should be the trumpet of her own praise, and dance after her own pipe? for who can set me forth better than myself? or who can pretend to be so well acquainted with my condition? And yet farther, I may safely urge, that all this is no more than the same with what is done by several seemingly great and wise men, who with a new-fashioned modesty employ some paltry orator or scribbling poet, whom they bribe to flatter them with some high-flown character, that shall consist of mere lies and shams; and yet the persons thus extolled shall bristle up, and, peacock-like, bespread their plumes, while the impudent parasite magnifies the poor wretch to the skies, and proposes him as a complete pattern of all virtues, from each of which he is yet as far distant as heaven itself from hell: what is all this in the mean while, but the tricking up a daw in stolen feathers; a labouring to change the black-a-moor's hue, and the drawing on a pigmy's frock over the shoulders of a giant. Lastly, I verify the old observation, that allows him a right of praising himself, who has nobody else to do it for him: for really, I cannot but admire at that ingratitude, shall I term it, or blockishness of mankind, who when they all willingly pay to me their utmost devoir, and freely acknowledge their respective obligations; that notwithstanding this, there should have been none so grateful or complaisant as to have bestowed on me a commendatory oration, especially when there have not been wanting such as at a great expense of sweat, and loss of sleep, have in elaborate speeches, given high encomiums to tyrants, agues, flies, baldness, and such like trumperies. I shall entertain you with a hasty and unpremeditated, but so much the more natural discourse. My venting it _ex tempore_, I would not have you think proceeds from any principles of vain glory by which ordinary orators square their attempts, who (as it is easy to observe) when they are delivered of a speech that has been thirty years a conceiving, nay, perhaps at last, none of their own, yet they will swear they wrote it in a great hurry, and upon very short warning: whereas the reason of my not being provided beforehand is only because it was always my humour constantly to speak that which lies uppermost. Next, let no one be so fond as to imagine, that I should so far stint my invention to the method of other pleaders, as first to define, and then divide my subject, i.e., myself. For it is equally hazardous to attempt the crowding her within the narrow limits of a definition, whose nature is of so diffusive an extent, or to mangle and disjoin that, to the adoration whereof all nations unitedly concur. Beside, to what purpose is it to lay down a definition for a faint resemblance, and mere shadow of me, while appearing here personally, you may view me at a more certain light? And if your eye-sight fail not, you may at first blush discern me to be her whom the Greeks term _Mwpia_, the Latins _stultitia_. [Illustration: Folly 044] But why need I have been so impertinent as to have told you this, as if my very looks did not sufficiently betray what I am; or supposing any be so credulous as to take me for some sage matron or goddess of wisdom, as if a single glance from me would not immediately correct their mistake, while my visage, the exact reflex of my soul, would supply and supersede the trouble of any other confessions: for I appear always in my natural colours, and an unartificial dress, and never let my face pretend one thing, and my heart conceal another; nay, and in all things I am so true to my principles, that I cannot be so much as counterfeited, even by those who challenge the name of wits, yet indeed are no better than jackanapes tricked up in gawdy clothes, and asses strutting in lions' skins; and how cunningly soever they carry it, their long ears appear, and betray what they are. These in troth are very rude and disingenuous, for while they apparently belong to my party, yet among the vulgar they are so ashamed of my relation, as to cast it in others' dish for a shame and reproach: wherefore since they are so eager to be accounted wise, when in truth they are extremely silly, what, if to give them their due, I dub them with the title of wise fools: and herein they copy after the example of some modern orators, who swell to that proportion of conceitedness, as to vaunt themselves for so many giants of eloquence, if with a double-tongued fluency they can plead indifferently for either side, and deem it a very doughty exploit if they can but interlard a Latin sentence with some Greek word, which for seeming garnish they crowd in at a venture; and rather than be at a stand for some cramp words, they will furnish up a long scroll of old obsolete terms out of some musty author, and foist them in, to amuse the reader with, that those who understand them may be tickled with the happiness of being acquainted with them: and those who understand them not, the less they know the more they may admire; whereas it has been always a custom to those of our side to contemn and undervalue whatever is strange and unusual, while those that are better conceited of themselves will nod and smile, and prick up their ears, that they may be thought easily to apprehend that, of which perhaps they do not understand one word. And so much for this; pardon the digression, now I return. Of my name I have informed you, Sirs; what additional epithet to give you I know not; except you will be content with that of most foolish; for under what more proper appellation can the goddess Folly greet her devotees? But since there are few acquainted with my family and original, I will now give you some account of my extraction: [Illustration: Grandsire Gods 048] First then, my father was neither the chaos, nor hell, nor Saturn, nor Jupiter, nor any of those old, worn out, grandsire gods, but Plutus, the very same that, maugre Homer, Hesiod, nay, in spite of Jove himself, was the primary father born amongst these delights, I did not, like other infants, come crying into the world, but perked up, and laughed immediately in my mother's face. And there is no reason I should envy Jove for having a she-goat to his nurse, since I was more creditably suckled by two jolly nymphs; the name of the first drunkenness, one of Bacchus's offspring, the other ignorance, the daughter of Pan; both which you may here behold among several others of my train and attendants, whose particular names, if you would fain know, I will give you in short This, who goes with a mincing gait, and holds up her head so high, is Self-Love. She that looks so spruce, and makes such a noise and bustle, is Flattery. That other, which sits hum-drum, as if she were half asleep, is called Forgetfulness. She that leans on her elbow, and sometimes yawningly stretches out her arms, is Laziness. This, that wears a plighted garland of flowers, and smells so perfumed, is Pleasure. The other, which appears in so smooth a skin, and pampered-up flesh, is Sensuality. She that stares so wildly, and rolls about her eyes, is Madness. As to those two gods whom you see playing among the lasses the name of the one is Intemperance, the other Sound Sleep. By the help and service of this retinue I bring all things under the verge of my power, lording it over the greatest kings and potentates. [Illustration: Forebearers 048] [Illustration: Forebearers 051] [Illustration: Forebearers 052] [Illustration: Forebearers 055] [Illustration: Forebearers 057] You have now heard of my descent, my education, and my attendance; that I may not be taxed as presumptuous in borrowing the title of a goddess, I come now in the next place to acquaint you what obliging favours I everywhere bestow, and how largely my jurisdiction extends: for if, as one has ingenuously noted, to be a god is no other than to be a benefactor to mankind; and if they have been thought deservedly deified who have invented the use of wine, corn, or any other convenience for the well-being of mortals, why may not I justly bear the van among the whole troop of gods, who in all, and toward all, exert an unparalleled bounty and beneficence? [Illustration: 060] [Illustration: 063] [Illustration: 064] For instance, in the first place, what can be more dear and precious than life itself? and yet for this are none beholden, save to me alone. For it is neither the spear of throughly-begotten Pallas, nor the buckler of cloud-gathering Jove, that multiplies and propagates mankind: but my sportive and tickling recreation that proceeded the old crabbed philosophers, and those who now supply their stead, the mortified monks and friars; as also kings, priests, and popes, nay, the whole tribe of poetic gods, who are at last grown so numerous, as in the camp of heaven (though ne'er so spacious), to jostle for elbow room. But it is not sufficient to have made it appear that I am the source and original of all life, except I likewise shew that all the benefits of life are equally at my disposal. And what are such? Why, can any one be said properly to live to whom pleasure is denied? You will give me your assent; for there is none I know among you so wise shall I say, or so silly, as to be of a contrary opinion. The Stoics indeed contemn, and pretend to banish pleasure; but this is only a dissembling trick, and a putting the vulgar out of conceit with it, that they may more quietly engross it to themselves: but I dare them now to confess what one stage of life is not melancholy, dull, tiresome, tedious, and uneasy, unless we spice it with pleasure, that hautgoust of Folly. Of the truth whereof the never enough to be commended Sophocles is sufficient authority, who gives me the highest character in that sentence of his, To know nothing is the sweetest life. [Illustration: 068] [Illustration: 070] Yet abating from this, let us examine the case more narrowly. Who knows not that the first scene of infancy is far the most pleasant and delightsome? What then is it in children that makes us so kiss, hug, and play with them, and that the bloodiest enemy can scarce have the heart to hurt them; but their ingredients of innocence and Folly, of which nature out of providence did purposely compound and blend their tender infancy, that by a frank return of pleasure they might make some sort of amends for their parents' trouble, and give in caution as it were for the discharge of a future education; the next advance from childhood is youth, and how favourably is this dealt with; how kind, courteous, and respectful are all to it? and how ready to become serviceable upon all occasions? And whence reaps it this happiness? Whence indeed, but from me only, by whose procurement it is furnished with little of wisdom, and so with the less of disquiet? And when once lads begin to grow up, and attempt to write man, their prettiness does then soon decay, their briskness flags, their humours stagnate, their jollity ceases, and their blood grows cold; and the farther they proceed in years, the more they grow backward in the enjoyment of themselves, till waspish old age comes on, a burden to itself as well as others, and that so heavy and oppressive, as none would bear the weight of, unless out of pity to their sufferings. I again intervene, and lend a helping-hand, assisting them at a dead lift, in the same method the poets feign their gods to succour dying men, by transforming them into new creatures, which I do by bringing them back, after they have one foot in the grave, to their infancy again; so as there is a great deal of truth couched in that old proverb, _Once an old man, and twice a child_. Now if any one be curious to understand what course I take to effect this alteration, my method is this: I bring them to my well of forgetfulness, (the fountain whereof is in the Fortunate Islands, and the river Lethe in hell but a small stream of it), and when they have there filled their bellies full, and washed down care, by the virtue and operation whereof they become young again. Ay, but (say you) they merely dote, and play the fool: why yes, this is what I mean by growing young again: for what else is it to be a child than to be a fool and an idiot? It is the being such that makes that age so acceptable: for who does not esteem it somewhat ominous to see a boy endowed with the discretion of a man, and therefore for the curbing of too forward parts we have a disparaging proverb, _Soon ripe, soon rotten?_ And farther, who would keep company or have any thing to do with such an old blade, as, after the wear and harrowing of so many years should yet continue of as clear a head and sound a judgment as he had at any time been in his middle-age; and therefore it is great kindness of me that old men grow fools, since it is hereby only that they are freed from such vexations as would torment them if they were more wise: they can drink briskly, bear up stoutly, and lightly pass over such infirmities, as a far stronger constitution could scarce master. Sometime, with the old fellow in Plautus, they are brought back to their horn-book again, to learn to spell their fortune in love. [Illustration: 075] Most wretched would they needs be if they had but wit enough to be sensible of their hard condition; but by my assistance, they carry off all well, and to their respective friends approve themselves good, sociable, jolly companions. Thus Homer makes aged Nestor famed for a smooth oily-tongued orator, while the delivery of Achilles was but rough, harsh, and hesitant; and the same poet elsewhere tells us of old men that sate on the walls, and spake with a great deal of flourish and elegance. And in this point indeed they surpass and outgo children, who are pretty forward in a softly, innocent prattle, but otherwise are too much tongue-tied, and want the other's most acceptable embellishment of a perpetual talkativeness. Add to this, that old men love to be playing with children, and children delight as much in them, to verify the proverb, that _Birds of a feather flock together_. And indeed what difference can be discerned between them, but that the one is more furrowed with wrinkles, and has seen a little more of the world than the other? For otherwise their whitish hair, their want of teeth, their smallness of stature, their milk diet, their bald crowns, their prattling, their playing, their short memory, their heedlessness, and all their other endowments, exactly agree; and the more they advance in years, the nearer they come back to their cradle, till like children indeed, at last they depart the world, without any remorse at the loss of life, or sense of the pangs of death. [Illustration: 079] And now let any one compare the excellency of my metamorphosing power to that which Ovid attributes to the gods; their strange feats in some drunken passions we will omit for their credit sake, and instance only in such persons as they pretend great kindness for; these they transformed into trees, birds, insects, and sometimes serpents; but alas, their very change into somewhat else argues the destruction of what they were before; whereas I can restore the same numerical man to his pristine state of youth, health and strength; yea, what is more, if men would but so far consult their own interest, as to discard all thoughts of wisdom, and entirely resign themselves to my guidance and conduct, old age should be a paradox, and each man's years a perpetual spring. For look how your hard plodding students, by a close sedentary confinement to their books, grow mopish, pale, and meagre, as if, by a continual wrack of brains, and torture of invention, their veins were pumped dry, and their whole body squeezed sapless; whereas my followers are smooth, plump, and bucksome, and altogether as lusty as so many bacon-hogs, or sucking calves; never in their career of pleasure to be arrested with old age, if they could but keep themselves untainted from the contagiousness of wisdom, with the leprosy whereof, if at any time they are infected, it is only for prevention, lest they should otherwise have been too happy. For a more ample confirmation of the truth of what foregoes, it is on all sides confessed, that Folly is the best preservative of youth, and the most effectual antidote against age. And it is a never-failing observation made of the people of Brabant, that, contrary to the proverb of _Older and wiser_, the more ancient they grow, the more fools they are; and there is not any one country, whose inhabitants enjoy themselves better, and rub through the world with more ease and quiet. To these are nearly related, as well by affinity of customs, as of neighbourhood, my friends the Hollanders: mine I may well call them, for they stick so close and lovingly to me, that they are styled fools to a proverb, and yet scorn to be ashamed of their name. Well, let fond mortals go now in a needless quest of some Medea, Circe, Venus, or some enchanted fountain, for a restorative of age, whereas the accurate performance of this feat lies only within the ability of my art and skill. It is I only who have the receipt of making that liquor wherewith Memnon's daughter lengthened out her grandfather's declining days: it is I that am that Venus, who so far restored the languishing Phaon, as to make Sappho fall deeply in love with his beauty. Mine are those herbs, mine those charms, that not only lure back swift time, when past and gone, but what is more to be admired, clip its wings, and prevent all farther flight. So then, if you will all agree to my verdict, that nothing is more desirable than the being young, nor any thing more loathed than contemptible old age, you must needs acknowledge it as an unrequitable obligation from me, for fencing off the one, and perpetuating the other. But why should I confine my discourse to the narrow subject of mankind only? View the whole heaven itself, and then tell me what one of that divine tribe would not be mean and despicable, if my name did not lend him some respect and authority. Why is Bacchus always painted as a young man, but only because he is freakish, drunk, and mad; and spending his time in toping, dancing, masking, and revelling, seems to have nothing in the least to do with wisdom? Nay, so far is he from the affectation of being accounted wise, that he is content, all the rights of devotion which are paid unto him should consist of apishness and drollery. Farther, what scoffs and jeers did not the old comedians throw upon him? _O swinish punch-gut god_, say they, _that smells rank of the sty he was sowed up in_, and so on. But prithee, who in this case, always merry, youthful, soaked in wine, and drowned in pleasure, who, I say, in such a case, would change conditions, either with the lofty menace-looking Jove, the grave, yet timorous Pan, the stately Pallas, or indeed any one other of heaven's landlords? Why is Cupid feigned as a boy, but only because he is an under-witted whipster, that neither acts nor thinks any thing with discretion? Why is Venus adored for the mirror of beauty, but only because she and I claim kindred, she being of the same complexion with my father Plutus, and therefore called by Homer the Golden Goddess? Beside, she imitates me in being always a laughing, if either we believe the poets, or their near kinsmen the painters, the first mentioning, the other drawing her constantly in that posture. Add farther, to what deity did the Romans pay a more ceremonial respect than to Flora, that bawd of obscenity? And if any one search the poets for an historical account of the gods, he shall find them all famous for lewd pranks and debaucheries. It is needless to insist upon the miscarriages of others, when the lecherous intrigues of Jove himself are so notorious, and when the pretendedly chaste Diana so oft uncloaked her modesty to run a hunting after her beloved Endimion. But I will say no more, for I had rather they should be told of their faults by Momus, who was want formerly to sting them with some close reflections, till nettled by his abusive raillery, they kicked him out of heaven for his sauciness of daring to reprove such as were beyond correction: and now in his banishment from heaven he finds but cold entertainment here on earth, nay, is denied all admittance into the court of princes, where notwithstanding my handmaid Flattery finds a most encouraging welcome: but this petulant monitor being thrust out of doors, the gods can now more freely rant and revel, and take their whole swinge of pleasure. [Illustration: 85-86] [Illustration: 89-90] Now the beastly Priapus may recreate himself without contradiction in lust and filthiness; now the sly Mercury may, without discovery, go on in his thieveries, and nimble-fingered juggles; the sooty Vulcan may now renew his wonted custom of making the other gods laugh by his hopping so limpingly, and coming off with so many dry jokes, and biting repartees. Silenus, the old doting lover, to shew his activity, may now dance a frisking jig, and the nymphs be at the same sport naked. The goatish satyrs may make up a merry ball, and Pan, the blind harper may put up his bagpipes, and sing bawdy catches, to which the gods, especially when they are almost drunk, shall give a most profound attention. But why would I any farther rip open and expose the weakness of the gods, a weakness so childish and absurd, that no man can at the same time keep his countenance, and make a relation of it? Now therefore, like Homer's wandering muse, I will take my leave of heaven, and come down again here below, where we shall find nothing happy, nay, nothing tolerable, without my presence and assistance. And in the first place consider how providently nature has took care that in all her works there should be some piquant smack and relish of Folly: for since the Stoics define wisdom to be conducted by reason, and folly nothing else but the being hurried by passion, lest our life should otherwise have been too dull and inactive, that creator, who out of clay first tempered and made us up, put into the composition of our humanity more than a pound of passions to an ounce of reason; and reason he confined within the narrow cells of the brain, whereas he left passions the whole body to range in. Farther, he set up two sturdy champions to stand perpetually on the guard, that reason might make no assault, surprise, nor in-road: anger, which keeps its station in the fortress of the heart; and Just, which like the signs Virgo and Scorpio, rules the belly and secret members. Against the forces of these two warriors how unable is reason to bear up and withstand, every day's experience does abundantly witness; while let reason be never so importunate in urging and reinforcing her admonitions to virtue, yet the passions bear all before them, and by the least offer of curb or restraint grow but more imperious, till reason itself, for quietness sake, is forced to desist from all further remonstrance. But because it seemed expedient that man, who was born for the transaction of business, should have so much wisdom as should fit and capacitate him for the discharge of his duty herein, and yet lest such a measure as is requisite for this purpose might prove too dangerous and fatal, I was advised with for an antidote, who prescribed this infallible receipt of taking a wife, a creature so harmless and silly, and yet so useful and convenient, as might mollify and make pliable the stiffness and morose humour of man. Now that which made Plato doubt under what genus to rank woman, whether among brutes or rational creatures, was only meant to denote the extreme stupidness and Folly of that sex, a sex so unalterably simple, that for any of them to thrust forward, and reach at the name of wise, is but to make themselves the more remarkable fools, such an endeavour, being but a swimming against the stream, nay, the turning the course of nature, the bare attempting whereof is as extravagant as the effecting of it is impossible: for as it is a trite proverb, _That an ape will be an ape, though clad in purple_; so a woman will be a woman, a fool, whatever disguise she takes up. And yet there is no reason women should take it amiss to be thus charged; for if they do but righdy consider they will find it is to Folly they are beholden for those endowments, wherein they so far surpass and excel man; as first, for their unparalleled beauty, by the charm whereof they tyrannize over the greatest tyrants; for what is it but too great a smatch of wisdom that makes men so tawny and thick-skinned, so rough and prickly-bearded, like an emblem of winter or old age, while women have such dainty smooth cheeks, such a low gende voice, and so pure a complexion, as if nature had drawn them for a standing pattern of all symmetry and comeliness? Beside, what live, but to be wound up as it were in a winding-sheet before we are dead, and so to be shuffled quick into a grave, and buried alive. [Illustration: 097] But there are yet others perhaps that have no gust in this sort of pleasure, but place their greatest content in the enjoyment of friends, telling us that true friendship is to be preferred before all other acquirements; that it is a thing so useful and necessary, as the very elements could not long subsist without a natural combination; so pleasant that it affords as warm an influence as the sun itself; so honest, (if honesty in this case deserve any consideration), that the very philosophers have not stuck to place this as one among the rest of their different sentiments of the chiefest good. But what if I make it appear that I also am the main spring and original of this endearment? Yes, I can easily demonstrate it, and that not by crabbed syllogisms, or a crooked and unintelligible way of arguing, but can make it (as the proverb goes) _As plain as the nose on your face_. Well then, to scratch and curry one another, to wink at a friend's faults; nay, to cry up some failings for virtuous and commendable, is not this the next door to the being a fool? When one looking stedfastly in his mistress's face, admires a mole as much as a beauty spot; when another swears his lady's stinking breath is a most redolent perfume; and at another time the fond parent hugs the squint-eyed child, and pretends it is rather a becoming glance and winning aspect than any blemish of the eye-sight, what is all this but the very height of Folly? [Illustration: 100] Folly (I say) that both makes friends and keeps them so. I speak of mortal men only, among whom there are none but have some small faults; he is most happy that has fewest. If we pass to the gods, we shall find that they have so much of wisdom, as they have very little of friendship; nay, nothing of that which is true and hearty. The reason why men make a greater improvement in this virtue, is only because they are more credulous and easy natured; for friends must be of the same humour and inclinations too, or else the league of amity, though made with never so many protestations, will be soon broke. Thus grave and morose men seldom prove fast friends; they are too captious and censorious, and will not bear with one another's infirmities; they are as eagle sighted as may be in the espial of others' faults, while they wink upon themselves, and never mind the beam in their own eyes. In short, man being by nature so prone to frailties, so humoursome and cross-grained, and guilty of so many slips and miscarriages, there could be no firm friendship contracted, except there be such an allowance made for each other's defaults, which the Greeks term _'Eunoeia_, and we may construe good nature, which is but another word for Folly. And what? Is not Cupid, that first father of all relation, is not he stark blind, that as he cannot himself distinguish of colours, so he would make us as mope-eyed in judging falsely of all love concerns, and wheedle us into a thinking that we are always in the right? Thus every Jack sticks to his own Jill; every tinker esteems his own trull; and the hob-nailed suiter prefers Joan the milk-maid before any of my lady's daughters. These things are true, and are ordinarily laughed at, and yet, however ridiculous they seem, it is hence only that all societies receive their cement and consolidation. [Illustration: 109] The same which has been said of friendship is much more applicable to a state of marriage, which is but the highest advance and improvement of friendship in the closest bond of union. Good God! What frequent divorces, or worse mischief, would oft sadly happen, except man and wife, were so discreet as to pass over light occasions of quarrel with laughing, jesting, dissembling, and such like playing the fool? Nay, how few matches would go forward, if the hasty lover did but first know how many little tricks of lust and wantonness (and perhaps more gross failings) his coy and seemingly bashful mistress had oft before been guilty of? And how fewer marriages, when consummated, would continue happy, if the husband were not either sottishly insensible of, or did not purposely wink at and pass over the lightness and forwardness of his good-natured wife? This peace and quietness is owing to my management, for there would otherwise be continual jars, and broils, and mad doings, if want of wit only did not at the same time make a contented cuckold and a still house; if the cuckoo sing at the back door, the unthinking cornute takes no notice of the unlucky omen of others' eggs being laid in his own nest, but laughs it over, kisses his dear spouse, and all is well. And indeed it is much better patiently to be such a hen-pecked frigot, than always to be wracked and tortured with the grating surmises of suspicion and jealousy. In fine, there is no one society, no one relation men stand in, would be comfortable, or indeed tolerable, without my assistance; there could be no right understanding betwixt prince and people, lord and servant, tutor and pupil, friend and friend, man and wife, buyer and seller, or any persons however otherwise related, if they did not cowardly put up small abuses, sneakingly cringe and submit, or after all fawningly scratch and flatter each other. This you will say is much, but you shall yet hear what is more; tell me then, can any one love another that first hates himself? Is it likely any one should agree with a friend that is first fallen out with his own judgment? Or is it probable he should be any way pleasing to another, who is a perpetual plague and trouble to himself? This is such a paradox that none can be so mad as to maintain. Well, but if I am excluded and barred out, every man would be so far from being able to bear with others, that he would be burthensome to himself, and consequently incapable of any ease or satisfaction. Nature, that toward some of her products plays the step-mother rather than the indulgent parent, has endowed some men with that unhappy peevishness of disposition, as to nauseate and dislike whatever is their own, and much admire what belongs to other persons, so as they cannot in any wise enjoy what their birth or fortunes have bestowed upon them: for what grace is there in the greatest beauty, if it be always clouded with frowns and sulliness? Or what vigour in youth, if it be harassed with a pettish, dogged, waspish, ill humour? None, sure. Nor indeed can there be any creditable acquirement of ourselves in any one station of life, but we should sink without rescue into misery and despair, if we were not buoyed up and supported by self-love, which is but the elder sister (as it were) of Folly, and her own constant friend and assistant For what is or can be more silly than to be lovers and admirers of ourselves? And yet if it were not so there will be no relish to any of our words or actions. Take away this one property of a fool, and the orator shall become as dumb and silent as the pulpit he stands in; the musician shall hang up his untouched instruments on the wall; the completest actors shall be hissed off the stage; the poet shall be burlesqued with his own doggrel rhymes; the painter shall himself vanish into an imaginary landscape; and the physician shall want food more than his patients do physic. In short, without self-love, instead of beautiful, you shall think yourself an old beldam of fourscore; instead of youthful, you shall seem just dropping into the grave; instead of eloquent, a mere stammerer; and in lieu of gende and complaisant, you shall appear like a downright country clown; it being so necessary that every one should think well of himself before he can expect the good opinion of others. Finally, when it is the main and essential part of happiness to desire to be no other than what we already are; this expedient is again wholly owing to self-love, which so flushes men with a good conceit of their own, that no one repents of his shape, of his wit, of his education, or of his country; so as the dirty half-drowned Hollander would not remove into the pleasant plains of Italy, the rude Thracian would not change his boggy soil for the best seat in Athens, nor the brutish Scythian quit his thorny deserts to become an inhabitant of the Fortunate Islands. And oh the incomparable contrivance of nature, who has ordered all things in so even a method that wherever she has been less bountiful in her gifts, there she makes it up with a larger dose of self-love, which supplies the former defects, and makes all even. To enlarge farther, I may well presume to aver, that there are no considerable exploits performed, no useful arts invented, but what I am the respective author and manager of: as first, what is more lofty and heroical than war? and yet, what is more foolish than for some petty, trivial affront, to take such a revenge as both sides shall be sure to be losers, and where the quarrel must be decided at the price of so many limbs and lives? And when they come to an engagement, what service can be done by such pale-faced students, as by drudging at the oars of wisdom, have spent all their strength and activity? No, the only use is of blunt sturdy fellows that have little of wit, and so the more of resolution: except you would make a soldier of such another Demosthenes as threw down his arms when he came within sight of the enemy, and lost that credit in the camp which he gained in the pulpit. But counsel, deliberation, and advice (say you), are very necessary for the management of war: very true, but not such counsel as shall be prescribed by the strict rules of wisdom and justice; for a battle shall be more successfully fought by serving-men, porters, bailiffs, padders, rogues, gaol-birds, and such like tag-rags of mankind, than by the most accomplished philosophers; which last, how unhappy they are in the management of such concerns, Socrates (by the oracle adjudged to be the wisest of mortals) is a notable example; who when he appeared in the attempt of some public performance before the people, he faltered in the first onset, and could never recover himself, but was hooted and hissed home again: yet this philosopher was the less a fool, for refusing the appellation of wise, and not accepting the oracle's compliment; as also for advising that no philosophers should have any hand in the government of the commonwealth; he should have likewise at the same time, added, that they should be banished all human society. And what made this great man poison himself to prevent the malice of his accusers? What made him the instrument of his own death, but only his excessiveness of wisdom? whereby, while he was searching into the nature of clouds, while he was plodding and contemplating upon ideas, while he was exercising his geometry upon the measure of a flea, and diving into the recesses of nature, for an account how little insects, when they were so small, could make so great a buzz and hum; while he was intent upon these fooleries he minded nothing of the world, or its ordinary concerns. Next to Socrates comes his scholar Plato, a famous orator indeed, that could be so dashed out of countenance by an illiterate rabble, as to demur, and hawk, and hesitate, before he could get to the end of one short sentence. Theo-phrastus was such another coward, who beginning to make an oration, was presently struck down with fear, as if he had seen some ghost, or hobgoblin. Isocrates was so bashful and timorous, that though he taught rhetoric, yet he could never have the confidence to speak in public. Cicero, the master of Roman eloquence, was wont to begin his speeches with a low, quivering voice, just like a school-boy, afraid of not saying his lesson perfect enough to escape whipping: and yet Fabius commends this property of Tully as an argument of a considerate orator, sensible of the difficulty of acquitting himself with credit: but what hereby does he do more than plainly confess that wisdom is but a rub and impediment to the well management of any affair? How would these heroes crouch, and shrink into nothing, at the sight of drawn swords, that are thus quashed and stunned at the delivery of bare words? [Illustration: 113] Now then let Plato's fine sentence be cried up, that "happy are those commonwealths where either philosophers are elected kings, or kings turn philosophers." Alas, this is so far from being true, that if we consult all historians for an account of past ages, we shall find no princes more weak, nor any people more slavish and wretched, than where the administrations of affairs fell on the shoulders of some learned bookish governor. Of the truth whereof, the two Catos are exemplary instances: the first of which embroiled the city, and tired out the senate by his tedious harangues of defending himself, and accusing others; the younger was an unhappy occasion of the loss of the peoples' liberty, while by improper methods he pretended to maintain it To these may be added Brutus, Cassius, the two Gracchi, and Cicero himself, who was no less fatal to Rome, than his parallel Demosthenes was to Athens: as likewise Marcus Antoninus, whom we may allow to have been a good emperor, yet the less such for his being a philosopher; and certainly he did not do half that kindness to his empire by his own prudent management of affairs, as he did mischief by leaving such a degenerate successor as his son Commodus proved to be; but it is a common observation, that _A wise father has many times a foolish son_, nature so contriving it, lest the taint of wisdom, like hereditary distempers, should otherwise descend by propagation. Thus Tully's son Marcus, though bred at Athens, proved but a dull, insipid soul; and Socrates his children had (as one ingeniously expresses it) "more of the mother than the father," a phrase for their being fools. However, it were the more excusable, though wise men are so awkward and unhandy in the ordering of public affairs, if they were not so bad, or worse in the management of their ordinary and domestic concerns; but alas, here they are much to seek: for place a formal wise man at a feast, and he shall, either by his morose silence put the whole table out of humour, or by his frivolous questions disoblige and tire out all that sit near him. Call him out to dance, and he shall move no more nimbly than a camel: invite him to any public performance, and by his very looks he shall damp the mirth of all the spectators, and at last be forced, like Cato, to leave the theatre, because he cannot unstarch his gravity, nor put on a more pleasant countenance. If he engage in any discourse, he either breaks off abruptly, or tires out the patience of the whole company, if he goes on: if he have any contract, sale, or purchase to make, or any other worldly business to transact, he behaves himself more like a senseless stock than a rational man; so as he can be of no use nor advantage to himself, to his friends, or to his country; because he knows nothing how the world goes, and is wholly unacquainted with the humour of the vulgar, who cannot but hate a person so disagreeing in temper from themselves. And indeed the whole proceedings of the world are nothing but one continued scene of Folly, all the actors being equally fools and madmen; and therefore if any be so pragmatically wise as to be singular, he must even turn a second Timon, or man-hater, and by retiring into some unfrequented desert, become a recluse from all mankind. But to return to what I first proposed, what was it in the infancy of the world that made men, naturally savage, unite into civil societies, but only flattery, one of my chiefest virtues? For there is nothing else meant by the fables of Amphion and Orpheus with their harps; the first making the stones jump into a well-built wall, the other inducing the trees to pull their legs out of the ground, and dance the mor-rice after him. What was it that quieted and appeased the Roman people, when they brake out into a riot for the redress of grievances? Was it any sinewy starched oration? No, alas, it was only a silly, ridiculous story, told by Menenius Agrippa, how the other members of the body quarrelled with the belly, resolving no longer to continue her drudging caterers, till by the penance they thought thus in revenge to impose, they soon found their own strength so far diminished, that paying the cost of experiencing a mistake, they willingly returned to their respective duties. Thus when the rabble of Athens murmured at the exaction of the magistrates, Themistocles satisfied them with such another tale of the fox and the hedge-hog; the first whereof being stuck fast in a miry bog, the flies came swarming about him, and almost sucked out all his blood, the latter officiously offers his service to drive them away; no, says the fox, if these which are almost glutted be frighted off, there will come a new hungry set that will be ten times more greedy and devouring: the moral of this he meant applicable to the people, who if they had such magistrates removed as they complained of for extortion, yet their successors would certainly be worse. With what highest advances of policy could Sertorius have kept the Barbarians so well in awe, as by a white hart, which he pretended was presented to him by Diana, and brought him intelligence of all his enemies' designs? What was Lycurgus his grand argument for demonstrating the force of education, but only the bringing out two whelps of the same bitch, differently brought up, and placing before them a dish, and a live hare; the one, that had been bred to hunting, ran after the game; while the other, whose kennel had been a kitchen, presently fell a licking the platter. Thus the before-mentioned Sertorius made his soldiers sensible that wit and contrivance would do more than bare strength, by setting a couple of men to the plucking off two horses' tails; the first pulling at all in one handful, tugged in vain; while the other, though much the weaker, snatching off one by one, soon performed his appointed task. Instances of like nature are Minos and king Numa, both which fooled the people into obedience by a mere cheat and juggle; the first by pretending he was advised by Jupiter, the latter by making the vulgar believe he had the goddess _AEgeria_ assistant to him in all debates and transactions. And indeed it is by such wheedles that the common people are best gulled, and imposed upon. For farther, what city would ever submit to the rigorous laws of Plato, to the severe injunctions of Aristotle? or the more unpracticable tenets of Socrates? No, these would have been too straight and galling, there not being allowance enough made for the infirmities of the people. To pass to another head, what was it made the Decii so forward to offer themselves up as a sacrifice for an atonement to the angry gods, to rescue and stipulate for their indebted country? What made Curtius, on a like occasion, so desperately to throw away his life, but only vainglory, that is condemned, and unanimously voted for a main branch of Folly by all wise men? What is more unreasonable and foppish (say they) than for any man, out of ambition to some office, to bow, to scrape and cringe to the gaping rabble, to purchase their favour by bribes and donatives, to have their names cried up in the streets, to be carried about as it were for a fine sight upon the shoulders of the crowd, to have their effigies carved in brass, and put up in the market place for a monument of their popularity? Add to this, the affectation of new titles and distinctive badges of honour; nay, the very deifying of such as were the most bloody tyrants. These are so extremely ridiculous, that there is need of more than one Democritus to laugh at them. And yet hence only have been occasioned those memorable achievements of heroes, that have so much employed the pens of many laborious writers. It is Folly--that, in a several dress, governs cities, appoints magistrates, and supports judicatures; and, in short, makes the whole course of man's life a mere children's play, and worse than push-pin diversion. The invention of all arts and sciences are likewise owing to the same cause: for what sedentary, thoughtful men would have beat their brains in the search of new and unheard-of-mysteries, if not egged on by the bubbling hopes of credit and reputation? They think a little glittering flash of vain-glory is a sufficient reward for all their sweat, and toil, and tedious drudgery, while they that are supposedly more foolish, reap advantage of the others' labours. And now since I have made good my title to valour and industry, what if I challenge an equal share of wisdom? How! this (you will say) is absurd and contradictory; the east and west may as soon shake hands as Folly and Wisdom be reconciled. Well, but have a little patience and I will warrant you I will make out my claim. First then, if wisdom (as must be confessed) is no more than a readiness of doing good, and an expedite method of becoming serviceable to the world, to whom does this virtue more properly belong? To the wise man, who partly out of modesty, partly out of cowardice, can proceed resolutely in no attempt; or to the fool, that goes hand over head, leaps before he looks, and so ventures through the most hazardous undertaking without any sense or prospect of danger? In the undertaking any enterprize the wise man shall run to consult with his books, and daze himself with poring upon musty authors, while the dispatchful fool shall rush blundy on, and have done the business, while the other is thinking of it. For the two greatest lets and impediments to the issue of any performance are modesty, which casts a mist before men's eyes; and fear, which makes them shrink back, and recede from any proposal: both these are banished and cashiered by Folly, and in their stead such a habit of fool-hardiness introduced, as mightily contributes to the success of all enterprizes. Farther, if you will have wisdom taken in the other sense, of being a right judgment of things, you shall see how short wise men fall of it in this acceptation. First, then, it is certain that all things, like so many Janus's, carry a double face, or rather bear a false aspect, most things being really in themselves far different from what they are in appearance to others: so as that which at first blush proves alive, is in truth dead; and that again which appears as dead, at a nearer view proves to be alive: beautiful seems ugly, wealthy poor, scandalous is thought creditable, prosperous passes for unlucky, friendly for what is most opposite, and innocent for what is hurtful and pernicious. In short, if we change the tables, all things are found placed in a quite different posture from what just before they appeared to stand in. If this seem too darkly and unintelligibly expressed, I will explain it by the familiar instance of some great king or prince, whom every one shall suppose to swim in a luxury of wealth, and to be a powerful lord and master; when, alas, on the one hand he has poverty of spirit enough to make him a mere beggar, and on the other side he is worse than a galley-slave to his own lusts and passions. If I had a mind farther to expatiate, I could enlarge upon several instances of like nature, but this one may at present suffice. Well, but what is the meaning (will some say) of all this? Why, observe the application. If any one in a play-house be so impertinent and rude as to rifle the actors of their borrowed clothes, make them lay down the character assumed, and force them to return to their naked selves, would not such a one wholly discompose and spoil the entertainment? And would he not deserve to be hissed and thrown stones at till the pragmatical fool could learn better manners? For by such a disturbance the whole scene will be altered: such as acted the men will perhaps appear to be women: he that was dressed up for a young brisk lover, will be found a rough old fellow; and he that represented a king, will remain but a mean ordinary serving-man. The laying things thus open is marring all the sport, which consists only in counterfeit and disguise. Now the world is nothing else but such another comedy, where every one in the tire-room is first habited suitably to the part he is to act; and as it is successively their turn, out they come on the stage, where he that now personates a prince, shall in another part of the same play alter his dress, and become a beggar, all things being in a mask and particular disguise, or otherwise the play could never be presented Now if there should arise any starched, formal don, that would point at the several actors, and tell how this, that seems a petty god, is in truth worse than a brute, being made captive to the tyranny of passion; that the other, who bears the character of a king, is indeed the most slavish of serving-men, in being subject to the mastership of lust and sensuality; that a third, who vaunts so much of his pedigree, is no better than a bastard for degenerating from virtue, which ought to be of greatest consideration in heraldry, and so shall go on in exposing all the rest; would not any one think such a person quite frantic, and ripe for bedlam? For as nothing is more silly than preposterous wisdom, so is there nothing more indiscreet than an unreasonable reproof. And therefore he is to be hooted out of all society that will not be pliable, conformable, and willing to suit his humour with other men's, remembering the law of clubs and meetings, that he who will not do as the rest must get him out of the company. And it is certainly one great degree of wisdom for every one to consider that he is but a man, and therefore he should not pitch his soaring thoughts beyond the level of mortality, but imp the wings of his towering ambition, and obligingly submit and condescend to the weakness of others, it being many times a piece of complaisance to go out of the road for company's sake. [Illustration: 126] No (say you), this is a grand piece of Folly: true, but yet all our living is no more than such kind of fooling: which though it may seem harsh to assert, yet it is not so strange as true. For the better making it out it might perhaps be requisite to invoke the aid of the muses, to whom the poets devoutly apply themselves upon far more slender occasions. Come then and assist, ye Heliconian lasses, while I attempt to prove that there is no method for an arrival at wisdom, and consequently no track to the goal of happiness, without the instructions and directions of Folly. And here, in the first place it has been already acknowledged, that all the passions are listed under my regiment, since this is resolved to be the only distinction betwixt a wise man and a fool, that this latter is governed by passion, the other guided by reason: and therefore the Stoics look upon passions no other than as the infection and malady of the soul that disorders the constitution of the whole man, and by putting the spirits into a feverish ferment many times occasion some mortal distemper. And yet these, however decried, are not only our tutors to instruct us towards the attainment of wisdom, but even bolden us likewise, and spur us on to a quicker dispatch of all our undertakings. This, I suppose, will be stomached by the stoical Seneca, who pretends that the only emblem of wisdom is the man without passion; whereas the supposing any person to be so, is perfectly to unman him, or else transforming him into some fabulous deity that never was, nor ever will be; nay, to speak more plain, it is but the making him a mere statue, immoveable, senseless, and altogether inactive. And if this be their wise man, let them take him to themselves, and remove him into Plato's commonwealth, the new Atlantis, or some other-like fairy land. For who would not hate and avoid such a person as should be deaf to all the dictates of common sense? that should have no more power of love or pity than a block or stone, that remains heedless of all dangers? that thinks he can never mistake, but can foresee all contingencies at the greatest distance, and make provision for the worst presages? that feeds upon himself and his own thoughts, that monopolises health, wealth, power, dignity, and all to himself? that loves no man, nor is beloved of any? that has the impudence to tax even divine providence of ill contrivance, and proudly grudges, nay, tramples under foot all other men's reputation; and this is he that is the Stoic's complete wise man. But prithee what city would choose such a magistrate? what army would be willing to serve under such a commander? or what woman would be content with such a do-little husband? who would invite such a guest? or what servant would be retained by such a master? The most illiterate mechanic would in all respects be a more acceptable man, who would be frolicsome with his wife, free with his friends, jovial at a feast, pliable in converse, and obliging to all company. But I am tired out with this part of my subject, and so must pass to some other topics. [Illustration: 131-132] And now were any one placed on that tower, from whence Jove is fancied by the poets to survey the world, he would all around discern how many grievances and calamities our whole life is on every side encompassed with: how unclean our birth, how troublesome our tendance in the cradle, how liable our childhood is to a thousand misfortunes, how toilsome and full of drudgery our riper years, how heavy and uncomfortable our old age, and lastly, how unwelcome the unavoidableness of death. Farther, in every course of life how many wracks there may be of torturing diseases, how many unhappy accidents may casually occur, how many unexpected disasters may arise, and what strange alterations may one moment produce? Not to mention such miseries as men are mutually the cause of, as poverty, imprisonment, slander, reproach, revenge, treachery, malice, cousenage, deceit, and so many more, as to reckon them all would be as puzzling arithmetic as the numbering of the sands. [Illustration: 138] How mankind became environed with such hard circumstances, or what deity imposed these plagues, as a penance on rebellious mortals, I am not now at leisure to enquire: but whoever seriously takes them into consideration must needs commend the valour of the Milesian virgins, who voluntarily killed themselves to get rid of a troublesome world: and how many wise men have taken the same course of becoming their own executioners; among whom, not to mention Diogenes, Xenocrates, Cato, Cassius, Brutus, and other heroes, the self-denying Chiron is never enough to be commended; who, when he was offered by Apollo the privilege of being exempted from death, and living on to the world's end, he refused the enticing proposal, as deservedly thinking it a punishment rather than a reward. But if all were thus wise you see how soon the world would be unpeopled, and what need there would be of a second Prometheus, to plaister up the decayed image of mankind. I therefore come and stand in this gap of danger, and prevent farther mischief; partly by ignorance, partly by inadvertence; by the oblivion of whatever would be grating to remember, and the hopes of whatever may be grateful to expect, together palliating all griefs with an intermixture of pleasure; whereby I make men so far from being weary of their lives, that when their thread is spun to its full length, they are yet unwilling to die, and mighty hardly brought to take their last farewell of their friends. Thus some decrepit old fellows, that look as hollow as the grave into which they are falling, that rattle in the throat at every word they speak, that can eat no meat but what is tender enough to suck, that have more hair on their beard than they have on their head, and go stooping toward the dust they must shortly return to; whose skin seems already drest into parchment, and their bones already dried to a skeleton; these shadows of men shall be wonderful ambitious of living longer, and therefore fence off the attacks of death with all imaginable sleights and impostures; one shall new dye his grey hairs, for fear their colour should betray his age; another shall spruce himself up in a light periwig; a third shall repair the loss of his teeth with an ivory set; and a fourth perhaps shall fall deeply in love with a young girl, and accordingly court her with as much of gaiety and briskness as the liveliest spark in the whole town: and we cannot but know, that for an old man to marry a young wife without a portion, to be a cooler to other men's lust, is grown so common, that it is become the a-la-mode of the times. And what is yet more comical, you shall have some wrinkled old women, whose very looks are a sufficient antidote to lechery, that shall be canting out, _Ah, life is a sweet thing_, and so run a caterwauling, and hire some strong-backed stallions to recover their almost lost sense of feeling; and to set themselves off the better, they shall paint and daub their faces, always stand a tricking up themselves at their looking-glass, go naked-necked, bare-breasted, be tickled at a smutty jest, dance among the young girls, write love-letters, and do all the other little knacks of decoying hot-blooded suitors; and in the meanwhile, however they are laughed at, they enjoy themselves to the full, live up to their hearts' desire, and want for nothing that may complete their happiness. As for those that think them herein so ridiculous, I would have them give an ingenuous answer to this one query, whether if folly or hanging were left to their choice, they had not much rather live like fools, than die like dogs? But what matter is it if these things are resented by the vulgar? Their ill word is no injury to fools, who are either altogether insensible of any affront, or at least lay it not much to heart. If they were knocked on the head, or had their brains dashed out, they would have some cause to complain; but alas, slander, calumny, and disgrace, are no other way injurious than as they are interpreted; nor otherwise evil, than as they are thought to be so: what harm is it then if all persons deride and scoff you, if you bear but up in your own thoughts, and be yourself thoroughly conceited of your deserts? And prithee, why should it be thought any scandal to be a fool, since the being so is one part of our nature and essence; and as so, our not being wise can no more reasonably be imputed as a fault, than it would be proper to laugh at a man because he cannot fly in the air like birds and fowls; because he goes not on all four as beasts of the field; because he does not wear a pair of visible horns as a crest on his forehead, like bulls or stags: by the same figure we may call a horse unhappy, because he was never taught his grammar; and an ox miserable, for that he never learnt to fence: but sure as a horse for not knowing a letter is nevertheless valuable, so a man, for being a fool, is never the more unfortunate, it being by nature and providence so ordained for each. [Illustration: 142] Ay, but (say our patrons of wisdom) the knowledge of arts and sciences is purposely attainable by men, that the defect of natural parts may be supplied by the help of acquired: as if it were probable that nature, which had been so exact and curious in the mechanism of flowers, herbs, and flies, should have bungled most in her masterpiece, and made man as it were by halves, to be afterward polished and refined by his own industry, in the attainment of such sciences as the Egyptians feigned were invented by their god Theuth, as a sure plague and punishment to mankind, being so far from augmenting their happiness, that they do not answer that end they were first designed for, which was the improvement of memory, as Plato in his Phaedrus does wittily observe. In the first golden age of the world there was no need of these perplexities; there was then no other sort of learning but what was naturally collected from every man's common sense, improved by an easy experience. What use could there have been of grammar, when all men spoke the same mother-tongue, and aimed at no higher pitch of oratory, than barely to be understood by each other? What need of logic, when they were too wise to enter into any dispute? Or what occasion for rhetoric, where no difference arose to require any laborious decision? And as little reason had they to be tied up by any laws, since the dictates of nature and common morality were restraint and obligation sufficient: and as to all the mysteries of providence, they made them rather the object of their wonder, than their curiosity; and therefore were not so presumptuous as to dive into the depths of nature, to labour for the solving all phenomena in astronomy, or to wrack their brains in the splitting of entities, and unfolding the nicest speculations, judging it a crime for any man to aim at what is put beyond the reach of his shallow apprehension. [Illustration: 147] Thus was ignorance, in the infancy of the world, as much the parent of happiness as it has been since of devotion: but as soon as the golden age began by degrees to degenerate into more drossy metals, then were arts likewise invented; yet at first but few in number, and those rarely understood, till in farther process of time the superstition of the Chaldeans, and the curiosity of the Grecians, spawned so many subtleties, that now it is scarce the work of an age to be thoroughly acquainted with all the criticisms in grammar only. And among all the several Arts, those are proportionably most esteemed that come nearest to weakness and folly. For thus divines may bite their nails, and naturalists may blow their fingers, astrologers may know their own fortune is to be poor, and the logician may shut his fist and grasp the wind. While all these hard-named fellows cannot make So great a figure as a single quack. And in this profession, those that have most confidence, though the least skill, shall be sure of the greatest custom; and indeed this whole art as it is now practised, is but one incorporated compound of craft and imposture. Next to the physician comes (he, who perhaps will commence a suit with me for not being placed before him, I mean) the lawyer, who is so silly as to be _ignoramus_ to a proverb, and yet by such are all difficulties resolved, all controversies determined, and all affairs managed so much to their own advantage, that they get those estates to themselves which they are employed to recover for their clients: while the poor divine in the mean time shall have the lice crawl upon his thread-bare gown, before, by all his sweat and drudgery, he can get money enough to purchase a new one. As those arts therefore are most advantageous to their respective professors which are farthest distant from wisdom, so are those persons incomparably most happy that have least to do with any at all, but jog on in the common road of nature, which will never mislead us, except we voluntarily leap over those boundaries which she has cautiously set to our finite beings. Nature glitters most in her own plain, homely garb, and then gives the greatest lustre when she is unsullied from all artificial garnish. [Illustration: 151] Thus if we enquire into the state of all dumb creatures, we shall find those fare best that are left to nature's conduct: as to instance in bees, what is more to be admired than the industry and contrivance of these little animals? What architect could ever form so curious a structure as they give a model of in their inimitable combs? What kingdom can be governed with better discipline than they exactly observe in their respective hives? While the horse, by turning a rebel to nature, and becoming a slave to man, undergoes the worst of tyranny: he is sometimes spurred on to battle so long till he draw his guts after him for trapping, and at last falls down, and bites the ground instead of grass; not to mention the penalty of his jaws being curbed, his tail docked, his back wrung, his sides spur-galled, his close imprisonment in a stable, his rapshin and fetters when he runs a grass, and a great many other plagues, which he might have avoided, if he had kept to that first station of freedom which nature placed him in. How much more desirable is the unconfined range of flies and birds, who living by instinct, would want nothing to complete their happiness, if some well-employed Domitian would not persecute the former, nor the sly fowler lay snares and gins for the entrapping of the other? And if young birds, before their unfledged wings can carry them from their nests, are caught, and pent up in a cage, for the being taught to sing, or whistle, all their new tunes make not half so sweet music as their wild notes, and natural melody: so much does that which is but rough-drawn by nature surpass and excel all the additional paint and varnish of art And we cannot sure but commend and admire that Pythagorean cock, which (as Lucian relates) had been successively a man, a woman, a prince, a subject, a fish, a horse, and a frog; after all his experience, he summed up his judgment in this censure, that man was the most wretched and deplorable of all creatures, all other patiently grazing within the enclosures of nature, while man only broke out, and strayed beyond those safer limits, which he was justly confined to. And Gryllus is to be adjudged wiser than the much-counselling Ulysses, in as much as when by the enchantment of Circe he had been turned into a hog, he would not lay down his swinishness, nor forsake his beloved sty, to run the peril of a hazardous voyage. For a farther confirmation whereof I have the authority of Homer, that captain of all poetry, who, as he gives to mankind in general, the epithet of wretched and unhappy, so he bestows in particular upon Ulysses the title of miserable, which he never attributes to Paris, Ajax, Achilles, or any other of the commanders; and that for this reason, because Ulysses was more crafty, cautious, and wise, than any of the rest. [Illustration: 156] As those therefore fall shortest of happiness that reach highest at wisdom, meeting with the greater repulse for soaring beyond the boundaries of their nature, and without remembering themselves to be but men, like the fallen angels, daring them to vie with Omnipotence, and giant-like scale heaven with the engines of their own brain; so are those most exalted in the road of bliss that degenerate nearest into brutes, and quietly divest themselves of all use and exercise of reason. And this we can prove by a familiar instance. As namely, can there be any one sort of men that enjoy themselves better than those which we call idiots, changelings, fools and naturals? It may perhaps sound harsh, but upon due consideration it will be found abundantly true, that these persons in all circumstances fare best, and live most comfortably; as first, they are void of all fear, which is a very great privilege to be exempted from; they are troubled with no remorse, nor pricks of conscience; they are not frighted with any bugbear stories of another world; they startle not at the fancied appearance of ghosts, or apparitions; they are not wracked with the dread of impending mischiefs, nor bandied with the hopes of any expected enjoyments: in short, they are unassaulted by all those legions of cares that war against the quiet of rational souls; they are ashamed of nothing, fear no man, banish the uneasiness of ambition, envy, and love; and to add the reversion of a future happiness to the enjoyment of a present one, they have no sin neither to answer for; divines unanimously maintaining, that a gross and unavoidable ignorance does not only extenuate and abate from the aggravation, but wholly expiate the guilt of any immorality. [Illustration: 159] Come now then as many of you as challenge the respect of being accounted wise, ingenuously confess how many insurrections of rebellious thoughts, and pangs of a labouring mind, ye are perpetually thrown and tortured with; reckon up all those inconveniences that you are unavoidably subject to, and then tell me whether fools, by being exempted from all these embroilments, are not infinitely more free and happy than yourselves? Add to this, that fools do not barely laugh, and sing, and play the good-fellow alone to themselves: but as it is the nature of good to be communicative, so they impart their mirth to others, by making sport for the whole company they are at any time engaged in, as if providence purposely designed them for an antidote to melancholy: whereby they make all persons so fond of their society, that they are welcomed to all places, hugged, caressed, and defended, a liberty given them of saying or doing anything; so well beloved, that none dares to offer them the least injury; nay, the most ravenous beasts of prey will pass them by untouched, as if by instinct they were warned that such innocence ought to receive no hurt. Farther, their converse is so acceptable in the court of princes, that few kings will banquet, walk, or take any other diversion, without their attendance; nay, and had much rather have their company, than that of their gravest counsellors, whom they maintain more for fashion-sake than good-will; nor is it so strange that these fools should be preferred before graver politicians, since these last, by their harsh, sour advice, and ill-timing the truth, are fit only to put a prince out of the humour, while the others laugh, and talk, and joke, without any danger of disobliging. It is one farther very commendable property of fools, that they always speak the truth, than which there is nothing more noble and heroical. For so, though Plato relate it as a sentence of Alcibiades, that in the sea of drunkenness truth swims uppermost, and so wine is the only teller of truth, yet this character may more justly be assumed by me, as I can make good from the authority of Euripides, who lays down this as an axiom _uwpa uwpos heyei_. Children and fools always speak the truth. Whatever the fool has in his heart he betrays it in his face; or what is more notifying, discovers it by his words: while the wise man, as Euripides observes, carries a double tongue; the one to speak what may be said, the other what ought to be; the one what truth, the other what the time requires: whereby he can in a trice so alter his judgment, as to prove that to be now white, which he had just before swore to be black; like the satyr at his porridge, blowing hot and cold at the same breath; in his lips professing one thing, when in his heart he means another. Furthermore, princes in their greatest splendour seem upon this account unhappy, in that they miss the advantage of being told the truth, and are shammed off by a parcel of insinuating courtiers, that acquit themselves as flatterers more than as friends. But some will perchance object, that princes do not love to hear the truth, and therefore wise men must be very cautious how they behave themselves before them, lest they should take too great a liberty in speaking what is true, rather than what is acceptable. This must be confessed, truth indeed is seldom palatable to the ears of kings; yet fools have so great a privilege as to have free leave, not only to speak bare truths, but the most bitter ones too; so as the same reproof, which had it come from the mouth of a wise man would have cost him his head, being blurted out by a fool, is not only pardoned, but well taken, and rewarded. For truth has naturally a mixture of pleasure, if it carry with it nothing of offence to the person whom it is applied to; and the happy knack of ordering it so is bestowed only on fools. 'Tis for the same reason that this sort of men are more fondly beloved by women, who like their tumbling them about, and playing with them, though never so boisterously; pretending to take that only in jest, which they would have to be meant in earnest, as that sex is very ingenious in palliating, and dissembling the bent of their wanton inclinations. But to return. An additional happiness of these fools appears farther in this, that when they have run merrily on to their last stage of life, they neither find any fear nor feel any pain to die, but march contentedly to the other world, where their company sure must be as acceptable as it was here upon earth. [Illustration: 164] Let us draw now a comparison between the condition of a fool and that of a wise man, and see how infinitely the one outweighs the other. Give me any instance then of a man as wise as you can fancy him possible to be, that has spent all his younger years in poring upon books, and trudging after learning, in the pursuit whereof he squanders away the pleasantest time of his life in watching, sweat, and fasting; and in his latter days he never tastes one mouthful of delight, but is always stingy, poor, dejected, melancholy, burthensome to himself, and unwelcome to others, pale, lean, thin-jawed, sickly, contracting by his sedentariness such hurtful distempers as bring him to an untimely death, like roses plucked before they shatter. Thus have you, the draught of a wise man's happiness, more the object of a commiserating pity, than of an ambitioning envy. But now again come the croaking Stoics, and tell me in mood and figure, that nothing is more miserable than the being mad: but the being a fool is the being mad, therefore there is nothing more miserable than the being a fool. Alas, this is but a fallacy, the discovery whereof solves the force of the whole syllogism. Well then, they argue subtlety, 'tis true; but as Socrates in Plato makes two Venuses and two Cupids, and shews how their actions and properties ought not to be confounded; so these disputants, if they had not been mad themselves, should have distinguished between a double madness in others: and there is certainly a great difference in the nature as well as in the degrees of them, and they are not both equally scandalous: for Horace seems to take delight in one sort, when he says:-- _Does welcome frenzy make me thus mistake?_ And Plato in his Phaedon ranks the madness of poets, of prophets, and of lovers among those properties which conduce to a happy life. And Virgil, in the sixth AEneid, gives this epithet to his industrious AEneas:-- _If you will proceed to these your mad attempts._ And indeed there is a two-fold sort of madness; the one that which the furies bring from hell; those that are herewith possessed are hurried on to wars and contentions, by an inexhaustible thirst of power and riches, inflamed to some infamous and unlawful lust, enraged to act the parricide, seduced to become guilty of incest, sacrilege, or some other of those crimson-dyed crimes; or, finally, to be so pricked in conscience as to be lashed and stung with the whips and snakes of grief and remorse. But there is another sort of madness that proceeds from Folly, so far from being any way injurious or distasteful that it is thoroughly good and desirable; and this happens when by a harmless mistake in the judgment of things the mind is freed from those cares which would otherwise gratingly afflict it, and smoothed over with a content and satisfaction it could not under other circumstances so happily enjoy. And this is that comfortable apathy or insensibleness which Cicero, in an epistle to his friend Atticus, wishes himself master of, that he might the less take to heart those insufferable outrages committed by the tyrannizing triumvirate, Lepidus, Antonius, and Augustus. That Grecian likewise had a happy time of it, who was so frantic as to sit a whole day in the empty theatre laughing, shouting, and clapping his hands, as if he had really seen some pathetic tragedy acted to the life, when indeed all was no more than the strength of imagination, and the efforts of delusion, while in all other respects the same person behaved himself very discreetly was, Sweet to his friends, to his wife, obliging, kind, And so averse from a revengeful mind, That had his men unsealed his bottled wine, He would not fret, nor doggedly repine. And when by a course of physic he was recovered from this frenzy, he looked upon his cure so far from a kindness, that he thus reasons the case with his friends: This remedy, my friends, is worse i' th' main Than the disease, the cure augments the pain; My only hope is a relapse again, And certainly they were the more mad of the two who endeavoured to bereave him of so pleasing a delirium, and recall all the aches of his head by dispelling the mists of his brain. [Illustration: 169] [Illustration: 173-174] I have not yet determined whether it be proper to include all the defects of sense and understanding under the common genius of madness. For if anyone be so short-sighted as to take a mule for an ass, or so shallowpated as to admire a paltry ballad for an elegant poem, he is not thereupon immediately censured as mad. But if anyone let not only his senses but his judgment be imposed upon in the most ordinary common concerns, he shall come under the scandal of being thought next door to a madman. As suppose any one should hear an ass bray, and should take it for ravishing music; or if any one, born a beggar, should fancy himself as great as a prince, or the like. But this sort of madness, if (as is most usual) it be accompanied with pleasure, brings a great satisfaction both to those who are possessed with it themselves, and those who deride it in others, though they are not both equally frantic. And this species of madness is of larger extent than the world commonly imagines. Thus the whole tribe of madmen make sport among themselves, while one laughs at another; he that is more mad many times jeering him that is less so. But indeed the greater each man's madness is, the greater is his happiness, if it be but such a sort as proceeds from an excess of folly, which is so epidemical a distemper that it is hard to find any one man so uninfected as not to have sometimes a fit or two of some sort of frenzy. There is only this difference between the several patients, he that shall take a broom-stick for a strait-bodied woman is without more ado sentenced for a madman, because this is so strange a blunder as very seldom happens; whereas he whose wife is a common jilt, that keeps a warehouse free for all customers, and yet swears she is as chaste as an untouched virgin, and hugs himself in his contented mistake, is scarce taken notice of, because he fares no worse than a great many more of his good-natured neighbours. Among these are to be ranked such as take an immoderate delight in hunting, and think no music comparable to the sounding of horns and the yelping of beagles; and were they to take physic, would not question to think the most sovereign virtues to be in the _album Graecum_ of a dog's, turd. When they have run down their game, what strange pleasure they take in cutting of it up! Cows and sheep may be slaughtered by common butchers, but what is killed in hunting must be broke up by none under a gentleman, who shall throw down his hat, fall devoutly on his knees, and drawing out a slashing hanger (for a common knife is not good enough), after several ceremonies shall dissect all the parts as artificially as the best skilled anatomist, while all that stand round shall look very intently, and seem to be mightily surprised with the novelty, though they have seen the same an hundred times before; and he that can but dip his finger, and taste of the blood, shall think his own bettered by it: and though the constant feeding on such diet does but assimilate them to the nature of those beasts they eat of, yet they will swear that venison is meat for princes, and that their living upon it makes them as great as emperors. [Illustration: 178] Near a kin to these are such as take a great fancy for building: they raise up, pull down, begin anew, alter the model, and never rest till they run themselves out of their whole estate, taking up such a compass for buildings, till they leave themselves not one foot of land to live upon, nor one poor cottage to shelter themselves from cold and hunger: and yet all the while are mighty proud of their contrivances, and sing a sweet _requiem_ to their own happiness. To these are to be added those plodding virtuosos, that plunder the most inward recesses of nature for the pillage of a new invention, and rake over sea and land for the turning up some hitherto latent mystery; and are so continually tickled with the hopes of success, that they spare for no cost nor pains, but trudge on, and upon a defeat in one attempt, courageously tack about to another, and fall upon new experiments, never giving over till they have calcined their whole estate to ashes, and have not money enough left unmelted to purchase one crucible or limbeck. And yet after all, they are not so much discouraged, but that they dream fine things still, and animate others what they can to the like undertakings; nay, when their hopes come to the last gasp, after all their disappointments, they have yet one _salvo_ for their credit, that:-- _In great exploits our bare attempts suffice._ And so inveigh against the shortness of their life, which allows them not time enough to bring their designs to maturity and perfection. [Illustration: Dice Players 182] [Illustration: Dice Players-2 186] Whether dice-players may be so favourably dealt with as to be admitted among the rest is scarce yet resolved upon: but sure it is hugely vain and ridiculous, when we see some persons so devoutly addicted to this diversion, that at the first rattle of the box their heart shakes within them, and keeps consort with the motion of the dice: they are egg'd on so long with the hopes of always winning, till at last, in a literal sense, they have thrown away their whole estate, and made shipwreck of all they have, scarce escaping to shore with their own clothes to their backs; thinking it in the meanwhile a great piece of religion to be just in the payment of their stakes, and will cheat any creditor sooner than him who trusts them in play: and that poring old men, that cannot tell their cast without the help of spectacles, should be sweating at the same sport; nay, that such decrepit blades, as by the gout have lost the use of their fingers, should look over, and hire others to throw for them. This indeed is prodigiously extravagant; but the consequence of it ends so oft in downright madness, that it seems rather to belong to the furies than to folly. The next to be placed among the regiment of fools are such as make a trade of telling or inquiring after incredible stories of miracles and prodigies: never doubting that a lie will choke them, they will muster up a thousand several strange relations of spirits, ghosts, apparitions, raising of the devil, and such like bugbears of superstition, which the farther they are from being probably true, the more greedily they are swallowed, and the more devoudy believed. And these absurdities do not only bring an empty pleasure, and cheap divertisement, but they are a good trade, and procure a comfortable income to such priests and friars as by this craft get their gain. To these again are nearly related such others as attribute strange virtues to the shrines and images of saints and martyrs, and so would make their credulous proselytes believe, that if they pay their devotion to St. Christopher in the morning, they shall be guarded and secured the day following from all dangers and misfortunes: if soldiers, when they first take arms, shall come and mumble over such a set prayer before the picture of St. Barbara, they shall return safe from all engagements: or if any pray to Erasmus on such particular holidays, with the ceremony of wax candles, and other fopperies, he shall in a short time be rewarded with a plentiful increase of wealth and riches. The Christians have now their gigantic St. George, as well as the pagans had their Hercules; they paint the saint on horseback, and drawing the horse in splendid trappings, very gloriously accoutred, they scarce refrain in a literal sense from worshipping the very beast. What shall I say of such as cry up and maintain the cheat of pardons and indulgences? that by these compute the time of each soul's residence in purgatory, and assign them a longer or shorter continuance, according as they purchase more or fewer of these paltry pardons, and saleable exemptions? Or what can be said bad enough of others, who pretend that by the force of such magical charms, or by the fumbling over their beads in the rehearsal of such and such petitions (which some religious impostors invented, either for diversion, or what is more likely for advantage), they shall procure riches, honour, pleasure, health, long life, a lusty old age, nay, after death a sitting at the right hand of our Saviour in His kingdom; though as to this last part of their happiness, they care not how long it be deferred, having scarce any appetite toward a tasting the joys of heaven, till they are surfeited, glutted with, and can no longer relish their enjoyments on earth. By this easy way of purchasing pardons, any notorious highwayman, any plundering soldier, or any bribe-taking judge, shall disburse some part of their unjust gains, and so think all their grossest impieties sufficiently atoned for; so many perjuries, lusts, drunkenness, quarrels, bloodsheds, cheats, treacheries, and all sorts of debaucheries, shall all be, as it were, struck a bargain for, and such a contract made, as if they had paid off all arrears, and might now begin upon a new score. [Illustration: Devil Teaching St. Bernard 190] And what can be more ridiculous, than for some others to be confident of going to heaven by repeating daily those seven verses out of the Psalms, which the devil taught St. Bernard, thinking thereby to have put a trick upon him, but that he was over-reached in his cunning. Several of these fooleries, which are so gross and absurd, as I myself am even ashamed to own, are practised and admired, not only by the vulgar, but by such proficients in religion as one might well expect should have more wit. From the same principles of folly proceeds the custom of each country's challenging their particular guardian-saint; nay, each saint has his distinct office allotted to him, and is accordingly addressed to upon the respective occasions: as one for the tooth-ache, a second to grant an easy delivery in child-birth, a third to help persons to lost goods, another to protect seamen in a long voyage, a fifth to guard the farmer's cows and sheep, and so on; for to rehearse all instances would be extremely tedious. There are some more catholic saints petitioned to upon all occasions, as more especially the Virgin Mary, whose blind devotees think it manners now to place the mother before the Son. And of all the prayers and intercessions that are made to these respective saints the substance of them is no more than downright Folly. Among all the trophies that for tokens of gratitude are hung upon the walls and ceilings of churches, you shall find no relics presented as a memorandum of any that were ever cured of Folly, or had been made one dram the wiser. One perhaps after shipwreck got safe to shore; another recovered when he had been run through by an enemy; one, when all his fellow-soldiers were killed upon the spot, as cunningly perhaps as cowardly, made his escape from the field; another, while he was a hanging, the rope broke, and so he saved his neck, and renewed his licence for practising his old trade of thieving; another broke gaol, and got loose; a patient, against his physician's will, recovered of a dangerous fever; another drank poison, which putting him into a violent looseness, did his body more good than hurt, to the great grief of his wife, who hoped upon this occasion to have become a joyful widow; another had his waggon overturned, and yet none of his horses lamed; another had caught a grievous fall, and yet recovered from the bruise; another had been tampering with his neighbour's wife, and escaped very narrowly from being caught by the enraged cuckold in the very act. After all these acknowledgments of escapes from such singular dangers, there is none (as I have before intimated) that return thanks for being freed from Folly; Folly being so sweet and luscious, that it is rather sued for as a happiness, than deprecated as a punishment But why should I launch out into so wide a sea of superstitions? _Had I as many tongues as Argus eyes, Briareus hands, they all would not suffice Folly in all her shapes t' epitomise._ Almost all Christians being wretchedly enslaved to blindness and ignorance, which the priests are so far from preventing or removing, that they blacken the darkness, and promote the delusion; wisely foreseeing that the people (like cows, which never give down their milk so well as when they are gently stroked), would part with less if they knew more, their bounty proceeding only from a mistake of charity. Now if any grave wise man should stand up, and unseasonably speak the truth, telling every one that a pious life is the only way of securing a happy death; that the best title to a pardon of our sins is purchased by a hearty abhorrence of our guilt, and sincere resolutions of amendment; that the best devotion which can be paid to any saints is to imitate them in their exemplary life: if he should proceed thus to inform them of their several mistakes, there would be quite another estimate put upon tears, watchings, masses, fastings, and other severities, which before were so much prized, as persons will now be vexed to lose that satisfaction they formerly found in them. [Illustration: 194] In the same predicament of fools are to be ranked such, as while they are yet living, and in good health, take so great a care how they shall be buried when they die, that they solemnly appoint how many torches, how many escutcheons, how many gloves to be given, and how many mourners they will have at their funeral; as if they thought they themselves in their coffins could be sensible of what respect was paid to their corpse; or as if they doubted they should rest a whit the less quiet in the grave if they were with less state and pomp interred. Now though I am in so great haste, as I would not willingly be stopped or detained, yet I cannot pass by without bestowing some remarks upon another sort of fools; who, though their first descent was perhaps no better than from a tapster or tinker, yet highly value themselves upon their birth and parentage. One fetches his pedigree from AEneas, another from Brute, a third from king Arthur: they hang up their ancestors' worm-eaten pictures as records of antiquity, and keep a long list of their predecessors, with an account of all their offices and tides, while they themselves are but transcripts of their forefathers' dumb statues, and degenerate even into those very beasts which they carry in their coat of arms as ensigns of their nobility: and yet by a strong presumption of their birth and quality, they live not only the most pleasant and unconcerned themselves, but there are not wanting others too who cry up these brutes almost equal to the gods. But why should I dwell upon one or two instances of Folly, when there are so many of like nature. Conceitedness and self-love making many by strength of Fancy believe themselves happy, when otherwise they are really wretched and despicable. Thus the most ape-faced, ugliest fellow in the whole town, shall think himself a mirror of beauty: another shall be so proud of his parts, that if he can but mark out a triangle with a pair of compasses, he thinks he has mastered all the difficulties of geometry, and could outdo Euclid himself. A third shall admire himself for a ravishing musician, though he have no more skill in the handling of any instrument than a pig playing on the organs: and another that rattles in the throat as hoarse as a cock crows, shall be proud of his voice, and think he sings like a nightingale. [Illustration: 199] There is another very pleasant sort of madness, whereby persons assume to themselves whatever of accomplishment they discern in others. Thus the happy rich churl in Seneca, who had so short a memory, as he could not tell the least story without a servant standing by to prompt him, and was at the same time so weak that he could scarce go upright, yet he thought he might adventure to accept a challenge to a duel, because he kept at home some lusty, sturdy fellows, whose strength he relied upon instead of his own. [Illustration: 202] It is almost needless to insist upon the several professors of arts and sciences, who are all so egregiously conceited, that they would sooner give up their title to an estate in lands, than part with the reversion of their wits: among these, more especially stage-players, musicians, orators, and poets, each of which, the more of duncery they have, and the more of pride, the greater is their ambition: and how notoriously soever dull they be, they meet with their admirers; nay, the more silly they are the higher they are extolled; Folly (as we have before intimated) never failing of respect and esteem. If therefore every one, the more ignorant he is, the greater satisfaction he is to himself, and the more commended by others, to what purpose is it to sweat and toil in the pursuit of true learning, which shall cost so many gripes and pangs of the brain to acquire, and when obtained, shall only make the laborious student more uneasy to himself, and less acceptable to others? As nature in her dispensation of conceited-ness has dealt with private persons, so has she given a particular smatch of self-love to each country and nation. Upon this account it is that the English challenge the prerogative of having the most handsome women, of the being most accomplished in the skill of music, and of keeping the best tables: the Scotch brag of their gentility, and pretend the genius of their native soil inclines them to be good disputants: the French think themselves remarkable for complaisance and good breeding: the Sorbonists of Paris pretend before any others to have made the greatest proficiency in polemic divinity: the Italians value themselves for learning and eloquence; and, like the Grecians of old, account all the world barbarians in respect of themselves; to which piece of vanity the inhabitants of Rome are more especially addicted, pretending themselves to be owners of all those heroic virtues, which their city so many ages since was deservedly famous for. The Venetians stand upon their birth and pedigree. The Grecians pride themselves in having been the first inventors of most arts, and in their country being famed for the product of so many eminent philosophers. The Turks, and all the other refuse of Mahometism, pretend they profess the only true religion, and laugh at all Christians for superstitious, narrow-souled fools. The Jews to this day expect their Messias as devoudy as they believe in their first prophet Moses. The Spaniards challenge the repute of being accounted good soldiers. And the Germans are noted for their tall, proper stature, and for their skill in magick. But not to mention any more, I suppose you are already convinced how great an improvement and addition to the happiness of human life is occasioned by self-love: next step to which is flattery; for as self-love is nothing but the coaxing up of ourselves, so the same currying and humouring of others is termed flattery. [Illustration: 206] Flattery, it is true, is now looked upon as a scandalous name, but it is by such only as mind words more than things. They are prejudiced against it upon this account, because they suppose it justles out all truth and sincerity? whereas indeed its property is quite contrary, as appears from the examples of several brute creatures. What is more fawning than a spaniel? And yet what is more faithful to his master? What is more fond and loving than a tame squirrel? And yet what is more sporting and inoffensive? This little frisking creature is kept up in a cage to play withal, while lions, tigers, leopards, and such other savage emblems of rapine and cruelty are shewn only for state and rarity, and otherwise yield no pleasure to their respective keepers. There is indeed a pernicious destructive sort of flattery wherewith rookers and sharks work their several ends upon such as they can make a prey of, by decoying them into traps and snares beyond recovery: but that which is the effect of folly is of a much different nature; it proceeds from a softness of spirit, and a flexibleness of good humour, and comes far nearer to virtue than that other extreme of friendship, namely, a stiff, sour, dogged moroseness: it refreshes our minds when tired, enlivens them when melancholy, reinforces them when languishing, invigorates them when heavy, recovers them when sick, and pacifies them when rebellious: it puts us in a method how to procure friends, and how to keep them; it entices children to swallow the bitter rudiments of learning; it gives a new ferment to the almost stagnated souls of old men; it both reproves and instructs principles without offence under the mask of commendation: in short, it makes every man fond and indulgent of himself, which is indeed no small part of each man's happiness, and at the same time renders him obliging and complaisant in all company, where it is pleasant to see how the asses rub and scratch one another. [Illustration: Asses Scratch One Another 210] This again is a great accomplishment to an orator, a greater to a physician, and the only one to a poet: in fine, it is the best sweetener to all afflictions, and gives a true relish to the otherwise insipid enjoyments of our whole life. Ay, but (say you) to flatter is to deceive; and to deceive is very harsh and hurtful: no, rather just contrary; nothing is more welcome and bewitching than the being deceived. They are much to be blamed for an undistinguishing head, that make a judgment of things according to what they are in themselves, when their whole nature consists barely in the opinions that are had of them. For all sublunary matters are enveloped in such a cloud of obscurity, that the short-sightedness of human understanding, cannot pry through and arrive to any comprehensive knowledge of them: hence the sect of academic philosophers have modestly resolved, that all things being no more than probable, nothing can be known as certain; or if there could, yet would it but interrupt and abate from the pleasure of a more happy ignorance. Finally, our souls are so fashioned and moulded, that they are sooner captivated by appearances, than by real truths; of which, if any one would demand an example, he may find a very familiar one in churches, where, if what is delivered from the pulpit be a grave, solid, rational discourse, all the congregation grow weary, and fall asleep, till their patience be released; whereas if the preacher (pardon the impropriety of the word, the prater I would have said) be zealous, in his thumps of the cushion, antic gestures, and spend his glass in the telling of pleasant stories, his beloved shall then stand up, tuck their hair behind their ears, and be very devoutly attentive. So among the saints, those are most resorted to who are most romantic and fabulous: as for instance, a poetic St. George, a St. Christopher, or a St. Barbara, shall be oftener prayed to than St. Peter, St. Paul, nay, perhaps than Christ himself; but this, it is possible, may more properly be referred to another place. [Illustration: 215] In the mean while observe what a cheap purchase of happiness is made by the strength of fancy. For whereas many things even of inconsiderable value, would cost a great deal of pains and perhaps pelf, to procure; opinion spares charges, and yet gives us them in as ample a manner by conceit, as if we possessed them in reality. Thus he who feeds on such a stinking dish of fish, as another must hold his nose at a yard's distance from, yet if he feed heartily, and relish them palateably, they are to him as good as if they were fresh caught: whereas on the other hand, if any one be invited to never so dainty a joul of sturgeon, if it go against his stomach to eat any, he may sit a hungry, and bite his nails with greater appetite than his victuals. If a woman be never so ugly and nauseous, yet if her husband can but think her handsome, it is all one to him as if she really were so: if any man have never so ordinary and smutty a draught, yet if he admires the excellency of it, and can suppose it to have been drawn by some old Apelles, or modern Vandyke, he is as proud of it as if it had really been done by one of their hands. I knew a friend of mine that presented his bride with several false and counterfeit stones, making her believe that they were right jewels, and cost him so many hundred thousand crowns; under his mistake the poor woman was as choice of pebbles, and painted glass, as if they had been so many natural rubies and diamonds, while the subtle husband saved a great deal in his pocket, and yet made his wife as well pleased as if he had been at ten hundred times the cost What difference is there between them that in the darkest dungeon, can with a platonic brain survey the whole world in idea, and him that stands in the open air, and takes a less deluding prospect of the universe? If the beggar in Lucian, that dreamt he was a prince, had never waked, his imaginary kingdom had been as great as a real one. Between him therefore that truly is happy, and him that thinks himself so, there is no perceivable distinction; or if any, the fool has the better of it: first, because his happiness costs him less, standing him only in the price of a single thought; and then, secondly, because he has more fellow-companions and partakers of his good fortune: for no enjoyment is comfortable where the benefit is not imparted to others; nor is any one station of life desirable, where we can have no converse with persons of the same condition with ourselves: and yet this is the hard fate of wise men, who are grown so scarce, that like Phoenixes, they appear but one in an age. The Grecians, it is true, reckoned up seven within the narrow precincts of their own country; yet I believe, were they to cast up their accounts anew, they would not find a half, nay, not a third part, of one in far larger extent. [Illustration: 218] Farther, when among the several good properties of Bacchus this is looked upon as the chief, namely, that he drowns the cares and anxieties of the mind, though it be indeed but for a short while; for after a small nap, when our brains are a little settled, they all return to their former corrodings: how much greater is the more durable advantage which I bring? while by one uninterrupted fit of being drunk in conceit, I perpetually cajole the mind with riots, revels, and all the excess and energy of joy. Add to this, that I am so communicative and bountiful, as to let no one particular person pass without some token of my favour; whereas other deities bestow their gifts sparingly to their elect only. Bacchus has not thought fit that every soil should bear the same juice-yielding grape: Venus has not given to all a like portion of beauty: Mercury endows but few with the knack of an accomplished eloquence: Hercules gives not to all the same measure of wealth and riches: Jupiter has ordained but a few to be born to a kingdom: Mars in battle gives a complete victory but to one party; nay, he often makes them both losers: Apollo does not answer the expectation of all that consult his oracles: Jove oft thunders: Phoebus sometimes shoots the plague, or some other infection, at the point of his darts: and Neptune swallows down more than he bears up: not to mention their Ve-Jupiters, their Plutos, their Ate goddess of loss, their evil geniuses, and such other monsters of divinity, as had more of the hangman than the god in them, and were worshipped only to deprecate that hurt which used to be inflicted by them: I say, not to mention these, I am that high and mighty goddess, whose liberality is of as large an extent as her omnipotence: I give to all that ask: I never appear sullen, nor out of humour, nor ever demand any atonement or satisfaction for the omission of any ceremonious punctilio in my worship: I do not storm or rage, if mortals, in their addresses to the other gods pass me by unregarded, without the acknowledgment of any respect or application: whereas all the other gods are so scrupulous and exact, that it often proves less dangerous manfully to despise them, than sneakingly to attempt the difficulty of pleasing them. Thus some men are of that captious, froward humour, that a man had better be wholly strangers to them, than never so intimate friends. [Illustration: Alter of Folly 222] Well, but there are none (say you) build any altars, or dedicate any temple to Folly. I admire (as I have before intimated) that the world should be so wretchedly ungrateful. But I am so good natured as to pass by and pardon this seeming affront, though indeed the charge thereof, as unnecessary, may well be saved; for to what purpose should I demand the sacrifice of frankincense, cakes, goats, and swine, since all persons everywhere pay me that more acceptable service, which all divines agree to be more effectual and meritorious, namely, an imitation of my communicable attributes? I do not therefore any way envy Diana for having her altars bedewed with human blood: I think myself then most religiously adored, when my respective devotees (as is their usual custom) conform themselves to my practice, transcribe my pattern, and so live the copy of me their original. And truly this pious devotion is not so much in use among christians as is much to be wished it were: for how many zealous votaries are there that pay so profound respect to the Virgin Mary, as to place lighted tapers even at noon day upon her altars? And yet how few of them copy after her untouched chastity, her modesty, and her other commendable virtues, in the imitation whereof consists the truest esteem of divine worship? Farther, why should I desire a temple, since the whole world is but one ample continued choir, entirely dedicated to my use and service? Nor do I want worshippers at any place where the earth wants not inhabitants. And as to the manner of my worship, I am not yet so irrecoverably foolish, as to be prayed to by proxy, and to have my honour intermediately bestowed upon senseless images and pictures, which quite subvert the true end of religion; while the unwary supplicants seldom distinguish betwixt the things themselves and the objects they represent The same respect in the meanwhile is paid to me in a more legitimate manner; for to me there are as many statues erected as there are moving fabrics of mortality; every person, even against his own will, carrying the image of me, _i.e._ the signal of Folly instamped on his countenance. I have not therefore the least tempting inducement to envy the more seeming state and splendour of the other gods, who are worshipped at set times and places; as Phoebus at Rhodes, Venus in her Cyprian isle, Juno in the city Argos, Minerva at Athens, Jupiter on the hill Olympus, Neptune at Tarentum, and Priapus in the town of Lampsacum; while my worship extending as far as my influence, the whole world is my one altar, whereon the most valuable incense and sacrifice is perpetually offered up. [Illustration: 226] But lest I should seem to speak this with more of confidence than truth, let us take a nearer view of the mode of men's lives, whereby it will be rendered more apparently evident what largesses I everywhere bestow, and how much I am respected and esteemed of persons, from the highest to the basest quality. For the proof whereof, it being too tedious to insist upon each particular, I shall only mention such in general as are most worthy the remark, from which by analogy we may easily judge of the remainder. And indeed to what purpose would it be singly to recount the commonalty and rabble of mankind, who beyond all question are entirely on my side? and for a token of their vassalage do wear my livery in so many older shapes, and more newly invented modes of Folly, that the lungs of a thousand Democrituses would never hold out to such a laughter as this subject would excite; and to these thousand must be superadded one more, to laugh at them as much as they do at the other. [Illustration: 230] It is indeed almost incredible to relate what mirth, what sport, what diversion, the grovelling inhabitants here on earth give to the above-seated gods in heaven: for these exalted deities spend their fasting sober hours in listening to those petitions that are offered up, and in succouring such as they are appealed to by for redress; but when they are a little entered at a glass of nectar, they then throw off all serious concerns, and go and place themselves on the ascent of some promontory in heaven, and from thence survey the little mole-hill of earth. And trust me, there cannot be a more delightsome prospect, than to view such a theatre so stuffed and crammed with swarms of fools. One falls desperately in love, and the more he is slighted the more does his spaniel-like passion increase; another is wedded to wealth rather than to a wife; a third pimps for his own spouse, and is content to be a cuckold so he may wear his horns gilt; a fourth is haunted with a jealousy of his visiting neighbours; another sobs and roars, and plays the child, for the death of a friend or relation; and lest his own tears should not rise high enough to express the torrent of his grief, he hires other mourners to accompany the corpse to the grave, and sing its _requiem_ in sighs and lamentations; another hypocritically weeps at the funeral of one whose death at heart he rejoices for; here a gluttonous cormorant, whatever he can scrape up, thrusts all into his guts to pacify the cryings of a hungry stomach; there a lazy wretch sits yawning and stretching, and thinks nothing so desirable as sleep and idleness; some are extremely industrious in other men's business, and sottishly neglectful of their own; some think themselves rich because their credit is great, though they can never pay, till they break, and compound for their debts; one is so covetous that he lives poor to die rich; one for a little uncertain gain will venture to cross the roughest seas, and expose his life for the purchase of a livelihood; another will depend on the plunders of war, rather than on the honest gains of peace; some will close with and humour such warm old blades as have a good estate, and no children of their own to bestow it upon; others practice the same art of wheedling upon good old women, that have hoarded and coffered up more bags than they know how to dispose of; both of these sly flatteries make fine sport for the gods, when they are beat at their own weapons, and (as oft happens) are gulled by those very persons they intended to make a prey of. There is another sort of base scoundrels in gentility, such scraping merchants, who although, for the better vent of their commodities they lie, swear, cheat, and practice all the intrigues of dishonesty, yet think themselves no way inferior to persons of the highest quality, only because they have raked together a plentiful estate; and there are not wanting such insinuating hangers on, as shall caress and compliment them with the greatest respect, in hopes to go snacks in some of their dishonest gains; there are others so infected with the philosophical paradox of banishing property, and having all things in common, that they make no conscience of fastening on, and purloining whatever they can get, and converting it to their own use and possession; there are some who are rich only in wishes, and yet while they barely dream of vast mountains of wealth, they are as happy as if their imaginary fancies commenced real truths; some put on the best side outermost, and starve themselves at home to appear gay and splendid abroad; one with an open-handed freedom spends all he lays his fingers on; another with a logic-fisted gripingness catches at and grasps all he can come within the reach of; one apes it about in the streets to court popularity; another consults his ease, and sticks to the confinement of a chimney-corner; many others are tugging hard at law for a trifle, and drive on an endless suit, only to enrich a deferring judge, or a knavish advocate; one is for new-modelling a settled government; another is for some notable heroical attempt; and a third by all means must travel a pilgrim to Rome, Jerusalem, or some shrine of a saint elsewhere, though he have no other business than the paying of a formal impertinent visit, leaving his wife and children to fast, while he himself forsooth is gone to pray. [Illustration: 234] In short, if (as Lucian fancies Menippus to have done heretofore,) any man could now again look down from the orb of the moon, he would see thick swarms as it were of flies and gnats, that were quarrelling with each other, justling, fighting, fluttering, skipping, playing, just new produced, soon after decaying, and then immediately vanishing; and it can scarce be thought how many tumults and tragedies so inconsiderate a creature as man does give occasion to, and that in so short a space as the small span of life; subject to so many casualties, that the sword, pestilence, and other epidemic accidents, shall many times sweep away whole thousands at a brush. [Illustration: 238] But hold; I should but expose myself too far, and incur the guilt of being roundly laughed at, if I proceed to enumerate the several kinds of the folly of the vulgar. I shall confine therefore my following discourse only to such as challenge the repute of wisdom, and seemingly pass for men of the soundest intellectuals. Among whom the Grammarians present themselves in the front, a sort of men who would be the most miserable, the most slavish, and the most hateful of all persons, if I did not in some way alleviate the pressures and miseries of their profession by blessing them with a bewitching sort of madness: for they are not only liable to those five curses, which they so oft recite from the first five verses of Homer, but to five hundred more of a worse nature; as always damned to thirst and hunger, to be choked with dust in their unswept schools (schools, shall I term them, or rather elaboratories, nay, bridewells, and houses of correction?), to wear out themselves in fret and drudgery; to be deafened with the noise of gaping boys; and in short, to be stifled with heat and stench; and yet they cheerfully dispense with all these inconveniences, and, by the help of a fond conceit, think themselves as happy as any men living: taking a great pride and delight in frowning and looking big upon the trembling urchins, in boxing, slashing, striking with the ferula, and in the exercise of all their other methods of tyranny; while thus lording it over a parcel of young, weak chits, they imitate the Cuman ass, and think themselves as stately as a lion, that domineers over all the inferior herd. Elevated with this conceit, they can hold filth and nastiness to be an ornament; can reconcile their nose to the most intolerable smells; and finally, think their wretched slavery the most arbitrary kingdom, which they would not exchange for the jurisdiction of the most sovereign potentate: and they are yet more happy by a strong persuasion of their own parts and abilities; for thus when their employment is only to rehearse silly stories, and poetical fictions, they will yet think themselves wiser than the best experienced philosopher; nay, they have an art of making ordinary people, such as their school boys' fond parents, to think them as considerable as their own pride has made them. Add hereunto this other sort of ravishing pleasure: when any of them has found out who was the mother of Anchises, or has lighted upon some old unusual word, such as _bubsequa, bovinator, manticulator_, or other like obsolete cramp terms; or can, after a great deal of poring, spell out the inscription of some battered monument; Lord! what joy, what triumph, what congratulating their success, as if they had conquered Africa, or taken Babylon the Great! When they recite some of their frothy, bombast verses, if any happen to admire them, they are presendy flushed with the least hint of commendation, and devoudy thank Pythagoras for his grateful hypothesis, whereby they are now become actuated with a descent of Virgil's poetic soul. Nor is any divertisement more pleasant, than when they meet to flatter and curry one another; yet they are so critical, that if any one hap to be guilty of the least slip, or seeming blunder, another shall presendy correct him for it, and then to it they go in a tongue-combat, with all the fervour, spleen, and eagerness imaginable. May Priscian himself be my enemy if what I am now going to say be not exactly true. I knew an old Sophister that was a Grecian, a latinist, a mathematician, a philosopher, a musician, and all to the utmost perfection, who, after threescore years' experience in the world, had spent the last twenty of them only in drudging to conquer the criticisms of grammar, and made it the chief part of his prayers, that his life might be so long spared till he had learned how righdy to distinguish betwixt the eight parts of speech, which no grammarian, whether Greek or Latin, had yet accurately done. If any chance to have placed that as a conjunction which ought to have been used as an adverb, it is a sufficient alarm to raise a war for doing justice to the injured word. And since there have been as many several grammars, as particular grammarians (nay, more, for Aldus alone wrote five distinct grammars for his own share), the schoolmaster must be obliged to consult them all, sparing for no time nor trouble, though never so great, lest he should be otherwise posed in an unobserved criticism, and so by an irreparable disgrace lose the reward of all his toil. It is indifferent to me whether you call this folly or madness, since you must needs confess that it is by my influence these school-tyrants, though in never so despicable a condition, are so happy in their own thoughts, that they would not change fortunes with the most illustrious Sophi of Persia. [Illustration: 242] The Poets, however somewhat less beholden to me, own a professed dependence on me, being a sort of lawless blades, that by prescription claim a license to a proverb, while the whole intent of their profession is only to smooth up and tickle the ears of fools, that by mere toys and fabulous shams, with which (however ridiculous) they are so bolstered up in an airy imagination, as to promise themselves an everlasting name, and promise, by their balderdash, at the same time to celebrate the never-dying memory of others. To these rapturous wits self-love and flattery are never-failing attendants; nor do any prove more zealous or constant devotees to folly. The Rhetoricians likewise, though they are ambitious of being ranked among the Philosophers, yet are apparently of my faction, as appears among other arguments, by this more especially; in that among their several topics of completing the art of oratory, they all particularly insist upon the knack of jesting, which is one species of folly; as is evident from the books of oratory wrote to Herennius, put among Cicero's work, but done by some other unknown author; and in Quintilian, that great master of eloquence, there is one large chapter spent in prescribing the methods of raising laughter: in short, they may well attribute a great efficacy to folly, since on any argument they can many times by a slight laugh over what they could never seriously confute. Of the same gang are those scribbling fops, who think to eternize their memory by setting up for authors: among which, though they are all some way indebted to me, yet are those more especially so, who spoil paper in blotting it with mere trifles and impertinences. For as to those graver drudgers to the press, that write learnedly, beyond the reach of an ordinary reader, who durst submit their labours to the review of the most severe critic, these are not so liable to be envied for their honour, as to be pitied for their sweat and slavery. They make additions, alterations, blot out, write anew, amend, interline, turn it upside down, and yet can never please their fickle judgment, but that they shall dislike the next hour what they penned the former; and all this to purchase the airy commendations of a few understanding readers, which at most is but a poor reward for all their fastings, watchings, confinements, and brain-breaking tortures of invention. Add to this the impairing of their health, the weakening of their constitution, their contracting sore eyes, or perhaps turning stark blind; their poverty, their envy, their debarment from all pleasures, their hastening on old age, their untimely death, and what other inconveniences of a like or worse nature can be thought upon: and yet the recompense for all this severe penance is at best no more than a mouthful or two of frothy praise. These, as they are more laborious, so are they less happy than those other hackney scribblers which I first mentioned, who never stand much to consider, but write what comes next at a venture, knowing that the more silly their composures are, the more they will be bought up by the greater number of readers, who are fools and blockheads: and if they hap to be condemned by some few judicious persons, it is an easy matter by clamour to drown their censure, and to silence them by urging the more numerous commendations of others. They are yet the wisest who transcribe whole discourses from others, and then reprint them as their own. By doing so they make a cheap and easy seizure to themselves of that reputation which cost the first author so much time and trouble to procure. If they are at any time pricked a little in conscience for fear of discovery, they feed themselves however with this hope, that if they be at last found plagiaries, yet at least for some time they have the credit of passing for the genuine authors. It is pleasant to see how all these several writers are puffed up with the least blast of applause, especially if they come to the honour of being pointed at as they walk along the streets, when their several pieces are laid open upon every bookseller's stall, when their names are embossed in a different character upon the tide-page, sometime only with the two first letters, and sometime with fictitious cramp terms, which few shall understand the meaning of; and of those that do, all shall not agree in their verdict of the performance; some censuring, others approving it, men's judgments being as different as their palates, that being toothsome to one which is unsavoury and nauseous to another: though it is a sneaking piece of cowardice for authors to put feigned names to their works, as if, like bastards of their brain, they were afraid to own them. Thus one styles himself Telemachus, another Stelenus, a third Polycrates, another Thrasyma-chus, and so on. By the same liberty we may ransack the whole alphabet, and jumble together any letters that come next to hand. It is farther very pleasant when these coxcombs employ their pens in writing congratulatory episdes, poems, and panegyricks, upon each other, wherein one shall be complimented with the title of Alcaeus, another shall be charactered for the incomparable Callimachus; this shall be commended for a completer orator than Tully himself; a fourth shall be told by his fellow-fool that the divine Plato comes short of him for a philosophic soul. Sometime again they take up the cudgels, and challenge out an antagonist, and so get a name by a combat at dispute and controversy, while the unwary readers draw sides according to their different judgments: the longer the quarrel holds the more irreconcilable it grows; and when both parties are weary, they each pretend themselves the conquerors, and both lay claim to the credit of coming off with victory. These fooleries make sport for wise men, as being highly absurd, ridiculous and extravagant True, but yet these paper-combatants, by my assistance, are so flushed with a conceit of their own greatness, that they prefer the solving of a syllogism before the sacking of Carthage; and upon the defeat of a poor objection carry themselves more triumphant than the most victorious Scipio. [Illustration: 250] Nay, even the learned and more judicious, that have wit enough to laugh at the other's folly, are very much beholden to my goodness; which (except ingratitude have drowned their ingenuity), they must be ready upon all occasions to confess. Among these I suppose the lawyers will shuffle in for precedence, and they of all men have the greatest conceit of their own abilities. They will argue as confidently as if they spoke gospel instead of law; they will cite you six hundred several precedents, though not one of them come near to the case in hand; they will muster up the authority of judgments, deeds, glosses, and reports, and tumble over so many musty records, that they make their employ, though in itself easy, the greatest slavery imaginable; always accounting that the best plea which they have took most pains for. [Illustration: 254] [Illustration: 257] To these, as bearing great resemblance to them, may be added logicians and sophisters, fellows that talk as much by rote as a parrot; who shall run down a whole gossiping of old women, nay, silence the very noise of a belfry, with louder clappers than those of the steeple; and if their unappeasable clamorousness were their only fault it would admit of some excuse; but they are at the same time so fierce and quarrelsome, that they will wrangle bloodily for the least trifle, and be so over intent and eager, that they many times lose their game in the chase and fright away that truth they are hunting for. Yet self-conceit makes these nimble disputants such doughty champions, that armed with three or four close-linked syllogisms, they shall enter the lists with the greatest masters of reason, and not question the foiling of them in an irresistible way, nay, their obstinacy makes them so confident of their being in the right, that all the arguments in the world shall never convince them to the contrary. Next to these come the philosophers in their long beards and short cloaks, who esteem themselves the only favourites of wisdom, and look upon the rest of mankind as the dirt and rubbish of the creation: yet these men's happiness is only a frantic craziness of brain; they build castles in the air, and infinite worlds in a _vacuum_. They will give you to a hair's breadth the dimensions of the sun, moon, and stars, as easily as they would do that of a flaggon or pipkin: they will give a punctual account of the rise of thunder, of the origin of winds, of the nature of eclipses, and of all the other abstrusest difficulties in physics, without the least demur or hesitation, as if they had been admitted into the cabinet council of nature, or had been eye-witnesses to all the accurate methods of creation; though alas nature does but laugh at all their puny conjectures; for they never yet made one considerable discovery, as appears in that they are unanimously agreed in no one point of the smallest moment; nothing so plain or evident but what by some or other is opposed and contradicted. But though they are ignorant of the artificial contexture of the least insect, they vaunt however, and brag that they know all things, when indeed they are unable to construe the mechanism of their own body: nay, when they are so purblind as not to be able to see a stone's cast before them, yet they shall be as sharp-sighted as possible in spying-out ideas, universals separate forms, first matters, quiddities, formalities, and a hundred such like niceties, so diminutively small, that were not their eyes extremely magnifying, all the art of optics could never make them discernible. But they then most despise the low grovelling vulgar when they bring out their parallels, triangles, circles, and other mathematical figures, drawn up in battalia, like so many spells and charms of conjuration in muster, with letters to refer to the explication of the several problems; hereby raising devils as it were, only to have the credit of laying them, and amusing the ordinary spectators into wonder, because they have not wit enough to understand the juggle. Of these some undertake to profess themselves judicial astrologers, pretending to keep correspondence with the stars, and so from their information can resolve any query; and though it is all but a presumptuous imposture, yet some to be sure will be so great fools as to believe them. [Illustration: 262] The divines present themselves next; but it may perhaps be most safe to pass them by, and not to touch upon so harsh a string as this subject would afford. Beside, the undertaking may be very hazardous; for they are a sort of men generally very hot and passionate; and should I provoke them, I doubt not would set upon me with a full cry, and force me with shame to recant, which if I stubbornly refuse to do, they will presently brand me for a heretic, and thunder out an excommunication, which is their spiritual weapon to wound such as lift up a hand against them. It is true, no men own a less dependence on me, yet have they reason to confess themselves indebted for no small obligations. For it is by one of my properties, self-love, that they fancy themselves, with their elder brother Paul, caught up into the third heaven, from whence, like shepherds indeed, they look down upon their flock, the laity, grazing as it were, in the vales of the world below. They fence themselves in with so many surrounders of magisterial definitions, conclusions, corollaries, propositions explicit and implicit, that there is no falling in with them; or if they do chance to be urged to a seeming non-plus, yet they find out so many evasions, that all the art of man can never bind them so fast, but that an easy distinction shall give them a starting-hole to escape the scandal of being baffled. They will cut asunder the toughest argument with as much ease as Alexander did the gordian knot; they will thunder out so many rattling terms as shall fright an adversary into conviction. They are exquisitely dexterous in unfolding the most intricate mysteries; they will tell you to a tittle all the successive proceedings of Omnipotence in the creation of the universe; they will explain the precise manner of original sin being derived from our first parents; they will satisfy you in what manner, by what degrees, and in how long a time, our Saviour was conceived in the Virgin's womb, and demonstrate in the consecrated wafer how accidents may subsist without a subject. Nay, these are accounted trivial, easy questions; they have yet far greater difficulties behind, which notwithstanding they solve with as much expedition as the former; as namely, whether supernatural generation requires any instant of time for its acting? whether Christ, as a son, bears a double specifically distinct relation to God the Father, and his virgin mother? whether this proposition is possible to be true, the first person of the Trinity hated the second? whether God, who took our nature upon him in the form of a man, could as well have become a woman, a devil, a beast, a herb, or a stone? and were it so possible that the Godhead had appeared in any shape of an inanimate substance, how he should then have preached his gospel? or how have been nailed to the cross? whether if St. Peter had celebrated the eucharist at the same time our Saviour was hanging on the cross, the consecrated bread would have been transubstantiated into the same body that remained on the tree? whether in Christ's corporal presence in the sacramental wafer, his humanity be not abstracted from his Godhead? whether after the resurrection we shall carnally eat and drink as we do in this life? There are a thousand other more sublimated and refined niceties of notions, relations, quantities, formalities, quiddities, haeccities, and such like abstrusities, as one would think no one could pry into, except he had not only such cat's eyes as to see best in the dark, but even such a piercing faculty as to see through an inch-board, and spy out what really never had any being. Add to these some of their tenets and opinions, which are so absurd and extravagant, that the wildest fancies of the Stoicks which they so much disdain and decry as paradoxes, seem in comparison just and rational; as their maintaining, that it is a less aggravating fault to kill a hundred men, than for a poor cobbler to set a stitch on the sabbath-day; or, that it is more justifiable to do the greatest injury imaginable to others, than to tell the least lie ourselves. And these subtleties are alchymized to a more refined sublimate by the abstracting brains of their several schoolmen; the Realists, the Nominalists, the Thomists, the Albertists, the Occamists, the Scotists; these are not all, but the rehearsal of a few only, as a specimen of their divided sects; in each of which there is so much of deep learning, so much of unfathomable difficulty, that I believe the apostles themselves would stand in need of a new illuminating spirit, if they were to engage in any controversy with these new divines. St. Paul, no question, had a full measure of faith; yet when he lays down faith to be the substance of things not seen, these men carp at it for an imperfect definition, and would undertake to teach the apostles better logic. Thus the same holy author wanted for nothing of the grace of charity, yet (say they) he describes and defines it but very inaccurately, when he treats of it in the thirteenth chapter of his first epistle to the Corinthians. The primitive disciples were very frequent in administering the holy sacrament, breaking bread from house to house; yet should they be asked of the _Terminus a quo_ and the _Terminus ad quern_, the nature of transubstantiation? the manner how one body can be in several places at the same time? the difference betwixt the several attributes of Christ in heaven, on the cross, and in the consecrated bread? what time is required for the transubstantiating the bread into flesh? how it can be done by a short sentence pronounced by the priest, which sentence is a species of discreet quantity, that has no permanent _punctum?_ Were they asked (I say) these, and several other confused queries, I do not believe they could answer so readily as our mincing school-men now-a-days take a pride to do. They were well acquainted with the Virgin Mary, yet none of them undertook to prove that she was preserved immaculate from original sin, as some of our divines very hotly contend for. St. Peter had the keys given to him, and that by our Saviour himself, who had never entrusted him except he had known him capable of their manage and custody; and yet it is much to be questioned whether Peter was sensible of that subtlety broached by Scotus, that he may have the key of knowledge effectually for others, who has no knowledge actually in himself. Again, they baptized all nations, and yet never taught what was the formal, material, efficient, and final cause of baptism, and certainly never dreamt of distinguishing between a delible and an indelible character in this sacrament They worshipped in the spirit, following their master's injunction, God is a spirit, and they which worship him, must worship him in spirit, and in truth; yet it does not appear that it was ever revealed to them how divine adoration should be paid at the same time to our blessed Saviour in heaven, and to his picture here below on a wall, drawn with two fingers held out, a bald crown, and a circle round his head. To reconcile these intricacies to an appearance of reason requires three-score years' experience in metaphysics. Farther, the apostles often mention _Grace_, yet never distinguish between _gratia, gratis data_, and _gratia gratificans_. They earnestly exhort us likewise to good works, yet never explain the difference between _Opus operans_, and _Opus operatum_. They very frequently press and invite us to seek after charity, without dividing it into infused and acquired, or determining whether it be a substance or an accident, a created or an uncreated being. They detested sin themselves, and warned others from the commission of it; and yet I am sure they could never have defined so dogmatically, as the Scotists have since done. St. Paul, who in other's judgment is no less the chief of the apostles, than he was in his own the chief of sinners, who being bred at the feet of Gamaliel, was certainly more eminently a scholar than any of the rest, yet he often exclaims against vain philosophy, warns us from doting about questions and strifes of words, and charges us to avoid profane and vain babblings, and oppositions of science falsely so called; which he would not have done, if he had thought it worth his while to have become acquainted with them, which he might soon have been, the disputes of that age being but small, and more intelligible sophisms, in reference to the vastly greater intricacies they are now improved to. But yet, however, our scholastic divines are so modest, that if they meet with any passage in St. Paul, or any other penman of holy writ, which is not so well modelled, or critically disposed of, as they could wish, they will not roughly condemn it, but bend it rather to a favorable interpretation, out of reverence to antiquity, and respect to the holy scriptures; though indeed it were unreasonable to expect anything of this nature from the apostles, whose lord and master had given unto them to know the mysteries of God, but not those of philosophy. If the same divines meet with anything of like nature unpalatable in St. Chrysostom, St. Basil, St. Hierom, or others of the fathers, they will not stick to appeal from their authority, and very fairly resolve that they lay under a mistake. Yet these ancient fathers were they who confuted both the Jews and Heathens, though they both obstinately adhered to their respective prejudices; they confuted them (I say), yet by their lives and miracles, rather than by words and syllogisms; and the persons they thus proselyted were downright honest, well meaning people, such as understood plain sense better than any artificial pomp of reasoning: whereas if our divines should now set about the gaining converts from paganism by their metaphysical subtleties, they would find that most of the persons they applied themselves to were either so ignorant as not at all to apprehend them, or so impudent as to scoff and deride them; or finally, so well skilled at the same weapons, that they would be able to keep their pass, and fence off all assaults of conviction: and this last way the victory would be altogether as hopeless, as if two persons were engaged of so equal strength, that it were impossible any one should overpower the other. If my judgment might be taken, I would advise Christians, in their next expedition to a holy war, instead of those many unsuccessful legions, which they have hitherto sent to encounter the Turks and Saracens, that they would furnish out their clamorous Scotists, their obstinate Occamists, their invincible Albertists, and all their forces of tough, crabbed and profound disputants: the engagement, I fancy, would be mighty pleasant, and the victory we may imagine on our side not to be questioned. For which of the enemies would not veil their turbans at so solemn an appearance? Which of the fiercest Janizaries would not throw away his scimitar, and all the half-moons be eclipsed by the interposition of so glorious an army? [Illustration: 270] I suppose you mistrust I speak all this by way of jeer and irony; and well I may, since among divines themselves there are some so ingenious as to despise these captious and frivolous impertinences: they look upon it as a kind of profane sacrilege, and a little less than blasphemous impiety, to determine of such niceties in religion, as ought rather to be the subject of an humble and uncontradicting faith, than of a scrupulous and inquisitive reason: they abhor a defiling the mysteries of Christianity with an intermixture of heathenish philosophy, and judge it very improper to reduce divinity to an obscure speculative science, whose end is such a happiness as can be gained only by the means of practice. But alas, those notional divines, however condemned by the soberer judgment of others, are yet mightily pleased with themselves, and are so laboriously intent upon prosecuting their crabbed studies, that they cannot afford so much time as to read a single chapter in any one book of the whole bible. And while they thus trifle away their mis-spent hours in trash and babble, they think that they support the Catholic Church with the props and pillars of propositions and syllogisms, no less effectually than Atlas is feigned by the poets to sustain on his shoulders the burden of a tottering world. [Illustration: Atlas with the Burden of the Tottering World 274] Their privileges, too, and authority are very considerable: they can deal with any text of scripture as with a nose of wax, knead it into what shape best suits their interest; and whatever conclusions they have dogmatically resolved upon, they would have them as irrepealably ratified as Solon's laws, and in as great force as the very decrees of the papal chair. If any be so bold as to remonstrate to their decisions, they will bring him on his knees to a recantation of his impudence. They shall pronounce as irrevocably as an oracle, this proposition is scandalous, that irreverent; this has a smack of heresy, and that is bald and improper; so that it is not the being baptised into the church, the believing of the scriptures, the giving credit to St. Peter, St. Paul, St. Hierom, St. Augustin, nay, or St. Thomas Aquinas himself, that shall make a man a Christian, except he have the joint suffrage of these novices in learning,-who have blessed the world no doubt with a great many discoveries, which had never come to light, if they had not struck the fire of subtlety out of the flint of obscurity. These fooleries sure must be a happy employ. Farther, they make as many partitions and divisions in hell and purgatory, and describe as many different sorts and degrees of punishment as if they were very well acquainted with the soil and situation of those infernal regions. And to prepare a seat for the blessed above, they invent new orbs, and a stately empyrean heaven, so wide and spacious as if they had purposely contrived it, that the glorified saints might have room enough to walk, to feast, or to take any recreation. With these, and a thousand more such like toys, their heads are more stuffed and swelled than Jove, when he went big of Pallas in his brain, and was forced to use the midwifery of Vulcan's axe to ease him of his teeming burden. [Illustration: Midwivery of Vulcan's Axe 278] Do not wonder, therefore, that at public disputations they bind their heads with so many caps one over another; for this is to prevent the loss of their brains, which would otherwise break out from their uneasy confinement. It affords likewise a pleasant scene of laughter, to listen to these divines in their hotly managed disputations; to see how proud they are of talking such hard gibberish, and stammering out such blundering distinctions, as the auditors perhaps may sometimes gape at, but seldom apprehend: and they take such a liberty in their speaking of Latin, that they scorn to stick at the exactness of syntax or concord; pretending it is below the majesty of a divine to talk like a pedagogue, and be tied to the slavish observance of the rules of grammar. Finally, they take a vast pride, among other citations, to allege the authority of their respective master, which word they bear as profound a respect to as the Jews did to their ineffable _tetragrammaton_, and therefore they will be sure never to write it any otherwise than in great letters, MAGISTER NOSTER; and if any happen to invert the order of the words, and say, _noster magister_ instead of _magister noster_, they will presently exclaim against him as a pestilent heretic and underminer of the catholic faith. [Illustration: 282] The next to these are another sort of brainsick fools, who style themselves monks and of religious orders, though they assume both titles very unjustly: for as to the last, they have very little religion in them; and as to the former, the etymology of the word monk implies a solitariness, or being alone; whereas they are so thick abroad that we cannot pass any street or alley without meeting them. Now I cannot imagine what one degree of men would be more hopelessly wretched, if I did not stand their friend, and buoy them up in that lake of misery, which by the engagements of a holy vow they have voluntarily immerged themselves in. But when these sort of men are so unwelcome to others, as that the very sight of them is thought ominous, I yet make them highly in love with themselves, and fond admirers of their own happiness. The first step whereunto they esteem a profound ignorance, thinking carnal knowledge a great enemy to their spiritual welfare, and seem confident of becoming greater proficients in divine mysteries the less they are poisoned with any human learning. They imagine that they bear a sweet consort with the heavenly choir, when they tone out their daily tally of psalms, which they rehearse only by rote, without permitting their understanding or affections to go along with their voice. Among these some make a good profitable trade of beggary, going about from house to house, not like the apostles, to break, but to beg, their bread; nay, thrust into all public-houses, come aboard the passage-boats, get into the travelling waggons, and omit no opportunity of time or place for the craving people's charity; doing a great deal of injury to common highway beggars by interloping in their traffic of alms. And when they are thus voluntarily poor, destitute, not provided with two coats, nor with any money in their purse, they have the impudence to pretend that they imitate the first disciples, whom their master expressly sent out in such an equipage. It is pretty to observe how they regulate all their actions as it were by weight and measure to so exact a proportion, as if the whole loss of their religion depended upon the omission of the least punctilio. Thus they must be very critical in the precise number of knots to the tying on of their sandals; what distinct colours their respective habits, and what stuff made of; how broad and long their girdles; how big, and in what fashion, their hoods; whether their bald crowns be to a hair's-breadth of the right cut; how many hours they must sleep, at what minute rise to prayers, &c. And these several customs are altered according to the humours of different persons and places. While they are sworn to the superstitious observance of these trifles, they do not only despise all others, but are very inclinable to fall out among themselves; for though they make profession of an apostolic charity, yet they will pick a quarrel, and be implacably passionate for such poor provocations, as the girting on a coat the wrong way, for the wearing of clothes a little too darkish coloured, or any such nicety not worth the speaking of. [Illustration: 288] Some are so obstinately superstitious that they will wear their upper garment of some coarse dog's hair stuff, and that next their skin as soft as silk: but others on the contrary will have linen frocks outermost, and their shirts of wool, or hair. Some again will not touch a piece of money, though they make no scruple of the sin of drunkenness, and the lust of the flesh. All their several orders are mindful of nothing more than of their being distinguished from each other by their different customs and habits. They seem indeed not so careful of becoming like Christ, and of being known to be his disciples, as the being unlike to one another, and distinguishable for followers of their several founders. A great part of their religion consists in their title: some will be called cordeliers, and these subdivided into capuchines, minors, minims, and mendicants; some again are styled Benedictines, others of the order of St. Bernard, others of that of St. Bridget; some are Augustin monks, some Willielmites, and others Jacobists, as if the common name of Christian were too mean and vulgar. Most of them place their greatest stress for salvation on a strict conformity to their foppish ceremonies, and a belief of their legendary traditions; wherein they fancy to have acquitted themselves with so much of supererogation, that one heaven can never be a condign reward for their meritorious life; little thinking that the Judge of all the earth at the last day shall put them off, with a who hath required these things at your hands; and call them to account only for the stewardship of his legacy, which was the precept of love and charity. It will be pretty to hear their pleas before the great tribunal: one will brag how he mortified his carnal appetite by feeding only upon fish: another will urge that he spent most of his time on earth in the divine exercise of singing psalms: a third will tell how many days he fasted, and what severe penance he imposed on himself for the bringing his body into subjection: another shall produce in his own behalf as many ceremonies as would load a fleet of merchant-men: a fifth shall plead that in threescore years he never so much as touched a piece of money, except he fingered it through a thick pair of gloves: a sixth, to testify his former humility, shall bring along with him his sacred hood, so old and nasty, that any seaman had rather stand bare headed on the deck, than put it on to defend his ears in the sharpest storms: the next that comes to answer for himself shall plead, that for fifty years together, he had lived like a sponge upon the same place, and was content never to change his homely habitation: another shall whisper softly, and tell the judge he has lost his voice by a continual singing of holy hymns and anthems: the next shall confess how he fell into a lethargy by a strict, reserved, and sedentary life: and the last shall intimate that he has forgot to speak, by having always kept silence, in obedience to the injunction of taking heed lest he should have offended with his tongue. But amidst all their fine excuses our Saviour shall interrupt them with this answer, Woe unto you, scribes and pharisees, hypocrites, verily I know you not; I left you but one precept, of loving one another, which I do not hear any one plead he has faithfully discharged: I told you plainly in my gospel, without any parable, that my father's kingdom was prepared not for such as should lay claim to it by austerities, prayers, or fastings, but for those who should render themselves worthy of it by the exercise of faith, and the offices of charity: I cannot own such as depend on their own merits without a reliance on my mercy: as many of you therefore as trust to the broken reeds of your own deserts may even go search out a new heaven, for you shall never enter into that, which from the foundations of the world was prepared only for such as are true of heart. When these monks and friars shall meet with such a shameful repulse, and see that ploughmen and mechanics are admitted into that kingdom, from which they themselves are shut out, how sneakingly will they look, and how pitifully slink away? Yet till this last trial they had more comfort of a future happiness, because more hopes of it than any other men. And these persons are not only great in their own eyes, but highly esteemed and respected by others, especially those of the order of mendicants, whom none dare to offer any affront to, because as confessors they are intrusted with all the secrets of particular intrigues, which they are bound by oath not to discover; yet many times, when they are almost drunk, they cannot keep their tongue so far within their head, as not to be babbling out some hints, and shewing themselves so full, that they are in pain to be delivered. If any person give them the least provocation they will sure to be revenged of him, and in their next public harangue give him such shrewd wipes and reflections, that the whole congregation must needs take notice at whom they are levelled; nor will they ever desist from this way of declaiming, till their mouth be stopped with a bribe to hold their tongue. All their preaching is mere stage-playing, and their delivery the very transports of ridicule and drollery. Good Lord! how mimical are their gestures? What heights and falls in their voice? What toning, what bawling, what singing, what squeaking, what grimaces, making of mouths, apes' faces, and distorting of their countenance; and this art of oratory as a choice mystery, they convey down by tradition to one another. The manner of it I may adventure thus farther to enlarge upon. First, in a kind of mockery they implore the divine assistance, which they borrowed from the solemn custom of the poets: then if their text suppose be of charity, they shall take their exordium as far off as from a description of the river Nile in Egypt; or if they are to discourse of the mystery of the Cross, they shall begin with a story of Bell and the Dragon; or perchance if their subject be of fasting, for an entrance to their sermon they shall pass through the twelve signs of the zodiac; or lastly, if they are to preach of faith, they shall address themselves in a long mathematical account of the quadrature of the circle. I myself once heard a great fool (a great scholar I would have said) undertaking in a laborious discourse to explain the mystery of the Holy Trinity; in the unfolding whereof, that he might shew his wit and reading, and together satisfy itching ears, he proceeded in a new method, as by insisting on the letters, syllables, and proposition, on the concord of noun and verb, and that of noun substantive, and noun adjective; the auditors all wondered, and some mumbled to themselves that hemistitch of Horace, Why all this needless trash? But at last he brought it thus far, that he could demonstrate the whole Trinity to be represented by these first rudiments of grammar, as clearly and plainly as it was possible for a mathematician to draw a triangle in the sand: and for the making of this grand discovery, this subtle divine had plodded so hard for eight months together, that he studied himself as blind as a beetle, the intenseness of the eye of his understanding overshadowing and extinguishing that of his body; and yet he did not at all repent him of his blindness, but thinks the loss of his sight an easy purchase for the gain of glory and credit. [Illustration: 294] I heard at another time a grave divine, of fourscore years of age at least, so sour and hard-favoured, that one would be apt to mistrust that it was Scotus Redivivus; he taking upon him to treat of the mysterious name, JESUS, did very subtly pretend that in the very letters was contained, whatever could be said of it: for first, its being declined only with three cases, did expressly point out the trinity of persons, then that the nominative ended in S, the accusative in M, and the ablative in U, did imply some unspeakable mystery, viz., that in words of those initial letters Christ was the _summus_, or beginning, the _medius_, or middle, and the _ultimus_, or end of all things. There was yet a more abstruse riddle to be explained, which was by dividing the word JESUS into two parts, and separating the S in the middle from the two extreme syllables, making a kind of pentameter, the word consisting of five letters: and this intermedial S being in the Hebrew alphabet called sin, which in the English language signifies what the Latins term _peecatum_, was urged to imply that the holy Jesus should purify us from all sin and wickedness. Thus did the pulpiteer cant, while all the congregation, especially the brotherhood of divines, were so surprised at his odd way of preaching, that wonder served them, as grief did Niobe, almost turned them into stones. I among the rest (as Horace describes Priapus viewing the enchantments of the two sorceresses, Canidia and Sagane) could no longer contain, but let fly a cracking report of the operation it had upon me. These impertinent introductions are not without reason condemned; for of old, whenever Demosthenes among the Greeks, or Tully among the Latins, began their orations with so great a digression from the matter in hand, it was always looked upon as improper and unelegant, and indeed, were such a long-fetched exordium any token of a good invention, shepherds and ploughmen might lay claim to the title of men of greatest parts, since upon any argument it is easiest for them to talk what is least to the purpose. These preachers think their preamble (as we may well term it), to be the most fashionable, when it is farthest from the subject they propose to treat of, while each auditor sits and wonders what they drive at, and many times mutters out the complaint of Virgil:-- _Whither does all this jargon tend?_ In the third place, when they come to the division of their text, they shall give only a very short touch at the interpretation of the words, when the fuller explication of their sense ought to have been their only province. Fourthly, after they are a little entered, they shall start some theological queries, far enough off from the matter in hand, and bandy it about pro and con till they lose it in the heat of scuffle. And here they shall cite their doctors invincible, subtle, seraphic, cherubic, holy, irrefragable, and such like great names to confirm their several assertions. Then out they bring their syllogisms, their majors, their minors, conclusions, corollaries, suppositions, and distinctions, that will sooner terrify the congregation into an amazement, than persuade them into a conviction. Now comes the fifth act, in which they must exert their utmost skill to come off with applause. Here therefore they fall a telling some sad lamentable story out of their legend, or some other fabulous history, and this they descant upon allegorically, tropologically, and analogically; and so they draw to a conclusion of their discourse, which is a more brain-sick chimera than ever Horace could describe in his _De Arte Poetica_, when he began:-- _Humano Capitis &c_. Their praying is altogether as ridiculous as their preaching; for imagining that in their addresses to heaven they should set out in a low and tremulous voice, as a token of dread and reverence, they begin therefore with such a soft whispering as if they were afraid any one should overhear what they said; but when they are gone a little way, they clear up their pipes by degrees, and at last bawl out so loud as if, with Baal's priests, they were resolved to awake a sleeping god; and then again, being told by rhetoricians that heights and falls, and a different cadency in pronunciation, is a great advantage to the setting off any thing that is spoken, they will sometimes as it were mutter their words inwardly, and then of a sudden hollo them out, and be sure at last, in such a flat, faltering tone as if their spirits were spent, and they had run themselves out of breath. Lastly, they have read that most systems of rhetoric treat of the art of exciting laughter; therefore for the effecting of this they will sprinkle some jests and puns that must pass for ingenuity, though they are only the froth and folly of affectedness. Sometimes they will nibble at the wit of being satyrical, though their utmost spleen is so toothless, that they suck rather than bite, tickle rather than scratch or wound: nor do they ever flatter more than at such times as they pretend to speak with greatest freedom. Finally, all their actions are so buffoonish and mimical, that any would judge they had learned all their tricks of mountebanks and stage-players, who in action it is true may perhaps outdo them, but in oratory there is so little odds between both, that it is hard to determine which seems of longest standing in the schools of eloquence. Yet these preachers, however ridiculous, meet with such hearers, who admire them as much as the people of Athens did Demosthenes, or the citizens of Rome could do Cicero: among which admirers are chiefly shopkeepers, and women, whose approbation and good opinion they only court; because the first, if they are humoured, give them some snacks out of unjust gain; and the last come and ease their grief to them upon all pinching occasions, especially when their husbands are any ways cross or unkind. Thus much I suppose may suffice to make you sensible how much these cell-hermits and recluses are indebted to my bounty; who when they tyrannize over the consciences of the deluded laity with fopperies, juggles, and impostures, yet think themselves as eminently pious as St. Paul, St. Anthony, or any other of the saints; but these stage-divines, not less ungrateful dis-owners of their obligations to folly, than they are impudent pretenders to the profession of piety, I willingly take my leave of, and pass now to kings, princes, and courtiers, who paying me a devout acknowledgment, may justly challenge back the respect of being mentioned and taken notice of by me. And first, had they wisdom enough to make a true judgment of things, they would find their own condition to be more despicable and slavish than that of the most menial subjects. For certainly none can esteem perjury or parricide a cheap purchase for a crown, if he does but seriously reflect on that weight of cares a princely diadem is loaded with. He that sits at the helm of government acts in a public capacity, and so must sacrifice all private interest to the attainment of the common good; he must himself be conformable to those laws his prerogative exacts, or else he can expect no obedience paid them from others; he must have a strict eye over all his inferior magistrates and officers, or otherwise it is to be doubted they will but carelessly discharge their respective duties. Every king, within his own territories, is placed for a shining example as it were in the firmament of his wide-spread dominions, to prove either a glorious star of benign influence, if his behaviour be remarkably just and innocent, or else to impend as a threatening comet, if his blazing power be pestilent and hurtful. Subjects move in a darker sphere, and so their wanderings and failings are less discernible; whereas princes, being fixed in a more exalted orb, and encompassed with a brighter dazzling lustre, their spots are more apparently visible, and their eclipses, or other defects, influential on all that is inferior to them. Kings are baited with so many temptations and opportunities to vice and immorality, such as are high feeding, liberty, flattery, luxury, and the like, that they must stand perpetually on their guard, to fence off those assaults that are always ready to be made upon them. In fine, abating from treachery, hatred, dangers, fear, and a thousand other mischiefs impending on crowned heads, however uncontrollable they are this side heaven, yet after their reign here they must appear before a supremer judge, and there be called to an exact account for the discharge of that great stewardship which was committed to their trust If princes did but seriously consider (and consider they would if they were but wise) these many hardships of a royal life, they would be so perplexed in the result of their thoughts thereupon, as scarce to eat or sleep in quiet But now by my assistance they leave all these cares to the gods, and mind only their own ease and pleasure, and therefore will admit none to their attendance but who will divert them with sport and mirth, lest they should otherwise be seized and damped with the surprisal of sober thoughts. They think they have sufficiently acquitted themselves in the duty of governing, if they do but ride constantly a hunting, breed up good race-horses, sell places and offices to those of the courtiers that will give most for them, and find out new ways for invading of their people's property, and hooking in a larger revenue to their own exchequer; for the procurement whereof they will always have some pretended claim and title; that though it be manifest extortion, yet it may bear the show of law and justice: and then they daub over their oppression with a submissive, flattering carriage, that they may so far insinuate into the affections of the vulgar, as they may not tumult nor rebel, but patiently crouch to burdens and exactions. Let us feign now a person ignorant of the laws and constitutions of that realm he lives in, an enemy to the public good, studious only for his own private interest, addicted wholly to pleasures and delights, a hater of learning, a professed enemy to liberty and truth, careless and unmindful of the common concerns, taking all the measures of justice and honesty from the false beam of self-interest and advantage, after this hang about his neck a gold chain, for an intimation that he ought to have all virtues linked together; then set a crown of gold and jewels on his head, for a token that he ought to overtop and outshine others in all commendable qualifications; next, put into his hand a royal sceptre for a symbol of justice and integrity; lastly, clothe him with purple, for an hieroglyphic of a tender love and affection to the commonwealth. If a prince should look upon this portraiture, and draw a comparison between that and himself, certainly he would be ashamed of his ensigns of majesty, and be afraid of being laughed out of them. [Illustration: His Majesty 302] Next to kings themselves may come their courtiers, who, though they are for the most part a base, servile, cringing, low-spirited sort of flatterers, yet they look big, swell great, and have high thoughts of their honour and grandeur. Their confidence appears upon all occasions; yet in this one thing they are very modest, in that they are content to adorn their bodies with gold, jewels, purple, and other glorious ensigns of virtue and wisdom, but leave their minds empty and unfraught; and taking the resemblance of goodness to themselves, turn over the truth and reality of it to others. They think themselves mighty happy in that they can call the king master, and be allowed the familiarity of talking with him; that they can volubly rehearse his several tides of august highness, supereminent excellence, and most serene majesty, that they can boldly usher in any discourse, and that they have the complete knack of insinuation and flattery; for these are the arts that make them truly genteel and noble. If you make a stricter enquiry after their other endowments, you shall find them mere sots and dolts. They will sleep generally till noon, and then their mercenary chaplains shall come to their bed-side, and entertain them perhaps with a short morning prayer. As soon as they are drest they must go to breakfast, and when that is done, immediately to dinner. When the cloth is taken away, then to cards, dice, tables, or some such like diversion. After this they must have one or two afternoon banquets, and so in the evening to supper. When they have supped then begins the game of drinking; the bottles are marshalled, the glasses ranked, and round go the healths and bumpers till they are carried to bed. And this is the constant method of passing away their hours, days, months, years, and ages. I have many times took great satisfaction by standing in the court, and seeing how the tawdry butterflies vie upon one another: the ladies shall measure the height of their humours by the length of their trails, which must be borne up by a page behind. The nobles justle one another to get nearest to the king's elbow, and wear gold chains of that weight and bigness as require no less strength to carry than they do wealth to purchase. And now for some reflections upon popes, cardinals, and bishops, who in pomp and splendour have almost equalled if not outgone secular princes. Now if any one consider that their upper crotchet of white linen is to signify their unspotted purity and innocence; that their forked mitres, with both divisions tied together by the same knot, are to denote the joint knowledge of the Old and New Testament; that their always wearing gloves, represents their keeping their hands clean and undented from lucre and covetousness; that the pastoral staff implies the care of a flock committed to their charge; that the cross carried before them expresses their victory over all carnal affections; he (I say) that considers this, and much more of the like nature, must needs conclude they are entrusted with a very weighty and difficult office. But alas, they think it sufficient if they can but feed themselves; and as to their flock, either commend them to the care of Christ himself, or commit them to the guidance of some inferior vicars and curates; not so much as remembering what their name of bishop imports, to wit, labour, pains, and diligence, but by base simoniacal contracts, they are in a profane sense _Episcopi, i.e_., overseers of their own gain and income. [Illustration: 312] [Illustration: 316] So cardinals, in like manner, if they did but consider that the church supposes them to succeed in the room of the apostles; that therefore they must behave themselves as their predecessors, and so not be lords, but dispensers of spiritual gifts, of the disposal whereof they must one day render a strict account: or if they would but reflect a little on their habit, and thus reason with themselves, what means this white upper garment, but only an unspotted innocence? What signifies my inner purple, but only an ardent love and zeal to God? What imports my outermost pall, so wide and long that it covers the whole mule when I ride, nay, should be big enough to cover a camel, but only a diffusive charity, that should spread itself for a succour and protection to all, by teaching, exhorting, comforting, reproving, admonishing, composing of differences, courageously withstanding wicked princes, and sacrificing for the safety of our flock our life and blood, as well as our wealth and riches; though indeed riches ought not to be at all possessed by such as boast themselves successors to the apostles, who were poor, needy, and destitute: I say, if they did but lay these considerations to heart they would never be so ambitious of being created to this honour, they would willingly resign it when conferred upon them, or at least would be as industrious, watchful and laborious, as the primitive apostles were. Now as to the popes of Rome, who pretend themselves Christ's vicars, if they would but imitate his exemplary life, in the being employed in an unintermitted course of preaching; in the being attended with poverty, nakedness, hunger, and a contempt of this world; if they did but consider the import of the word pope, which signifies a father; or if they did but practice their surname of most holy, what order or degrees of men would be in a worse condition? There would be then no such vigorous making of parties, and buying of votes, in the conclave upon a vacancy of that see: and those who by bribery, or other indirect courses, should get themselves elected, would never secure their sitting firm in the chair by pistol, poison, force, and violence. How much of their pleasure would be abated if they were but endowed with one dram of wisdom? Wisdom, did I say? Nay, with one grain of that salt which our Saviour bid them not lose the savour of. All their riches, all their honour, their jurisdictions, their Peter's patrimony, their offices, their dispensations, their licences, their indulgences, their long train and attendants (see in how short a compass I have abbreviated all their marketing of religion); in a word, all their perquisites would be forfeited and lost; and in their room would succeed watchings, fastings, tears, prayers, sermons, hard studies, repenting sighs, and a thousand such like severe penalties: nay, what's yet more deplorable, it would then follow, that all their clerks, amanuenses, notaries, advocates, proctors, secretaries, the offices of grooms, ostlers, serving-men, pimps (and somewhat else, which for modesty's sake I shall not mention); in short, all these troops of attendants, which depend on his holiness, would all lose their several employments. [Illustration: The Pope 320] This indeed would be hard, but what yet remains would be more dreadful: the very Head of the Church, the spiritual prince, would then be brought from all his splendour to the poor equipage of a scrip and staff. But all this is upon the supposition only that they understood what circumstances they are placed in; whereas now, by a wholesome neglect of thinking, they live as well as heart can wish: whatever of toil and drudgery belongs to their office that they assign over to St. Peter, or St. Paul, who have time enough to mind it; but if there be any thing of pleasure and grandeur, that they assume to themselves, as being hereunto called: so that by my influence no sort of people live more to their own ease and content. They think to satisfy that Master they pretend to serve, our Lord and Saviour, with their great state and magnificence, with the ceremonies of instalments, with the tides of reverence and holiness, and with exercising their episcopal function only in blessing and cursing. The working of miracles is old and out-dated; to teach the people is too laborious; to interpret scripture is to invade the prerogative of the schoolmen; to pray is too idle; to shed tears is cowardly and unmanly; to fast is too mean and sordid; to be easy and familiar is beneath the grandeur of him, who, without being sued to and intreated, will scarce give princes the honour of kissing his toe; finally, to die for religion is too self-denying; and to be crucified as their Lord of Life, is base and ignominious. Their only weapons ought to be those of the Spirit; and of these indeed they are mighty liberal, as of their interdicts, their suspensions, their denunciations, their aggravations, their greater and lesser excommunications, and their roaring bulls, that fright whomever they are thundered against; and these most holy fathers never issue them out more frequently than against those, who, at the instigation of the devil, and not having the fear of God before their eyes, do feloniously and maliciously attempt to lessen and impair St. Peter's patrimony: and though that apostle tells our Saviour in the gospel, in the name of all the other disciples, we have left all, and followed you, yet they challenge as his inheritance, fields, towns, treasures, and large dominions; for the defending whereof, inflamed with a holy zeal, they fight with fire and sword, to the great loss and effusion of Christian blood, thinking they are apostolical maintainers of Christ's spouse, the church, when they have murdered all such as they call her enemies; though indeed the church has no enemies more bloody and tyrannical than such impious popes, who give dispensations for the not preaching of Christ; evacuate the main effect and design of our redemption by their pecuniary bribes and sales; adulterate the gospel by their forced interpretations, and undermining traditions; and lastly, by their lusts and wickedness grieve the Holy Spirit, and make their Saviour's wounds to bleed anew. [Illustration: 324] Farther, when the Christian church has been all along first planted, then confirmed, and since established by the blood of her martyrs, as if Christ her head would be wanting in the same methods still of protecting her, they invert the order, and propagate their religion now by arms and violence, which was wont formerly to be done only with patience and sufferings. And though war be so brutish, as that it becomes beasts rather than men; so extravagant, that the poets feigned it an effect of the furies; so licentious, that it stops the course of all justice and honesty, so desperate, that it is best waged by ruffians and banditti, and so unchristian, that it is contrary to the express commands of the gospel; yet maugre all this, peace is too quiet, too inactive, and they must be engaged in the boisterousness of war. Among which undertaking popes, you shall have some so old that they can scarce creep, and yet they will put on a young, brisk resolution, will resolve to stick at no pains, to spare no cost, nor to waive any inconvenience, so they may involve laws, religion, peace, and all other concerns, whether sacred or civil, in unappeasable tumults and distractions. And yet some of their learned fawning courtiers will interpret this notorious madness for zeal, and piety, and fortitude, having found out the way how a man may draw his sword, and sheathe it in his brother's bowels, and yet not offend against the duty of the second table, whereby we are obliged to love our neighbours as ourselves. It is yet uncertain whether these Romish fathers have taken example from, or given precedent to, such other German bishops, who omitting their ecclesiastical habit, and other ceremonies, appear openly armed cap-a-pie, like so many champions and warriors, thinking no doubt that they come short of the duty of their function, if they die in any other place than the open field, fighting the battles of the Lord. The inferior clergy, deeming it unmannerly not to conform to their patrons and diocesans, devoutly tug and fight for their tithes with syllogisms and arguments, as fiercely as with swords, sticks, stones, or anything that came next to hand. When they read the rabbies, fathers, or other ancient writings, how quick-sighted are they in spying out any sentences, that they may frighten the people with, and make them believe that more than the tenth is due, passing by whatever they meet with in the same authors that minds them of the duty and difficulty of their own office. They never consider that their shaven crown is a token that they should pare off and cut away all the superfluous lusts of this world, and give themselves wholly to divine meditation; but instead of this, our bald-pated priests think they have done enough, if they do but mumble over such a fardel of prayers; which it is a wonder if God should hear or understand, when they whisper them so softly, and in so unknown a language, which they can scarce hear or understand themselves. This they have in common with other mechanics, that they are most subtle in the craft of getting money, and wonderfully skilled in their respective dues of tithes, offerings, perquisites, &c. Thus they are all content to reap the profit, but as to the burden, that they toss as a ball from one hand to another, and assign it over to any they can get or hire: for as secular princes have their judges and subordinate ministers to act in their name, and supply their stead; so ecclesiastical governors have their deputies, vicars, and curates, nay, many times turn over the whole care of religion to the laity. The laity, supposing they have nothing to do with the church (as if their baptismal vow did not initiate them members of it), make it over to the priests; of the priests again, those that are secular, thinking their tithe implies them to be a little too profane, assign this task over to the regulars, the regulars to the monks, the monks bandy it from one order to another, till it light upon the mendicants; they lay it upon the Carthusians, which order alone keeps honesty and piety among them, but really keep them so close that no body ever yet could see them. Thus the Popes thrusting only their sickle into the harvest of profit, leave all the other toil of spiritual husbandry to the bishops, the bishops bestow it upon the pastors, the pastors on their curates, and the curates commit it to the mendicants, who return it again to such as well know how to make good advantage of the flock, by the benefit of their fleece. [Illustration: 329] [Illustration: 332] But I would not be thought purposely to expose the weaknesses of popes and priests, lest I should seem to recede from my title, and make a satire instead of a panegyric: nor let anyone imagine that I reflect on good princes, by commending of bad ones: I did this only in brief, to shew that there is no one particular person can lead a comfortable life, except he be entered of my society, and retain me for his friend. Nor indeed can it be otherwise, since fortune, that empress of the world, is so much in league and amity with me, that to wise men she is always stingy, and sparing of her gifts, but is profusely liberal and lavish to fools. Thus Timotheus, the Athenian commander, in all his expeditions, was a mirror of good luck, because he was a little underwitted; from him was occasioned the Grecian proverb, 'H _evdovtos kvptos aipel_, _The net fills, though the fisherman sleeps_; there is also another favourable proverb, _yhavf itttatai_, _The owl flies_ an omen of success. But against wise men are pointed these ill-aboding proverbs, '_Ev tetpadi. yewnoevtas, Born under a bad planet_; equum habet seianum, _He cannot ride the fore-horse_; aurum tholosanum, _Ill-gotten goods will never prosper_; and more to the same purpose. But I forbear from any farther proverbializing, lest I should be thought to have rifled my Erasmus's adages. To return, therefore, fortune we find still favouring the blunt, and flushing the forward; strokes and smoothes up fools, crowning all their undertakings with success; but wisdom makes her followers bashful, sneaking, and timorous, and therefore you see that they are commonly reduced to hard shifts, must grapple with poverty, cold and hunger, must lie recluse, despised, and unregarded, while fools roll in money, are advanced to dignities and offices, and in a word, have the whole world at command. If any one think it happy to be a favourite at court, and to manage the disposal of places and preferments, alas, this happiness is so far from being attainable by wisdom, that the very suspicion of it would put a stop to all advancement Has any man a mind to raise himself a good estate? Alas what dealer in the world would ever get a farthing, if he be so wise as to scruple at perjury, blush at a lie, or stick at any fraud and over-reaching. [Illustration: 336] Farther, does any one appear a candidate for any ecclesiastical dignity? Why, an ass, or a plough-jobber, shall sooner gain it than a wise man. Again, are you in love with any handsome lady? Alas, women-kind are so addicted to folly, that they will not at all listen to the courtship of a wise suitor. Finally, wherever there is any preparation made for mirth and jollity, all wise men are sure to be excluded the company, lest they should stint the joy, and damp the frolic In a word, to what side soever we turn ourselves, to popes, princes, judges, magistrates, friends, enemies, rich or poor, all their concerns are managed by money, which because it is undervalued by wise men, therefore, in revenge to be sure, it never comes at them. But now, though my praise and commendation might well be endless, yet it is requisite I should put some period to my speech. I'll therefore draw toward an end, when I have first confirmed what I have said by the authority of several authors. Which by way of farther proof I shall insist upon, partly, that I may not be thought to have said more in my own behalf than what will be justified by others; and partly, that the lawyers may not check me for citing no precedents nor allegations. To imitate them therefore I will produce some reports and authorities, though perhaps like theirs too, they are nothing to the purpose. First then, it is confessed almost to a proverb, that the art of dissembling is a very necessary accomplishment; and therefore it is a common verse among school-boys:-- To feign the fool when fit occasions rise, Argues the being more completely wise. It is easy therefore to collect how great a value ought to be put upon real folly, when the very shadow, and bare imitation of it, is so much esteemed. Horace, who in his episdes thus styles himself:-- My sleek-skinn'd corpse as smooth as if I lie 'Mong th' fatted swine of Epicurus's sty. This poet (I say) gives this advice in one of his odes:-- Short Folly with your counsels mix. [Illustration: Short 340] The epithet of short, it is true, is a little improper. The same poet again has this passage elsewhere:-- Well-timed Folly has a sweet relish. And in another place:-- I'd rather much be censured for a fool, Than feel the lash and smart of wisdom' s school. Homer praises Telemachus as much as any one of his heroes, and yet he gives him the epithet of Nuttios, _Silly_: and the Grecians generally use the same word to express children, as a token of their innocence. And what is the argument of all Homer's Iliads, but only, as Horace observes:-- They kings and subjects dotages contain? How positive also is Tully's commendation that all places are filled with fools? Now every excellence being to be measured by its extent, the goodness of folly must be of as large compass as those universal places she reaches to. But perhaps christians may slight the authority of a heathen. I could therefore, if I pleased, back and confirm the truth hereof by the citations of several texts of scripture; though herein. it were perhaps my duty to beg leave of the divines, that I might so far intrench upon their prerogative. Supposing a grant, the task seems so difficult as to require the invocation of some aid and assistance; yet because it is unreasonable to put the muses to the trouble and expense of so tedious a journey, especially since the business is out of their sphere, I shall choose rather (while I am acting the divine, and venturing in their polemic difficulties), to wish myself for such time animated with Scotus, his bristling and prickly soul, which I would not care how afterwards it returned to his body, though for refinement it were stopped at a purgatory by the way. I cannot but wish that I might wholly change my character, or at least that some grave divine, in my stead, might rehearse this part of the subject for me; for truly I suspect that somebody will accuse me of plundering the closets of those reverend men, while I pretend to so much divinity, as must appear in my following discourse. Yet however, it may not seem strange, that after so long and frequent a converse, I have gleaned some scraps from the divines; since Horace's wooden god by hearing his master read Homer, learned some words of Greek; and Lucian's cock, by long attention, could readily understand what any man spoke. But now to the purpose, wishing myself success. [Illustration: 344] Ecclesiastes doth somewhere confess that there are an infinite number of fools. Now when he speaks of an infinite number, what does he else but imply, that herein is included the whole race of mankind, except some very few, which I know not whether ever any one had yet the happiness to see? The prophet Jeremiah speaks yet more plainly in his tenth chapter, where he saith, that _Every man is brutish in his knowledge_. He just before attributes wisdom to God alone, saying, that the _Wise men of the nations are altogether brutish and foolish_. And in the preceding chapter he gives this seasonable caution, _Let not the wise man glory in his wisdom_: the reason is obvious, because no man hath truly any whereof to glory. But to return to Ecclesiastes, when he saith, _Vanity of vanities, all is vanity_, what else can we imagine his meaning to be, than that our whole life is nothing but one continued interlude of Folly? This confirms that assertion of Tully, which is delivered in that noted passage we but just now mentioned, namely, that _All places swarm with fools_. Farther, what does the son of Sirach mean when he saith in Ecclesiasticus, that the _Fool is changed as the moon_, while the _Wise man is fixed as the sun_, than only to hint out the folly of all mankind; and that the name of wise is due to no other but the all-wise God? for all interpreters by Moon understand mankind, and by Sun that fountain of all light, the Almighty. The same sense is implied in that saying of our Saviour in the gospel, _There is none good but one, that is God_: for if whoever is not wise must be consequently a fool, and if, according to the Stoics, every man be wise so far only as he is good, the meaning of the text must be, all mortals are unavoidably fools; and there is none wise but one, that is God. Solomon also in the fifteenth chapter of his proverbs hath this expression, _Folly is joy to him that is destitute of wisdom_; plainly intimating, that the wise man is attended with grief and vexation, while the foolish only roll in delight and pleasure. To the same purpose is that saying of his in the first chapter of Ecclesiastes, _In much wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow_. Again, it is confessed by the same preacher in the seventh chapter of the same book, _That the heart of the wise is in the house of mourning, but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth_. This author himself had never attained to such a portion of wisdom, if he had not applied himself to a searching out the frailties and infirmities of human nature; as, if you believe not me, may appear from his own words in his first chapter, _I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly_; where it is worthy to be observed that as to the order of words, Folly for its advantage is put in the last place. Thus Ecclesiastes wrote, and thus indeed did an ecclesiastical method require; namely, that what has the precedence in dignity should come hindmost in rank and order, according to the tenor of that evangelical precept, _The last shall be first, and the first shall be last_. And in Ecclesiasticus likewise (whoever was author of the holy book which bears that name) in the forty-fourth chapter, the excellency of folly above wisdom is positively acknowledged; the very words I shall not cite, till I have the advantage of an answer to a question I am proposing, this way of interrogating being frequently made use of by Plato in his dialogues between Socrates, and other disputants: I ask you then, what is it we usually hoard and lock up, things of greater esteem and value, or those which are more common, trite, and despicable? Why are you so backward in making an answer? Since you are so shy and reserved, I'll take the Greek proverb for a satisfactory reply; namely, _Foul water is thrown down the sink_; which saying, that no person may slight it, may be convenient to advertise that it comes from no meaner an author than that oracle of truth, Aristotle himself. And indeed there is no one on this side Bedlam so mad as to throw out upon the dunghill his gold and jewels, but rather all persons have a close repository to preserve them in, and secure them under all the locks, bolts, and bars, that either art can contrive, or fears suggest: whereas the dirt, pebbles, and oyster-shells, that lie scattered in the streets, ye trample upon, pass by, and take no notice of. [Illustration: 348] If then what is more valuable be coffered up, and what less so lies unregarded, it follows, that accordingly Folly should meet with a greater esteem than wisdom, because that wise author advises us to the keeping close and concealing the first, and exposing or laying open the other: as take him now in his own words, _Better is he that hideth his folly than him that hideth his wisdom_. Beside, the sacred text does oft ascribe innocence and sincerity to fools, while the wise man is apt to be a haughty scorner of all such as he thinks or censures to have less wit than himself: for so I understand that passage in the tenth chapter of Ecclesiastes, _When he that is a fool walketh by the way, his wisdom faileth him, and he saith to every one that he is a fool._ Now what greater argument of candour or ingenuity can there be, than to demean himself equal with all others, and not think their deserts any way inferior to his own. Folly is no such scandalous attribute, but that the wise Agur was not ashamed to confess it, in the thirtieth chapter of Proverbs: _Surely I am more brutish than any man, and have not the understanding of a man_, Nay, St. Paul himself, that great doctor of the Gentiles, writing to his Corinthians, readily owns the name, saying, _If any man speak as a fool, I am more_; as if to have been less so had been a reproach and disgrace. But perhaps I may be censured for misinterpreting this text by some modern annotators, who like crows pecking at one another's eyes, find fault, and correct all that went before them, pretend each their own glosses to contain the only true and genuine explication; among whom my Erasmus (whom I cannot but mention with respect) may challenge the second place, if not the precedency. This citation (say they) is purely impertinent; the meaning of the apostle is far different from what you dream of: he would not have these words so understood, as if he desired to be thought a greater fool than the rest, but only when he had before said, _Are they ministers of Christ? so am I_: as if the equalling himself herein to others had been too little, he adds, _I am more_, thinking a bare equality not enough, unless he were even superior to those he compares himself with. This he would have to be believed as true; yet lest it might be thought offensive, as bordering too much on arrogance and conceit, he tempers and alleviates it by the covert of Folly. _I speak_ (says he) _as a fool_, knowing it to be the peculiar privilege of fools to speak the truth, without giving offence. But what St. Paul's thoughts were when he wrote this, I leave for them to determine. In my own judgment at least I prefer the opinion of the good old tun-bellied divines, with whom it's safer and more creditable to err, than to be in the right with smattering, raw, novices. [Illustration: 352] [Illustration: 356] Nor indeed should any one mind the late critics any more than the senseless chattering of a daw: especially since one of the most eminent of them (whose name I advisedly conceal, lest some of our wits should be taunting him with the Greek proverb, magisterially and dogmatically descanting upon his text [_are they the ministers of Christ?_ ]) I speak as a fool. I am more makes a distinct chapter, and (which without good store of logic he could never have done) adds a new section, and then gives this paraphrase, which I shall verbatim recite, that you may have his words materially, as well as formally his sense (for that's one of their babbling distinctions). [_I speak as a fool_] that is, if the equalling myself to those false apostles would have been construed as the vaunt of a fool, I will willingly be accounted a greater fool, by taking place of them, and openly pleading, that as to their ministry, I not only come up even with them, but outstrip and go beyond them: though this same commentator a little after, as it were forgetting what he had just before delivered, tacks about and shifts to another interpretation. But why do I insist upon any one particular example, when in general it is the public charter of all divines, to mould and bend the sacred oracles till they comply with their own fancy, spreading them (as Heaven by its Creator) like a curtain, closing together, or drawing them back, as they please? Thus indeed St. Paul himself minces and mangles some citations he makes use of, and seems to wrest them to a different sense from what they were first intended for, as is confessed by the great linguist, St. Hierom. Thus when that apostle saw at Athens the inscription of an altar, he draws from it an argument for the proof of the christian religion; but leaving out great part of the sentence, which perhaps if fully recited might have prejudiced his cause, he mentions only the two last words viz., _To the unknown God_; and this too not without alteration, for the whole inscription runs thus: _To the Gods of Asia, Europe, and Africa, to all foreign and unknown Gods_. [Illustration: 360] 'Tis an imitation of the same pattern, I will warrant you, that our young divines, by leaving out four or five words in a place, and putting a false construction on the rest, can make any passage serviceable to their own purpose; though from the coherence of what went before, or follows after, the genuine meaning appears to be either wide enough, or perhaps quite contradictory to what they would thrust and impose upon it. In which knack the divines are grown now so expert, that the lawyers themselves begin to be jealous of an encroachment upon what was formerly their sole privilege and practice. And indeed what can they despair of proving, since the fore-mentioned commentator (I had almost blundered out his name), but that I am restrained by fear of the same Greek proverbial sarcasm) did upon a text of St. Luke put an interpretation, no more agreeable to the meaning of the place, than one contrary quality is to another? The passage is this, when Judas's treachery was preparing to be executed, and accordingly it seemed requisite that all the disciples should be provided to guard and secure their assaulted master, our Saviour, that he might piously caution them against reliance for his delivery on any worldly strength, asks them, whether in all their embassy they lacked anything, when he had sent them out so unfurnished for the performance of a long journey, that they had not so much as shoes to defend their feet from the injuries of flints and thorns, or a scrip to carry a meal's meat in; and when they had answered that they lacked nothing, he adds, _But now he that hath a purse let him take it, and likewise a scrip; and he that hath no sword let him sell his garment, and buy one_. Now when the whole doctrine of our Saviour inculcates nothing more frequently than meekness, patience, and a contempt of this world, is it not plain what the meaning of the place is? Namely, that he might now dismiss his ambassadors in a more naked, defenceless condition, he does not only advise them to take no thought for shoes or scrip, but even commands them to part with the very clothes from their back, that so they might have the less incumbrance and entanglement in the going through their office and function. He cautions them, it is true, to. be furnished with a sword, yet not such a carnal one as rogues and highwaymen make use of for murder and bloodshed, but with the sword of the Spirit, which pierces through the heart, and searches out the innermost retirements of the soul, lopping off all our lust, and corrupt affections, and leaving nothing in possession of our breast but piety, zeal, and devotion: this (I say) in my opinion is the most natural interpretation. [Illustration: 364] But see how that divine misunderstands the place; by sword (says he) is meant, defence against persecution; by scrip, or purse, a sufficient quantity of provision; as if Christ had, by considering better of it, changed his mind in reference to that mean equipage, which he had before sent his disciples in, and therefore came now to a recantation of what he had formerly instituted: or as if he had forgot what in time past he had told them, _Blessed are you when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and say all manner of evil against you for my sake. Render not evil for evil, for blessed are the meek_, not the cruel: as if he had forgot that he encouraged them by the examples of sparrows and lilies to take no thought for the morrow; he gives them now another lesson, and charges them, rather than go _without a sword, to sell their garment, and buy one_; as if the going cold and naked were more excusable than the marching unarmed. And as this author thinks all means which are requisite for the prevention or retaliation of injuries to be implied under the name of sword, so under that of scrip, he would have everything to be comprehended, which either the necessity or conveniency of life requires. Thus does this provident commentator furnish out the disciples with halberts, spears, and guns, for the enterprise of preaching Christ crucified; he supplies them at the same time with pockets, bags, and portmanteaus, that they might carry their cupboards as well as their bellies always about them: he takes no notice how our Saviour afterwards rebukes Peter for drawing that sword which he had just before so strictly charged him to buy; nor that it is ever recorded that the primitive Christians did by no ways withstand their heathen persecutors otherwise than with tears and prayers, which they would have exchanged more effectually for swords and bucklers, if they had thought this text would have borne them out. There is another, and he of no mean credit, whom for respect to his person I shall forbear to name, who commenting upon that verse in the prophet Habakkuk (_I saw the tents of Cushan in affliction, and the curtains of the land of Midian did tremble_), because tents were sometimes made of skins, he pretended that the word tents did here signify the skin of St. Bartholomew, who was flayed for a martyr. I myself was lately at a divinity disputation (where I very often pay my attendance), where one of the opponents demanded a reason why it should be thought more proper to silence all heretics by sword and faggot, rather than convert them by moderate and sober arguments? A certain cynical old blade, who bore the character of a divine, legible in the frowns and wrinkles of his face, not without a great deal of disdain answered, that it was the express injunction of St. Paul himself, in those directions to Titus (_A man that is an heretic, after the first and second admonition, reject_), quoting it in Latin, where the word _reject_ is _devita_, while all the auditory wondered at this citation, and deemed it no way applicable to his purpose; he at last explained himself, saying, that _devita_ signified _de vita tollendum hereticum_, a heretic must be slain. Some smiled at his ignorance, but others approved of it as an orthodox comment And however some disliked that such violence should be done to so easy a text, our hair-splitting and irrefragable doctor went on in triumph. To prove it yet (says he) more undeniably, it is commanded in the old law [_Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live_]: now then every _Maleficus_, or witch, is to be killed, but an heretic is _Maleficus_, which in the Latin translation is put for a witch, _ergo, &c_. All that were present wondered at the ingenuity of the person, and very devoudy embraced his opinion, never dreaming that the law was restrained only to magicians, sorcerers, and enchanters: for otherwise, if the word _Maleficus_ signified what it most naturally implies, every evil-doer, then drunkenness and whoredom were to meet with the same capital punishment as witchcraft But why should I squander away my time in a too tedious prosecution of this topic, which if drove on to the utmost would afford talk to eternity? I aim herein at no more than this, namely, that since those grave doctors take such a swinging range and latitude, I, who am but a smattering novice in divinity, may have the larger allowance for any slips or mistakes. [Illustration: 370] Now therefore I return to St. Paul, who uses these expressions [_Ye suffer fools gladly_] applying it to himself; and again [_As a fool receive me_], and [_That which I speak, I speak not after the Lord, but as it were foolishly_]; and in another place [_We are fools for Christ's sake_]. See how these commendations of Folly are equal to the author of them, both great and sacred. The same holy person does yet enjoin and command the being a fool, as a virtue of all others most requisite and necessary: for, says he [_If any man seem to be wise in this world, let him become a fool that he may be wise_]. Thus St. Luke records, how our Saviour, after his resurrection, joining himself with two of his disciples travelling to Emmaus, at his first salutation he calls them fools, saying [_O fools, and slow of heart to believe_], Nor may this seem strange in comparison to what is yet farther delivered by St. Paul, who adventures to attribute something of Folly even to the all-wise God himself [_The foolishness of God_ (says he) _is wiser than men_]; in which text St. Origen would not have the word foolishness any way referred to men, or applicable to the same sense, wherein is to be understood that other passage of St. Paul [_The preaching of the cross to them that perish, foolishness_]. But why do I put myself to the trouble of citing so many proofs, since this one may suffice for all, namely, that in those mystical psalms wherein David represents the type of Christ, it is there acknowledged by our Saviour, in way of confession, that even he himself was guilty of Folly; _Thou_ (says he) _O God knowest my foolishness?_ Nor is it without some reason that fools for their plainness and sincerity of heart have always been most acceptable to God Almighty. For as the princes of this world have shrewdly suspected, and carried a jealous eye over such of their subjects as were the most observant, and deepest politicians (for thus Caesar was afraid of the plodding Cassius, and Brutus, thinking himself secure enough from the careless drinking Anthony; Nero likewise mistrusted Seneca, and Dionysius would have been willingly rid of Plato), whereas they can all put greater confidence in such as are of less subtlety and contrivance So our Saviour in like manner dislikes and condemns the wise and crafty, as St. Paul does expressly declare in these words, _God hath chosen the foolish things of the world_; and again, _it pleased God by foolishness to save the world_; implying that by wisdom it could never have been saved. Nay, God himself testifies as much when he speaks by the mouth of his prophet, _I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and bring to nought the understanding of the learned_. Again, our Saviour does solemnly return his Father thanks for that he had _hidden the mysteries of salvation from the wise, and revealed them to babes_, i.e., to fools; for the original word _vnpriois_, being opposed to _oooois_ if one signify wise, the other must foolish. To the same purpose did our blessed Lord frequently condemn and upbraid the scribes, pharisees, and lawyers, while he carries himself kind and obliging to the unlearned multitude: for what otherwise can be the meaning of that tart denunciation, _Woe unto you scribes and pharisees_, than woe unto you wise men, whereas he seems chiefly delighted with children, women, and illiterate fishermen. We may farther take notice, that among all the several kinds of brute creatures he shews greatest liking to such as are farthest distant from the subtlety of the fox. Thus in his progress to Jerusalem he chose to ride sitting upon an ass, though, if he pleased, he might have mounted the back of a lion with more of state, and as little of danger. The Holy Spirit chose rather likewise to descend from heaven in the shape of a simple gall-less dove, than that of an eagle, kite, or other more lofty fowl. Thus all along in the holy scriptures there are frequent metaphors and similitudes of the most inoffensive creatures, such as stags, hinds, lambs, and the like. Nay, those blessed souls that in the day of judgment are to be placed at our Saviour's right hand are called sheep, which are the most senseless and stupid of all cattle, as is evidenced by Aristotle's Greek proverb, a sheepishness of temper, a dull, blockish, sleepy, unmanly humour. Yet of such a flock Christ is not ashamed to profess himself the shepherd. Nay, he would not only have all his proselytes termed sheep, but even he himself would be called a lamb; as when John the Baptist seeth Jesus coming unto him, he saith, _Behold the Lamb of God_; which same title is very often given to our Saviour in the apocalypse. All this amounts to no less than that all mortal men are fools, even the righteous and godly as well as sinners; nay, in some sense our blessed Lord himself, who, although he was the _wisdom of the Father_, yet to repair the infirmities of fallen man, he became in some measure a partaker of human Folly, when he _took our nature upon him, and was found in fashion as a man_; or when _God made him to be sin for us, who knew no sin, that we might be made the righteousness of God in him_. Nor would he heal those breaches our sins had made by any other method than by the _foolishness of the cross_, published by the ignorant and unlearned apostles, to whom he frequently recommends the excellence of Folly, cautioning them against the infectiousness of wisdom, by the several examples he proposes them to imitate, such as children, lilies, sparrows, mustard, and such like beings, which are either wholly inanimate, or at least devoid of reason and ingenuity, guided by no other conduct than that of instinct, without care, trouble, or contrivance. To the same intent the disciples were warned by their lord and master, that when they should be _brought unto the synagogues, and unto magistrates and powers_, they shall _take no thought how, or what thing they should answer, nor what they should say_: they were again strictly forbid to _enquire into the times and seasons_, or to place any confidence in their own abilities, but to depend wholly upon divine assistance. [Illustration: 378] At the first peopling of paradise the Almighty had never laid so strict a charge on our father Adam to refrain from _eating of the tree of knowledge_ except he had thereby forewarned that the taste of knowledge would be the bane of all happiness. St. Paul says expressly, that _knowledge puffeth up, i.e._, it is fatal and poisonous. In pursuance whereunto St. Bernard interprets that _exceeding high mountain_ whereon the devil had erected his seat to have been the mountain of knowledge. And perhaps this may be another argument which ought not to be omitted, namely, that Folly is acceptable, at least excusable, with the gods, inasmuch, as they easily pass by the heedless failures of fools, while the miscarriages of such as are known to have more wit shall very hardly obtain a pardon; nay, when a wise man comes to sue for an acquitment from any guilt, he must shroud himself under the patronage and pretext of Folly. For thus in the twelfth of Numbers Aaron entreats Moses to stay the leprosy of his sister Miriam, saying, _alas, my Lord, I beseech thee lay not the sin upon us wherein we have done foolishly_. Thus, when David spared Saul's life, when he found him sleeping in a tent of Hachilah, not willing to _stretch forth his hand against the Lord's anointed, Saul excuses his former severity by confessing, _Behold, I have played the fool, and have erred exceedingly_. David also himself in much the same form begs the remission of his sin from God Almighty with this prayer, _Lord, I pray thee take away the iniquity of thy servant, for I have done very foolishly_; as if he could not have hoped otherwise to have his pardon granted except he petitioned for it under the covert and mitigation of Folly. The agreeable practice of our Saviour is yet more convincing, who, when he hung upon the cross, prayed for his enemies, saying, _Father, forgive them_, urging no other plea in their behalf than that of their ignorance, _for they know not what they do_. To the same effect St. Paul in his first epistle to Timothy acknowledges he had been a blasphemer and a persecutor, _But (saith he) _I obtained mercy, because I did it ignorantly in unbelief_. Now what is the meaning of the phrase [_I did it ignorantly_] but only this? My fault was occasioned from a misinformed Folly, not from a deliberate malice. What signifies [_I obtained mercy_] but only that I should not otherwise have obtained it had not folly and ignorance been my vindication? To the same purpose is that other passage in the mysterious Psalmist, which I forgot to mention in its proper place, namely, _Oh remember not the sins and offences of my youth!_ the word which we render offences, is in Latin _ignorantias_, ignorances. Observe, the two things he alleges in his excuse are, first, his rawness of age, to which Folly and want of experience are constant attendants: and secondly, his ignorances, expressed in the plural number for an enhancement and aggravation of his foolishness. But that I may not wear out this subject too far, to draw now towards a conclusion, it is observable that the christian religion seems to have some relation to Folly, and no alliance at all with wisdom. Of the truth whereof, if you desire farther proof than my bare word you may please, first, to consider, that children, women, old men, and fools, led as it were by a secret impulse of nature, are always most constant in repairing to church, and most zealous, devout and attentive in the performance of the several parts of divine service; nay, the first promulgators of the gospel, and the first converts to Christianity, were men of plainness and simplicity, wholly unacquainted with secular policy or learning. Farther, there are none more silly, or nearer their wits' end, than those who are too superstitiously religious: they are profusely lavish in their charity; they invite fresh affronts by an easy forgiveness of past injuries; they suffer themselves to be cheated and imposed upon by laying claim to the innocence of the dove; they make it the interest of no person to oblige them, because they will love, and _do good to their enemies_, as much as to the most endearing friends; they banish all pleasure, feeding upon the penance of watching, weeping, fasting, sorrow and reproach; they value not their lives, but with St. Paul, _wish to be dissolved_, and covet the fiery trial of martyrdom: in a word, they seem altogether so destitute of common sense, that their soul seems already separated from the dead and inactive body. And what else can we imagine all this to be than downright madness? It is the less strange therefore that at the feast of Pentecost the apostles should be thought drunk with new wine; or that St. Paul was censured by Festus to have been beside himself. And since I have had the confidence to go thus far, I shall venture yet a little forwarder, and be so bold as to say thus much more: all that final happiness, which christians, through so many rubs and briars of difficulties, contend for, is at last no better than a sort of folly and madness. This, no question, will be thought extravagantly spoke; but consider awhile, and deliberately state the case. First, then, the christians so far agree with the Platonists as to believe that the body is no better than a prison or dungeon for the confinement of the soul. That therefore, while the soul is shackled to the walls of flesh, her soaring wings are impeded, and all her enlivening faculties clogged and fettered by the gross particles of matter, so that she can neither freely range after, nor, when happily overtook, can quietly contemplate her proper object of truth. Farther, Plato defines philosophy to be the meditation of death, because the one performs the same office with the other; namely, withdraws the mind from all visible and corporeal objects; therefore while the soul does patiently actuate the several organs and members of the body, so long is a man accounted of a good and sound disposition; but when the soul, weary of her confinement, struggles to break jail, and fly beyond her cage of flesh and blood, then a man is censured at least for being magotty and crack-brained; nay, if there be any defect in the external organs it is then termed downright madness. And yet many times persons thus affected shall have prophetic ecstacies of foretelling things to come, shall in a rapture talk languages they never before learned, and seem in all things actuated by somewhat divine and extraordinary; and all this, no doubt, is only the effect of the soul's being more released from its engagement to the body, whereby it can with less impediment exert the energy of life and motion. From hence, no question, has sprung an observation of like nature, confirmed now into a settled opinion, that _some long experienced souls in the world, before their dislodging, arrive to the height of prophetic spirits_. [Illustration: 384] If this disorder arise from an intemperance in religion, and too high a strain of devotion, though it be of a somewhat differing sort, yet it is so near akin to the former, that a great part of mankind apprehend it as a mere madness; especially when persons of that superstitious humour are so pragmatical and singular as to separate and live apart as it were from all the world beside: so as they seem to have experienced what Plato dreams to have happened between some, who, enclosed in a dark cave, did only ruminate on the ideas and abstracted speculations of entities; and one other of their company, who had got abroad into the open light, and at his return tells them what a blind mistake they had lain under; that he had seen the substance of what their dotage of imagination reached only in shadow; that therefore he could not but pity and condole their deluding dreams, while they on the other side no less bewail his frenzy, and turn him out of their society for a lunatic and madman. Thus the vulgar are wholly taken up with those objects that are most familiar to their senses, beyond which they are apt to think all is but fairy-land; while those that are devoutly religious scorn to set their thoughts or affections on any things below, but mount their soul to the pursuit of incorporeal and invisible beings. The former, in their marshalling the requisites of happiness, place riches in the front, the endowments of the body in the next rank, and leave the accomplishments of the soul to bring up the rear; nay, some will scarce believe there is any such thing at all as the soul, because they cannot literally see a reason of their faith; while the other pay their first fruits of service to that most simple and incomprehensible Being, God, employ themselves next in providing for the happiness of that which comes nearest to their immortal soul, being not at all mindful of their corrupt bodily carcases, and slighting money as the dirt and rubbish of the world; or if at any time some urging occasions require them to become entangled in secular affairs, they do it with regret, and a kind of ill-will, observing what St. Paul advises his _Corinthians, having wives, and yet being as though they had none; buying, and yet remaining as though they possessed not_. There are between these two sorts of persons many differences in several other respects. As first, though all the senses have the same mutual relation to the body, yet some are more gross than others; as those five corporeal ones, of touching, hearing, smelling, seeing, tasting, whereas some again are more refined, and less adulterated with matter; such are the memory, the understanding, and the will. Now the mind will be always most ready and expedite at that to which it is naturally most inclined. Hence is it that a pious soul, employing all its power and abilities in the pressing after such things as are farthest removed from sense, is perfectly stupid and brutish in the management of any worldly affairs; while on the other side, the vulgar are so intent upon their business and employment, that they have not time to bestow one poor thought upon a future eternity. From such ardour of divine meditation was it that Saint Bernard in his study drank oil instead of wine, and yet his thoughts were so taken up that he never observed the mistake. Farther, among the passions of the soul, some have a greater communication with the body than others; as lust, the desire of meat and sleep, anger, pride, and envy; with these the pious man is in continual war, and irreconcile-able enmity, while the vulgar cherish and foment them as the best comforts of life. There are other affections of a middle nature, common and innate to every man; such are love to one's country, duty to parents, love to children, kindness to friends, and such like; to these the vulgar pay some respect, but the religious endeavour to supplant and eradicate from their soul, except they can raise and sublimate them to the most refined pitch of virtue; so as to love or honour their parents, not barely under that character (for what did they do more than generate a body? nay, even for that we are primarily beholden to God, the first parent of all mankind), but as good men only, upon whom is imprinted the lively image of that divine nature, which they esteem as the chief and only good, beyond whom nothing deserves to be beloved, nothing desired. By the same rule they measure all the other offices or duties of life; in each of which, whatever is earthly and corporeal, shall, if not wholly rejected, yet at least be put behind what faith makes the _substance of things not seen_. Thus in the sacraments, and all other acts of religion, they make a difference between the outward appearance or body of them, and the more inward soul or spirit. As to instance, in fasting, they think it very ineffectual to abstain from flesh, or debar themselves of a meal's meat (which yet is all the vulgar understand by his duty), unless they likewise restrain their passions, subdue their anger, and mortify their pride; that the soul being thus disengaged from the entanglement of the body, may have a better relish to spiritual objects, and take an antepast of heaven. Thus (say they) in the holy Eucharist, though the outward form and ceremonies are not wholly to be despised, yet are these prejudicial, at least unprofitable, if as bare signs only they are not accompanied with the thing signified, which is _the body and blood of Christ_, whose death, till his second coming, we are hereby to represent by the vanquishing and burying our vile affections that they may arise to a newness of life, and be united first to each other, then all to Christ. These are the actions and meditations of the truly pious person; while the vulgar place all their religion in crowding up close to the altar, in listening to the words of the priest, and in being very circumspect at the observance of each trifling ceremony. Nor is it in such cases only as we have here given for instances, but through his whole course of life, that the pious man, without any regard to the baser materials of the body, spends himself wholly in a fixed intentness upon spiritual, invisible, and eternal objects. Now since these persons stand off, and keep at so wide a distance between themselves, it is customary for them both to think each other mad: and were I to give my opinion to which of the two the name does most properly belong, I should, I confess, adjudge it to the religious; of the reasonableness whereof you may be farther convinced if I proceed to demonstrate what I formerly hinted at, namely, that that ultimate happiness which religion proposes is no other than some sort of madness. First, therefore, Plato dreamed somewhat of this nature when he tells us that the madness of lovers was of all other dispositions of the body most desirable; for he who is once thoroughly smitten with this passion, lives no longer within himself, but has removed his soul to the same place where he has settled his affections, and loses himself to find the object he so much dotes upon: this straying now, and wandering of a soul from its own mansion, what is it better than a plain transport of madness? What else can be the meaning of those proverbial phrases, _non est apua se_, he is not himself; _ad te redi_, recover yourself; and _sibi redditus est_, he is come again to himself? And accordingly as love is more hot and eager, so is the madness thence ensuing more incurable, and yet more happy. Now what shall be that future happiness of glorified saints, which pious souls here on earth so earnestly groan for, but only that the spirit, as the more potent and prevalent victor, shall over-master and swallow up the body; and that the more easily, because while here below, the several members, by being mortified, and kept in subjection, were the better prepared for this separating change; and afterward the spirit itself shall be lost, and drowned in the abyss of beatific vision, so as the whole man will be then perfectly beyond all its own bounds, and be no otherwise happy than as transported into ecstasy and wonder, it feels some unspeakable influence from that omnipotent Being, which makes all things completely blessed, by assimilating them to his own likeness. Now although this happiness be then only consummated, when souls at the general resurrection shall be re-united to their bodies, and both be clothed with immortality; yet because a religious life is but a continued meditation upon, and as it were a transcript of the joys of heaven, therefore to such persons there is allowed some relish and foretaste of that pleasure here, which is to be their reward hereafter. And although this indeed be but a small pittance of satisfaction compared with that future inexhaustible fountain of blessedness, yet does it abundantly over-balance all worldly delights, were they all in conjunction set off to their best advantage; so great is the precedency of spiritual things before corporeal, of invisible before material and visible. This is what the apostle gives an eloquent description of, where he says by way of encouragement, that _eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive those things which God hath prepared for them that love him_. This likewise is that better part which Mary chose, which shall not be taken from her, but perfected and completed by her mortal putting on immortality. [Illustration: 397-398] Now those who are thus devoutly affected (though few there are so), undergo somewhat of strange alteration, which very nearly approaches to madness; they speak many things at an abrupt and incoherent rate, as if they were actuated by some possessing demon; they make an inarticulate noise, without any distinguishable sense or meaning; they sometimes screw and distort their faces to uncouth and antic looks; at one time beyond measure cheerful, then as immoderately sullen; now sobbing, then laughing, and soon after sighing, as if they were perfectly distracted, and out of their senses. If they have any sober intervals of coming to themselves again, like St. Paul they then confess, that _they were caught up they know not where, whether in the body, or out of the body, they cannot tell_; as if they had been in a dead sleep or trance, they remember nothing of what they have heard, seen, said, or done: this they only know, that their past delusion was a most desirable happiness; that therefore they bewail nothing more than the loss of it, nor wish for any greater joy than the quick return of it, and more durable abode for ever. And this (as I have said) is the foretaste or anticipation of future blessedness. But I doubt I have forgot myself, and have already transgressed the bounds of modesty. However, if I have said anything too confidently or impertinently, be pleased to consider that it was spoke by Folly, and that under the person of a woman; yet at the same time remember the applicableness of that Greek proverb:-- A fool oft speaks a seasonable truth. Unless you will be so witty as to object that this makes no apology for me, because the word _aunp_ signifies a man, not a woman, and consequently my sex debars me from the benefit of that observation. I perceive now, that, for a concluding treat, you expect a formal epilogue, and the summing up of all in a brief recitation; but I will assure you, you are grossly mistaken if you suppose that after such a hodge-podge medley of speech I should be able to recollect anything I have delivered. Beside, as it is an old proverb, _I hate a pot-companion with a good memory_; so indeed I may as truly say, _I hate a hearer that will carry any thing away with him_. Wherefore, in short:-- [Illustration: Tailpiece 401] Farewell! live long, drink deep, be jolly, Ye most illustrious votaries of folly! A POEM ON THE FOREGOING WORK. THERE'S ne'er a blade of honour in the town, But if you chance to term him _fool_ and _clown_, Straight _satisfaction_ cries, and then with speed The time, the place, and rapier's length's decreed. Prodigious fops, I'll swear, which can't agree To be call'd what's their happiness to be: Blest _Idiots!_ That in an humble sphere securely move, And there the sweets of a safe _dulness_ prove, Nor envy the proud heights of those who range above. _Folly_, sure friend of a misguided will, Affords a kind excuse for doing ill; And _Socrates_, that prudent, thinking tool, Had the gods lik'd him would have prov'd a _fool_. Methinks our author, when without a flaw, The graces of his mistress he does draw, Wishes (if _Metempsychosis_ be true, And souls do change their case, and act anew), In his next life he only might aspire To the few brains of some soft country squire, Whose head with such like rudiments is fraught, As in his youth his careful grannum taught. And now (dear friend) how shall we to thy brow Pay all those laurels which we justly owe? For thou fresh honours to the work dost bring, And to the theme: nor seems that pleasing thing, Which he so well in _Latin_ has express'd, Less comical in _English_ garments dress'd; Thy sentences are all so clearly wrought, And so exactly plac'd in every thought, That, which is more oblig'd we scarce can see The subject by thine author, or himself by thee. FINIS 
9371	----	HTML version by Al Haines DESIDERIUS ERASMUS THE PRAISE OF FOLLY Translated by John Wilson 1668 ERASMUS OF ROTTERDAM to his friend THOMAS MORE, health: As I was coming awhile since out of Italy for England, that I might not waste all that time I was to sit on horseback in foolish and illiterate fables, I chose rather one while to revolve with myself something of our common studies, and other while to enjoy the remembrance of my friends, of whom I left here some no less learned than pleasant. Among these you, my More, came first in my mind, whose memory, though absent yourself, gives me such delight in my absence, as when present with you I ever found in your company; than which, let me perish if in all my life I ever met with anything more delectable. And therefore, being satisfied that something was to be done, and that that time was no wise proper for any serious matter, I resolved to make some sport with the praise of folly. But who the devil put that in your head? you'll say. The first thing was your surname of More, which comes so near the word _Moriae_ (folly) as you are far from the thing. And that you are so, all the world will clear you. In the next place, I conceived this exercise of wit would not be least approved by you; inasmuch as you are wont to be delighted with such kind of mirth, that is to say, neither unlearned, if I am not mistaken, nor altogether insipid, and in the whole course of your life have played the part of a Democritus. And though such is the excellence of your judgment that it was ever contrary to that of the people's, yet such is your incredible affability and sweetness of temper that you both can and delight to carry yourself to all men a man of all hours. Wherefore you will not only with good will accept this small declamation, but take upon you the defense of it, for as much as being dedicated to you, it is now no longer mine but yours. But perhaps there will not be wanting some wranglers that may cavil and charge me, partly that these toys are lighter than may become a divine, and partly more biting than may beseem the modesty of a Christian, and consequently exclaim that I resemble the ancient comedy, or another Lucian, and snarl at everything. But I would have them whom the lightness or foolery of the argument may offend to consider that mine is not the first of this kind, but the same thing that has been often practiced even by great authors: when Homer, so many ages since, did the like with the battle of frogs and mice; Virgil, with the gnat and puddings; Ovid, with the nut; when Polycrates and his corrector Isocrates extolled tyranny; Glauco, injustice; Favorinus, deformity and the quartan ague; Synescius, baldness; Lucian, the fly and flattery; when Seneca made such sport with Claudius' canonizations; Plutarch, with his dialogue between Ulysses and Gryllus; Lucian and Apuleius, with the ass; and some other, I know not who, with the hog that made his last will and testament, of which also even St. Jerome makes mention. And therefore if they please, let them suppose I played at tables for my diversion, or if they had rather have it so, that I rode on a hobbyhorse. For what injustice is it that when we allow every course of life its recreation, that study only should have none? Especially when such toys are not without their serious matter, and foolery is so handled that the reader that is not altogether thick-skulled may reap more benefit from it than from some men's crabbish and specious arguments. As when one, with long study and great pains, patches many pieces together on the praise of rhetoric or philosophy; another makes a panegyric to a prince; another encourages him to a war against the Turks; another tells you what will become of the world after himself is dead; and another finds out some new device for the better ordering of goat's wool: for as nothing is more trifling than to treat of serious matters triflingly, so nothing carries a better grace than so to discourse of trifles as a man may seem to have intended them least. For my own part, let other men judge of what I have written; though yet, unless an overweening opinion of myself may have made me blind in my own cause, I have praised folly, but not altogether foolishly. And now to say somewhat to that other cavil, of biting. This liberty was ever permitted to all men's wits, to make their smart, witty reflections on the common errors of mankind, and that too without offense, as long as this liberty does not run into licentiousness; which makes me the more admire the tender ears of the men of this age, that can away with solemn titles. No, you'll meet with some so preposterously religious that they will sooner endure the broadest scoffs even against Christ himself than hear the Pope or a prince be touched in the least, especially if it be anything that concerns their profit; whereas he that so taxes the lives of men, without naming anyone in particular, whither, I pray, may he be said to bite, or rather to teach and admonish? Or otherwise, I beseech you, under how many notions do I tax myself? Besides, he that spares no sort of men cannot be said to be angry with anyone in particular, but the vices of all. And therefore, if there shall happen to be anyone that shall say he is hit, he will but discover either his guilt or fear. Saint Jerome sported in this kind with more freedom and greater sharpness, not sparing sometimes men's very name. But I, besides that I have wholly avoided it, I have so moderated my style that the understanding reader will easily perceive my endeavors herein were rather to make mirth than bite. Nor have I, after the example of Juvenal, raked up that forgotten sink of filth and ribaldry, but laid before you things rather ridiculous than dishonest. And now, if there be anyone that is yet dissatisfied, let him at least remember that it is no dishonor to be discommended by Folly; and having brought her in speaking, it was but fit that I kept up the character of the person. But why do I run over these things to you, a person so excellent an advocate that no man better defends his client, though the cause many times be none of the best? Farewell, my best disputant More, and stoutly defend your _Moriae_. From the country, the 5th of the Ides of June. THE PRAISE OF FOLLY An oration, of feigned matter, spoken by Folly in her own person At what rate soever the world talks of me (for I am not ignorant what an ill report Folly has got, even among the most foolish), yet that I am that she, that only she, whose deity recreates both gods and men, even this is a sufficient argument, that I no sooner stepped up to speak to this full assembly than all your faces put on a kind of new and unwonted pleasantness. So suddenly have you cleared your brows, and with so frolic and hearty a laughter given me your applause, that in truth as many of you as I behold on every side of me seem to me no less than Homer's gods drunk with nectar and nepenthe; whereas before, you sat as lumpish and pensive as if you had come from consulting an oracle. And as it usually happens when the sun begins to show his beams, or when after a sharp winter the spring breathes afresh on the earth, all things immediately get a new face, new color, and recover as it were a certain kind of youth again: in like manner, by but beholding me you have in an instant gotten another kind of countenance; and so what the otherwise great rhetoricians with their tedious and long-studied orations can hardly effect, to wit, to remove the trouble of the mind, I have done it at once with my single look. But if you ask me why I appear before you in this strange dress, be pleased to lend me your ears, and I'll tell you; not those ears, I mean, you carry to church, but abroad with you, such as you are wont to prick up to jugglers, fools, and buffoons, and such as our friend Midas once gave to Pan. For I am disposed awhile to play the sophist with you; not of their sort who nowadays boozle young men's heads with certain empty notions and curious trifles, yet teach them nothing but a more than womanish obstinacy of scolding: but I'll imitate those ancients who, that they might the better avoid that infamous appellation of _sophi_ or _wise_, chose rather to be called sophists. Their business was to celebrate the praises of the gods and valiant men. And the like encomium shall you hear from me, but neither of Hercules nor Solon, but my own dear self, that is to say, Folly. Nor do I esteem a rush that call it a foolish and insolent thing to praise one's self. Be it as foolish as they would make it, so they confess it proper: and what can be more than that Folly be her own trumpet? For who can set me out better than myself, unless perhaps I could be better known to another than to myself? Though yet I think it somewhat more modest than the general practice of our nobles and wise men who, throwing away all shame, hire some flattering orator or lying poet from whose mouth they may hear their praises, that is to say, mere lies; and yet, composing themselves with a seeming modesty, spread out their peacock's plumes and erect their crests, while this impudent flatterer equals a man of nothing to the gods and proposes him as an absolute pattern of all virtue that's wholly a stranger to it, sets out a pitiful jay in other's feathers, washes the blackamoor white, and lastly swells a gnat to an elephant. In short, I will follow that old proverb that says, "He may lawfully praise himself that lives far from neighbors." Though, by the way, I cannot but wonder at the ingratitude, shall I say, or negligence of men who, notwithstanding they honor me in the first place and are willing enough to confess my bounty, yet not one of them for these so many ages has there been who in some thankful oration has set out the praises of Folly; when yet there has not wanted them whose elaborate endeavors have extolled tyrants, agues, flies, baldness, and such other pests of nature, to their own loss of both time and sleep. And now you shall hear from me a plain extemporary speech, but so much the truer. Nor would I have you think it like the rest of orators, made for the ostentation of wit; for these, as you know, when they have been beating their heads some thirty years about an oration and at last perhaps produce somewhat that was never their own, shall yet swear they composed it in three days, and that too for diversion: whereas I ever liked it best to speak whatever came first out. But let none of you expect from me that after the manner of rhetoricians I should go about to define what I am, much less use any division; for I hold it equally unlucky to circumscribe her whose deity is universal, or make the least division in that worship about which everything is so generally agreed. Or to what purpose, think you, should I describe myself when I am here present before you, and you behold me speaking? For I am, as you see, that true and only giver of wealth whom the Greeks call _Moria_, the Latins _Stultitia_, and our plain English _Folly_. Or what need was there to have said so much, as if my very looks were not sufficient to inform you who I am? Or as if any man, mistaking me for wisdom, could not at first sight convince himself by my face the true index of my mind? I am no counterfeit, nor do I carry one thing in my looks and another in my breast. No, I am in every respect so like myself that neither can they dissemble me who arrogate to themselves the appearance and title of wise men and walk like asses in scarlet hoods, though after all their hypocrisy Midas' ears will discover their master. A most ungrateful generation of men that, when they are wholly given up to my party, are yet publicly ashamed of the name, as taking it for a reproach; for which cause, since in truth they are _morotatoi_, fools, and yet would appear to the world to be wise men and Thales, we'll even call them _morosophous_, wise fools. Nor will it be amiss also to imitate the rhetoricians of our times, who think themselves in a manner gods if like horse leeches they can but appear to be double-tongued, and believe they have done a mighty act if in their Latin orations they can but shuffle in some ends of Greek like mosaic work, though altogether by head and shoulders and less to the purpose. And if they want hard words, they run over some worm-eaten manuscript and pick out half a dozen of the most old and obsolete to confound their reader, believing, no doubt, that they that understand their meaning will like it the better, and they that do not will admire it the more by how much the less they understand it. Nor is this way of ours of admiring what seems most foreign without its particular grace; for if there happen to be any more ambitious than others, they may give their applause with a smile, and, like the ass, shake their ears, that they may be thought to understand more than the rest of their neighbors. But to come to the purpose: I have given you my name, but what epithet shall I add? What but that of the most foolish? For by what more proper name can so great a goddess as Folly be known to her disciples? And because it is not alike known to all from what stock I am sprung, with the Muses' good leave I'll do my endeavor to satisfy you. But yet neither the first Chaos, Orcus, Saturn, or Japhet, nor any of those threadbare, musty gods were my father, but Plutus, Riches; that only he, that is, in spite of Hesiod, Homer, nay and Jupiter himself, _divum pater atque hominum rex_, the father of gods and men, at whose single beck, as heretofore, so at present, all things sacred and profane are turned topsy-turvy. According to whose pleasure war, peace, empire, counsels, judgments, assemblies, wedlocks, bargains, leagues, laws, arts, all things light or serious--I want breath--in short, all the public and private business of mankind is governed; without whose help all that herd of gods of the poets' making, and those few of the better sort of the rest, either would not be at all, or if they were, they would be but such as live at home and keep a poor house to themselves. And to whomsoever he's an enemy, 'tis not Pallas herself that can befriend him; as on the contrary he whom he favors may lead Jupiter and his thunder in a string. This is my father and in him I glory. Nor did he produce me from his brain, as Jupiter that sour and ill-looked Pallas; but of that lovely nymph called Youth, the most beautiful and galliard of all the rest. Nor was I, like that limping blacksmith, begot in the sad and irksome bonds of matrimony. Yet, mistake me not, 'twas not that blind and decrepit Plutus in Aristophanes that got me, but such as he was in his full strength and pride of youth; and not that only, but at such a time when he had been well heated with nectar, of which he had, at one of the banquets of the gods, taken a dose extraordinary. And as to the place of my birth, forasmuch as nowadays that is looked upon as a main point of nobility, it was neither, like Apollo's, in the floating Delos, nor Venus-like on the rolling sea, nor in any of blind Homer's as blind caves: but in the Fortunate Islands, where all things grew without plowing or sowing; where neither labor, nor old age, nor disease was ever heard of; and in whose fields neither daffodil, mallows, onions, beans, and such contemptible things would ever grow, but, on the contrary, rue, angelica, bugloss, marjoram, trefoils, roses, violets, lilies, and all the gardens of Adonis invite both your sight and your smelling. And being thus born, I did not begin the world, as other children are wont, with crying; but straight perched up and smiled on my mother. Nor do I envy to the great Jupiter the goat, his nurse, forasmuch as I was suckled by two jolly nymphs, to wit, Drunkenness, the daughter of Bacchus, and Ignorance, of Pan. And as for such my companions and followers as you perceive about me, if you have a mind to know who they are, you are not like to be the wiser for me, unless it be in Greek: this here, which you observe with that proud cast of her eye, is _Philautia_, Self-love; she with the smiling countenance, that is ever and anon clapping her hands, is _Kolakia_, Flattery; she that looks as if she were half asleep is _Lethe_, Oblivion; she that sits leaning on both elbows with her hands clutched together is _Misoponia_, Laziness; she with the garland on her head, and that smells so strong of perfumes, is _Hedone_, Pleasure; she with those staring eyes, moving here and there, is _Anoia_, Madness; she with the smooth skin and full pampered body is _Tryphe_, Wantonness; and, as to the two gods that you see with them, the one is _Komos_, Intemperance, the other _Negretos hypnos_, Dead Sleep. These, I say, are my household servants, and by their faithful counsels I have subjected all things to my dominion and erected an empire over emperors themselves. Thus have you had my lineage, education, and companions. And now, lest I may seem to have taken upon me the name of goddess without cause, you shall in the next place understand how far my deity extends, and what advantage by it I have brought both to gods and men. For, if it was not unwisely said by somebody, that this only is to be a god, to help men; and if they are deservedly enrolled among the gods that first brought in corn and wine and such other things as are for the common good of mankind, why am not I of right the _alpha_, or first, of all the gods? who being but one, yet bestow all things on all men. For first, what is more sweet or more precious than life? And yet from whom can it more properly be said to come than from me? For neither the crab-favoured Pallas' spear nor the cloud-gathering Jupiter's shield either beget or propagate mankind; but even he himself, the father of gods and king of men at whose very beck the heavens shake, must lay by his forked thunder and those looks wherewith he conquered the giants and with which at pleasure he frightens the rest of the gods, and like a common stage player put on a disguise as often as he goes about that, which now and then he does, that is to say the getting of children: And the Stoics too, that conceive themselves next to the gods, yet show me one of them, nay the veriest bigot of the sect, and if he do not put off his beard, the badge of wisdom, though yet it be no more than what is common with him and goats; yet at least he must lay by his supercilious gravity, smooth his forehead, shake off his rigid principles, and for some time commit an act of folly and dotage. In fine, that wise man whoever he be, if he intends to have children, must have recourse to me. But tell me, I beseech you, what man is that would submit his neck to the noose of wedlock, if, as wise men should, he did but first truly weigh the inconvenience of the thing? Or what woman is there would ever go to it did she seriously consider either the peril of child-bearing or the trouble of bringing them up? So then, if you owe your beings to wedlock, you owe that wedlock to this my follower, Madness; and what you owe to me I have already told you. Again, she that has but once tried what it is, would she, do you think, make a second venture if it were not for my other companion, Oblivion? Nay, even Venus herself, notwithstanding whatever Lucretius has said, would not deny but that all her virtue were lame and fruitless without the help of my deity. For out of that little, odd, ridiculous May-game came the supercilious philosophers, in whose room have succeeded a kind of people the world calls monks, cardinals, priests, and the most holy popes. And lastly, all that rabble of the poets' gods, with which heaven is so thwacked and thronged, that though it be of so vast an extent, they are hardly able to crowd one by another. But I think it is a small matter that you thus owe your beginning of life to me, unless I also show you that whatever benefit you receive in the progress of it is of my gift likewise. For what other is this? Can that be called life where you take away pleasure? Oh! Do you like what I say? I knew none of you could have so little wit, or so much folly, or wisdom rather, as to be of any other opinion. For even the Stoics themselves that so severely cried down pleasure did but handsomely dissemble, and railed against it to the common people to no other end but that having discouraged them from it, they might the more plentifully enjoy it themselves. But tell me, by Jupiter, what part of man's life is that that is not sad, crabbed, unpleasant, insipid, troublesome, unless it be seasoned with pleasure, that is to say, folly? For the proof of which the never sufficiently praised Sophocles in that his happy elegy of us, "To know nothing is the only happiness," might be authority enough, but that I intend to take every particular by itself. And first, who knows not but a man's infancy is the merriest part of life to himself, and most acceptable to others? For what is that in them which we kiss, embrace, cherish, nay enemies succor, but this witchcraft of folly, which wise Nature did of purpose give them into the world with them that they might the more pleasantly pass over the toil of education, and as it were flatter the care and diligence of their nurses? And then for youth, which is in such reputation everywhere, how do all men favor it, study to advance it, and lend it their helping hand? And whence, I pray, all this grace? Whence but from me? by whose kindness, as it understands as little as may be, it is also for that reason the higher privileged from exceptions; and I am mistaken if, when it is grown up and by experience and discipline brought to savor something like man, if in the same instant that beauty does not fade, its liveliness decay, its pleasantness grow flat, and its briskness fail. And by how much the further it runs from me, by so much the less it lives, till it comes to the burden of old age, not only hateful to others, but to itself also. Which also were altogether insupportable did not I pity its condition, in being present with it, and, as the poets' gods were wont to assist such as were dying with some pleasant metamorphosis, help their decrepitness as much as in me lies by bringing them back to a second childhood, from whence they are not improperly called twice children. Which, if you ask me how I do it, I shall not be shy in the point. I bring them to our River Lethe (for its springhead rises in the Fortunate Islands, and that other of hell is but a brook in comparison), from which, as soon as they have drunk down a long forgetfulness, they wash away by degrees the perplexity of their minds, and so wax young again. But perhaps you'll say they are foolish and doting. Admit it; 'tis the very essence of childhood; as if to be such were not to be a fool, or that that condition had anything pleasant in it, but that it understood nothing. For who would not look upon that child as a prodigy that should have as much wisdom as a man?--according to that common proverb, "I do not like a child that is a man too soon." Or who would endure a converse or friendship with that old man who to so large an experience of things had joined an equal strength of mind and sharpness of judgment? And therefore for this reason it is that old age dotes; and that it does so, it is beholding to me. Yet, notwithstanding, is this dotard exempt from all those cares that distract a wise man; he is not the less pot companion, nor is he sensible of that burden of life which the more manly age finds enough to do to stand upright under it. And sometimes too, like Plautus' old man, he returns to his three letters, A.M.O., the most unhappy of all things living, if he rightly understood what he did in it. And yet, so much do I befriend him that I make him well received of his friends and no unpleasant companion; for as much as, according to Homer, Nestor's discourse was pleasanter than honey, whereas Achilles' was both bitter and malicious; and that of old men, as he has it in another place, florid. In which respect also they have this advantage of children, in that they want the only pleasure of the others' life, we'll suppose it prattling. Add to this that old men are more eagerly delighted with children, and they, again, with old men. "Like to like," quoted the Devil to the collier. For what difference between them, but that the one has more wrinkles and years upon his head than the other? Otherwise, the brightness of their hair, toothless mouth, weakness of body, love of mild, broken speech, chatting, toying, forgetfulness, inadvertency, and briefly, all other their actions agree in everything. And by how much the nearer they approach to this old age, by so much they grow backward into the likeness of children, until like them they pass from life to death, without any weariness of the one, or sense of the other. And now, let him that will compare the benefits they receive by me, the metamorphoses of the gods, of whom I shall not mention what they have done in their pettish humors but where they have been most favorable: turning one into a tree, another into a bird, a third into a grasshopper, serpent, or the like. As if there were any difference between perishing and being another thing! But I restore the same man to the best and happiest part of his life. And if men would but refrain from all commerce with wisdom and give up themselves to be governed by me, they should never know what it were to be old, but solace themselves with a perpetual youth. Do but observe our grim philosophers that are perpetually beating their brains on knotty subjects, and for the most part you'll find them grown old before they are scarcely young. And whence is it, but that their continual and restless thoughts insensibly prey upon their spirits and dry up their radical moisture? Whereas, on the contrary, my fat fools are as plump and round as a Westphalian hog, and never sensible of old age, unless perhaps, as sometimes it rarely happens, they come to be infected with wisdom, so hard a thing it is for a man to be happy in all things. And to this purpose is that no small testimony of the proverb, that says, "Folly is the only thing that keeps youth at a stay and old age afar off;" as it is verified in the Brabanders, of whom there goes this common saying, "That age, which is wont to render other men wiser, makes them the greater fools." And yet there is scarce any nation of a more jocund converse, or that is less sensible of the misery of old age, than they are. And to these, as in situation, so for manner of living, come nearest my friends the Hollanders. And why should I not call them mine, since they are so diligent observers of me that they are commonly called by my name?--of which they are so far from being ashamed, they rather pride themselves in it. Let the foolish world then be packing and seek out Medeas, Circes, Venuses, Auroras, and I know not what other fountains of restoring youth. I am sure I am the only person that both can, and have, made it good. 'Tis I alone that have that wonderful juice with which Memnon's daughter prolonged the youth of her grandfather Tithon. I am that Venus by whose favor Phaon became so young again that Sappho fell in love with him. Mine are those herbs, if yet there be any such, mine those charms, and mine that fountain that not only restores departed youth but, which is more desirable, preserves it perpetual. And if you all subscribe to this opinion, that nothing is better than youth or more execrable than age, I conceive you cannot but see how much you are indebted to me, that have retained so great a good and shut out so great an evil. But why do I altogether spend my breath in speaking of mortals? View heaven round, and let him that will reproach me with my name if he find any one of the gods that were not stinking and contemptible were he not made acceptable by my deity. Why is it that Bacchus is always a stripling, and bushy-haired? but because he is mad, and drunk, and spends his life in drinking, dancing, revels, and May games, not having so much as the least society with Pallas. And lastly, he is so far from desiring to be accounted wise that he delights to be worshiped with sports and gambols; nor is he displeased with the proverb that gave him the surname of fool, "A greater fool than Bacchus;" which name of his was changed to Morychus, for that sitting before the gates of his temple, the wanton country people were wont to bedaub him with new wine and figs. And of scoffs, what not, have not the ancient comedies thrown on him? O foolish god, say they, and worthy to be born as you were of your father's thigh! And yet, who had not rather be your fool and sot, always merry, ever young, and making sport for other people, than either Homer's Jupiter with his crooked counsels, terrible to everyone; or old Pan with his hubbubs; or smutty Vulcan half covered with cinders; or even Pallas herself, so dreadful with her Gorgon's head and spear and a countenance like bullbeef? Why is Cupid always portrayed like a boy, but because he is a very wag and can neither do nor so much as think of anything sober? Why Venus ever in her prime, but because of her affinity with me? Witness that color of her hair, so resembling my father, from whence she is called the golden Venus; and lastly, ever laughing, if you give any credit to the poets, or their followers the statuaries. What deity did the Romans ever more religiously adore than that of Flora, the foundress of all pleasure? Nay, if you should but diligently search the lives of the most sour and morose of the gods out of Homer and the rest of the poets, you would find them all but so many pieces of Folly. And to what purpose should I run over any of the other gods' tricks when you know enough of Jupiter's loose loves? When that chaste Diana shall so far forget her sex as to be ever hunting and ready to perish for Endymion? But I had rather they should hear these things from Momus, from whom heretofore they were wont to have their shares, till in one of their angry humors they tumbled him, together with Ate, goddess of mischief, down headlong to the earth, because his wisdom, forsooth, unseasonably disturbed their happiness. Nor since that dares any mortal give him harbor, though I must confess there wanted little but that he had been received into the courts of princes, had not my companion Flattery reigned in chief there, with whom and the other there is no more correspondence than between lambs and wolves. From whence it is that the gods play the fool with the greater liberty and more content to themselves "doing all things carelessly," as says Father Homer, that is to say, without anyone to correct them. For what ridiculous stuff is there which that stump of the fig tree Priapus does not afford them? What tricks and legerdemains with which Mercury does not cloak his thefts? What buffoonery that Vulcan is not guilty of, while one with his polt-foot, another with his smutched muzzle, another with his impertinencies, he makes sport for the rest of the gods? As also that old Silenus with his country dances, Polyphemus footing time to his Cyclops hammers, the nymphs with their jigs, and satyrs with their antics; while Pan makes them all twitter with some coarse ballad, which yet they had rather hear than the Muses themselves, and chiefly when they are well whittled with nectar. Besides, what should I mention what these gods do when they are half drunk? Now by my troth, so foolish that I myself can hardly refrain laughter. But in these matters 'twere better we remembered Harpocrates, lest some eavesdropping god or other take us whispering that which Momus only has the privilege of speaking at length. And therefore, according to Homer's example, I think it high time to leave the gods to themselves, and look down a little on the earth; wherein likewise you'll find nothing frolic or fortunate that it owes not to me. So provident has that great parent of mankind, Nature, been that there should not be anything without its mixture and, as it were, seasoning of Folly. For since according to the definition of the Stoics, wisdom is nothing else than to be governed by reason, and on the contrary Folly, to be given up to the will of our passions, that the life of man might not be altogether disconsolate and hard to away with, of how much more passion than reason has Jupiter composed us? putting in, as one would say, "scarce half an ounce to a pound." Besides, he has confined reason to a narrow corner of the brain and left all the rest of the body to our passions; has also set up, against this one, two as it were, masterless tyrants--anger, that possesses the region of the heart, and consequently the very fountain of life, the heart itself; and lust, that stretches its empire everywhere. Against which double force how powerful reason is let common experience declare, inasmuch as she, which yet is all she can do, may call out to us till she be hoarse again and tell us the rules of honesty and virtue; while they give up the reins to their governor and make a hideous clamor, till at last being wearied, he suffer himself to be carried whither they please to hurry him. But forasmuch as such as are born to the business of the world have some little sprinklings of reason more than the rest, yet that they may the better manage it, even in this as well as in other things, they call me to counsel; and I give them such as is worthy of myself, to wit, that they take to them a wife--a silly thing, God wot, and foolish, yet wanton and pleasant, by which means the roughness of the masculine temper is seasoned and sweetened by her folly. For in that Plato seems to doubt under what genus he should put woman, to wit, that of rational creatures or brutes, he intended no other in it than to show the apparent folly of the sex. For if perhaps any of them goes about to be thought wiser than the rest, what else does she do but play the fool twice, as if a man should "teach a cow to dance," "a thing quite against the hair." For as it doubles the crime if anyone should put a disguise upon Nature, or endeavor to bring her to that she will in no wise bear, according to that proverb of the Greeks, "An ape is an ape, though clad in scarlet;" so a woman is a woman still, that is to say foolish, let her put on whatever vizard she please. But, by the way, I hope that sex is not so foolish as to take offense at this, that I myself, being a woman, and Folly too, have attributed folly to them. For if they weigh it right, they needs must acknowledge that they owe it to folly that they are more fortunate than men. As first their beauty, which, and that not without cause, they prefer before everything, since by its means they exercise a tyranny even upon tyrants themselves; otherwise, whence proceeds that sour look, rough skin, bushy beard, and such other things as speak plain old age in a man, but from that disease of wisdom? Whereas women's cheeks are ever plump and smooth, their voice small, their skin soft, as if they imitated a certain kind of perpetual youth. Again, what greater thing do they wish in their whole lives than that they may please the man? For to what other purpose are all those dresses, washes, baths, slops, perfumes, and those several little tricks of setting their faces, painting their eyebrows, and smoothing their skins? And now tell me, what higher letters of recommendation have they to men than this folly? For what is it they do not permit them to do? And to what other purpose than that of pleasure? Wherein yet their folly is not the least thing that pleases; which so true it is, I think no one will deny, that does but consider with himself, what foolish discourse and odd gambols pass between a man and his woman, as often as he had a mind to be gamesome? And so I have shown you whence the first and chiefest delight of man's life springs. But there are some, you'll say, and those too none of the youngest, that have a greater kindness for the pot than the petticoat and place their chiefest pleasure in good fellowship. If there can be any great entertainment without a woman at it, let others look to it. This I am sure, there was never any pleasant which folly gave not the relish to. Insomuch that if they find no occasion of laughter, they send for "one that may make it," or hire some buffoon flatterer, whose ridiculous discourse may put by the gravity of the company. For to what purpose were it to clog our stomachs with dainties, junkets, and the like stuff, unless our eyes and ears, nay whole mind, were likewise entertained with jests, merriments, and laughter? But of these kind of second courses I am the only cook; though yet those ordinary practices of our feasts, as choosing a king, throwing dice, drinking healths, trolling it round, dancing the cushion, and the like, were not invented by the seven wise men but myself, and that too for the common pleasure of mankind. The nature of all which things is such that the more of folly they have, the more they conduce to human life, which, if it were unpleasant, did not deserve the name of life; and other than such it could not well be, did not these kind of diversions wipe away tediousness, next cousin to the other. But perhaps there are some that neglect this way of pleasure and rest satisfied in the enjoyment of their friends, calling friendship the most desirable of all things, more necessary than either air, fire, or water; so delectable that he that shall take it out of the world had as good put out the sun; and, lastly, so commendable, if yet that make anything to the matter, that neither the philosophers themselves doubted to reckon it among their chiefest good. But what if I show you that I am both the beginning and end of this so great good also? Nor shall I go about to prove it by fallacies, sorites, dilemmas, or other the like subtleties of logicians, but after my blunt way point out the thing as clearly as it were with my finger. And now tell me if to wink, slip over, be blind at, or deceived in the vices of our friends, nay, to admire and esteem them for virtues, be not at least the next degree to folly? What is it when one kisses his mistress' freckle neck, another the wart on her nose? When a father shall swear his squint-eyed child is more lovely than Venus? What is this, I say, but mere folly? And so, perhaps you'll cry it is; and yet 'tis this only that joins friends together and continues them so joined. I speak of ordinary men, of whom none are born without their imperfections, and happy is he that is pressed with the least: for among wise princes there is either no friendship at all, or if there be, 'tis unpleasant and reserved, and that too but among a very few 'twere a crime to say none. For that the greatest part of mankind are fools, nay there is not anyone that dotes not in many things; and friendship, you know, is seldom made but among equals. And yet if it should so happen that there were a mutual good will between them, it is in no wise firm nor very long lived; that is to say, among such as are morose and more circumspect than needs, as being eagle-sighted into his friends' faults, but so blear-eyed to their own that they take not the least notice of the wallet that hangs behind their own shoulders. Since then the nature of man is such that there is scarce anyone to be found that is not subject to many errors, add to this the great diversity of minds and studies, so many slips, oversights, and chances of human life, and how is it possible there should be any true friendship between those Argus, so much as one hour, were it not for that which the Greeks excellently call _euetheian_? And you may render by folly or good nature, choose you whether. But what? Is not the author and parent of all our love, Cupid, as blind as a beetle? And as with him all colors agree, so from him is it that everyone likes his own sweeter-kin best, though never so ugly, and "that an old man dotes on his old wife, and a boy on his girl." These things are not only done everywhere but laughed at too; yet as ridiculous as they are, they make society pleasant, and, as it were, glue it together. And what has been said of friendship may more reasonably be presumed of matrimony, which in truth is no other than an inseparable conjunction of life. Good God! What divorces, or what not worse than that, would daily happen were not the converse between a man and his wife supported and cherished by flattery, apishness, gentleness, ignorance, dissembling, certain retainers of mine also! Whoop holiday! how few marriages should we have, if the husband should but thoroughly examine how many tricks his pretty little mop of modesty has played before she was married! And how fewer of them would hold together, did not most of the wife's actions escape the husband's knowledge through his neglect or sottishness! And for this also you are beholden to me, by whose means it is that the husband is pleasant to his wife, the wife to her husband, and the house kept in quiet. A man is laughed at, when seeing his wife weeping he licks up her tears. But how much happier is it to be thus deceived than by being troubled with jealousy not only to torment himself but set all things in a hubbub! In fine, I am so necessary to the making of all society and manner of life both delightful and lasting, that neither would the people long endure their governors, nor the servant his master, nor the master his footman, nor the scholar his tutor, nor one friend another, nor the wife her husband, nor the usurer the borrower, nor a soldier his commander, nor one companion another, unless all of them had their interchangeable failings, one while flattering, other while prudently conniving, and generally sweetening one another with some small relish of folly. And now you'd think I had said all, but you shall hear yet greater things. Will he, I pray, love anyone that hates himself? Or ever agree with another who is not at peace with himself? Or beget pleasure in another that is troublesome to himself? I think no one will say it that is not more foolish than Folly. And yet, if you should exclude me, there's no man but would be so far from enduring another that he would stink in his own nostrils, be nauseated with his own actions, and himself become odious to himself; forasmuch as Nature, in too many things rather a stepdame than a parent to us, has imprinted that evil in men, especially such as have least judgment, that everyone repents him of his own condition and admires that of others. Whence it comes to pass that all her gifts, elegancy, and graces corrupt and perish. For what benefit is beauty, the greatest blessing of heaven, if it be mixed with affectation? What youth, if corrupted with the severity of old age? Lastly, what is that in the whole business of a man's life he can do with any grace to himself or others--for it is not so much a thing of art, as the very life of every action, that it be done with a good mien--unless this my friend and companion, Self-love, be present with it? Nor does she without cause supply me the place of a sister, since her whole endeavors are to act my part everywhere. For what is more foolish than for a man to study nothing else than how to please himself? To make himself the object of his own admiration? And yet, what is there that is either delightful or taking, nay rather what not the contrary, that a man does against the hair? Take away this salt of life, and the orator may even sit still with his action, the musician with all his division will be able to please no man, the player be hissed off the stage, the poet and all his Muses ridiculous, the painter with his art contemptible, and the physician with all his slip-slops go a-begging. Lastly, you will be taken for an ugly fellow instead of youthful, and a beast instead of a wise man, a child instead of eloquent, and instead of a well-bred man, a clown. So necessary a thing it is that everyone flatter himself and commend himself to himself before he can be commended by others. Lastly, since it is the chief point of happiness "that a man is willing to be what he is," you have further abridged in this my Self-love, that no man is ashamed of his own face, no man of his own wit, no man of his own parentage, no man of his own house, no man of his manner of living, nor any man of his own country; so that a Highlander has no desire to change with an Italian, a Thracian with an Athenian, nor a Scythian for the Fortunate Islands. O the singular care of Nature, that in so great a variety of things has made all equal! Where she has been sometimes sparing of her gifts she has recompensed it with the more of self-love; though here, I must confess, I speak foolishly, it being the greatest of all other her gifts: to say nothing that no great action was ever attempted without my motion, or art brought to perfection without my help. Is not war the very root and matter of all famed enterprises? And yet what more foolish than to undertake it for I know what trifles, especially when both parties are sure to lose more than they get by the bargain? For of those that are slain, not a word of them; and for the rest, when both sides are close engaged "and the trumpets make an ugly noise," what use of those wise men, I pray, that are so exhausted with study that their thin, cold blood has scarce any spirits left? No, it must be those blunt, fat fellows, that by how much the more they exceed in courage, fall short in understanding. Unless perhaps one had rather choose Demosthenes for a soldier, who, following the example of Archilochius, threw away his arms and betook him to his heels e'er he had scarce seen his enemy; as ill a soldier, as happy an orator. But counsel, you'll say, is not of least concern in matters of war. In a general I grant it; but this thing of warring is not part of philosophy, but managed by parasites, panders, thieves, cut-throats, plowmen, sots, spendthrifts, and such other dregs of mankind, not philosophers; who how unapt they are even for common converse, let Socrates, whom the oracle of Apollo, though not so wisely, judged "the wisest of all men living," be witness; who stepping up to speak somewhat, I know not what, in public was forced to come down again well laughed at for his pains. Though yet in this he was not altogether a fool, that he refused the appellation of wise, and returning it back to the oracle, delivered his opinion that a wise man should abstain from meddling with public business; unless perhaps he should have rather admonished us to beware of wisdom if we intended to be reckoned among the number of men, there being nothing but his wisdom that first accused and afterwards sentenced him to the drinking of his poisoned cup. For while, as you find him in Aristophanes, philosophizing about clouds and ideas, measuring how far a flea could leap, and admiring that so small a creature as a fly should make so great a buzz, he meddled not with anything that concerned common life. But his master being in danger of his head, his scholar Plato is at hand, to wit that famous patron, that being disturbed with the noise of the people, could not go through half his first sentence. What should I speak of Theophrastus, who being about to make an oration, became as dumb as if he had met a wolf in his way, which yet would have put courage in a man of war? Or Isocrates, that was so cowhearted that he dared never attempt it? Or Tully, that great founder of the Roman eloquence, that could never begin to speak without an odd kind of trembling, like a boy that had got the hiccough; which Fabius interprets as an argument of a wise orator and one that was sensible of what he was doing; and while he says it, does he not plainly confess that wisdom is a great obstacle to the true management of business? What would become of them, think you, were they to fight it out at blows that are so dead through fear when the contest is only with empty words? And next to these is cried up, forsooth, that goodly sentence of Plato's, "Happy is that commonwealth where a philosopher is prince, or whose prince is addicted to philosophy." When yet if you consult historians, you'll find no princes more pestilent to the commonwealth than where the empire has fallen to some smatterer in philosophy or one given to letters. To the truth of which I think the Catoes give sufficient credit; of whom the one was ever disturbing the peace of the commonwealth with his hair-brained accusations; the other, while he too wisely vindicated its liberty, quite overthrew it. Add to this the Bruti, Casii, nay Cicero himself, that was no less pernicious to the commonwealth of Rome than was Demosthenes to that of Athens. Besides M. Antoninus (that I may give you one instance that there was once one good emperor; for with much ado I can make it out) was become burdensome and hated of his subjects upon no other score but that he was so great a philosopher. But admitting him good, he did the commonwealth more hurt in leaving behind him such a son as he did than ever he did it good by his own government. For these kind of men that are so given up to the study of wisdom are generally most unfortunate, but chiefly in their children; Nature, it seems, so providently ordering it, lest this mischief of wisdom should spread further among mankind. For which reason it is manifest why Cicero's son was so degenerate, and that wise Socrates' children, as one has well observed, were more like their mother than their father, that is to say, fools. However this were to be born with, if only as to public employments they were "like a sow upon a pair of organs," were they anything more apt to discharge even the common offices of life. Invite a wise man to a feast and he'll spoil the company, either with morose silence or troublesome disputes. Take him out to dance, and you'll swear "a cow would have done it better." Bring him to the theatre, and his very looks are enough to spoil all, till like Cato he take an occasion of withdrawing rather than put off his supercilious gravity. Let him fall into discourse, and he shall make more sudden stops than if he had a wolf before him. Let him buy, or sell, or in short go about any of those things without there is no living in this world, and you'll say this piece of wisdom were rather a stock than a man, of so little use is he to himself, country, or friends; and all because he is wholly ignorant of common things and lives a course of life quite different from the people; by which means it is impossible but that he contract a popular odium, to wit, by reason of the great diversity of their life and souls. For what is there at all done among men that is not full of folly, and that too from fools and to fools? Against which universal practice if any single one shall dare to set up his throat, my advice to him is, that following the example of Timon, he retire into some desert and there enjoy his wisdom to himself. But, to return to my design, what power was it that drew those stony, oaken, and wild people into cities but flattery? For nothing else is signified by Amphion and Orpheus' harp. What was it that, when the common people of Rome were like to have destroyed all by their mutiny, reduced them to obedience? Was it a philosophical oration? Least. But a ridiculous and childish fable of the belly and the rest of the members. And as good success had Themistocles in his of the fox and hedgehog. What wise man's oration could ever have done so much with the people as Sertorius' invention of his white hind? Or his ridiculous emblem of pulling off a horse's tail hair by hair? Or as Lycurgus his example of his two whelps? To say nothing of Minos and Numa, both which ruled their foolish multitudes with fabulous inventions; with which kind of toys that great and powerful beast, the people, are led anyway. Again what city ever received Plato's or Aristotle's laws, or Socrates' precepts? But, on the contrary, what made the Decii devote themselves to the infernal gods, or Q. Curtius to leap into the gulf, but an empty vainglory, a most bewitching siren? And yet 'tis strange it should be so condemned by those wise philosophers. For what is more foolish, say they, than for a suppliant suitor to flatter the people, to buy their favor with gifts, to court the applauses of so many fools, to please himself with their acclamations, to be carried on the people's shoulders as in triumph, and have a brazen statue in the marketplace? Add to this the adoption of names and surnames, those divine honors given to a man of no reputation, and the deification of the most wicked tyrants with public ceremonies; most foolish things, and such as one Democritus is too little to laugh at. Who denies it? And yet from this root sprang all the great acts of the heroes which the pens of so many eloquent men have extolled to the skies. In a word, this folly is that that laid the foundation of cities; and by it, empire, authority, religion, policy, and public actions are preserved; neither is there anything in human life that is not a kind of pastime of folly. But to speak of arts, what set men's wits on work to invent and transmit to posterity so many famous, as they conceive, pieces of learning but the thirst of glory? With so much loss of sleep, such pains and travail, have the most foolish of men thought to purchase themselves a kind of I know not what fame, than which nothing can be more vain. And yet notwithstanding, you owe this advantage to folly, and which is the most delectable of all other, that you reap the benefit of other men's madness. And now, having vindicated to myself the praise of fortitude and industry, what think you if I do the same by that of prudence? But some will say, you may as well join fire and water. It may be so. But yet I doubt not but to succeed even in this also, if, as you have done hitherto, you will but favor me with your attention. And first, if prudence depends upon experience, to whom is the honor of that name more proper? To the wise man, who partly out of modesty and partly distrust of himself, attempts nothing; or the fool, whom neither modesty which he never had, nor danger which he never considers, can discourage from anything? The wise man has recourse to the books of the ancients, and from thence picks nothing but subtleties of words. The fool, in undertaking and venturing on the business of the world, gathers, if I mistake not, the true prudence, such as Homer though blind may be said to have seen when he said, "The burnt child dreads the fire." For there are two main obstacles to the knowledge of things, modesty that casts a mist before the understanding, and fear that, having fancied a danger, dissuades us from the attempt. But from these folly sufficiently frees us, and few there are that rightly understand of what great advantage it is to blush at nothing and attempt everything. But if you had rather take prudence for that that consists in the judgment of things, hear me, I beseech you, how far they are from it that yet crack of the name. For first 'tis evident that all human things, like Alcibiades' Sileni or rural gods, carry a double face, but not the least alike; so that what at first sight seems to be death, if you view it narrowly may prove to be life; and so the contrary. What appears beautiful may chance to be deformed; what wealthy, a very beggar; what infamous, praiseworthy; what learned, a dunce; what lusty, feeble; what jocund, sad; what noble, base; what lucky, unfortunate; what friendly, an enemy; and what healthful, noisome. In short, view the inside of these Sileni, and you'll find them quite other than what they appear; which, if perhaps it shall not seem so philosophically spoken, I'll make it plain to you "after my blunt way." Who would not conceive a prince a great lord and abundant in everything? But yet being so ill-furnished with the gifts of the mind, and ever thinking he shall never have enough, he's the poorest of all men. And then for his mind so given up to vice, 'tis a shame how it enslaves him. I might in like manner philosophize of the rest; but let this one, for example's sake, be enough. Yet why this? will someone say. Have patience, and I'll show you what I drive at. If anyone seeing a player acting his part on a stage should go about to strip him of his disguise and show him to the people in his true native form, would he not, think you, not only spoil the whole design of the play, but deserve himself to be pelted off with stones as a phantastical fool and one out of his wits? But nothing is more common with them than such changes; the same person one while impersonating a woman, and another while a man; now a youngster, and by and by a grim seignior; now a king, and presently a peasant; now a god, and in a trice again an ordinary fellow. But to discover this were to spoil all, it being the only thing that entertains the eyes of the spectators. And what is all this life but a kind of comedy, wherein men walk up and down in one another's disguises and act their respective parts, till the property-man brings them back to the attiring house. And yet he often orders a different dress, and makes him that came but just now off in the robes of a king put on the rags of a beggar. Thus are all things represented by counterfeit, and yet without this there was no living. And here if any wise man, as it were dropped from heaven, should start up and cry, this great thing whom the world looks upon for a god and I know not what is not so much as a man, for that like a beast he is led by his passions, but the worst of slaves, inasmuch as he gives himself up willingly to so many and such detestable masters. Again if he should bid a man that were bewailing the death of his father to laugh, for that he now began to live by having got an estate, without which life is but a kind of death; or call another that were boasting of his family ill begotten or base, because he is so far removed from virtue that is the only fountain of nobility; and so of the rest: what else would he get by it but be thought himself mad and frantic? For as nothing is more foolish than preposterous wisdom, so nothing is more unadvised than a forward unseasonable prudence. And such is his that does not comply with the present time "and order himself as the market goes," but forgetting that law of feasts, "either drink or begone," undertakes to disprove a common received opinion. Whereas on the contrary 'tis the part of a truly prudent man not to be wise beyond his condition, but either to take no notice of what the world does, or run with it for company. But this is foolish, you'll say; nor shall I deny it, provided always you be so civil on the other side as to confess that this is to act a part in that world. But, O you gods, "shall I speak or hold my tongue?" But why should I be silent in a thing that is more true than truth itself? However it might not be amiss perhaps in so great an affair to call forth the Muses from Helicon, since the poets so often invoke them upon every foolish occasion. Be present then awhile, and assist me, you daughters of Jupiter, while I make it out that there is no way to that so much famed wisdom, nor access to that fortress as they call it of happiness, but under the banner of Folly. And first 'tis agreed of all hands that our passions belong to Folly; inasmuch as we judge a wise man from a fool by this, that the one is ordered by them, the other by reason; and therefore the Stoics remove from a wise man all disturbances of mind as so many diseases. But these passions do not only the office of a tutor to such as are making towards the port of wisdom, but are in every exercise of virtue as it were spurs and incentives, nay and encouragers to well doing: which though that great Stoic Seneca most strongly denies, and takes from a wise man all affections whatever, yet in doing that he leaves him not so much as a man but rather a new kind of god that was never yet nor ever like to be. Nay, to speak plainer, he sets up a stony semblance of a man, void of all sense and common feeling of humanity. And much good to them with this wise man of theirs; let them enjoy him to themselves, love him without competitors, and live with him in Plato's commonwealth, the country of ideas, or Tantalus' orchards. For who would not shun and startle at such a man, as at some unnatural accident or spirit? A man dead to all sense of nature and common affections, and no more moved with love or pity than if he were a flint or rock; whose censure nothing escapes; that commits no errors himself, but has a lynx's eyes upon others; measures everything by an exact line, and forgives nothing; pleases himself with himself only; the only rich, the only wise, the only free man, and only king; in brief, the only man that is everything, but in his own single judgment only; that cares not for the friendship of any man, being himself a friend to no man; makes no doubt to make the gods stoop to him, and condemns and laughs at the whole actions of our life? And yet such a beast is this their perfect wise man. But tell me pray, if the thing were to be carried by most voices, what city would choose him for its governor, or what army desire him for their general? What woman would have such a husband, what goodfellow such a guest, or what servant would either wish or endure such a master? Nay, who had not rather have one of the middle sort of fools, who, being a fool himself, may the better know how to command or obey fools; and who though he please his like, 'tis yet the greater number; one that is kind to his wife, merry among his friends, a boon companion, and easy to be lived with; and lastly one that thinks nothing of humanity should be a stranger to him? But I am weary of this wise man, and therefore I'll proceed to some other advantages. Go to then. Suppose a man in some lofty high tower, and that he could look round him, as the poets say Jupiter was now and then wont. To how many misfortunes would he find the life of man subject? How miserable, to say no worse, our birth, how difficult our education; to how many wrongs our childhood exposed, to what pains our youth; how unsupportable our old age, and grievous our unavoidable death? As also what troops of diseases beset us, how many casualties hang over our heads, how many troubles invade us, and how little there is that is not steeped in gall? To say nothing of those evils one man brings upon another, as poverty, imprisonment, infamy, dishonesty, racks, snares, treachery, reproaches, actions, deceits--but I'm got into as endless a work as numbering the sands--for what offenses mankind have deserved these things, or what angry god compelled them to be born into such miseries is not my present business. Yet he that shall diligently examine it with himself, would he not, think you, approve the example of the Milesian virgins and kill himself? But who are they that for no other reason but that they were weary of life have hastened their own fate? Were they not the next neighbors to wisdom? among whom, to say nothing of Diogenes, Xenocrates, Cato, Cassius, Brutus, that wise man Chiron, being offered immortality, chose rather to die than be troubled with the same thing always. And now I think you see what would become of the world if all men should be wise; to wit it were necessary we got another kind of clay and some better potter. But I, partly through ignorance, partly unadvisedness, and sometimes through forgetfulness of evil, do now and then so sprinkle pleasure with the hopes of good and sweeten men up in their greatest misfortunes that they are not willing to leave this life, even then when according to the account of the destinies this life has left them; and by how much the less reason they have to live, by so much the more they desire it; so far are they from being sensible of the least wearisomeness of life. Of my gift it is, that you have so many old Nestors everywhere that have scarce left them so much as the shape of a man; stutterers, dotards, toothless, gray-haired, bald; or rather, to use the words of Aristophanes, "Nasty, crumpled, miserable, shriveled, bald, toothless, and wanting their baubles," yet so delighted with life and to be thought young that one dyes his gray hairs; another covers his baldness with a periwig; another gets a set of new teeth; another falls desperately in love with a young wench and keeps more flickering about her than a young man would have been ashamed of. For to see such an old crooked piece with one foot in the grave to marry a plump young wench, and that too without a portion, is so common that men almost expect to be commended for it. But the best sport of all is to see our old women, even dead with age, and such skeletons one would think they had stolen out of their graves, and ever mumbling in their mouths, "Life is sweet;" and as old as they are, still caterwauling, daily plastering their face, scarce ever from the glass, gossiping, dancing, and writing love letters. These things are laughed at as foolish, as indeed they are; yet they please themselves, live merrily, swim in pleasure, and in a word are happy, by my courtesy. But I would have them to whom these things seem ridiculous to consider with themselves whether it be not better to live so pleasant a life in such kind of follies, than, as the proverb goes, "to take a halter and hang themselves." Besides though these things may be subject to censure, it concerns not my fools in the least, inasmuch as they take no notice of it; or if they do, they easily neglect it. If a stone fall upon a man's head, that's evil indeed; but dishonesty, infamy, villainy, ill reports carry no more hurt in them than a man is sensible of; and if a man have no sense of them, they are no longer evils. What are you the worse if the people hiss at you, so you applaud yourself? And that a man be able to do so, he must owe it to folly. But methinks I hear the philosophers opposing it and saying 'tis a miserable thing for a man to be foolish, to err, mistake, and know nothing truly. Nay rather, this is to be a man. And why they should call it miserable, I see no reason; forasmuch as we are so born, so bred, so instructed, nay such is the common condition of us all. And nothing can be called miserable that suits with its kind, unless perhaps you'll think a man such because he can neither fly with birds, nor walk on all four with beasts, and is not armed with horns as a bull. For by the same reason he would call the warlike horse unfortunate, because he understood not grammar, nor ate cheese-cakes; and the bull miserable, because he'd make so ill a wrestler. And therefore, as a horse that has no skill in grammar is not miserable, no more is man in this respect, for that they agree with his nature. But again, the virtuosi may say that there was particularly added to man the knowledge of sciences, by whose help he might recompense himself in understanding for what nature cut him short in other things. As if this had the least face of truth, that Nature that was so solicitously watchful in the production of gnats, herbs, and flowers should have so slept when she made man, that he should have need to be helped by sciences, which that old devil Theuth, the evil genius of mankind, first invented for his destruction, and are so little conducive to happiness that they rather obstruct it; to which purpose they are properly said to be first found out, as that wise king in Plato argues touching the invention of letters. Sciences therefore crept into the world with other the pests of mankind, from the same head from whence all other mischiefs spring; we'll suppose it devils, for so the name imports when you call them demons, that is to say, knowing. For that simple people of the golden age, being wholly ignorant of everything called learning, lived only by the guidance and dictates of nature; for what use of grammar, where every man spoke the same language and had no further design than to understand one another? What use of logic, where there was no bickering about the double-meaning words? What need of rhetoric, where there were no lawsuits? Or to what purpose laws, where there were no ill manners? from which without doubt good laws first came. Besides, they were more religious than with an impious curiosity to dive into the secrets of nature, the dimension of stars, the motions, effects, and hidden causes of things; as believing it a crime for any man to attempt to be wise beyond his condition. And as to the inquiry of what was beyond heaven, that madness never came into their heads. But the purity of the golden age declining by degrees, first, as I said before, arts were invented by the evil genii; and yet but few, and those too received by fewer. After that the Chaldean superstition and Greek newfangledness, that had little to do, added I know not how many more; mere torments of wit, and that so great that even grammar alone is work enough for any man for his whole life. Though yet among these sciences those only are in esteem that come nearest to common sense, that is to say, folly. Divines are half starved, naturalists out of heart, astrologers laughed at, and logicians slighted; only the physician is worth all the rest. And among them too, the more unlearned, impudent, or unadvised he is, the more he is esteemed, even among princes. For physic, especially as it is now professed by most men, is nothing but a branch of flattery, no less than rhetoric. Next them, the second place is given to our law-drivers, if not the first, whose profession, though I say it myself, most men laugh at as the ass of philosophy; yet there's scarce any business, either so great or so small, but is managed by these asses. These purchase their great lordships, while in the meantime the divine, having run through the whole body of divinity, sits gnawing a radish and is in continual warfare with lice and fleas. As therefore those arts are best that have the nearest affinity with folly, so are they most happy of all others that have least commerce with sciences and follow the guidance of Nature, who is in no wise imperfect, unless perhaps we endeavor to leap over those bounds she has appointed to us. Nature hates all false coloring and is ever best where she is least adulterated with art. Go to then, don't you find among the several kinds of living creatures that they thrive best that understand no more than what Nature taught them? What is more prosperous or wonderful than the bee? And though they have not the same judgment of sense as other bodies have, yet wherein has architecture gone beyond their building of houses? What philosopher ever founded the like republic? Whereas the horse, that comes so near man in understanding and is therefore so familiar with him, is also partaker of his misery. For while he thinks it a shame to lose the race, it often happens that he cracks his wind; and in the battle, while he contends for victory, he's cut down himself, and, together with his rider "lies biting the earth;" not to mention those strong bits, sharp spurs, close stables, arms, blows, rider, and briefly, all that slavery he willingly submits to, while, imitating those men of valor, he so eagerly strives to be revenged of the enemy. Than which how much more were the life of flies or birds to be wished for, who living by the instinct of nature, look no further than the present, if yet man would but let them alone in it. And if at anytime they chance to be taken, and being shut up in cages endeavor to imitate our speaking, 'tis strange how they degenerate from their native gaiety. So much better in every respect are the works of nature than the adulteries of art. In like manner I can never sufficiently praise that Pythagoras in a dunghill cock, who being but one had been yet everything, a philosopher, a man, a woman, a king, a private man, a fish, a horse, a frog, and, I believe too, a sponge; and at last concluded that no creature was more miserable than man, for that all other creatures are content with those bounds that nature set them, only man endeavors to exceed them. And again, among men he gives the precedency not to the learned or the great, but the fool. Nor had that Gryllus less wit than Ulysses with his many counsels, who chose rather to lie grunting in a hog sty than be exposed with the other to so many hazards. Nor does Homer, that father of trifles, dissent from me; who not only called all men "wretched and full of calamity," but often his great pattern of wisdom, Ulysses, "miserable;" Paris, Ajax, and Achilles nowhere. And why, I pray but that, like a cunning fellow and one that was his craft's master, he did nothing without the advice of Pallas? In a word he was too wise, and by that means ran wide of nature. As therefore among men they are least happy that study wisdom, as being in this twice fools, that when they are born men, they should yet so far forget their condition as to affect the life of gods; and after the example of the giants, with their philosophical gimcracks make a war upon nature: so they on the other side seem as little miserable as is possible who come nearest to beasts and never attempt anything beyond man. Go to then, let's try how demonstrable this is; not by enthymemes or the imperfect syllogisms of the Stoics, but by plain, downright, and ordinary examples. And now, by the immortal gods! I think nothing more happy than that generation of men we commonly call fools, idiots, lack-wits, and dolts; splendid titles too, as I conceive them. I'll tell you a thing, which at first perhaps may seem foolish and absurd, yet nothing more true. And first they are not afraid of death--no small evil, by Jupiter! They are not tormented with the conscience of evil acts, not terrified with the fables of ghosts, nor frightened with spirits and goblins. They are not distracted with the fear of evils to come nor the hopes of future good. In short, they are not disturbed with those thousand of cares to which this life is subject. They are neither modest, nor fearful, nor ambitious, nor envious, nor love they any man. And lastly, if they should come nearer even to the very ignorance of brutes, they could not sin, for so hold the divines. And now tell me, you wise fool, with how many troublesome cares your mind is continually perplexed; heap together all the discommodities of your life, and then you'll be sensible from how many evils I have delivered my fools. Add to this that they are not only merry, play, sing, and laugh themselves, but make mirth wherever they come, a special privilege it seems the gods have given them to refresh the pensiveness of life. Whence it is that whereas the world is so differently affected one towards another, that all men indifferently admit them as their companions, desire, feed, cherish, embrace them, take their parts upon all occasions, and permit them without offense to do or say what they like. And so little does everything desire to hurt them, that even the very beasts, by a kind of natural instinct of their innocence no doubt, pass by their injuries. For of them it may be truly said that they are consecrate to the gods, and therefore and not without cause do men have them in such esteem. Whence is it else that they are in so great request with princes that they can neither eat nor drink, go anywhere, or be an hour without them? Nay, and in some degree they prefer these fools before their crabbish wise men, whom yet they keep about them for state's sake. Nor do I conceive the reason so difficult, or that it should seem strange why they are preferred before the others, for that these wise men speak to princes about nothing but grave, serious matters, and trusting to their own parts and learning do not fear sometimes "to grate their tender ears with smart truths;" but fools fit them with that they most delight in, as jests, laughter, abuses of other men, wanton pastimes, and the like. Again, take notice of this no contemptible blessing which Nature has given fools, that they are the only plain, honest men and such as speak truth. And what is more commendable than truth? For though that proverb of Alcibiades in Plato attributes truth to drunkards and children, yet the praise of it is particularly mine, even from the testimony of Euripides, among whose other things there is extant that his honorable saying concerning us, "A fool speaks foolish things." For whatever a fool has in his heart, he both shows it in his looks and expresses it in his discourse; while the wise men's are those two tongues which the same Euripides mentions, whereof the one speaks truth, the other what they judge most seasonable for the occasion. These are they "that turn black into white," blow hot and cold with the same breath, and carry a far different meaning in their breast from what they feign with their tongue. Yet in the midst of all their prosperity, princes in this respect seem to me most unfortunate, because, having no one to tell them truth, they are forced to receive flatterers for friends. But, someone may say, the ears of princes are strangers to truth, and for this reason they avoid those wise men, because they fear lest someone more frank than the rest should dare to speak to them things rather true than pleasant; for so the matter is, that they don't much care for truth. And yet this is found by experience among my fools, that not only truths but even open reproaches are heard with pleasure; so that the same thing which, if it came from a wise man's mouth might prove a capital crime, spoken by a fool is received with delight. For truth carries with it a certain peculiar power of pleasing, if no accident fall in to give occasion of offense; which faculty the gods have given only to fools. And for the same reasons is it that women are so earnestly delighted with this kind of men, as being more propense by nature to pleasure and toys. And whatsoever they may happen to do with them, although sometimes it be of the most serious, yet they turn it to jest and laughter, as that sex was ever quick-witted, especially to color their own faults. But to return to the happiness of fools, who when they have passed over this life with a great deal of pleasantness and without so much as the least fear or sense of death, they go straight forth into the Elysian field, to recreate their pious and careless souls with such sports as they used here. Let's proceed then, and compare the condition of any of your wise men with that of this fool. Fancy to me now some example of wisdom you'd set up against him; one that had spent his childhood and youth in learning the sciences and lost the sweetest part of his life in watchings, cares, studies, and for the remaining part of it never so much as tasted the least of pleasure; ever sparing, poor, sad, sour, unjust, and rigorous to himself, and troublesome and hateful to others; broken with paleness, leanness, crassness, sore eyes, and an old age and death contracted before their time (though yet, what matter is it, when he die that never lived?); and such is the picture of this great wise man. And here again do those frogs of the Stoics croak at me and say that nothing is more miserable than madness. But folly is the next degree, if not the very thing. For what else is madness than for a man to be out of his wits? But to let them see how they are clean out of the way, with the Muses' good favor we'll take this syllogism in pieces. Subtly argued, I must confess, but as Socrates in Plato teaches us how by splitting one Venus and one Cupid to make two of either, in like manner should those logicians have done and distinguished madness from madness, if at least they would be thought to be well in their wits themselves. For all madness is not miserable, or Horace had never called his poetical fury a beloved madness; nor Plato placed the raptures of poets, prophets, and lovers among the chiefest blessings of this life; nor that sibyl in Virgil called Aeneas' travels mad labors. But there are two sorts of madness, the one that which the revengeful Furies send privily from hell, as often as they let loose their snakes and put into men's breasts either the desire of war, or an insatiate thirst after gold, or some dishonest love, or parricide, or incest, or sacrilege, or the like plagues, or when they terrify some guilty soul with the conscience of his crimes; the other, but nothing like this, that which comes from me and is of all other things the most desirable; which happens as often as some pleasing dotage not only clears the mind of its troublesome cares but renders it more jocund. And this was that which, as a special blessing of the gods, Cicero, writing to his friend Atticus, wished to himself, that he might be the less sensible of those miseries that then hung over the commonwealth. Nor was that Grecian in Horace much wide of it, who was so far made that he would sit by himself whole days in the theatre laughing and clapping his hands, as if he had seen some tragedy acting, whereas in truth there was nothing presented; yet in other things a man well enough, pleasant among his friends, kind to his wife, and so good a master to his servants that if they had broken the seal of his bottle, he would not have run mad for it. But at last, when by the care of his friends and physic he was freed from his distemper and become his own man again, he thus expostulates with them, "Now, by Pollux, my friends, you have rather killed than preserved me in thus forcing me from my pleasure." By which you see he liked it so well that he lost it against his will. And trust me, I think they were the madder of the two, and had the greater need of hellebore, that should offer to look upon so pleasant a madness as an evil to be removed by physic; though yet I have not determined whether every distemper of the sense or understanding be to be called madness. For neither he that having weak eyes should take a mule for an ass, nor he that should admire an insipid poem as excellent would be presently thought mad; but he that not only errs in his senses but is deceived also in his judgment, and that too more than ordinary and upon all occasions--he, I must confess, would be thought to come very near to it. As if anyone hearing an ass bray should take it for excellent music, or a beggar conceive himself a king. And yet this kind of madness, if, as it commonly happens, it turn to pleasure, it brings a great delight not only to them that are possessed with it but to those also that behold it, though perhaps they may not be altogether so mad as the other, for the species of this madness is much larger than the people take it to be. For one mad man laughs at another, and beget themselves a mutual pleasure. Nor does it seldom happen that he that is the more mad, laughs at him that is less mad. And in this every man is the more happy in how many respects the more he is mad; and if I were judge in the case, he should be ranged in that class of folly that is peculiarly mine, which in truth is so large and universal that I scarce know anyone in all mankind that is wise at all hours, or has not some tang or other of madness. And to this class do they appertain that slight everything in comparison of hunting and protest they take an unimaginable pleasure to hear the yell of the horns and the yelps of the hounds, and I believe could pick somewhat extraordinary out of their very excrement. And then what pleasure they take to see a buck or the like unlaced? Let ordinary fellows cut up an ox or a wether, 'twere a crime to have this done by anything less than a gentleman! who with his hat off, on his bare knees, and a couteau for that purpose (for every sword or knife is not allowable), with a curious superstition and certain postures, lays open the several parts in their respective order; while they that hem him in admire it with silence, as some new religious ceremony, though perhaps they have seen it a hundred times before. And if any of them chance to get the least piece of it, he presently thinks himself no small gentleman. In all which they drive at nothing more than to become beasts themselves, while yet they imagine they live the life of princes. And next these may be reckoned those that have such an itch of building; one while changing rounds into squares, and presently again squares into rounds, never knowing either measure or end, till at last, reduced to the utmost poverty, there remains not to them so much as a place where they may lay their head, or wherewith to fill their bellies. And why all this? but that they may pass over a few years in feeding their foolish fancies. And, in my opinion, next these may be reckoned such as with their new inventions and occult arts undertake to change the forms of things and hunt all about after a certain fifth essence; men so bewitched with this present hope that it never repents them of their pains or expense, but are ever contriving how they may cheat themselves, till, having spent all, there is not enough left them to provide another furnace. And yet they have not done dreaming these their pleasant dreams but encourage others, as much as in them lies, to the same happiness. And at last, when they are quite lost in all their expectations, they cheer up themselves with this sentence, "In great things the very attempt is enough," and then complain of the shortness of man's life that is not sufficient for so great an understanding. And then for gamesters, I am a little doubtful whether they are to be admitted into our college; and yet 'tis a foolish and ridiculous sight to see some addicted so to it that they can no sooner hear the rattling of the dice but their heart leaps and dances again. And then when time after time they are so far drawn on with the hopes of winning that they have made shipwreck of all, and having split their ship on that rock of dice, no less terrible than the bishop and his clerks, scarce got alive to shore, they choose rather to cheat any man of their just debts than not pay the money they lost, lest otherwise, forsooth, they be thought no men of their words. Again what is it, I pray, to see old fellows and half blind to play with spectacles? Nay, and when a justly deserved gout has knotted their knuckles, to hire a caster, or one that may put the dice in the box for them? A pleasant thing, I must confess, did it not for the most part end in quarrels, and therefore belongs rather to the Furies than me. But there is no doubt but that that kind of men are wholly ours who love to hear or tell feigned miracles and strange lies and are never weary of any tale, though never so long, so it be of ghosts, spirits, goblins, devils, or the like; which the further they are from truth, the more readily they are believed and the more do they tickle their itching ears. And these serve not only to pass away time but bring profit, especially to mass priests and pardoners. And next to these are they that have gotten a foolish but pleasant persuasion that if they can but see a wooden or painted Polypheme Christopher, they shall not die that day; or do but salute a carved Barbara, in the usual set form, that he shall return safe from battle; or make his application to Erasmus on certain days with some small wax candles and proper prayers, that he shall quickly be rich. Nay, they have gotten a Hercules, another Hippolytus, and a St. George, whose horse most religiously set out with trappings and bosses there wants little but they worship; however, they endeavor to make him their friend by some present or other, and to swear by his master's brazen helmet is an oath for a prince. Or what should I say of them that hug themselves with their counterfeit pardons; that have measured purgatory by an hourglass, and can without the least mistake demonstrate its ages, years, months, days, hours, minutes, and seconds, as it were in a mathematical table? Or what of those who, having confidence in certain magical charms and short prayers invented by some pious imposter, either for his soul's health or profit's sake, promise to themselves everything: wealth, honor, pleasure, plenty, good health, long life, lively old age, and the next place to Christ in the other world, which yet they desire may not happen too soon, that is to say before the pleasures of this life have left them? And now suppose some merchant, soldier, or judge, out of so many rapines, parts with some small piece of money. He straight conceives all that sink of his whole life quite cleansed; so many perjuries, so many lusts, so many debaucheries, so many contentions, so many murders, so many deceits, so many breaches of trusts, so many treacheries bought off, as it were by compact; and so bought off that they may begin upon a new score. But what is more foolish than those, or rather more happy, who daily reciting those seven verses of the Psalms promise to themselves more than the top of felicity? Which magical verses some devil or other, a merry one without doubt but more a blab of his tongue than crafty, is believed to have discovered to St. Bernard, but not without a trick. And these are so foolish that I am half ashamed of them myself, and yet they are approved, and that not only by the common people but even the professors of religion. And what, are not they also almost the same where several countries avouch to themselves their peculiar saint, and as everyone of them has his particular gift, so also his particular form of worship? As, one is good for the toothache; another for groaning women; a third, for stolen goods; a fourth, for making a voyage prosperous; and a fifth, to cure sheep of the rot; and so of the rest, for it would be too tedious to run over all. And some there are that are good for more things than one; but chiefly, the Virgin Mother, to whom the common people do in a manner attribute more than to the Son. Yet what do they beg of these saints but what belongs to folly? To examine it a little. Among all those offerings which are so frequently hung up in churches, nay up to the very roof of some of them, did you ever see the least acknowledgment from anyone that had left his folly, or grown a hair's breadth the wiser? One escapes a shipwreck, and he gets safe to shore. Another, run through in a duel, recovers. Another, while the rest were fighting, ran out of the field, no less luckily than valiantly. Another, condemned to be hanged, by the favor of some saint or other, a friend to thieves, got off himself by impeaching his fellows. Another escaped by breaking prison. Another recovered from his fever in spite of his physician. Another's poison turning to a looseness proved his remedy rather than death; and that to his wife's no small sorrow, in that she lost both her labor and her charge. Another's cart broke, and he saved his horses. Another preserved from the fall of a house. All these hang up their tablets, but no one gives thanks for his recovery from folly; so sweet a thing it is not to be wise, that on the contrary men rather pray against anything than folly. But why do I launch out into this ocean of superstitions? Had I a hundred tongues, as many mouths, and a voice never so strong, yet were I not able to run over the several sorts of fools or all the names of folly, so thick do they swarm everywhere. And yet your priests make no scruple to receive and cherish them as proper instruments of profit; whereas if some scurvy wise fellow should step up and speak things as they are, as, to live well is the way to die well; the best way to get quit of sin is to add to the money you give the hatred of sin, tears, watchings, prayers, fastings, and amendment of life; such or such a saint will favor you, if you imitate his life--these, I say, and the like--should this wise man chat to the people, from what happiness into how great troubles would he draw them? Of this college also are they who in their lifetime appoint with what solemnity they'll be buried, and particularly set down how many torches, how many mourners, how many singers, how many almsmen they will have at it; as if any sense of it could come to them, or that it were a shame to them that their corpse were not honorably interred; so curious are they herein, as if, like the aediles of old, these were to present some shows or banquet to the people. And though I am in haste, yet I cannot yet pass by them who, though they differ nothing from the meanest cobbler, yet 'tis scarcely credible how they flatter themselves with the empty title of nobility. One derives his pedigree from Aeneas, another from Brutus, a third from the star by the tail of Ursa Major. They show you on every side the statues and pictures of their ancestors; run over their great-grandfathers and the great-great-grandfathers of both lines, and the ancient matches of their families, when themselves yet are but once removed from a statue, if not worse than those trifles they boast of. And yet by means of this pleasant self-love they live a happy life. Nor are they less fools who admire these beasts as if they were gods. But what do I speak of any one or the other particular kind of men, as if this self-love had not the same effect everywhere and rendered most men superabundantly happy? As when a fellow, more deformed than a baboon, shall believe himself handsomer than Homer's Nereus. Another, as soon as he can draw two or three lines with a compass, presently thinks himself a Euclid. A third, that understands music no more than my horse, and for his voice as hoarse as a dunghill cock, shall yet conceive himself another Hermogenes. But of all madness that's the most pleasant when a man, seeing another any way excellent in what he pretends to himself, makes his boasts of it as confidently as if it were his own. And such was that rich fellow in Seneca, who whenever he told a story had his servants at his elbow to prompt him the names; and to that height had they flattered him that he did not question but he might venture a rubber at cuffs, a man otherwise so weak he could scarce stand, only presuming on this, that he had a company of sturdy servants about him. Or to what purpose is it I should mind you of our professors of arts? Forasmuch as this self-love is so natural to them all that they had rather part with their father's land than their foolish opinions; but chiefly players, fiddlers, orators, and poets, of which the more ignorant each of them is, the more insolently he pleases himself, that is to say vaunts and spreads out his plumes. And like lips find like lettuce; nay, the more foolish anything is, the more 'tis admired, the greater number being ever tickled at the worst things, because, as I said before, most men are so subject to folly. And therefore if the more foolish a man is, the more he pleases himself and is admired by others, to what purpose should he beat his brains about true knowledge, which first will cost him dear, and next render him the more troublesome and less confident, and lastly, please only a few? And now I consider it, Nature has planted, not only in particular men but even in every nation, and scarce any city is there without it, a kind of common self-love. And hence is it that the English, besides other things, particularly challenge to themselves beauty, music, and feasting. The Scots are proud of their nobility, alliance to the crown, and logical subtleties. The French think themselves the only well-bred men. The Parisians, excluding all others, arrogate to themselves the only knowledge of divinity. The Italians affirm they are the only masters of good letters and eloquence, and flatter themselves on this account, that of all others they only are not barbarous. In which kind of happiness those of Rome claim the first place, still dreaming to themselves of somewhat, I know not what, of old Rome. The Venetians fancy themselves happy in the opinion of their nobility. The Greeks, as if they were the only authors of sciences, swell themselves with the titles of the ancient heroes. The Turk, and all that sink of the truly barbarous, challenge to themselves the only glory of religion and laugh at Christians as superstitious. And much more pleasantly the Jews expect to this day the coming of the Messiah, and so obstinately contend for their Law of Moses. The Spaniards give place to none in the reputation of soldiery. The Germans pride themselves in their tallness of stature and skill in magic. And, not to instance in every particular, you see, I conceive, how much satisfaction this Self-love, who has a sister also not unlike herself called Flattery, begets everywhere; for self-love is no more than the soothing of a man's self, which, done to another, is flattery. And though perhaps at this day it may be thought infamous, yet it is so only with them that are more taken with words than things. They think truth is inconsistent with flattery, but that it is much otherwise we may learn from the examples of true beasts. What more fawning than a dog? And yet what more trusty? What has more of those little tricks than a squirrel? And yet what more loving to man? Unless, perhaps you'll say, men had better converse with fierce lions, merciless tigers, and furious leopards. For that flattery is the most pernicious of all things, by means of which some treacherous persons and mockers have run the credulous into such mischief. But this of mine proceeds from a certain gentleness and uprightness of mind and comes nearer to virtue than its opposite, austerity, or a morose and troublesome peevishness, as Horace calls it. This supports the dejected, relieves the distressed, encourages the fainting, awakens the stupid, refreshes the sick, supplies the untractable, joins loves together, and keeps them so joined. It entices children to take their learning, makes old men frolic, and, under the color of praise, does without offense both tell princes their faults and show them the way to amend them. In short, it makes every man the more jocund and acceptable to himself, which is the chiefest point of felicity. Again, what is more friendly than when two horses scrub one another? And to say nothing of it, that it's a main part of physic, and the only thing in poetry; 'tis the delight and relish of all human society. But 'tis a sad thing, they say, to be mistaken. Nay rather, he is most miserable that is not so. For they are quite beside the mark that place the happiness of men in things themselves, since it only depends upon opinion. For so great is the obscurity and variety of human affairs that nothing can be clearly known, as it is truly said by our academics, the least insolent of all the philosophers; or if it could, it would but obstruct the pleasure of life. Lastly, the mind of man is so framed that it is rather taken with the false colors than truth; of which if anyone has a mind to make the experiment, let him go to church and hear sermons, in which if there be anything serious delivered, the audience is either asleep, yawning, or weary of it; but if the preacher--pardon my mistake, I would have said declaimer--as too often it happens, fall but into an old wives' story, they're presently awake, prick up their ears and gape after it. In like manner, if there be any poetical saint, or one of whom there goes more stories than ordinary, as for example, a George, a Christopher, or a Barbara, you shall see him more religiously worshiped than Peter, Paul, or even Christ himself. But these things are not for this place. And now at how cheap a rate is this happiness purchased! Forasmuch as to the thing itself a man's whole endeavor is required, be it never so inconsiderable; but the opinion of it is easily taken up, which yet conduces as much or more to happiness. For suppose a man were eating rotten stockfish, the very smell of which would choke another, and yet believed it a dish for the gods, what difference is there as to his happiness? Whereas on the contrary, if another's stomach should turn at a sturgeon, wherein, I pray, is he happier than the other? If a man have a crooked, ill-favored wife, who yet in his eye may stand in competition with Venus, is it not the same as if she were truly beautiful? Or if seeing an ugly, ill-pointed piece, he should admire the work as believing it some great master's hand, were he not much happier, think you, than they that buy such things at vast rates, and yet perhaps reap less pleasure from them than the other? I know one of my name that gave his new married wife some counterfeit jewels, and as he was a pleasant droll, persuaded her that they were not only right but of an inestimable price; and what difference, I pray, to her, that was as well pleased and contented with glass and kept it as warily as if it had been a treasure? In the meantime the husband saved his money and had this advantage of her folly, that he obliged her as much as if he had bought them at a great rate. Or what difference, think you, between those in Plato's imaginary cave that stand gaping at the shadows and figures of things, so they please themselves and have no need to wish, and that wise man, who, being got loose from them, sees things truly as they are? Whereas that cobbler in Lucian if he might always have continued his golden dreams, he would never have desired any other happiness. So then there is no difference; or, if there be, the fools have the advantage: first, in that their happiness costs them least, that is to say, only some small persuasion; next, that they enjoy it in common. And the possession of no good can be delightful without a companion. For who does not know what a dearth there is of wise men, if yet any one be to be found? And though the Greeks for these so many ages have accounted upon seven only, yet so help me Hercules, do but examine them narrowly, and I'll be hanged if you find one half-witted fellow, nay or so much as one-quarter of a wise man, among them all. For whereas among the many praises of Bacchus they reckon this the chief, that he washes away cares, and that too in an instant, do but sleep off his weak spirits, and they come on again, as we say, on horseback. But how much larger and more present is the benefit you receive by me, since, as it were with a perpetual drunkenness I fill your minds with mirth, fancies, and jollities, and that too without any trouble? Nor is there any man living whom I let be without it; whereas the gifts of the gods are scrambled, some to one and some to another. The sprightly delicious wine that drives away cares and leaves such a flavor behind it grows not everywhere. Beauty, the gift of Venus, happens to few; and to fewer gives Mercury eloquence. Hercules makes not everyone rich. Homer's Jupiter bestows not empire on all men. Mars oftentimes favors neither side. Many return sad from Apollo's oracle. Phoebus sometimes shoots a plague among us. Neptune drowns more than he saves: to say nothing of those mischievous gods, Plutoes, Ates, punishments, favors, and the like, not gods but executioners. I am that only Folly that so readily and indifferently bestows my benefits on all. Nor do I look to be entreated, or am I subject to take pet, and require an expiatory sacrifice if some ceremony be omitted. Nor do I beat heaven and earth together if, when the rest of the gods are invited, I am passed by or not admitted to the stream of their sacrifices. For the rest of the gods are so curious in this point that such an omission may chance to spoil a man's business; and therefore one has as good even let them alone as worship them: just like some men, who are so hard to please, and withall so ready to do mischief, that 'tis better be a stranger than have any familiarity with them. But no man, you'll say, ever sacrificed to Folly or built me a temple. And troth, as I said before, I cannot but wonder at the ingratitude; yet because I am easily to be entreated, I take this also in good part, though truly I can scarce request it. For why should I require incense, wafers, a goat, or sow when all men pay me that worship everywhere which is so much approved even by our very divines? Unless perhaps I should envy Diana that her sacrifices are mingled with human blood. Then do I conceive myself most religiously worshiped when everywhere, as 'tis generally done, men embrace me in their minds, express me in their manners, and represent me in their lives, which worship of the saints is not so ordinary among Christians. How many are there that burn candles to the Virgin Mother, and that too at noonday when there's no need of them! But how few are there that study to imitate her in pureness of life, humility and love of heavenly things, which is the true worship and most acceptable to heaven! Besides why should I desire a temple when the whole world is my temple, and I'm deceived or 'tis a goodly one? Nor can I want priests but in a land where there are no men. Nor am I yet so foolish as to require statues or painted images, which do often obstruct my worship, since among the stupid and gross multitude those figures are worshiped for the saints themselves. And so it would fare with me, as it does with them that are turned out of doors by their substitutes. No, I have statues enough, and as many as there are men, everyone bearing my lively resemblance in his face, how unwilling so ever he be to the contrary. And therefore there is no reason why I should envy the rest of the gods if in particular places they have their particular worship, and that too on set days--as Phoebus at Rhodes; at Cyprus, Venus; at Argos, Juno; at Athens, Minerva; in Olympus, Jupiter; at Tarentum, Neptune; and near the Hellespont, Priapus--as long as the world in general performs me every day much better sacrifices. Wherein notwithstanding if I shall seem to anyone to have spoken more boldly than truly, let us, if you please, look a little into the lives of men, and it will easily appear not only how much they owe to me, but how much they esteem me even from the highest to the lowest. And yet we will not run over the lives of everyone, for that would be too long, but only some few of the great ones, from whence we shall easily conjecture the rest. For to what purpose is it to say anything of the common people, who without dispute are wholly mine? For they abound everywhere with so many several sorts of folly, and are every day so busy in inventing new, that a thousand Democriti are too few for so general a laughter though there were another Democritus to laugh at them too. 'Tis almost incredible what sport and pastime they daily make the gods; for though they set aside their sober forenoon hours to dispatch business and receive prayers, yet when they begin to be well whittled with nectar and cannot think of anything that's serious, they get them up into some part of heaven that has better prospect than other and thence look down upon the actions of men. Nor is there anything that pleases them better. Good, good! what an excellent sight it is! How many several hurly-burlies of fools! for I myself sometimes sit among those poetical gods. Here's one desperately in love with a young wench, and the more she slights him the more outrageously he loves her. Another marries a woman's money, not herself. Another's jealousy keeps more eyes on her than Argos. Another becomes a mourner, and how foolishly he carries it! nay, hires others to bear him company to make it more ridiculous. Another weeps over his mother-in-law's grave. Another spends all he can rap and run on his belly, to be the more hungry after it. Another thinks there is no happiness but in sleep and idleness. Another turmoils himself about other men's business and neglects his own. Another thinks himself rich in taking up moneys and changing securities, as we say borrowing of Peter to pay Paul, and in a short time becomes bankrupt. Another starves himself to enrich his heir. Another for a small and uncertain gain exposes his life to the casualties of seas and winds, which yet no money can restore. Another had rather get riches by war than live peaceably at home. And some there are that think them easiest attained by courting old childless men with presents; and others again by making rich old women believe they love them; both which afford the gods most excellent pastime, to see them cheated by those persons they thought to have over-caught. But the most foolish and basest of all others are our merchants, to wit such as venture on everything be it never so dishonest, and manage it no better; who though they lie by no allowance, swear and forswear, steal, cozen, and cheat, yet shuffle themselves into the first rank, and all because they have gold rings on their fingers. Nor are they without their flattering friars that admire them and give them openly the title of honorable, in hopes, no doubt, to get some small snip of it themselves. There are also a kind of Pythagoreans with whom all things are so common that if they get anything under their cloaks, they make no more scruple of carrying it away than if it were their own by inheritance. There are others too that are only rich in conceit, and while they fancy to themselves pleasant dreams, conceive that enough to make them happy. Some desire to be accounted wealthy abroad and are yet ready to starve at home. One makes what haste he can to set all going, and another rakes it together by right or wrong. This man is ever laboring for public honors, and another lies sleeping in a chimney corner. A great many undertake endless suits and outvie one another who shall most enrich the dilatory judge or corrupt advocate. One is all for innovations and another for some great he-knows-not-what. Another leaves his wife and children at home and goes to Jerusalem, Rome, or in pilgrimage to St. James's where he has no business. In short, if a man like Menippus of old could look down from the moon and behold those innumerable rufflings of mankind, he would think he saw a swarm of flies and gnats quarreling among themselves, fighting, laying traps for one another, snatching, playing, wantoning, growing up, falling, and dying. Nor is it to be believed what stir, what broils, this little creature raises, and yet in how short a time it comes to nothing itself; while sometimes war, other times pestilence, sweeps off many thousands of them together. But let me be most foolish myself, and one whom Democritus may not only laugh at but flout, if I go one foot further in the discovery of the follies and madnesses of the common people. I'll betake me to them that carry the reputation of wise men and hunt after that golden bough, as says the proverb. Among whom the grammarians hold the first place, a generation of men than whom nothing would be more miserable, nothing more perplexed, nothing more hated of the gods, did not I allay the troubles of that pitiful profession with a certain kind of pleasant madness. For they are not only subject to those five curses with which Home begins his Iliads, as says the Greek epigram, but six hundred; as being ever hunger-starved and slovens in their schools--schools, did I say? Nay, rather cloisters, bridewells, or slaughterhouses--grown old among a company of boys, deaf with their noise, and pined away with stench and nastiness. And yet by my courtesy it is that they think themselves the most excellent of all men, so greatly do they please themselves in frighting a company of fearful boys with a thundering voice and big looks, tormenting them with ferules, rods, and whips; and, laying about them without fear or wit, imitate the ass in the lion's skin. In the meantime all that nastiness seems absolute spruceness, that stench a perfume, and that miserable slavery a kingdom, and such too as they would not change their tyranny for Phalaris' or Dionysius' empire. Nor are they less happy in that new opinion they have taken up of being learned; for whereas most of them beat into boys' heads nothing but foolish toys, yet, you good gods! what Palemon, what Donatus, do they not scorn in comparison of themselves? And so, I know not by what tricks, they bring it about that to their boys' foolish mothers and dolt-headed fathers they pass for such as they fancy themselves. Add to this that other pleasure of theirs, that if any of them happen to find out who was Anchises' mother, or pick out of some worm-eaten manuscript a word not commonly known--as suppose it bubsequa for a cowherd, bovinator for a wrangler, manticulator for a cutpurse--or dig up the ruins of some ancient monument with the letters half eaten out; O Jupiter! what towerings! what triumphs! what commendations! as if they had conquered Africa or taken in Babylon. But what of this when they give up and down their foolish insipid verses, and there wants not others that admire them as much? They believe presently that Virgil's soul is transmigrated into them! But nothing like this, when with mutual compliments they praise, admire, and claw one another. Whereas if another do but slip a word and one more quick-sighted than the rest discover it by accident, O Hercules! what uproars, what bickerings, what taunts, what invectives! If I lie, let me have the ill will of all the grammarians. I knew in my time one of many arts, a Grecian, a Latinist, a mathematician, a philosopher, a physician, a man master of them all, and sixty years of age, who, laying by all the rest, perplexed and tormented himself for above twenty years in the study of grammar, fully reckoning himself a prince if he might but live so long till he could certainly determine how the eight parts of speech were to be distinguished, which none of the Greeks or Latins had yet fully cleared: as if it were a matter to be decided by the sword if a man made an adverb of a conjunction. And for this cause is it that we have as many grammars as grammarians; nay more, forasmuch as my friend Aldus has given us above five, not passing by any kind of grammar, how barbarously or tediously soever compiled, which he has not turned over and examined; envying every man's attempts in this kind, how to be pitied than happy, as persons that are ever tormenting themselves; adding, changing, putting in, blotting out, revising, reprinting, showing it to friends, and nine years in correcting, yet never fully satisfied; at so great a rate do they purchase this vain reward, to wit, praise, and that too of a very few, with so many watchings, so much sweat, so much vexation and loss of sleep, the most precious of all things. Add to this the waste of health, spoil of complexion, weakness of eyes or rather blindness, poverty, envy, abstinence from pleasure, over-hasty old age, untimely death, and the like; so highly does this wise man value the approbation of one or two blear-eyed fellows. But how much happier is this my writer's dotage who never studies for anything but puts in writing whatever he pleases or what comes first in his head, though it be but his dreams; and all this with small waste of paper, as well knowing that the vainer those trifles are, the higher esteem they will have with the greater number, that is to say all the fools and unlearned. And what matter is it to slight those few learned if yet they ever read them? Or of what authority will the censure of so few wise men be against so great a cloud of gainsayers? But they are the wiser that put out other men's works for their own, and transfer that glory which others with great pains have obtained to themselves; relying on this, that they conceive, though it should so happen that their theft be never so plainly detected, that yet they should enjoy the pleasure of it for the present. And 'tis worth one's while to consider how they please themselves when they are applauded by the common people, pointed at in a crowd, "This is that excellent person;" lie on booksellers' stalls; and in the top of every page have three hard words read, but chiefly exotic and next degree to conjuring; which, by the immortal gods! what are they but mere words? And again, if you consider the world, by how few understood, and praised by fewer! for even among the unlearned there are different palates. Or what is it that their own very names are often counterfeit or borrowed from some books of the ancients? When one styles himself Telemachus, another Sthenelus, a third Laertes, a fourth Polycrates, a fifth Thrasymachus. So that there is no difference whether they title their books with the "Tale of a Tub," or, according to the philosophers, by alpha, beta. But the most pleasant of all is to see them praise one another with reciprocal epistles, verses, and encomiums; fools their fellow fools, and dunces their brother dunces. This, in the other's opinion, is an absolute Alcaeus; and the other, in his, a very Callimachus. He looks upon Tully as nothing to the other, and the other again pronounces him more learned than Plato. And sometimes too they pick out their antagonist and think to raise themselves a fame by writing one against the other; while the giddy multitude are so long divided to whether of the two they shall determine the victory, till each goes off conqueror, and, as if he had done some great action, fancies himself a triumph. And now wise men laugh at these things as foolish, as indeed they are. Who denies it? Yet in the meantime, such is my kindness to them, they live a merry life and would not change their imaginary triumphs, no, not with the Scipioes. While yet those learned men, though they laugh their fill and reap the benefit of the other's folly, cannot without ingratitude deny but that even they too are not a little beholding to me themselves. And among them our advocates challenge the first place, nor is there any sort of people that please themselves like them: for while they daily roll Sisyphus his stone, and quote you a thousand cases, as it were, in a breath no matter how little to the purpose, and heap glosses upon glosses, and opinions on the neck of opinions, they bring it at last to this pass, that that study of all other seems the most difficult. Add to these our logicians and sophists, a generation of men more prattling than an echo and the worst of them able to outchat a hundred of the best picked gossips. And yet their condition would be much better were they only full of words and not so given to scolding that they most obstinately hack and hew one another about a matter of nothing and make such a sputter about terms and words till they have quite lost the sense. And yet they are so happy in the good opinion of themselves that as soon as they are furnished with two or three syllogisms, they dare boldly enter the lists against any man upon any point, as not doubting but to run him down with noise, though the opponent were another Stentor. And next these come our philosophers, so much reverenced for their furred gowns and starched beards that they look upon themselves as the only wise men and all others as shadows. And yet how pleasantly do they dote while they frame in their heads innumerable worlds; measure out the sun, the moon, the stars, nay and heaven itself, as it were, with a pair of compasses; lay down the causes of lightning, winds, eclipses, and other the like inexplicable matters; and all this too without the least doubting, as if they were Nature's secretaries, or dropped down among us from the council of the gods; while in the meantime Nature laughs at them and all their blind conjectures. For that they know nothing, even this is a sufficient argument, that they don't agree among themselves and so are incomprehensible touching every particular. These, though they have not the least degree of knowledge, profess yet that they have mastered all; nay, though they neither know themselves, nor perceive a ditch or block that lies in their way, for that perhaps most of them are half blind, or their wits a wool-gathering, yet give out that they have discovered ideas, universalities, separated forms, first matters, quiddities, haecceities, formalities, and the like stuff; things so thin and bodiless that I believe even Lynceus himself was not able to perceive them. But then chiefly do they disdain the unhallowed crowd as often as with their triangles, quadrangles, circles, and the like mathematical devices, more confounded than a labyrinth, and letters disposed one against the other, as it were in battle array, they cast a mist before the eyes of the ignorant. Nor is there wanting of this kind some that pretend to foretell things by the stars and make promises of miracles beyond all things of soothsaying, and are so fortunate as to meet with people that believe them. But perhaps I had better pass over our divines in silence and not stir this pool or touch this fair but unsavory plant, as a kind of men that are supercilious beyond comparison, and to that too, implacable; lest setting them about my ears, they attack me by troops and force me to a recantation sermon, which if I refuse, they straight pronounce me a heretic. For this is the thunderbolt with which they fright those whom they are resolved not to favor. And truly, though there are few others that less willingly acknowledge the kindnesses I have done them, yet even these too stand fast bound to me upon no ordinary accounts; while being happy in their own opinion, and as if they dwelt in the third heaven, they look with haughtiness on all others as poor creeping things and could almost find in their hearts to pity them; while hedged in with so many magisterial definitions, conclusions, corollaries, propositions explicit and implicit, they abound with so many starting-holes that Vulcan's net cannot hold them so fast, but they'll slip through with their distinctions, with which they so easily cut all knots asunder that a hatchet could not have done it better, so plentiful are they in their new-found words and prodigious terms. Besides, while they explicate the most hidden mysteries according to their own fancy--as how the world was first made; how original sin is derived to posterity; in what manner, how much room, and how long time Christ lay in the Virgin's womb; how accidents subsist in the Eucharist without their subject. But these are common and threadbare; these are worthy of our great and illuminated divines, as the world calls them! At these, if ever they fall athwart them, they prick up--as whether there was any instant of time in the generation of the Second Person; whether there be more than one filiation in Christ; whether it be a possible proposition that God the Father hates the Son; or whether it was possible that Christ could have taken upon Him the likeness of a woman, or of the devil, or of an ass, or of a stone, or of a gourd; and then how that gourd should have preached, wrought miracles, or been hung on the cross; and what Peter had consecrated if he had administered the Sacrament at what time the body of Christ hung upon the cross; or whether at the same time he might be said to be man; whether after the Resurrection there will be any eating and drinking, since we are so much afraid of hunger and thirst in this world. There are infinite of these subtle trifles, and others more subtle than these, of notions, relations, instants, formalities, quiddities, haecceities, which no one can perceive without a Lynceus whose eyes could look through a stone wall and discover those things through the thickest darkness that never were. Add to this those their other determinations, and those too so contrary to common opinion that those oracles of the Stoics, which they call paradoxes, seem in comparison of these but blockish and idle--as 'tis a lesser crime to kill a thousand men than to set a stitch on a poor man's shoe on the Sabbath day; and that a man should rather choose that the whole world with all food and raiment, as they say, should perish, than tell a lie, though never so inconsiderable. And these most subtle subtleties are rendered yet more subtle by the several methods of so many Schoolmen, that one might sooner wind himself out of a labyrinth than the entanglements of the realists, nominalists, Thomists, Albertists, Occamists, Scotists. Nor have I named all the several sects, but only some of the chief; in all which there is so much doctrine and so much difficulty that I may well conceive the apostles, had they been to deal with these new kind of divines, had needed to have prayed in aid of some other spirit. Paul knew what faith was, and yet when he said, "Faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen," he did not define it doctor-like. And as he understood charity well himself, so he did as illogically divide and define it to others in his first Epistle to the Corinthians, Chapter the thirteenth. And devoutly, no doubt, did the apostles consecrate the Eucharist; yet, had they been asked the question touching the "terminus a quo" and the "terminus ad quem" of transubstantiation; of the manner how the same body can be in several places at one and the same time; of the difference the body of Christ has in heaven from that of the cross, or this in the Sacrament; in what point of time transubstantiation is, whereas prayer, by means of which it is, as being a discrete quantity, is transient; they would not, I conceive, have answered with the same subtlety as the Scotists dispute and define it. They knew the mother of Jesus, but which of them has so philosophically demonstrated how she was preserved from original sin as have done our divines? Peter received the keys, and from Him too that would not have trusted them with a person unworthy; yet whether he had understanding or no, I know not, for certainly he never attained to that subtlety to determine how he could have the key of knowledge that had no knowledge himself. They baptized far and near, and yet taught nowhere what was the formal, material, efficient, and final cause of baptism, nor made the least mention of delible and indelible characters. They worshiped, 'tis true, but in spirit, following herein no other than that of the Gospel, "God is a Spirit, and they that worship, must worship him in spirit and truth;" yet it does not appear it was at that time revealed to them that an image sketched on the wall with a coal was to be worshiped with the same worship as Christ Himself, if at least the two forefingers be stretched out, the hair long and uncut, and have three rays about the crown of the head. For who can conceive these things, unless he has spent at least six and thirty years in the philosophical and supercelestial whims of Aristotle and the Schoolmen? In like manner, the apostles press to us grace; but which of them distinguishes between free grace and grace that makes a man acceptable? They exhort us to good works, and yet determine not what is the work working, and what a resting in the work done. They incite us to charity, and yet make no difference between charity infused and charity wrought in us by our own endeavors. Nor do they declare whether it be an accident or a substance, a thing created or uncreated. They detest and abominate sin, but let me not live if they could define according to art what that is which we call sin, unless perhaps they were inspired by the spirit of the Scotists. Nor can I be brought to believe that Paul, by whose learning you may judge the rest, would have so often condemned questions, disputes, genealogies, and, as himself calls them, "strifes of words," if he had thoroughly understood those subtleties, especially when all the debates and controversies of those times were rude and blockish in comparison of the more than Chrysippean subtleties of our masters. Although yet the gentlemen are so modest that if they meet with anything written by the apostles not so smooth and even as might be expected from a master, they do not presently condemn it but handsomely bend it to their own purpose, so great respect and honor do they give, partly to antiquity and partly to the name of apostle. And truly 'twas a kind of injustice to require so great things of them that never heard the least word from their masters concerning it. And so if the like happen in Chrysostom, Basil, Jerome, they think it enough to say they are not obliged by it. The apostles also confuted the heathen philosophers and Jews, a people than whom none more obstinate, but rather by their good lives and miracles than syllogisms: and yet there was scarce one among them that was capable of understanding the least "quodlibet" of the Scotists. But now, where is that heathen or heretic that must not presently stoop to such wire-drawn subtleties, unless he be so thick-skulled that he can't apprehend them, or so impudent as to hiss them down, or, being furnished with the same tricks, be able to make his party good with them? As if a man should set a conjurer on work against a conjurer, or fight with one hallowed sword against another, which would prove no other than a work to no purpose. For my own part I conceive the Christians would do much better if instead of those dull troops and companies of soldiers with which they have managed their war with such doubtful success, they would send the bawling Scotists, the most obstinate Occamists, and invincible Albertists to war against the Turks and Saracens; and they would see, I guess, a most pleasant combat and such a victory as was never before. For who is so faint whom their devices will not enliven? who so stupid whom such spurs can't quicken? or who so quick-sighted before whose eyes they can't cast a mist? But you'll say, I jest. Nor are you without cause, since even among divines themselves there are some that have learned better and are ready to turn their stomachs at those foolish subtleties of the others. There are some that detest them as a kind of sacrilege and count it the height of impiety to speak so irreverently of such hidden things, rather to be adored than explicated; to dispute of them with such profane and heathenish niceties; to define them so arrogantly and pollute the majesty of divinity with such pithless and sordid terms and opinions. Meantime the others please, nay hug themselves in their happiness, and are so taken up with these pleasant trifles that they have not so much leisure as to cast the least eye on the Gospel or St. Paul's epistles. And while they play the fool at this rate in their schools, they make account the universal church would otherwise perish, unless, as the poets fancied of Atlas that he supported heaven with his shoulders, they underpropped the other with their syllogistical buttresses. And how great a happiness is this, think you? while, as if Holy Writ were a nose of wax, they fashion and refashion it according to their pleasure; while they require that their own conclusions, subscribed by two or three Schoolmen, be accounted greater than Solon's laws and preferred before the papal decretals; while, as censors of the world, they force everyone to a recantation that differs but a hair's breadth from the least of their explicit or implicit determinations. And those too they pronounce like oracles. This proposition is scandalous; this irreverent; this has a smack of heresy; this no very good sound: so that neither baptism, nor the Gospel, nor Paul, nor Peter, nor St. Jerome, nor St. Augustine, no nor most Aristotelian Thomas himself can make a man a Christian, without these bachelors too be pleased to give him his grace. And the like in their subtlety in judging; for who would think he were no Christian that should say these two speeches "matula putes" and "matula putet," or "ollae fervere" and "ollam fervere" were not both good Latin, unless their wisdoms had taught us the contrary? who had delivered the church from such mists of error, which yet no one ever met with, had they not come out with some university seal for it? And are they not most happy while they do these things? Then for what concerns hell, how exactly they describe everything, as if they had been conversant in that commonwealth most part of their time! Again, how do they frame in their fancy new orbs, adding to those we have already an eighth! a goodly one, no doubt, and spacious enough, lest perhaps their happy souls might lack room to walk in, entertain their friends, and now and then play at football. And with these and a thousand the like fopperies their heads are so full stuffed and stretched that I believe Jupiter's brain was not near so big when, being in labor with Pallas, he was beholding to the midwifery of Vulcan's axe. And therefore you must not wonder if in their public disputes they are so bound about the head, lest otherwise perhaps their brains might leap out. Nay, I have sometimes laughed myself to see them so tower in their own opinion when they speak most barbarously; and when they humh and hawh so pitifully that none but one of their own tribe can understand them, they call it heights which the vulgar can't reach; for they say 'tis beneath the dignity of divine mysteries to be cramped and tied up to the narrow rules of grammarians: from whence we may conjecture the great prerogative of divines, if they only have the privilege of speaking corruptly, in which yet every cobbler thinks himself concerned for his share. Lastly, they look upon themselves as somewhat more than men as often as they are devoutly saluted by the name of "Our Masters," in which they fancy there lies as much as in the Jews' "Jehovah;" and therefore they reckon it a crime if "Magister Noster" be written other than in capital letters; and if anyone should preposterously say "Noster Magister," he has at once overturned the whole body of divinity. And next these come those that commonly call themselves the religious and monks, most false in both titles, when both a great part of them are farthest from religion, and no men swarm thicker in all places than themselves. Nor can I think of anything that could be more miserable did not I support them so many several ways. For whereas all men detest them to that height, that they take it for ill luck to meet one of them by chance, yet such is their happiness that they flatter themselves. For first, they reckon it one of the main points of piety if they are so illiterate that they can't so much as read. And then when they run over their offices, which they carry about them, rather by tale than understanding, they believe the gods more than ordinarily pleased with their braying. And some there are among them that put off their trumperies at vast rates, yet rove up and down for the bread they eat; nay, there is scarce an inn, wagon, or ship into which they intrude not, to the no small damage of the commonwealth of beggars. And yet, like pleasant fellows, with all this vileness, ignorance, rudeness, and impudence, they represent to us, for so they call it, the lives of the apostles. Yet what is more pleasant than that they do all things by rule and, as it were, a kind of mathematics, the least swerving from which were a crime beyond forgiveness--as how many knots their shoes must be tied with, of what color everything is, what distinction of habits, of what stuff made, how many straws broad their girdles and of what fashion, how many bushels wide their cowl, how many fingers long their hair, and how many hours sleep; which exact equality, how disproportionate it is, among such variety of bodies and tempers, who is there that does not perceive it? And yet by reason of these fooleries they not only set slight by others, but each different order, men otherwise professing apostolical charity, despise one another, and for the different wearing of a habit, or that 'tis of darker color, they put all things in combustion. And among these there are some so rigidly religious that their upper garment is haircloth, their inner of the finest linen; and, on the contrary, others wear linen without and hair next their skins. Others, again, are as afraid to touch money as poison, and yet neither forbear wine nor dallying with women. In a word, 'tis their only care that none of them come near one another in their manner of living, nor do they endeavor how they may be like Christ, but how they may differ among themselves. And another great happiness they conceive in their names, while they call themselves Cordiliers, and among these too, some are Colletes, some Minors, some Minims, some Crossed; and again, these are Benedictines, those Bernardines; these Carmelites, those Augustines; these Williamites, and those Jacobines; as if it were not worth the while to be called Christians. And of these, a great part build so much on their ceremonies and petty traditions of men that they think one heaven is too poor a reward for so great merit, little dreaming that the time will come when Christ, not regarding any of these trifles, will call them to account for His precept of charity. One shall show you a large trough full of all kinds of fish; another tumble you out so many bushels of prayers; another reckon you so many myriads of fasts, and fetch them up again in one dinner by eating till he cracks again; another produces more bundles of ceremonies than seven of the stoutest ships would be able to carry; another brags he has not touched a penny these three score years without two pair of gloves at least upon his hands; another wears a cowl so lined with grease that the poorest tarpaulin would not stoop to take it up; another will tell you he has lived these fifty-five years like a sponge, continually fastened to the same place; another is grown hoarse with his daily chanting; another has contracted a lethargy by his solitary living; and another the palsy in his tongue for want of speaking. But Christ, interrupting them in their vanities, which otherwise were endless, will ask them, "Whence this new kind of Jews? I acknowledge one commandment, which is truly mine, of which alone I hear nothing. I promised, 'tis true, my Father's heritage, and that without parables, not to cowls, odd prayers, and fastings, but to the duties of faith and charity. Nor can I acknowledge them that least acknowledge their faults. They that would seem holier than myself, let them if they like possess to themselves those three hundred sixty-five heavens of Basilides the heretic's invention, or command them whose foolish traditions they have preferred before my precepts to erect them a new one." When they shall hear these things and see common ordinary persons preferred before them, with what countenance, think you, will they behold one another? In the meantime they are happy in their hopes, and for this also they are beholding to me. And yet these kind of people, though they are as it were of another commonwealth, no man dares despise, especially those begging friars, because they are privy to all men's secrets by means of confessions, as they call them. Which yet were no less than treason to discover, unless, being got drunk, they have a mind to be pleasant, and then all comes out, that is to say by hints and conjectures but suppressing the names. But if anyone should anger these wasps, they'll sufficiently revenge themselves in their public sermons and so point out their enemy by circumlocutions that there's no one but understands whom 'tis they mean, unless he understand nothing at all; nor will they give over their barking till you throw the dogs a bone. And now tell me, what juggler or mountebank you had rather behold than hear them rhetorically play the fool in their preachments, and yet most sweetly imitating what rhetoricians have written touching the art of good speaking? Good God! what several postures they have! How they shift their voice, sing out their words, skip up and down, and are ever and anon making such new faces that they confound all things with noise! And yet this knack of theirs is no less a mystery that runs in succession from one brother to another; which though it be not lawful for me to know, however I'll venture at it by conjectures. And first they invoke whatever they have scraped from the poets; and in the next place, if they are to discourse of charity, they take their rise from the river Nilus; or to set out the mystery of the cross, from bell and the dragon; or to dispute of fasting, from the twelve signs of the zodiac; or, being to preach of faith, ground their matter on the square of a circle. I have heard myself one, and he no small fool--I was mistaken, I would have said scholar--that being in a famous assembly explaining the mystery of the Trinity, that he might both let them see his learning was not ordinary and withal satisfy some theological ears, he took a new way, to wit from the letters, syllables, and the word itself; then from the coherence of the nominative case and the verb, and the adjective and substantive: and while most of the audience wondered, and some of them muttered that of Horace, "What does all this trumpery drive at?" at last he brought the matter to this head, that he would demonstrate that the mystery of the Trinity was so clearly expressed in the very rudiments of grammar that the best mathematician could not chalk it out more plainly. And in this discourse did this most superlative theologian beat his brains for eight whole months that at this hour he's as blind as a beetle, to wit, all the sight of his eyes being run into the sharpness of his wit. But for all that he thinks nothing of his blindness, rather taking the same for too cheap a price of such a glory as he won thereby. And besides him I met with another, some eighty years of age, and such a divine that you'd have sworn Scotus himself was revived in him. He, being upon the point of unfolding the mystery of the name Jesus, did with wonderful subtlety demonstrate that there lay hidden in those letters whatever could be said of him; for that it was only declined with three cases, he said, it was a manifest token of the Divine Trinity; and then, that the first ended in _S_, the second in _M_, the third in _U_, there was in it an ineffable mystery, to wit, those three letters declaring to us that he was the beginning, middle, and end (_summum, medium, et ultimum_) of all. Nay, the mystery was yet more abstruse; for he so mathematically split the word Jesus into two equal parts that he left the middle letter by itself, and then told us that that letter in Hebrew was _schin_ or _sin_, and that _sin_ in the Scotch tongue, as he remembered, signified as much as sin; from whence he gathered that it was Jesus that took away the sins of the world. At which new exposition the audience were so wonderfully intent and struck with admiration, especially the theologians, that there wanted little but that Niobe-like they had been turned to stones; whereas the like had almost happened to me, as befell the Priapus in Horace. And not without cause, for when were the Grecian Demosthenes or Roman Cicero ever guilty of the like? They thought that introduction faulty that was wide of the matter, as if it were not the way of carters and swineherds that have no more wit than God sent them. But these learned men think their preamble, for so they call it, then chiefly rhetorical when it has least coherence with the rest of the argument, that the admiring audience may in the meanwhile whisper to themselves, "What will he be at now?" In the third place, they bring in instead of narration some texts of Scripture, but handle them cursorily, and as it were by the bye, when yet it is the only thing they should have insisted on. And fourthly, as it were changing a part in the play, they bolt out with some question in divinity, and many times relating neither to earth nor heaven, and this they look upon as a piece of art. Here they erect their theological crests and beat into the people's ears those magnificent titles of illustrious doctors, subtle doctors, most subtle doctors, seraphic doctors, cherubin doctors, holy doctors, unquestionable doctors, and the like; and then throw abroad among the ignorant people syllogisms, majors, minors, conclusions, corollaries, suppositions, and those so weak and foolish that they are below pedantry. There remains yet the fifth act in which one would think they should show their mastery. And here they bring in some foolish insipid fable out of _Speculum Historiale_ or _Gesta Romanorum_ and expound it allegorically, tropologically, and anagogically. And after this manner do they and their chimera, and such as Horace despaired of compassing when he wrote "Humano capiti," etc. But they have heard from somebody, I know not whom, that the beginning of a speech should be sober and grave and least given to noise. And therefore they begin theirs at that rate they can scarce hear themselves, as if it were not matter whether anyone understood them. They have learned somewhere that to move the affections a louder voice is requisite. Whereupon they that otherwise would speak like a mouse in a cheese start out of a sudden into a downright fury, even there too, where there's the least need of it. A man would swear they were past the power of hellebore, so little do they consider where 'tis they run out. Again, because they have heard that as a speech comes up to something, a man should press it more earnestly, they, however they begin, use a strange contention of voice in every part, though the matter itself be never so flat, and end in that manner as if they'd run themselves out of breath. Lastly, they have learned that among rhetoricians there is some mention of laughter, and therefore they study to prick in a jest here and there; but, O Venus! so void of wit and so little to the purpose that it may be truly called an ass's playing on the harp. And sometimes also they use somewhat of a sting, but so nevertheless that they rather tickle than wound; nor do they ever more truly flatter than when they would seem to use the greatest freedom of speech. Lastly, such is their whole action that a man would swear they had learned it from our common tumblers, though yet they come short of them in every respect. However, they are both so like that no man will dispute but that either these learned their rhetoric from them, or they theirs from these. And yet they light on some that, when they hear them, conceive they hear very Demosthenes and Ciceroes: of which sort chiefly are our merchants and women, whose ears only they endeavor to please, because as to the first, if they stroke them handsomely, some part or other of their ill-gotten goods is wont to fall to their share. And the women, though for many other things they favor this order, this is not the least, that they commit to their breasts whatever discontents they have against their husbands. And now, I conceive me, you see how much this kind of people are beholding to me, that with their petty ceremonies, ridiculous trifles, and noise exercise a kind of tyranny among mankind, believing themselves very Pauls and Anthonies. But I willingly give over these stage-players that are such ingrateful dissemblers of the courtesies I have done them and such impudent pretenders to religion which they haven't. And now I have a mind to give some small touches of princes and courts, of whom I am had in reverence, aboveboard and, as it becomes gentlemen, frankly. And truly, if they had the least proportion of sound judgment, what life were more unpleasant than theirs, or so much to be avoided? For whoever did but truly weigh with himself how great a burden lies upon his shoulders that would truly discharge the duty of a prince, he would not think it worth his while to make his way to a crown by perjury and parricide. He would consider that he that takes a scepter in his hand should manage the public, not his private, interest; study nothing but the common good; and not in the least go contrary to those laws whereof himself is both the author and exactor: that he is to take an account of the good or evil administration of all his magistrates and subordinate officers; that, though he is but one, all men's eyes are upon him, and in his power it is, either like a good planet to give life and safety to mankind by his harmless influence, or like a fatal comet to send mischief and destruction; that the vices of other men are not alike felt, nor so generally communicated; and that a prince stands in that place that his least deviation from the rule of honesty and honor reaches farther than himself and opens a gap to many men's ruin. Besides, that the fortune of princes has many things attending it that are but too apt to train them out of the way, as pleasure, liberty, flattery, excess; for which cause he should the more diligently endeavor and set a watch over himself, lest perhaps he be led aside and fail in his duty. Lastly, to say nothing of treasons, ill will, and such other mischiefs he's in jeopardy of, that that True King is over his head, who in a short time will call him to account for every the least trespass, and that so much the more severely by how much more mighty was the empire committed to his charge. These and the like if a prince should duly weigh, and weigh it he would if he were wise, he would neither be able to sleep nor take any hearty repast. But now by my courtesy they leave all this care to the gods and are only taken up with themselves, not admitting anyone to their ear but such as know how to speak pleasant things and not trouble them with business. They believe they have discharged all the duty of a prince if they hunt every day, keep a stable of fine horses, sell dignities and commanderies, and invent new ways of draining the citizens' purses and bringing it into their own exchequer; but under such dainty new-found names that though the thing be most unjust in itself, it carries yet some face of equity; adding to this some little sweet'nings that whatever happens, they may be secure of the common people. And now suppose someone, such as they sometimes are, a man ignorant of laws, little less than an enemy to the public good, and minding nothing but his own, given up to pleasure, a hater of learning, liberty, and justice, studying nothing less than the public safety, but measuring everything by his own will and profit; and then put on him a golden chain that declares the accord of all virtues linked one to another; a crown set with diamonds, that should put him in mind how he ought to excel all others in heroic virtues; besides a scepter, the emblem of justice and an untainted heart; and lastly, a purple robe, a badge of that charity he owes the commonwealth. All which if a prince should compare them with his own life, he would, I believe, be clearly ashamed of his bravery, and be afraid lest some or other gibing expounder turn all this tragical furniture into a ridiculous laughingstock. And as to the court lords, what should I mention them? than most of whom though there be nothing more indebted, more servile, more witless, more contemptible, yet they would seem as they were the most excellent of all others. And yet in this only thing no men more modest, in that they are contented to wear about them gold, jewels, purple, and those other marks of virtue and wisdom; but for the study of the things themselves, they remit it to others, thinking it happiness enough for them that they can call the king master, have learned the cringe _à la mode_, know when and where to use those titles of Your Grace, My Lord, Your Magnificence; in a word that they are past all shame and can flatter pleasantly. For these are the arts that speak a man truly noble and an exact courtier. But if you look into their manner of life you'll find them mere sots, as debauched as Penelope's wooers; you know the other part of the verse, which the echo will better tell you than I can. They sleep till noon and have their mercenary Levite come to their bedside, where he chops over his matins before they are half up. Then to breakfast, which is scarce done but dinner stays for them. From thence they go to dice, tables, cards, or entertain themselves with jesters, fools, gambols, and horse tricks. In the meantime they have one or two beverages, and then supper, and after that a banquet, and 'twere well, by Jupiter, there were no more than one. And in this manner do their hours, days, months, years, age slide away without the least irksomeness. Nay, I have sometimes gone away many inches fatter, to see them speak big words; while each of the ladies believes herself so much nearer to the gods by how much the longer train she trails after her; while one nobleman edges out another, that he may get the nearer to Jupiter himself; and everyone of them pleases himself the more by how much more massive is the chain he swags on his shoulders, as if he meant to show his strength as well as his wealth. Nor are princes by themselves in their manner of life, since popes, cardinals, and bishops have so diligently followed their steps that they've almost got the start of them. For if any of them would consider what their Albe should put them in mind of, to wit a blameless life; what is meant by their forked miters, whose each point is held in by the same knot, we'll suppose it a perfect knowledge of the Old and New Testaments; what those gloves on their hands, but a sincere administration of the Sacraments, and free from all touch of worldly business; what their crosier, but a careful looking after the flock committed to their charge; what the cross born before them, but victory over all earthly affections--these, I say, and many of the like kind should anyone truly consider, would he not live a sad and troublesome life? Whereas now they do well enough while they feed themselves only, and for the care of their flock either put it over to Christ or lay it all on their suffragans, as they call them, or some poor vicars. Nor do they so much as remember their name, or what the word bishop signifies, to wit, labor, care, and trouble. But in racking to gather money they truly act the part of bishops, and herein acquit themselves to be no blind seers. In like manner cardinals, if they thought themselves the successors of the apostles, they would likewise imagine that the same things the other did are required of them, and that they are not lords but dispensers of spiritual things of which they must shortly give an exact account. But if they also would a little philosophize on their habit and think with themselves what's the meaning of their linen rochet, is it not a remarkable and singular integrity of life? What that inner purple; is it not an earnest and fervent love of God? Or what that outward, whose loose plaits and long train fall round his Reverence's mule and are large enough to cover a camel; is it not charity that spreads itself so wide to the succor of all men? that is, to instruct, exhort, comfort, reprehend, admonish, compose wars, resist wicked princes, and willingly expend not only their wealth but their very lives for the flock of Christ: though yet what need at all of wealth to them that supply the room of the poor apostles? These things, I say, did they but duly consider, they would not be so ambitious of that dignity; or, if they were, they would willingly leave it and live a laborious, careful life, such as was that of the ancient apostles. And for popes, that supply the place of Christ, if they should endeavor to imitate His life, to wit His poverty, labor, doctrine, cross, and contempt of life, or should they consider what the name pope, that is father, or holiness, imports, who would live more disconsolate than themselves? or who would purchase that chair with all his substance? or defend it, so purchased, with swords, poisons, and all force imaginable? so great a profit would the access of wisdom deprive him of--wisdom did I say? nay, the least corn of that salt which Christ speaks of: so much wealth, so much honor, so much riches, so many victories, so many offices, so many dispensations, so much tribute, so many pardons; such horses, such mules, such guards, and so much pleasure would it lose them. You see how much I have comprehended in a little: instead of which it would bring in watchings, fastings, tears, prayers, sermons, good endeavors, sighs, and a thousand the like troublesome exercises. Nor is this least considerable: so many scribes, so many copying clerks, so many notaries, so many advocates, so many promoters, so many secretaries, so many muleteers, so many grooms, so many bankers: in short, that vast multitude of men that overcharge the Roman See--I mistook, I meant honor--might beg their bread. A most inhuman and economical thing, and more to be execrated, that those great princes of the Church and true lights of the world should be reduced to a staff and a wallet. Whereas now, if there be anything that requires their pains, they leave that to Peter and Paul that have leisure enough; but if there be anything of honor or pleasure, they take that to themselves. By which means it is, yet by my courtesy, that scarce any kind of men live more voluptuously or with less trouble; as believing that Christ will be well enough pleased if in their mystical and almost mimical pontificality, ceremonies, titles of holiness and the like, and blessing and cursing, they play the parts of bishops. To work miracles is old and antiquated, and not in fashion now; to instruct the people, troublesome; to interpret the Scripture, pedantic; to pray, a sign one has little else to do; to shed tears, silly and womanish; to be poor, base; to be vanquished, dishonorable and little becoming him that scarce admits even kings to kiss his slipper; and lastly, to die, uncouth; and to be stretched on a cross, infamous. Theirs are only those weapons and sweet blessings which Paul mentions, and of these truly they are bountiful enough: as interdictions, hangings, heavy burdens, reproofs, anathemas, executions in effigy, and that terrible thunderbolt of excommunication, with the very sight of which they sink men's souls beneath the bottom of hell: which yet these most holy fathers in Christ and His vicars hurl with more fierceness against none than against such as, by the instigation of the devil, attempt to lessen or rob them of Peter's patrimony. When, though those words in the Gospel, "We have left all, and followed Thee," were his, yet they call his patrimony lands, cities, tribute, imposts, riches; for which, being enflamed with the love of Christ, they contend with fire and sword, and not without loss of much Christian blood, and believe they have then most apostolically defended the Church, the spouse of Christ, when the enemy, as they call them, are valiantly routed. As if the Church had any deadlier enemies than wicked prelates, who not only suffer Christ to run out of request for want of preaching him, but hinder his spreading by their multitudes of laws merely contrived for their own profit, corrupt him by their forced expositions, and murder him by the evil example of their pestilent life. Nay, further, whereas the Church of Christ was founded in blood, confirmed by blood, and augmented by blood, now, as if Christ, who after his wonted manner defends his people, were lost, they govern all by the sword. And whereas war is so savage a thing that it rather befits beasts than men, so outrageous that the very poets feigned it came from the Furies, so pestilent that it corrupts all men's manners, so unjust that it is best executed by the worst of men, so wicked that it has no agreement with Christ; and yet, omitting all the other, they make this their only business. Here you'll see decrepit old fellows acting the parts of young men, neither troubled at their costs, nor wearied with their labors, nor discouraged at anything, so they may have the liberty of turning laws, religion, peace, and all things else quite topsy-turvy. Nor are they destitute of their learned flatterers that call that palpable madness zeal, piety, and valor, having found out a new way by which a man may kill his brother without the least breach of that charity which, by the command of Christ, one Christian owes another. And here, in troth, I'm a little at a stand whether the ecclesiastical German electors gave them this example, or rather took it from them; who, laying aside their habit, benedictions, and all the like ceremonies, so act the part of commanders that they think it a mean thing, and least beseeming a bishop, to show the least courage to Godward unless it be in a battle. And as to the common herd of priests, they account it a crime to degenerate from the sanctity of their prelates. Heidah! How soldier-like they bustle about the _jus divinum_ of titles, and how quick-sighted they are to pick the least thing out of the writings of the ancients wherewith they may fright the common people and convince them, if possible, that more than a tenth is due! Yet in the meantime it least comes in their heads how many things are everywhere extant concerning that duty which they owe the people. Nor does their shorn crown in the least admonish them that a priest should be free from all worldly desires and think of nothing but heavenly things. Whereas on the contrary, these jolly fellows say they have sufficiently discharged their offices if they but anyhow mumble over a few odd prayers, which, so help me, Hercules! I wonder if any god either hear or understand, since they do neither themselves, especially when they thunder them out in that manner they are wont. But this they have in common with those of the heathens, that they are vigilant enough to the harvest of their profit, nor is there any of them that is not better read in those laws than the Scripture. Whereas if there be anything burdensome, they prudently lay that on other men's shoulders and shift it from one to the other, as men toss a ball from hand to hand, following herein the example of lay princes who commit the government of their kingdoms to their grand ministers, and they again to others, and leave all study of piety to the common people. In like manner the common people put it over to those they call ecclesiastics, as if themselves were no part of the Church, or that their vow in baptism had lost its obligation. Again, the priests that call themselves secular, as if they were initiated to the world, not to Christ, lay the burden on the regulars; the regulars on the monks; the monks that have more liberty on those that have less; and all of them on the mendicants; the mendicants on the Carthusians, among whom, if anywhere, this piety lies buried, but yet so close that scarce anyone can perceive it. In like manner the popes, the most diligent of all others in gathering in the harvest of money, refer all their apostolical work to the bishops, the bishops to the parsons, the parsons to the vicars, the vicars to their brother mendicants, and they again throw back the care of the flock on those that take the wool. But it is not my business to sift too narrowly the lives of prelates and priests for fear I seem to have intended rather a satire than an oration, and be thought to tax good princes while I praise the bad. And therefore, what I slightly taught before has been to no other end but that it might appear that there's no man can live pleasantly unless he be initiated to my rites and have me propitious to him. For how can it be otherwise when Fortune, the great directress of all human affairs, and myself are so all one that she was always an enemy to those wise men, and on the contrary so favorable to fools and careless fellows that all things hit luckily to them? You have heard of that Timotheus, the most fortunate general of the Athenians, of whom came that proverb, "His net caught fish, though he were asleep;" and that "The owl flies;" whereas these others hit properly, wise men "born in the fourth month;" and again, "He rides Sejanus's his horse;" and "gold of Toulouse," signifying thereby the extremity of ill fortune. But I forbear the further threading of proverbs, lest I seem to have pilfered my friend Erasmus' adages. Fortune loves those that have least wit and most confidence and such as like that saying of Caesar, "The die is thrown." But wisdom makes men bashful, which is the reason that those wise men have so little to do, unless it be with poverty, hunger, and chimney corners; that they live such neglected, unknown, and hated lives: whereas fools abound in money, have the chief commands in the commonwealth, and in a word, flourish every way. For if it be happiness to please princes and to be conversant among those golden and diamond gods, what is more unprofitable than wisdom, or what is it these kind of men have, may more justly be censured? If wealth is to be got, how little good at it is that merchant like to do, if following the precepts of wisdom, he should boggle at perjury; or being taken in a lie, blush; or in the least regard the sad scruples of those wise men touching rapine and usury. Again, if a man sue for honors or church preferments, an ass or wild ox shall sooner get them than a wise man. If a man's in love with a young wench, none of the least humors in this comedy, they are wholly addicted to fools and are afraid of a wise man and fly him as they would a scorpion. Lastly, whoever intend to live merry and frolic, shut their doors against wise men and admit anything sooner. In brief, go whither you will, among prelates, princes, judges, magistrates, friends, enemies, from highest to lowest, and you'll find all things done by money; which, as a wise man condemns it, so it takes a special care not to come near him. What shall I say? There is no measure or end of my praises, and yet 'tis fit my oration have an end. And therefore I'll even break off; and yet, before I do it, 'twill not be amiss if I briefly show you that there has not been wanting even great authors that have made me famous, both by their writings and actions, lest perhaps otherwise I may seem to have foolishly pleased myself only, or that the lawyers charge me that I have proved nothing. After their example, therefore, will I allege my proofs, that is to say, nothing to the point. And first, every man allows this proverb, "That where a man wants matter, he may best frame some." And to this purpose is that verse which we teach children, "'Tis the greatest wisdom to know when and where to counterfeit the fool." And now judge yourselves what an excellent thing this folly is, whose very counterfeit and semblance only has got such praise from the learned. But more candidly does that fat plump "Epicurean bacon-hog," Horace, for so he calls himself, bid us "mingle our purposes with folly;" and whereas he adds the word _bravem_, short, perhaps to help out the verse, he might as well have let it alone; and again, "'Tis a pleasant thing to play the fool in the right season;" and in another place, he had rather "be accounted a dotterel and sot than to be wise and made mouths at." And Telemachus in Homer, whom the poet praises so much, is now and then called _nepios_, fool: and by the same name, as if there were some good fortune in it, are the tragedians wont to call boys and striplings. And what does that sacred book of Iliads contain but a kind of counter-scuffle between foolish kings and foolish people? Besides, how absolute is that praise that Cicero gives of it! "All things are full of fools." For who does not know that every good, the more diffusive it is, by so much the better it is? But perhaps their authority may be of small credit among Christians. We'll therefore, if you please, support our praises with some testimonies of Holy Writ also, in the first place, nevertheless, having forespoke our theologians that they'll give us leave to do it without offense. And in the next, forasmuch as we attempt a matter of some difficulty and it may be perhaps a little too saucy to call back again the Muses from Helicon to so great a journey, especially in a matter they are wholly strangers to, it will be more suitable, perhaps, while I play the divine and make my way through such prickly quiddities, that I entreat the soul of Scotus, a thing more bristly than either porcupine or hedgehog, to leave his scorebone awhile and come into my breast, and then let him go whither he pleases, or to the dogs, I could wish also that I might change my countenance, or that I had on the square cap and the cassock, for fear some or other should impeach me of theft as if I had privily rifled our masters' desks in that I have got so much divinity. But it ought not to seem so strange if after so long and intimate an acquaintance and converse with them I have picked up somewhat; when as that fig-tree-god Priapus hearing his owner read certain Greek words took so much notice of them that he got them by heart, and that cock in Lucian by having lived long among men became at last a master of their language. But to the point under a fortunate direction. Ecclesiastes says in his first chapter, "The number of fools is infinite;" and when he calls it infinite, does he not seem to comprehend all men, unless it be some few whom yet 'tis a question whether any man ever saw? But more ingeniously does Jeremiah in his tenth chapter confess it, saying, "Every man is made a fool through his own wisdom;" attributing wisdom to God alone and leaving folly to all men else, and again, "Let not man glory in his wisdom." And why, good Jeremiah, would you not have a man glory in his wisdom? Because, he'll say, he has none at all. But to return to Ecclesiastes, who, when he cries out, "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!" what other thoughts had he, do you believe, than that, as I said before, the life of man is nothing else but an interlude of folly? In which he has added one voice more to that justly received praise of Cicero's which I quoted before, viz., "All things are full of fools." Again, that wise preacher that said, "A fool changes as the moon, but a wise man is permanent as the sun," what else did he hint at in it but that all mankind are fools and the name of wise only proper to God? For by the moon interpreters understand human nature, and by the sun, God, the only fountain of light; with which agrees that which Christ himself in the Gospel denies, that anyone is to be called good but one, and that is God. And then if he is a fool that is not wise, and every good man according to the Stoics is a wise man, it is no wonder if all mankind be concluded under folly. Again Solomon, Chapter 15, "Foolishness," says he, "is joy to the fool," thereby plainly confessing that without folly there is no pleasure in life. To which is pertinent that other, "He that increases knowledge, increases grief; and in much understanding there is much indignation." And does he not plainly confess as much, Chapter 7, "The heart of the wise is where sadness is, but the heart of fools follows mirth"? by which you see, he thought it not enough to have learned wisdom without he had added the knowledge of me also. And if you will not believe me, take his own words, Chapter 1, "I gave my heart to know wisdom and knowledge, madness and folly." Where, by the way, 'tis worth your remark that he intended me somewhat extraordinary that he named me last. A preacher wrote it, and this you know is the order among churchmen, that he that is first in dignity comes last in place, as mindful, no doubt, whatever they do in other things, herein at least to observe the evangelical precept. Besides, that folly is more excellent than wisdom the son of Sirach, whoever he was, clearly witnesses, Chapter 44, whose words, so help me, Hercules! I shall not once utter before you meet my induction with a suitable answer, according to the manner of those in Plato that dispute with Socrates. What things are more proper to be laid up with care, such as are rare and precious, or such as are common and of no account? Why do you give me no answer? Well, though you should dissemble, the Greek proverb will answer for you, "Foul water is thrown out of doors;" which, if any man shall be so ungracious as to condemn, let him know 'tis Aristotle's, the god of our masters. Is there any of you so very a fool as to leave jewels and gold in the street? In truth, I think not; in the most secret part of your house; nor is that enough; if there be any drawer in your iron chests more private than other, there you lay them; but dirt you throw out of doors. And therefore, if you so carefully lay up such things as you value and throw away what's vile and of no worth, is it not plain that wisdom, which he forbids a man to hide, is of less account than folly, which he commands him to cover? Take his own words, "Better is the man that hideth his folly than he that hideth his wisdom." Or what is that, when he attributes an upright mind without craft or malice to a fool, when a wise man the while thinks no man like himself? For so I understand that in his tenth chapter, "A fool walking by the way, being a fool himself, supposes all men to be fools like him." And is it not a sign of great integrity to esteem every man as good as himself, and when there is no one that leans not too much to other way, to be so frank yet as to divide his praises with another? Nor was this great king ashamed of the name when he says of himself that he is more foolish than any man. Nor did Paul, that great doctor of the Gentiles, writing to the Corinthians, unwillingly acknowledge it; "I speak," says he, "like a fool. I am more." As if it could be any dishonor to excel in folly. But here I meet with a great noise of some that endeavor to peck out the crows' eyes; that is, to blind the doctors of our times and smoke out their eyes with new annotations; among whom my friend Erasmus, whom for honor's sake I often mention, deserves if not the first place yet certainly the second. O most foolish instance, they cry, and well becoming Folly herself! The apostle's meaning was wide enough from what you dream; for he spoke it not in this sense, that he would have them believe him a greater fool than the rest, but when he had said, "They are ministers of Christ, the same am I," and by way of boasting herein had equaled himself with to others, he added this by way of correction or checking himself, "I am more," as meaning that he was not only equal to the rest of the apostles in the work of the Gospel, but somewhat superior. And therefore, while he would have this received as a truth, lest nevertheless it might not relish their ears as being spoken with too much arrogance, he foreshortened his argument with the vizard of folly, "I speak like a fool," because he knew it was the prerogative of fools to speak what they like, and that too without offense. Whatever he thought when he wrote this, I leave it to them to discuss; for my own part, I follow those fat, fleshy, and vulgarly approved doctors, with whom, by Jupiter! a great part of the learned had rather err than follow them that understand the tongues, though they are never so much in the right. Not any of them make greater account of those smatterers at Greek than if they were daws. Especially when a no small professor, whose name I wittingly conceal lest those choughs should chatter at me that Greek proverb I have so often mentioned, "an ass at a harp," discoursing magisterially and theologically on this text, "I speak as a fool, I am more," drew a new thesis; and, which without the height of logic he could never have done, made this new subdivision--for I'll give you his own words, not only in form but matter also--"I speak like a fool," that is, if you look upon me as a fool for comparing myself with those false apostles, I shall seem yet a greater fool by esteeming myself before them; though the same person a little after, as forgetting himself, runs off to another matter. But why do I thus staggeringly defend myself with one single instance? As if it were not the common privilege of divines to stretch heaven, that is Holy Writ, like a cheverel; and when there are many things in St. Paul that thwart themselves, which yet in their proper place do well enough if there be any credit to be given to St. Jerome that was master of five tongues. Such was that of his at Athens when having casually espied the inscription of that altar, he wrested it into an argument to prove the Christian faith, and leaving out all the other words because they made against him, took notice only of the two last, viz., "To the unknown God;" and those too not without some alteration, for the whole inscription was thus: "To the Gods of Asia, Europe, and Africa; To the unknown and strange Gods." And according to his example do the sons of the prophets, who, forcing out here and there four or five expressions and if need be corrupting the sense, wrest it to their own purpose; though what goes before and follows after make nothing to the matter in hand, nay, be quite against it. Which yet they do with so happy an impudence that oftentimes the civilians envy them that faculty. For what is it in a manner they may not hope for success in, when this great doctor (I had almost bolted out his name, but that I once again stand in fear of the Greek proverb) has made a construction on an expression of Luke, so agreeable to the mind of Christ as are fire and water to one another. For when the last point of danger was at hand, at which time retainers and dependents are wont in a more special manner to attend their protectors, to examine what strength they have, and prepare for the encounter, Christ, intending to take out of his disciples' minds all trust and confidence in such like defense, demands of them whether they wanted anything when he sent them forth so unprovided for a journey that they had neither shoes to defend their feet from the injuries of stones and briars nor the provision of a scrip to preserve them from hunger. And when they had denied that they wanted anything, he adds, "But now, he that hath a bag, let him take it, and likewise a scrip; and he that hath none, let him sell his coat and buy a sword." And now when the sum of all that Christ taught pressed only meekness, suffering, and contempt of life, who does not clearly perceive what he means in this place? to wit, that he might the more disarm his ministers, that neglecting not only shoes and scrip but throwing away their very coat, they might, being in a manner naked, the more readily and with less hindrance take in hand the work of the Gospel, and provide themselves of nothing but a sword, not such as thieves and murderers go up and down with, but the sword of the spirit that pierces the most inward parts, and so cuts off as it were at one blow all earthly affections, that they mind nothing but their duty to God. But see, I pray, whither this famous theologian wrests it. By the sword he interprets defense against persecution, and by the bag sufficient provision to carry it on. As if Christ having altered his mind, in that he sent out his disciples not so royally attended as he should have done, repented himself of his former instructions: or as forgetting that he had said, "Blessed are ye when ye are evil spoken of, despised, and persecuted, etc.," and forbade them to resist evil; for that the meek in spirit, not the proud, are blessed: or, lest remembering, I say, that he had compared them to sparrows and lilies, thereby minding them what small care they should take for the things of this life, was so far now from having them go forth without a sword that he commanded them to get one, though with the sale of their coat, and had rather they should go naked than want a brawling-iron by their sides. And to this, as under the word "sword" he conceives to be comprehended whatever appertains to the repelling of injuries, so under that of "scrip" he takes in whatever is necessary to the support of life. And so does this deep interpreter of the divine meaning bring forth the apostles to preach the doctrine of a crucified Christ, but furnished at all points with lances, slings, quarterstaffs, and bombards; lading them also with bag and baggage, lest perhaps it might not be lawful for them to leave their inn unless they were empty and fasting. Nor does he take the least notice of this, that he so willed the sword to be bought, reprehends it a little after and commands it to be sheathed; and that it was never heard that the apostles ever used or swords or bucklers against the Gentiles, though 'tis likely they had done it, if Christ had ever intended, as this doctor interprets. There is another, too, whose name out of respect I pass by, a man of no small repute, who from those tents which Habakkuk mentions, "The tents of the land of Midian shall tremble," drew this exposition, that it was prophesied of the skin of Saint Bartholomew who was flayed alive. And why, forsooth, but because those tents were covered with skins? I was lately myself at a theological dispute, for I am often there, where when one was demanding what authority there was in Holy Writ that commands heretics to be convinced by fire rather than reclaimed by argument; a crabbed old fellow, and one whose supercilious gravity spoke him at least a doctor, answered in a great fume that Saint Paul had decreed it, who said, "Reject him that is a heretic, after once or twice admonition." And when he had sundry times, one after another, thundered out the same thing, and most men wondered what ailed the man, at last he explained it thus, making two words of one. "A heretic must be put to death." Some laughed, and yet there wanted not others to whom this exposition seemed plainly theological; which, when some, though those very few, opposed, they cut off the dispute, as we say, with a hatchet, and the credit of so uncontrollable an author. "Pray conceive me," said he, "it is written, 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.' But every heretic bewitches the people; therefore, etc." And now, as many as were present admired the man's wit, and consequently submitted to his decision of the question. Nor came it into any of their heads that that law concerned only fortunetellers, enchanters, and magicians, whom the Hebrews call in their tongue "Mecaschephim," witches or sorcerers: for otherwise, perhaps, by the same reason it might as well have extended to fornication and drunkenness. But I foolishly run on in these matters, though yet there are so many of them that neither Chrysippus' nor Didymus' volumes are large enough to contain them. I would only desire you to consider this, that if so great doctors may be allowed this liberty, you may the more reasonably pardon even me also, a raw, effeminate divine, if I quote not everything so exactly as I should. And so at last I return to Paul. "Ye willingly," says he, "suffer my foolishness," and again, "Take me as a fool," and further, "I speak it not after the Lord, but as it were foolishly," and in another place, "We are fools for Christ's sake." You have heard from how great an author how great praises of folly; and to what other end, but that without doubt he looked upon it as that one thing both necessary and profitable. "If anyone among ye," says he, "seem to be wise, let him be a fool that he may be wise." And in Luke, Jesus called those two disciples with whom he joined himself upon the way, "fools." Nor can I give you any reason why it should seem so strange when Saint Paul imputes a kind of folly even to God himself. "The foolishness of God," says he, "is wiser than men." Though yet I must confess that origin upon the place denies that this foolishness may be resembled to the uncertain judgment of men; of which kind is, that "the preaching of the cross is to them that perish foolishness." But why am I so careful to no purpose that I thus run on to prove my matter by so many testimonies? when in those mystical Psalms Christ speaking to the Father says openly, "Thou knowest my foolishness." Nor is it without ground that fools are so acceptable to God. The reason perhaps may be this, that as princes carry a suspicious eye upon those that are over-wise, and consequently hate them--as Caesar did Brutus and Cassius, when he feared not in the least drunken Antony; so Nero, Seneca; and Dionysius, Plato--and on the contrary are delighted in those blunter and unlabored wits, in like manner Christ ever abhors and condemns those wise men and such as put confidence in their own wisdom. And this Paul makes clearly out when he said, "God hath chosen the foolish things of this world," as well knowing it had been impossible to have reformed it by wisdom. Which also he sufficiently declares himself, crying out by the mouth of his prophet, "I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and cast away the understanding of the prudent." And again, when Christ gives Him thanks that He had concealed the mystery of salvation from the wise, but revealed it to babes and sucklings, that is to say, fools. For the Greek word for babes is fools, which he opposes to the word wise men. To this appertains that throughout the Gospel you find him ever accusing the Scribes and Pharisees and doctors of the law, but diligently defending the ignorant multitude (for what other is that "Woe to ye Scribes and Pharisees" than woe to you, you wise men?), but seems chiefly delighted in little children, women, and fishers. Besides, among brute beasts he is best pleased with those that have least in them of the foxes' subtlety. And therefore he chose rather to ride upon an ass when, if he had pleased, he might have bestrode the lion without danger. And the Holy Ghost came down in the shape of a dove, not of an eagle or kite. Add to this that in Scripture there is frequent mention of harts, hinds, and lambs; and such as are destined to eternal life are called sheep, than which creature there is not anything more foolish, if we may believe that proverb of Aristotle "sheepish manners," which he tells us is taken from the foolishness of that creature and is used to be applied to dull-headed people and lack-wits. And yet Christ professes to be the shepherd of this flock and is himself delighted with the name of a lamb; according to Saint John, "Behold the Lamb of God!" Of which also there is much mention in the Revelation. And what does all this drive at, but that all mankind are fools--nay, even the very best? And Christ himself, that he might the better relieve this folly, being the wisdom of the Father, yet in some manner became a fool when taking upon him the nature of man, he was found in shape as a man; as in like manner he was made sin that he might heal sinners. Nor did he work this cure any other way than by the foolishness of the cross and a company of fat apostles, not much better, to whom also he carefully recommended folly but gave them a caution against wisdom and drew them together by the example of little children, lilies, mustard-seed, and sparrows, things senseless and inconsiderable, living only by the dictates of nature and without either craft or care. Besides, when he forbade them to be troubled about what they should say before governors and straightly charged them not to inquire after times and seasons, to wit, that they might not trust to their own wisdom but wholly depend on him. And to the same purpose is it that that great Architect of the World, God, gave man an injunction against his eating of the Tree of Knowledge, as if knowledge were the bane of happiness; according to which also, St. Paul disallows it as puffing up and destructive; whence also St. Bernard seems in my opinion to follow when he interprets that mountain whereon Lucifer had fixed his habitation to be the mountain of knowledge. Nor perhaps ought I to omit this other argument, that Folly is so gracious above that her errors are only pardoned, those of wise men never. Whence it is that they that ask forgiveness, though they offend never so wittingly, cloak it yet with the excuse of folly. So Aaron, in Numbers, if I mistake not the book, when he sues unto Moses concerning his sister's leprosy, "I beseech thee, my Lord, not to lay this sin upon us, which we have foolishly committed." So Saul makes his excuse of David, "For behold," says he, "I did it foolishly." And again, David himself thus sweetens God, "And therefore I beseech thee, O Lord, to take away the trespass of thy servant, for I have done foolishly," as if he knew there was no pardon to be obtained unless he had colored his offense with folly and ignorance. And stronger is that of Christ upon the cross when he prayed for his enemies, "Father, forgive them," nor does he cover their crime with any other excuse than that of unwittingness--because, says he, "they know not what they do." In like manner Paul, writing to Timothy, "But therefore I obtained mercy, for that I did it ignorantly through unbelief." And what is the meaning of "I did it ignorantly" but that I did it out of folly, not malice? And what of "Therefore I received mercy" but that I had not obtained it had I not been made more allowable through the covert of folly? For us also makes that mystical Psalmist, though I remembered it not in its right place, "Remember not the sins of my youth nor my ignorances." You see what two things he pretends, to wit, youth, whose companion I ever am, and ignorances, and that in the plural number, a number of multitude, whereby we are to understand that there was no small company of them. But not to run too far in that which is infinite. To speak briefly, all Christian religion seems to have a kind of alliance with folly and in no respect to have any accord with wisdom. Of which if you expect proofs, consider first that boys, old men, women, and fools are more delighted with religious and sacred things than others, and to that purpose are ever next the altars; and this they do by mere impulse of nature. And in the next place, you see that those first founders of it were plain, simple persons and most bitter enemies of learning. Lastly there are no sort of fools seem more out of the way than are these whom the zeal of Christian religion has once swallowed up; so that they waste their estates, neglect injuries, suffer themselves to be cheated, put no difference between friends and enemies, abhor pleasure, are crammed with poverty, watchings, tears, labors, reproaches, loathe life, and wish death above all things; in short, they seem senseless to common understanding, as if their minds lived elsewhere and not in their own bodies; which, what else is it than to be mad? For which reason you must not think it so strange if the apostles seemed to be drunk with new wine, and if Paul appeared to Festus to be mad. But now, having once gotten on the lion's skin, go to, and I'll show you that this happiness of Christians, which they pursue with so much toil, is nothing else but a kind of madness and folly; far be it that my words should give any offense, rather consider my matter. And first, the Christians and Platonists do as good as agree in this, that the soul is plunged and fettered in the prison of the body, by the grossness of which it is so tied up and hindered that it cannot take a view of or enjoy things as they truly are; and for that cause their master defines philosophy to be a contemplation of death, because it takes off the mind from visible and corporeal objects, than which death does no more. And therefore, as long as the soul uses the organs of the body in that right manner it ought, so long it is said to be in good state and condition; but when, having broken its fetters, it endeavors to get loose and assays, as it were, a flight out of that prison that holds it in, they call it madness; and if this happen through any distemper or indisposition of the organs, then, by the common consent of every man, 'tis downright madness. And yet we see such kind of men foretell things to come, understand tongues and letters they never learned before, and seem, as it were, big with a kind of divinity. Nor is it to be doubted but that it proceeds from hence, that the mind, being somewhat at liberty from the infection of the body, begins to put forth itself in its native vigor. And I conceive 'tis from the same cause that the like often happens to sick men a little before their death, that they discourse in strain above mortality as if they were inspired. Again, if this happens upon the score of religion, though perhaps it may not be the same kind of madness, yet 'tis so near it that a great many men would judge it no better, especially when a few inconsiderable people shall differ from the rest of the world in the whole course of their life. And therefore it fares with them as, according to the fiction of Plato, happens to those that being cooped up in a cave stand gaping with admiration at the shadows of things; and that fugitive who, having broke from them and returning to them again, told them he had seen things truly as they were, and that they were the most mistaken in believing there was nothing but pitiful shadows. For as this wise man pitied and bewailed their palpable madness that were possessed with so gross an error, so they in return laughed at him as a doting fool and cast him out of their company. In like manner the common sort of men chiefly admire those things that are most corporeal and almost believe there is nothing beyond them. Whereas on the contrary, these devout persons, by how much the nearer anything concerns the body, by so much more they neglect it and are wholly hurried away with the contemplation of things invisible. For the one give the first place to riches, the next to their corporeal pleasures, leaving the last place to their soul, which yet most of them do scarce believe, because they can't see it with their eyes. On the contrary, the others first rely wholly on God, the most unchangeable of all things; and next him, yet on this that comes nearest him, they bestow the second on their soul; and lastly, for their body, they neglect that care and condemn and fly money as superfluity that may be well spared; or if they are forced to meddle with any of these things, they do it carelessly and much against their wills, having as if they had it not, and possessing as if they possessed it not. There are also in each several things several degrees wherein they disagree among themselves. And first as to the senses, though all of them have more or less affinity with the body, yet of these some are more gross and blockish, as tasting, hearing, seeing, smelling, touching; some more removed from the body, as memory, intellect, and the will. And therefore to which of these the mind applies itself, in that lies its force. But holy men, because the whole bent of their minds is taken up with those things that are most repugnant to these grosser senses, they seem brutish and stupid in the common use of them. Whereas on the contrary, the ordinary sort of people are best at these, and can do least at the other; from whence it is, as we have heard, that some of these holy men have by mistake drunk oil for wine. Again, in the affections of the mind, some have a greater commerce with the body than others, as lust, desire of meat and sleep, anger, pride, envy; with which holy men are at irreconcilable enmity, and contrary, the common people think there's no living without them. And lastly there are certain middle kind of affections, and as it were natural to every man, as the love of one's country, children, parents, friends, and to which the common people attribute no small matter; whereas the other strive to pluck them out of their mind: unless insomuch as they arrive to that highest part of the soul, that they love their parents not as parents--for what did they get but the body? though yet we owe it to God, not them--but as good men or women and in whom shines the image of that highest wisdom which alone they call the chiefest good, and out of which, they say, there is nothing to be beloved or desired. And by the same rule do they measure all things else, so that they make less account of whatever is visible, unless it be altogether contemptible, than of those things which they cannot see. But they say that in Sacraments and other religious duties there is both body and spirit. As in fasting they count it not enough for a man to abstain from eating, which the common people take for an absolute fast, unless there be also a lessening of his depraved affections: as that he be less angry, less proud, than he was wont, that the spirit, being less clogged with its bodily weight, may be the more intent upon heavenly things. In like manner, in the Eucharist, though, say they, it is not to be esteemed the less that 'tis administered with ceremonies, yet of itself 'tis of little effect, if not hurtful, unless that which is spiritual be added to it, to wit, that which is represented under those visible signs. Now the death of Christ is represented by it, which all men, vanquishing, abolishing, and, as it were, burying their carnal affections, ought to express in their lives and conversations that they may grow up to a newness of life and be one with him and the same one among another. This a holy man does, and in this is his only meditation. Whereas on the contrary, the common people think there's no more in that sacrifice than to be present at the altar and crowd next it, to have a noise of words and look upon the ceremonies. Nor in this alone, which we only proposed by way of example, but in all his life, and without hypocrisy, does a holy man fly those things that have any alliance with the body and is wholly ravished with things eternal, invisible, and spiritual. For which cause there's so great contrarity of opinion between them, and that too in everything, that each party thinks the other out of their wits; though that character, in my judgment, better agrees with those holy men than the common people: which yet will be more clear if, as I promised, I briefly show you that that great reward they so much fancy is nothing else but a kind of madness. And therefore suppose that Plato dreamed of somewhat like it when he called the madness of lovers the most happy condition of all others. For he that's violently in love lives not in his own body but in the thing he loves; and by how much the farther he runs from himself into another, by so much the greater is his pleasure. And then, when the mind strives to rove from its body and does not rightly use its own organs, without doubt you may say 'tis downright madness and not be mistaken, or otherwise what's the meaning of those common sayings, "He does not dwell at home," "Come to yourself," "He's his own man again"? Besides, the more perfect and true his love is, the more pleasant is his madness. And therefore, what is that life hereafter, after which these holy minds so pantingly breathe, like to be? To wit, the spirit shall swallow up the body, as conqueror and more durable; and this it shall do with the greater ease because heretofore, in its lifetime, it had cleansed and thinned it into such another nothing as itself. And then the spirit again shall be wonderfully swallowed up by the highest mind, as being more powerful than infinite parts; so that the whole man is to be out of himself nor to be otherwise happy in any respect, but that being stripped of himself, he shall participate of somewhat ineffable from that chiefest good that draws all things into itself. And this happiness though 'tis only then perfected when souls being joined to their former bodies shall be made immortal, yet forasmuch as the life of holy men is nothing but a continued meditation and, as it were, shadow of that life, it so happens that at length they have some taste or relish of it; which, though it be but as the smallest drop in comparison of that fountain of eternal happiness, yet it far surpasses all worldly delight, though all the pleasures of all mankind were all joined together. So much better are things spiritual than things corporeal, and things invisible than things visible; which doubtless is that which the prophet promises: "The eye hath not seen, nor the ear heard, nor has it entered into the heart of man to consider what God has provided for them that love Him." And this is that Mary's better part which is not taken away by change of life, but perfected. And therefore they that are sensible of it, and few there are to whom this happens, suffer a kind of somewhat little differing from madness; for they utter many things that do not hang together, and that too not after the manner of men but make a kind of sound which they neither heed themselves, nor is it understood by others, and change the whole figure of their countenance, one while jocund, another while dejected, now weeping, then laughing, and again sighing. And when they come to themselves, tell you they know not where they have been, whether in the body or out of the body, or sleeping; nor do they remember what they have heard, seen, spoken, or done, and only know this, as it were in a mist or dream, that they were the most happy while they were so out of their wits. And therefore they are sorry they are come to themselves again and desire nothing more than this kind of madness, to be perpetually mad. And this is a small taste of that future happiness. But I forget myself and run beyond my bounds. Though yet, if I shall seem to have spoken anything more boldly or impertinently than I ought, be pleased to consider that not only Folly but a woman said it; remembering in the meantime that Greek proverb, "Sometimes a fool may speak a word in season," unless perhaps you expect an epilogue, but give me leave to tell you you are mistaken if you think I remember anything of what I have said, having foolishly bolted out such a hodgepodge of words. 'Tis an old proverb, "I hate one that remembers what's done over the cup." This is a new one of my own making: I hate a man that remembers what he hears. Wherefore farewell, clap your hands, live and drink lustily, my most excellent disciples of Folly. 
14031	----	Proofreading Team. The Colloquies of Erasmus. TRANSLATED BY N. BAILEY. _Edited, with Notes, by the Rev. E. Johnson, M.A._ VOL. I. LONDON: 1878. CONTENTS. VOL. I. _Prefatory Note_ _Dedication_ _Admonitory Note_ _To the Divines of_ Louvain _Copy of_ Bailey's _Title_ Bailey's _Preface_ _Life of_ Erasmus _Courtesy in Saluting_ _Family Discourse_ _Of Rash Vows_ _Of Benefice-Hunters_ _Of a Soldier's Life_ _The Commands of a Master_ _The School-master's Admonitions_ _Of Various Plays_ _The Child's Piety_ _The Art of Hunting_ _Scholastic Studies_ _The Profane Feast_ _The Religious Treat_ _The Apotheosis of_ Capnio _A Lover and Maiden_ _The Virgin Averse to Matrimony_ _The Penitent Virgin_ _The Uneasy Wife_ _The Soldier and Carthusian_ Philetymus _and_ Pseudocheus _The Shipwreck_ _Diversoria_ _Young Man and Harlot_ _The Poetical Feast_ _An Enquiry concerning Faith_ _The Old Mens Dialogue_ _The Franciscans,_ [Greek: Ptôchoplousioi], _or Rich Beggars_ _The Abbot and Learned Woman_ _The Epithalamium of Petrus Ægidius_ _The Exorcism or Apparition_ _The Alchymist_ _The Horse-Cheat_ _The Beggars' Dialogue_ _The Fabulous Feast_ _The Lying-in Woman_ Prefatory Note. The present English version of Erasmus' _Colloquies_ is a reprint of the translation of N. Bailey, the compiler of a well-known Dictionary. In his Preface Bailey says, "I have labour'd to give such a Translation as might in the general, be capable of being compar'd with the Original, endeavouring to avoid running into a paraphrase: but keeping as close to the original as I could, without Latinizing and deviating from the English Idiom, and so depriving the English reader of that pleasure that Erasmus so plentifully entertains his reader with in Latin." This is a modest and fair account of Bailey's work. The chief peculiarity of his version is its reproduction of the idiomatic and proverbial Latinisms, and generally of the classical phrases and allusions in which Erasmus abounds, in corresponding or analogous English forms. Bailey had acquired, perhaps from his lexicographical studies, a great command of homely and colloquial English; the words and phrases by which he frequently _represents_ rather than construes Erasmus' text have perhaps in many instances not less piquancy than the original. Thus his translation, as a piece of racy English, has a certain independent value of its own, and may be read with interest even by those who are familiar with the original. In preparing this volume for the press, Bailey's text has been carefully revised, and clerical errors have been corrected, but the liberty has not been taken of altering his language, even to the extent of removing the coarsenesses of expression which disfigure the book and in which he exaggerates the plain speaking of the original. Literary feeling is jealous, no doubt justly, on general grounds, of expurgations. Further, throughout the greater part of the work, the translation has been closely compared with the Latin original. Occasional inaccuracies on Bailey's part have been pointed out in the Appendix of Notes at the end of the volume. The literal sense of the original, sometimes its language, has in many of these notes been given, with the view of increasing the interest of perusal to the general reader. The remainder of the notes are, like the contents of the volume, of a miscellaneous character: philological, antiquarian, historical. They do not, of course, profess to supply an exhaustive commentary; but are designed to afford elucidations and illustrations of the text that may be intelligible and instructive to the English reader, and possibly to some extent to the scholar. The Colloquies of Erasmus form a rich quarry of intellectual material, from which each student will extract that which he regards to be of peculiar value. The linguist, the antiquary, the observer of life and manners, the historian, the moralist, the theologian may all find themselves attracted to these pages. It is hoped that there are many who at the present time will welcome the republication, in English, of a book which not only produced so great a sensation in Europe on its appearance, but may be said to have had something to do with the making of history. It is unnecessary to do more than refer to the fact that the Editor undertook his task under certain inconveniences, and limitations as to space and time, which have prevented him from satisfying his own idea of what the book should be. He trusts it will not be found wanting in accuracy, however falling short of completeness. The Latin text used has been that of P. Scriver's edition, printed by the Elzevirs. 1643. A translation of Erasmus' dedication to young Froben has been added; also of several pieces from the _Coronis Apologetica_, not given by Bailey, which contain matters of interest bearing upon the history or contents of the book. DEDICATION. _D. ERASMUS_ Rot. TO _JOHN ERASMIUS FROBEN_, _A Boy of Excellent Promise: Greeting._ The Book dedicated to you has surpassed my expectation, my dearest Erasmius: it will be your part to take care that _you_ do not disappoint my expectation. Our studious youth are so in love with the book, seize upon it so eagerly, handle it so constantly, that your father has had repeatedly to print it, and I to enrich it with new additions. You might say it too was an [Greek: herasmion], the delight of the Muses, who foster sacred things. It will be the more your endeavour that you also may be what you are called, that is, that you may be, by learning and probity of manners, "most endeared" to all good men. It were deep cause for shame, if, while this book has rendered so many both better Latin scholars and better men, you should so act that the same use and profit should not return to yourself, which by your means has come to all. And since there are so many young fellows, who thank you for the sake of the Colloquies, would it not be justly thought absurd, if through your fault the fact should seem that you could not thank me on the same account? The little book has increased to the fair size of a volume. You must also endeavour, in proportion as your age increases, to improve in sound learning and integrity of manners. No ordinary hopes are placed upon you: it is indispensable that you should answer to them; it would be glorious for you to surpass them; disappoint them you surely cannot without the greatest disgrace. Nor do I say this, because your course thus far gives me occasion for regret, but by way of spurring the runner, that you may run more nimbly; especially since you have arrived at an age, than which none happier occurs in the course of life for imbibing the seeds of letters and of piety. Act then in such a way, that these Colloquies may be truly called yours. The Lord Jesus keep the present season of your life pure from all pollutions, and ever lead you on to better things! Farewell. BASIL, _August 1st._, 1524. AN ADMONITORY NOTE OF ERASMUS ON THE TRICKS AND IMPOSTURES OF A CERTAIN DOMINICAN, WHO HAD PUBLISHED IN FRANCE THE COLLOQUIES OF ERASMUS RIDICULOUSLY INTERPOLATED BY HIMSELF. _A Book of Colloquies had appeared, the material of which was collected partly from domestic talks, partly from my papers; but with a mixture of certain trivialities, not only without sense, but also in bad Latin,--perfect solecisms. This trash was received with wonderful applause; for in these matters too Fortune has her sport. I was compelled therefore to lay hands on these trumperies. At length, having applied somewhat greater care, I added considerable matter, so that the book might be of fair size, and in fact might appear worthy even of the honour of being dedicated to John Erasmius, son of Froben, a boy then six years old, but of extraordinary natural ability. This was done in the year 1522. But the nature of this work is such, that it receives addition as often as it is revised. Accordingly I frequently made an addition for the sake of the studious, and of John Froben; but so tempered the subject-matters, that besides the pleasure of reading, and their use in polishing the style, they might also contain that which would conduce to the formation of character. Even while the book I have referred to contained nothing but mere rubbish, it was read with wonderful favour by all. But when it had gained a richer utility, it could not escape [Greek: tôn sykophantôn dêgmata]. A certain divine of Louvain, frightfully blear of eye, but still more of mind, saw in it four heretical passages. There was also another incident connected with this work worth relating. It was lately printed at Paris with certain passages corrected, that is to say, corrupted, which appeared to attack monks, vows, pilgrimages, indulgences, and other things of that kind which, if held in great esteem among the people, would be a source of more plentiful profit to gentlemen of that order. But he did this so stupidly, so clumsily, that you would swear he had been some street buffoon: although the author of so silly a piece is said to be a certain divine of the Dominican order, by nation a Saxon. Of what avail is it to add his name and surname, which he himself does not desire to have suppressed? A monster like him knows not what shame is; he would rather look for praise from his villany. This rogue added a new Preface in my name, in which he represented three men sweating at the instruction of one boy: Capito, who taught him Hebrew, Beatus Greek, and me, Latin. He represents me as inferior to each of the others alike in learning and in piety; intimating that there is in the Colloquies a sprinkling of certain matters which savour of Luther's dogmas. And here I know that some will chuckle, when they read that Capito is favoured by such a hater of Luther with the designation of an excellent and most accomplished man. These and many things of the like kind he represents me as saying, taking the pattern of his effrontery from a letter of Jerome, who complains that his rivals had circulated a forged letter under his name amongst a synod of bishops in Africa; in which he was made to confess that, deceived by certain Jews, he had falsely translated the Old Testament from the Hebrew. And they would have succeeded in persuading the bishops that the letter was Jerome's, had they been able in any tolerable degree, to imitate Jerome's style. Although Jerome speaks of this deed as one of extreme and incurable roguery, our Phormio takes peculiar delight in this, which is more rascally than any notorious book. But his malicious will was wanting in power to carry out what he had intended. He could not come up to Erasmus' style, unpolished though it be: for he thus closes his flowery preface:_ Thus age has admonished, piety has bidden me, while life is still spared in my burdensome age, to cleanse my writings, lest those who follow my mournful funeral should transcribe my departed soul! _Such being the man's style throughout, he has nevertheless not shrunk from interweaving his flowers with my crowns; either pleasing himself in a most senseless manner, or having a very ill opinion of the judgment of divines. For these things were composed for their benefit, all of whom he supposes to be such blockheads that they will not instantly detect the patch-work he has so awkwardly sewn together. So abjectly does he everywhere flatter France, Paris, the theologians, the Sorbonne, the Colleges, no beggar could be more cringing. Accordingly, if anything uncomplimentary seems to be said against the French, he transfers it to the British; or against Paris, he turns it off to London. He added some odious sayings as if coming from me, with the view of stirring up hatred against me amongst those by whom he is grieved to know me beloved. It is needless to dwell upon the matter. Throughout he curtails, makes additions, alterations after his fashion, like a sow smeared with mud, rolling herself in a strange garden, bespattering, disturbing, rooting up everything. Meanwhile, he does not perceive that the points made by me are quite lost. For example, when to one who says_, 'From a Dutchman you are turned into a Gaul,'[A] _the answer is made_, 'What? was I a Capon then, when I went hence?': _he alters_ 'From a Dutchman you are turned into a Briton. What? was I a Saxon, then, when I went hence?' _Again, when the same speaker had said_, 'Your garb shows that you are changed from a Batavian into a Gaul,' _he puts_ 'Briton' _for_ 'Gaul'; _and when the speaker had replied_, 'I had rather that metamorphosis, than into a Hen,' _alluding to_ 'Cock:' _he changed_ 'Hen' _into_ 'Bohemian.' _Presently, when there is a joke_, 'that he pronounces Latin in French style,' _he changes_ 'French' _into_ 'British,' _and yet allows the following to stand_, 'Then you will never make good verses, because you have lost your quantities'; _and this does not apply to the British. Again, when my text reads_, 'What has happened to the Gauls' _(cocks)_ 'that they should wage war with the Eagle?' _he thus spoils the joke_, 'What has happened to the pards, that they should go to war with the lilies? _as if lilies were in the habit of going forth to war. Occasionally he does not perceive that what follows his alterations does not hang together with them. As in the very passage I had written_, 'Is Paris free from the plague?' _he alters_, 'Is London free[B] from the plague?' _Again, in another place, where one says_, 'Why are we afraid to cut up this capon?' _he changes_ 'capon' _into_ 'hare'; _yet makes no alteration in what follows_, 'Do you prefer wing or leg?' _Forsooth, although he so kindly favours the Dominican interest that he desired to sit among the famous Commissaries: nevertheless he bears with equal mind a cruel attack on Scotus. For he made no change in what one says in my text_, 'I would sooner let the whole of Scotus perish than the books of one Cicero.' _But as these things are full of folly, so very many of the contents bear an equal malice joined to folly. A speaker in my text rallies his comrade, who, although of abandoned life, nevertheless puts faith in indulgentiary bulls. My Corrector makes the former confess that he, along with his master Luther, was of opinion that the Pope's indulgences were of no value; presently he represents the same speaker as recanting and professing penitence for his error. And these he wants to appear my corrections. O wondrous Atlases of faith! This is just as if one should feign, by means of morsels dipped in blood, a wound in the human body, and presently, by removing what he had supplied, should cure the wound. In my text a boy says_, 'that the confession which is made to God is the best;' _he made a correction, asserting_ 'that the confession which is made to the priest is the best.' _Thus did he take care for imperilled confession. I have referred to this one matter for the sake of example, although he frequently indulges in tricks of this kind. And these answer to the palinode (recantation) which he promises in my name in his forged preface. As if it were any man's business to sing a palinode for another's error; or as if anything that is said in that work of mine under any character whatever, were my own opinion. For it does not at all trouble me, that he represents a man not yet sixty, as burdened with old age. Formerly, it was a capital offence to publish anything under another man's name; now, to scatter rascalities of this kind amongst the public, under the pretended name of the very man who is slandered, is the sport of divines. For he wishes to appear a divine when his matter cries out that he does not grasp a straw of theological science. I have no doubt but that yonder thief imposed with his lies upon his starved printer; for I do not think there is a man so mad as to be willing knowingly to print such ignorant trash. I ceased to wonder at the incorrigible effrontery of the fellow, after I learnt that he was a chick who once upon a time fell out of a nest at Berne, entirely [Greek: hek kakistou korakost kakiston hôon]. This I am astonished at, if the report is true: that there are among the Parisian divines those who pride themselves on having at length secured a man who by the thunderbolt of his eloquence is to break asunder the whole party of Luther and restore the church to its pristine tranquility. For he wrote also against Luther as I hear. And then the divines complain that they are slandered by me, who aid their studies in so many night-watches; while they themselves willingly embrace monsters of this description, who bring more dishonour to the order of divines and even of monks, than any foe, however foul-mouthed, can do. He who has audacity for such an act as this, will not hesitate to employ fire or poison. And these things are printed at Paris, where it is unlawful to print even the Gospel, unless approved by the opinion of the faculty. This last work of the Colloquies, with the addition of an appendix, is issued in the month of September, 1524._ [Footnote A: Gallus: meaning also a Cock.] [Footnote B: _Immunis_ instead of _immune_ agreeing with Londinum.] * * * * * _From a letter of Erasmus dated 5th Oct. 1532, we gather some further particulars about the obnoxious person above referred to. His name was Lambert Campester. Subsequently to his exploit at Paris in printing a garbled edition of the Colloquies, he "fled to Leyden; and pretending to be a great friend of Erasmus, found a patron, from whom having soon stolen 300 crowns, fled, was taken in his flight amongst some girls, and would have been nailed to a cross, had not his sacred Dominican cowl saved him. He, I say, many other offences and crimes having been proved against him, is at length in a certain town of Germany, called, I think, Zorst, in the Duchy of Juliers,--his cowl thrown aside, teaching the Gospel, that is, mere sedition. The Duke begged them to turn the fellow out. They answered that they could not do without their preacher. And this sort of plague spreads from day to day."_ #ERASMUS ROTERODAMUS# TO THE _DIVINES OF LOUVAIN_, _His dearly beloved brethren in the Lord, greeting._ A matter has been brought to my knowledge, not only by rumour, but by the letters of trustworthy friends, expressly stating in what words, in what place, a calumny was directed against me in our midst, through the agency of a well-known person, who is ever true to himself; whose very character and former doings lead one to assume as ascertained fact what in another would have been but probable. Accordingly, I thought I ought to make no concealment of the matter; especially from you, whose part it was to restrain the unbridled impudence of the fellow, if not for my sake, at all events for that of your Order. He boasts and vociferates that in the book of Colloquies there are four passages more than heretical: concerning the _Eating of meats_ and _Fasting_, concerning _Indulgences_, and concerning _Vows_, Although such be his bold and impudent assertion, whoever reads the book in its entirety will find the facts to be otherwise. If, however, leisure be wanting for the reading of trifles of this description, I will briefly lay the matter open. But before I approach it, I think well to make three prefatory remarks. First, in this matter contempt of the Emperor's edict[C] cannot be laid to my charge. For I understand it was published May 6th, 1522, whereas this book was printed long before: and that at Basle, where no Imperial edict had up to the time been made known, whether publicly or privately. [Footnote C: Edict of the Emperor Charles V.: 1523.] Secondly, although in that book I do not teach dogmas of Faith, but formulae for speaking Latin; yet there are matters intermixed by the way, which conduce to good manners. Now if, when a theme has been previously written down in German or French, a master should teach his boys to render the sense in Latin thus: _Utinam nihil edant praeter allia, qui nobis hos dies pisculentos invexerunt_. ("Would they might eat naught but garlic, who imposed these fish-days upon us.") Or this: _Utinam inedia pereant, qui liberos homines adigunt ac jejunandi necessitatem_. ("Would they might starve to death, who force the necessity of fasting on free men.") Or this: _Digni sunt ut fumo pereant qui nobis Dispensationum ad Indulgentiarum fumos tam care vendunt_. ("They deserve to be stifled to death who sell us the smokes (pretences) of dispensations and indulgences at so dear a rate.") Or this: _Utinam vere castrentur, qui nolentes arcent à matrimonio_. ("Would they might indeed be made eunuchs of, who keep people from marrying, against their will")--I ask, whether he should be forced to defend himself, for having taught how to turn a sentence, though of bad meaning, into good Latin words? I think there is no one so unjust, as to deem this just. Thirdly, I had in the first instance to take care what sort of person it should be to whom I ascribe the speech in the dialogue. For I do not there represent a divine preaching, but good fellows having a gossip together. Now if any one is so unfair as to refuse to concede me the quality of the person represented, he ought, by the same reasoning, to lay it to my charge, that there one Augustine (I think) disparages the Stoics' principle of the _honestum_, and prefers the sect of the Epicureans, who placed the highest good in pleasure. He may also bring it against me, that in that passage a soldier, amongst many things which he speaks about in true soldier-fashion, says that he will look for a priest to confess to, who shall have as little of good as possible about him. The same objector would, I imagine, bring it up against me, were I to ascribe to Arius in a dialogue a discourse at variance with the Church. If such charges against me would be absurd, why in other matters should not regard be had to the quality of the person speaking? Unless perchance, were I to represent a Turk speaking, they should decide to lay at my door whatever he might say. With this preface, I will make a few general remarks on the passages criticised by the person to whom I refer. In the first passage, a boy of sixteen years says that he confesses only sins that are unquestionably capital, or gravely suspected; while the Lutherans teach, as I understand, that it is not necessary to confess all capital offences. Thus the very facts show, that this boy's speech is in great disagreement with the dogma which you condemn. Presently, the same boy being asked, whether it be sufficient to confess to Christ himself, answers that it will satisfy his mind, if the fathers of the Church were of the same opinion. From this my critic argues, not with dialectic art, but with rascally cunning, that I suggest that this _Confession_ which we now practise was not instituted by Christ, but by the leaders of the Church. Such an inference might appear sound, were not Christ one of the Primates of the Church, since according to Peter's saying He is Chief Shepherd, and according to the word of the Gospel, Good Shepherd. Therefore he who speaks of princes of the Church, does not exclude Christ, but includes Him along with the Apostles, and the successors of the Apostles, in the same manner as he who names the principal members of the body does not exclude the head. But if any one shall deem this reply to savour of artifice: well now, let us grant that the boy was thinking of pure men, heads of the Church: is it then not enough for the boy that he follows in the matter of confession their authority, even although he is not assured whether the Popes could ordain this on their own authority, or handed it down to us from the ordinance of Christ? For he has a mind to obey, in whatever way they have handed it down. I am not even myself fully convinced as yet, that the Church defined the present practice of Confession to be of Christ's ordinance. For there are very many arguments, to me in fact insoluble, which persuade to the contrary. Nevertheless, I entirely submit this feeling of my own to the judgment of the Church. Gladly will I follow it, so soon as on my watch, for certainty I shall have heard its clear voice. Nay, had Leo's Bull given the fullest expression of this doctrine, and any one should either be ignorant of it, or should have forgotten it, it would meanwhile suffice (I imagine) to obey in this matter the authority of the Church, with a disposition of obedience, should the point be established. Nor in truth can it be rightly inferred, _This Confession is of human ordinance, therefore Christ is not its Author_. The Apostles laid down the discipline of the Church, without doubt from Christ's ordinances: they ordained Baptism, they ordained Bishops, &c., but by the authority of Christ. And yet it cannot be denied, that many particulars of this Confession depend on the appointment of the Pontiffs, viz., that we confess once a year, at Easter, to this or that priest; that any priest absolves us from any trespasses whatever. Hence I judge it to be clear how manifest is the calumny in what relates to _Confession_. Further, no mention is there made of _fasting_, to which the Gospel and the Apostolic epistles exhort us, but _concerning the choice of foods_, which Christ openly sets at naught in the Gospel, and the Pauline epistles not seldom condemn; especially that which is Jewish and superstitious. Some one will say, this is to accuse the Roman Pontiff who teaches that which the Apostle condemns. What the Gospel teaches, is perfectly plain. The Pontiff himself must declare with what intention he commands what the Gospel does not require. Yet no one there says--what I know not whether Luther teaches--that the constitutions of the Pontiffs do not render us liable to guilt, unless there has been contempt besides. In fact, he who speaks in that passage grants that the Pope may appoint an observance; he simply enquires, whether this were the intention of the Pope, to bind all equally to abstinence from meats, so that one who should partake would be liable to hell-fire, even although no perverse contempt should be committed. And he who says this in the Colloquies, adds that he hates fishes not otherwise than he does a serpent. Now, there are some so affected that fish is poison to them, just as there are found those who in like manner shrink from wine. If one who is thus affected with regard to fishes, should be forbidden to feed on flesh and milk-food, will he not be hardly treated? Is it possible that any man can desire him to be exposed to the pains of hell, if for the necessity of his body he should live on flesh? If any constitution of Popes and Bishops involves liability to the punishment of hell, the condition of Christians is hard indeed. If some impose the liability, others not; no one will better declare his intention than the Pope himself. And it would conduce to the peace of consciences to have it declared. What if some Pope should decree that priests should go girt; would it be probable that he declared this with the intention that if one because of renal suffering should lay aside the girdle, he should be liable to hell? I think not. St. Gregory laid down, That if any one had had intercourse with his wife by night, he should abstain the next day from entering church: in this case, supposing that a man, concealing the fact of intercourse having taken place, should have gone to church for no other reason than that he might hear the preaching of the Gospel, would he be liable to hell? I do not think the holiest man could be so harsh. If a man with a sick wife should live on meat, because otherwise she could not be provoked to eat, and her health required food, surely the Pope would not on that account determine him to be liable to hell! This matter is simply made a subject of enquiry in the passage referred to, and no positive statement is made. And certainly before the Imperial Edict, men were at liberty to enquire concerning these matters. In point of fact, neither in that place nor elsewhere do I absolutely condemn the _Indulgences_ of the Popes, although hitherto more than sufficient indulgence has been shown them. It is simply that a speaker ridicules his comrade, who, although in other respects the most frivolous of triflers (for so he is depicted), yet believed that by the protection of a Bull he would get safely to heaven. So far from thinking this to be heretical, I should imagine there was no holier duty than to warn the people not to put their trust in Bulls, unless they study to change their life and correct their evil desires. But _Vows_ are ridiculed in that passage. Yes, they are ridiculed, and those (of whom there is a vast multitude) are admonished, who, leaving wife and children at home, under a vow made in their cups, run off along with a few pot-companions to Rome, Compostella, or Jerusalem. But, as manners now are, I think it a holier work to dissuade men altogether from such Vows than to urge to the making of them. These, forsooth, are the execrable heresies which yonder Lynceus descries in the Puerile Colloquy. I wonder why he does not also give my Catunculus and the Publian mimes[D] a dusting. Who does not perceive that these attacks proceed from some private grudge? Yet in nothing have I done him an injury, except that I have favoured good literature, which he hates more than sin; and knows not why. Meantime he boasts that he too has a weapon, by which he may take his revenge. If a man at a feast calls him Choroebus or a drunkard, he in his turn will in the pulpit cry heretic, or forger, or schismatic upon him. I believe, if the cook were to set burnt meat on the dinner-table, he would next day bawl out in the course of his sermon that she was suspected of heresy. Nor is he ashamed, nor does he retreat, though so often caught, by the very facts, in manifest falsehood. [Footnote D: Publius Syrus (B.C. 45), a writer of _mimes_, or familiar prose dramas. A collection of apophthegms from his works is said to have been used as a school-book in Jerome's days.] In the first place what a foolish, what a mad blather he made against my revised New Testament! Next, what could be more like madness than that remark which he threw out against J. Faber and myself, when the very facts bespoke that he did not understand what agreement there was between me and Faber, or what was the subject of controversy! What more shameless than his fixing a charge of forgery and heresy in the course of a public address on me, because I rendered according to the Greek: Omnes quidem non resurgemus, sed omnes immutabimur ("We shall not all rise again, but we shall all be changed.") What more like a raging madman, then his warning the people at Mechlin, in a public address, to beware of the heresy of Luther and Erasmus! Why should I now recall the ravings that he belches out rather than utters in the midst of his high feasting as often as his zeal for the house of the Lord is inflamed from his cups? He lately said in Holland, that I was set down for a forger among the divines of Louvain. (One who was present and heard it wrote to me.) When asked, Why? Because, says he, he so often corrects the New Testament! What a dolt of a tongue! Jerome so often corrected the Psalter: is he therefore a forger? In short if he is a forger, who either rashly or from ignorance translates anything otherwise than it should be, he was a forger, whose translation we use at the present day in the Church. But what good does this sort of behavior do him? All men laugh at him as a Morychus,[E] shun him as a crackbrain,--get out of his way as a peevish fellow you can do nothing with. Nor can they think ill of him, of whom he says such spiteful things. And though he displeases all, himself alone he cannot displease. [Footnote E: Lit.: One stained or smeared: an epithet of Bacchus (Dionysos) in Sicily, "smeared with wine-lees." ([Greek: moryssô].)] This doubtless he holds to be an Imperial edict, that he with raging insolence of tongue should rave at whomsoever he pleases. Thus does this wise and weighty man support the interests of the orthodox faith. This is not a zeal of God, to hurt the harmless; but it is a rage of the devil. The Jewish zeal of Phinehas was once extolled, but not that it might pass as a pattern with Christians. And yet Phinehas openly slew impious persons. To your colleague whatever he hates is Lutheran and heretical. In the same way, I suppose, he will call small-beer, flat wine, and tasteless broth, Lutheran. And the Greek tongue, which is his _unique_ aversion,--I suppose for this reason, that the Apostles dignified it with so great an honour as to write in no other,--will be called Lutheran. Poetic art, for he hates this too, being fonder of the _potatic_, will be Lutheran. He complains that his authority is lessened by our means, and that he is made a laughing-stock in my writings. The fact is, he offers himself as an object of ridicule to all men of education and sense; and this without end. I _repel slander_. But if learned and good men think ill of _a man_ who directs a slander at one who has not deserved it, which is it fair to consider the accountable person, he who rightly repels what he ought not to acknowledge, or he who injuriously sets it afoot? If a man were to be laughed at for saying that asses in Brabant have wings, would he not himself make the laughing-matter? He cries out that _the whole of Luther is in my books_, that on all sides they swarm with heretical errors. But when those who read my writings find nothing of the kind, even if ignorant of dialectics, they readily infer the true conclusion. He has authority from the Emperor. Let him therefore conduct himself in the spirit of the Emperor, who would rather that wrong-doers should be cured than punished, and certainly does not desire that the harmless should be injured. He has entrusted this function to a man he did not know; when he shall have ascertained the fellow's character, he will doubtless recall what he has entrusted. It is not the disposition of the mildest of Emperors, nor of the most upright of Popes, that those who spend their night-watches in studying how to adorn and assist the State, should be exposed to the spite of such men; even although there were some human infirmity in the case. So far are they from desiring to estrange good and honest men, and force them to take a different side. These matters are more your concern than mine. For this man's manners invite much discredit upon your order, while the mass of the people judge of you all by this one sample. Unjustly so, I admit; but so the world wags. And the harshness of your brother estranges no small number from the study of divinity. I know that the man is utterly disliked by you, with the exception of two or three boon companions, and one old hand, who abuses the man's folly in the interests of his own lusts. But all would definitely understand that you disapprove of him, if, since he cannot be restrained, you were to expel him from your table. I well know such a step will be very difficult to take. For men of his stamp are reluctantly torn away from the smell of stated, sumptuous, and free repasts. Nevertheless this concerns the honour of your Order, towards which I have good reason to be well-disposed. Farewell. Supposed to have been written in 1531. ALL THE #Familiar Colloquies# OF _#Desiderius Erasmus#_, OF #ROTERDAM,# Concerning Men, Manners, and Things, translated into _English_. * * * * * By N. BAILEY. * * * * * Unlike in Method, with conceal'd Design, Did crafty _Horace_ his low Numbers join; And, with a sly insinuating Grace, Laugh'd at his Friend, and look'd him in the Face: Would raise a Blush, when secret Vice he found; And tickled, while he gently prob'd the Wound: With seeming Innocence the Crowd beguil'd; But made the desperate Passes, when he smil'd. _Persius Sat. I. Dryden_. * * * * * _LONDON_ 1725. #THE PREFACE.# _There are two Things I would take some Notice of: The first relates to my Author, and the second to myself, or the Reasons why I have attempted this Translation of him. And in speaking of the first, I presume I shall save myself much of what might be said as to the second. Tho'_ Erasmus _is so well known, especially to those versed in the_ Latin _Tongue, that there seems to be but little Occasion to say any Thing in his Commendation; yet since I have taken upon me to make him an_ English-man, _give me Leave to say, that in my Opinion, he as well deserves this Naturalization, as any modern Foreigner whose Works are in_ Latin, _as well for the Usefulness of the Matter of his Colloquies, as the Pleasantness of Style, and Elegancy of the_ Latin. _They are under an egregious Mistake, who think there is nothing to be found in them, but Things that savour of Puerility, written indeed ingeniously, and in elegant_ Latin. _For this Book contains, besides those, Things of a far greater Concern; and indeed, there is scarce any Thing wanting in them, fit to be taught to a_ Christian _Youth design'd for liberal Studies. The Principles of Faith are not only plainly and clearly laid down, but establish'd upon their own firm and genuine Basis. The Rules of Piety, Justice, Charity, Purity, Meekness, Brotherly Concord, the Subjection due to Superiors, are so treated of, that, in a Word, scarce any Thing is omitted that belongs to a Man, a Subject, or a Christian. Neither are those Things omitted, which respect a Medium of Life, by which every one may chuse out safely what Ratio of Life he has most Mind to, and by which he may be taught, not only Civility and Courtesy, but also may know how to behave himself in the World, so as to gain himself the good Will of many, and, a good Name among all, and may be able to discern the Follies and Childishnesses of Fools, and the Frauds and Villanies of Knaves, so as to guard against 'em all. And neither are there wanting Sketches, and that ample ones too, of Poetical Story, or Pagan Theology, universal History, sacred and profane, Poetry, Criticism, Logick, Natural and Moral Philosophy, Oeconomics and Politics; to which are added, a good Number of Proverbs and Apothegms used by the most celebrated of the Antients. But there is one Thing in an especial Manner, that should recommend this Book to all_ Protestants _in general, and cause them to recommend it to be read by their Children, that there is no Book fitter for them to read, which does in so delightful and instructing a Manner utterly overthrow almost all the Popish Opinions and Superstitions, and erect in their Stead, a Superstructure of Opinions that are purely Protestant. And notwithstanding whatsoever_ Erasmus _hath said in his Apology concerning the Utility of his Colloquies, that he could say with Modesty, according to his wonted Dexterity, to temper, and alleviate the Bitterness of the Wormwood that he gave the_ Papists _to drink in the Colloquies, it is past a Question, that he lays down a great many Things agreeable to the_ Protestant _Hypothesis, so that (if you except Transubstantiation) he reprehends, explodes and derides almost all the_ Popish _Opinions, Superstitions and Customs. Therefore if this golden Book be read with Attention, I doubt not but it will plainly appear, that the Scripture was in all Things preferr'd by the Author before them all; and that he accounted that alone truly infallible, and of irrefragable Authority, and did not account the Councils, Popes or Bishops so. And as to the praying to Saints, it was his Opinion, the christian World would be well enough without it, and that he abhor'd that common Custom of asking unworthy Things of them, and flying to them for Refuge more than to the Father and Christ. That he look'd upon all external Things of very small Account, of whatsoever Species they were: Either the Choice of Meats, Processions, Stations, and innumerable other Ordinances and Ceremonies, and that they were in themselves unprofitable, although he, for the sake of Peace and Order, did conform himself to all harmless Things that publick Authority had appointed. Not judging those Persons, who out of a Scrupulousness of Conscience thought otherwise, but wishing that those in Authority would use their Power with more Mildness. And that he esteem'd, as Trifles and Frauds, the Community of good Works, of all Men whatsoever, or in any Society whatsoever; that he abhor'd the Sale of Pardons for Sins, and derided the Treasury of Indulgences, from whence it is a plain Inference, that he believ'd nothing of Purgatory. And that he more than doubted, whether auricular Confession was instituted by Christ or the Apostles; and he plainly condemns Absolution, and laugh'd at the giving it in an unknown Tongue. From whence we may fairly infer, that he was against having the Liturgy (which ought to be read to Edification) in an unknown Tongue. But he either thought it not safe, or not convenient, or at least not absolutely necessary to speak his Mind plainly as to that Matter. Likewise, he particularly laugh'd at all the Species of popular and monastical Piety; such as Prayers repeated over and over, without the Mind, but recited by a certain Number with their_ Rosaries, _and_ Ave-Maria's, _by which, God being neglected, they expected to obtain all Things, though none were particularly nam'd: Their_ tricenary, _and_ anniversary Masses, _nay, and all those for the Dead: The dying and being buried in a_ Franciscan's _and_ Dominican's _Garment or Cowl, and all the Trumpery belonging to it; and did, in a manner condemn all Sorts of Monastical Life and Order, as practis'd among the Papists. He shews it likewise to have been his Opinion, as to the Reliques of_ Christ, _and he and she Saints, that he judg'd the Worship of them a vain and foolish Thing, and believ'd no Virtue to be in any of them, nay, that the most, if not all of them, were false and counterfeit. And to crown the Whole, he did not spare that beloved Principle and Custom of the Papists, so zealously practis'd by them upon Protestants, viz. the Persecution and Burning of Hereticks. And now, of how much Use and Advantage such Things, and from such a Person as_ Erasmus, _may be, and how much they may conduce to the extirpating those Seeds of Popery, that may have been unhappily sown, or may be subtilly instill'd into the Minds of uncautious Persons, under the specious Shew of Sanctity, will, I presume, easily appear. Tho' the Things before-mention'd may be Reason sufficient for the turning these Colloquies of_ Erasmus _into_ English, _that so useful a Treatise may not be a Book seal'd, either to Persons not at all, or not enough acquainted with the_ Latin _tongue, as to read them with Edification; yet I did it from another Motive,_ i.e. _the Benefit of such as having been initiated, desire a more familiar Acquaintance with the_ Latin _Tongue (as to the Speaking Part especially, to which_ Erasmus's _Colloquies are excellently adapted) that by comparing this Version with the Original, they may be thereby assisted, to more perfectly understand, and familiarize themselves with those Beauties of the_ Latin _Language, in which_ Erasmus _in these Colloquies abounds. And for that End, I have labour'd to give such a Translation of them, as might in the general, be capable of being compar'd with the Original, endeavouring to avoid running into a Paraphrase: But keeping as close to the Original as I could, without Latinizing and deviating from the_ English _Idiom, and so depriving the_ English _Reader of that Pleasure, that_ Erasmus _so plentifully entertains his Reader with in_ Latin. _It is true, Sir_ Roger l'Estrange _and Mr._ Tho. Brown, _have formerly done some select Colloquies, and Mr._ H.M. _many years since has translated the whole; but the former being rather Paraphrases than Translations, are not so capable of affording the Assistance before-mention'd; and as to the latter, besides that his Version is grown very scarce, the Style is not only antient, but too flat for so pleasant and facetious an Author as_ Erasmus _is_. _I do not pretend to have come up in my_ English, _to that Life and Beauty of_ Erasmus _in Latin, which as it is often inimitable in the_ English _Language, so it is also a Task fit to be undertaken by none but an_ English Erasmus _himself_, i.e. _one that had the same Felicity of Expression that he had; but I hope it will appear that I have kept my Author still in my Eye, tho' I have followed him_ passibus haud æquis, _and could seldom come up to him. I shall not detain you any longer; but subscribe my self, yours to serve you_, _Jan. 25th_, N. BAILEY. 1724-5. _The_ LIFE _of_ ERASMUS. _DESIDERIUS Erasmus_, surnamed _Roterodamus_, was born at _Roterdam_, a Town of _Holland_, on the Vigil of _Simon and Jude_, or _October_ the 20th or 28th, 1465, according to his Epitaph at _Basil_; or according to the Account of his life, _Erasmo Auctore, circa annum, &c._ about the Year 1467, which agrees with the Inscription of his Statue at _Roterdam_, which being the Place of his Nativity, may be suppos'd to be the most authentick. His Mother's Name was _Margaret_, the Daughter of one _Peter_, a Physician of _Sevenbergen_. His Father's Name was _Gerard_, who carried on a private Correspondence with her, upon Promise of Marriage; and as it should seem from the Life which has _Erasmus's_ Name before it, was actually contracted to her, which seems plainly to be insinuated by these Words; _Sunt qui intercessisse verba ferunt_: However, it is not to be denied that _Erasmus_ was born out of Wedlock, and on that Account, Father _Theophilus Ragnaud_, has this pleasant Passage concerning him: _If one may be allow'd to droll upon a Man, that droll'd upon all the World_, Erasmus, _tho' he was not the Son of a King, yet he was the Son of a crown'd Head_, meaning a Priest. But in this he appears to have been mistaken, in that his Father was not in Orders when he begat him. His Father _Gerard_ was the Son of one _Elias_, by his Mother _Catherine_, who both liv'd to a very advanc'd Age; _Catherine_ living to the Age of 95. _Gerard_ had nine Brethren by the same Father and Mother, without one Sister coming between them; he himself was the youngest of the ten, and liv'd to see two of his Brothers at _Dort_ in _Holland_, near 90 Years of Age each. All his Brothers were married but himself; and according to the Superstition of those Times, the old People had a mind to consecrate him to God, being a tenth Child, and his Brothers lik'd the Motion well enough, because by that Means they thought they should have a sure Friend, where they might eat and drink, and be merry upon Occasion. They being all very pressing upon him to turn Ecclesiastick, (which was a Course of Life that he had no Inclination to,) _Gerard_ finding himself beset on all Sides, and by their universal Consent excluded from Matrimony, resolving not to be prevail'd upon by any Importunities, as desperate Persons do, fled from them, and left a Letter for his Parents and Brothers upon the Road, acquainting them with the Reason of his Elopement, bidding them an eternal Farewell, telling them he would never see them more. He prosecuted his Journey to _Rome_, leaving _Margaret_, his Spouse that was to be, big with Child of _Erasmus. Gerard_ being arriv'd at _Rome_, betook himself to get his Living by his Pen, (by transcribing Books) being an excellent Penman; and there being at that Time a great deal of that Sort of Business to do (for as the Life that is said to be _Erasmo Auctore_ has it, _tum nondum ars typographorum erat_, i.e. _The Art of Printing was not then found out_; which was a Mistake, for it had been found out twenty-four Years before, in the Year 1442. But perhaps the Meaning may be, tho' it was found out, it was not then commonly used) he got Money plentifully, and for some Time, as young Fellows us'd to do, liv'd at large; but afterwards apply'd himself in good Earnest to his Studies, made a considerable Progress in the _Latin_ and _Greek_ Tongues, which was very much facilitated by his Employment of transcribing Authors, which could not but strongly impress them on his Memory; and he had also another great Advantage, in that a great many learned Men then flourish'd at _Rome_ and he heard particularly one _Guarinus_. But to return to _Erasmus_, his Mother _Margaret_ being delivered of him, he was after his Father called _Gerard_, which in the _German_ Tongue, signifies _Amiable_; and as it was the Custom among learned Men in those Times, (who affected to give their Names either in _Latin_ or _Greek_,) it was turn'd into _Desiderius_ (_Didier_) in _Latin_, and into _Erasmus_ [Greek: Herasmios] in _Greek_, which has the same Signification. He was at first brought up by his Grandmother, till _Gerard's_ Parents coming to the Knowledge that he was at _Rome_, wrote to him, sending him Word, that the young Gentlewoman whom he courted for a Wife was dead; which he giving Credit to, in a melancholy Fit, took Orders, being made a Presbyter, and apply'd his Mind seriously to the Study of Religion. But upon his Return into his own Country, he found that they had impos'd upon him. Having taken Orders, it was too late to think of Marriage; he therefore quitted all further Pretensions to her, nor would she after this, be induced to marry. _Gerard_ took Care to have his Son _Erasmus_ liberally educated, and put him to School when he was scarce four Years old. (They have in _Holland_, an ill-grounded Tradition; that _Erasmus_, when he was young, was a dull Boy, and slow at Learning; but Monsieur _Bayle_ has sufficiently refuted that Error, tho' were it true, it were no more Dishonour to him, than it was to _Thomas Aquinas, Suarez_, and others.) He was a Chorister at _Utrecht_, till he was nine Years old, and afterwards was sent to _Daventer_, his Mother also going thither to take Care of him. That School was but barbarous, the most that was minded, was _Matins_, Even-Song, &c. till _Alexander Hegius_ of _Westphalia_, and _Zinthius_, began to introduce something of better Literature. (This _Alexander Hegius_, was an intimate Friend to the learned _Rodolphus Agricola_, who was the first that brought the _Greek_ Tongue over the Mountains of _Germany_, and was newly returned out of _Italy_, having learned the _Greek_ Tongue of him.) _Erasmus_ took his first Taste of solid Learning from some of his Playfellows, who being older than himself, were under the Instruction of _Zinthius_: And afterwards he sometimes heard _Hegius_; but that was only upon holy Days, on which he read publickly, and so rose to be in the third Class, and made a very good Proficiency: He is said to have had so happy a Memory, as to be able to repeat all _Terence_ and _Horace_ by Heart. The Plague at that Time raging violently at _Daventer_, carry'd off his Mother, when _Erasmus_ was about thirteen Years of Age; which Contagion increasing more and more every Day, having swept away the whole Family where he boarded, he returned Home. His Father _Gerard_ hearing of the Death of his Wife, was so concern'd at it, that he grew melancholy upon it, fell sick, and died soon after, neither of them being much above forty Years of Age. He assign'd to his Son _Erasmus_ three Guardians, whom he esteem'd as trusty Friends, the Principal of whom was _Peter Winkel_, the Schoolmaster of _Goude_. The Substance that he left for his Education, had been sufficient for that Purpose, if his Guardians had discharg'd their Trust faithfully. By them he was remov'd to _Boisleduc_, tho' he was at that Time fit to have gone to the University. But the Trustees were against sending him to the University, because they had design'd him for a Monastick Life. Here he liv'd (or, as he himself says, rather lost three Years) in a _Franciscan_ Convent, where one _Rombold_ taught Humanity, who was exceedingly taken with the pregnant Parts of the Youth, and began to sollicit him to take the Habit upon him, and become one of their Order. _Erasmus_ excused himself, alledging the Rawness and Unexperiencedness of his Age. The Plague spreading in these Parts, and after he had struggled a whole Year with an Ague, he went Home to his Guardians, having by this Time furnished himself with an indifferent good Style, by daily reading the best Authors. One of his Guardians was carried off by the Plague; the other two not having manag'd his Fortune with the greatest Care, began to contrive how they might fix him in some Monastery. _Erasmus_ still languishing under this Indisposition, tho' he had no Aversion to the Severities of a pious Life, yet he had an Aversion for a Monastery, and therefore desired Time to consider of the Matter. In the mean Time his Guardians employ'd Persons to sollicit him, by fair Speeches, and the Menaces of what he must expect, if he did not comply, to bring him over. In this Interim they found out a Place for him in _Sion_, a College of Canons Regulars near _Delft_, which was the principal House belonging to that Chapter. When the Day came that _Erasmus_ was to give his final Answer, he fairly told them, he neither knew what the World was, nor what a Monastery was, nor yet, what himself was, and that he thought it more advisable for him to pass a few Years more at School, till he came to know himself better. _Peter Winkel_ perceiving that he was unmoveable in this Resolution, fell into a Rage, telling him, he had taken a great deal of Pains to a fine Purpose indeed, who had by earnest Sollicitations, provided a good Preferment for an obstinate Boy, that did not understand his own Interest: And having given him some hard Words, told him, that from that Time he threw up his Guardianship, and now he might look to himself. _Erasmus_ presently reply'd, that he took him at his first Word; that he was now of that Age, that he thought himself capable of taking Care of himself. When his Guardian saw that threatening would not do any Thing with him, he set his Brother Guardian, who was his Tutor, to see what he could do with him: Thus was _Erasmus_ surrounded by them and their Agents on all Hands. He had also a Companion that was treacherous to him, and his old Companion his Ague stuck close to him; but all these would not make a monastick Life go down with him; till at last, by meer Accident, he went to pay a Visit at a Monastery of the same Order at _Emaus_ or _Steyn_ near _Goude_, where he found one _Cornelius_, who had been his Chamber-fellow at _Daventer_. He had not yet taken the Habit, but had travelled to _Italy_, and came back without making any great Improvements in Learning. This _Cornelius_, with all the Eloquence he was Master of, was continually setting out the Advantages of a religious Life, the Conveniency of noble Libraries, Retirement from the Hurry of the World, and heavenly Company, and the like. Some intic'd him on one Hand, others urg'd him on the other, his Ague stuck close to him, so that at last he was induc'd to pitch upon this Convent. And after his Admission he was fed up with great Promises to engage him to take upon him the holy Cloth. Altho' he was but young, he soon perceived how vastly short all Things there fell of answering his Expectations; however, he set the whole Brotherhood to applying their Minds to Study. Before he professed himself he would have quitted the Monastery; but his own Modesty, the ill Usage he was treated with, and the Necessities of his Circumstances, overcame him, so that he did profess himself. Not long after this, by the means of _Gulielmus Hermannus_ of _Buda_, his intimate Associate, he had the Honour to be known to _Henry a Bergis_ Bishop of _Cambray_, who was then in Hopes of obtaining a Cardinal's Hat, which he had obtained, had not Money been wanting: In order to sollicit this Affair for him, he had Occasion for one that was Master of the _Latin_ Tongue; therefore being recommended by the Bishop of _Utrecht_, he was sent for by him; he had also the Recommendation of the _Prior_, and General, and was entertained in the Bishop's Family, but still wore the Habit of his Order: But the Bishop, disappointed in his Hope of wearing the Cardinal's Hat, _Erasmus_ finding his Patron fickle and wavering in his Affections, prevail'd with him to send him to _Paris_, to prosecute his Studies there. He did so, and promised him a yearly Allowance, but it was never paid him, according to the Custom of great Men. He was admitted of _Montague_ College there, but by Reason of ill Diet and a damp Chamber, he contracted an Indisposition of Body, upon which he return'd to the Bishop, who entertain'd him again courteously and honourably: Having recover'd his Health, he return'd into _Holland_, with a Design to settle there; but being again invited, he went back to _Paris_. But having no Patron to support him, he rather made a Shift to live (to use his own Expression) than to study there; and undertook the Tuition of an _English_ Gentleman's two Sons. And the Plague returning there periodically for many Years, he was obliged every Year to return into his own Country. At length it raging all the Year long, he retir'd to _Louvain_. After this he visited _England_, going along with a young Gentleman, to whom he was Tutor, who, as he says himself, was rather his Friend than his Patron. In _England_ he was received with universal Respect; and, as he tells us himself in his Life, he won the Affections of all good Men in our Island. During his Residence here, he was intimately acquainted with _Sir Thomas More_, _William Warham_, Archbishop of _Canterbury_, _John Colet_, Dean of St. _Pauls_, the Founder of St. _Paul's School_, a Man remarkable for the Regularity of his Life, great Learning and Magnificence; with _Hugh Latimer_ Bishop of _Winchester_, _Linacre_, _Grocinus_, and many other honourable and learned Persons, and passed some Years at _Cambridge_, and is said to have taught there; but whether this was after his first or second Time of visiting _England_, I do not determine: However, not meeting with the Preferment he expected, he went away hence to make a Journey to _Italy_, in the Company of the Sons of _Baptista Boetius_, a _Genoese_, Royal Professor of Physick in _England_; which Country, at that Time, could boast of a Set of learned Men, not much inferior to the _Augustan_ Age: But as he was going to _France_, it was his ill Fortune, at _Dover_, to be stripp'd of all he had; this he seems to hint at in his _Colloquy_, intitled, the _Religious Pilgrimage_: But yet he was so far from revenging the Injury, by reflecting upon the Nation, that he immediately published a Book in Praise of the King and Country; which Piece of Generosity gained him no small Respect in _England_. And it appears by several of his Epistles, that he honoured _England_ next to the Place of his Nativity. It appears by _Epist. 10. Lib. 16_. that when he was in _England_ Learning flourished very much here, in that he writes, _Apud Anglos triumphant bonæ Literæ recta Studia_; and in _Epist. 12. Lib. 16_. he makes no Scruple to equal it to _Italy_ itself; and _Epist. 26. Lib. 6._ commends the _English_ Nobility for their great Application to all useful Learning, and entertaining themselves at Table with learned Discourses, when the Table-Talk of Churchmen was nothing but Ribaldry and Profaneness. In _Epist_. 10. _Lib_. 5, which he addresses to _Andrelinus_, he invites him to come into _England_, recommending it as worth his While, were it upon no other Account, than to see the charming Beauties with which this Island abounded; and in a very pleasant Manner describes to him the Complaisance and innocent Freedom of the _English_ Ladies, telling him, that when he came into a Gentleman's House he was allowed to salute the Ladies, and also to do the same at taking Leave: And tho' he seems to talk very feelingly on the Subject, yet makes no Reflections upon the Virtue of _English_ Women. But to return to him; as to his Voyage to _Italy_, he prosecuted his Journey to _Turin_, and took the Degree of Doctor of Divinity in that University; he dwelt a whole year in _Bolognia_, and there obtain'd a Dispensation from Pope _Julian_ to put off his Canon's Habit, but upon Condition not to put off the Habit of Priest; and after that went to _Venice_, where was the Printing-House of the famous _Manutius Aldus_, and there he published his Book of _Adagies_, and staying some Time there, wrote several Treatises, and had the Conversation of many eminent and learned Men. From thence he went to _Padua_, where at that Time _Alexander_ the Son of _James_ King of _Scotland_, and Bishop of St. _Andrews_ in _Scotland_, studied, who chose _Erasmus_ for his Tutor in Rhetorick, and went to _Seana_, and thence to _Rome_, where his great Merits had made his Presence expected long before. At _Rome_ he gained the Friendship and Esteem of the most considerable Persons in the City, was offered the Dignity of a Penitentiary, if he would have remained there: But he returned back to the Archbishop, and not long after went with him again to _Italy_, and travelling farther into the Country, went to _Cuma_, and visited the Cave of _Sybilla_. After the Death of the Archbishop he began to think of returning to his own Country, and coming over the _Rhetian Alps_, went to _Argentorat_, and thence by the Way of the _Rhine_ into _Holland_, having in his Way visited his Friends at _Antwerp_ and _Louvain_; but _Henry_ VIII. coming to the Crown of England, his Friends here, with many Invitations and great Promises, prevailed upon him to come over to _England_ again, where it was his Purpose to have settled for the remaining Part of his Life, had he found Things according to the Expectation they had given him: But how it came about is uncertain, whether _Erasmus_ was wanting in making his Court aright to Cardinal _Wolsey_, who at that Time manag'd all Things at his Pleasure; or, whether it were that the Cardinal look'd with a jealous Eye upon him, because of his intimate Friendship with _William Warham_, Archbishop of _Canterbury_, who had taken him into his Favour, between whom and _Wolsey_ there was continual Clashing, (the Cardinal after he had been made the Pope's Legate, pretending a Power in the Archbishoprick of _Canterbury_.) On this Disappointment he left _England_, and went to _Flanders_; Archbishop _Warham_ had indeed shewed his Esteem for him, in giving him the Living of _Aldington_. In short, _Erasmus_ takes Notice of the Friendship between himself and _Warham_ in the _Colloquy_ called, _The Religious Pilgrimage_. As to his Familiarity with Sir _Thomas More_, there are several Stories related, and especially one concerning the Disputes that had been between them about _Transubstantiation_, or the _real Presence_ of Christ in the consecrated Wafer, of which Sir _Thomas_ was a strenuous Maintainer, and _Erasmus_ an Opponent; of which, when _Erasmus_ saw he was too strongly byassed to be convinced by Arguments, he at last made use of the following facetious Retortion on him. It seems in their Disputes concerning the real Presence of Christ in the Sacrament, which were in _Latin_, Sir _Thomas_ had frequently used this Expression, and laid the Stress of his Proof upon the Force of Believing, _Crede quod edis et edis_, _i.e._ Believe you eat [Christ] and you do eat him; therefore _Erasmus_ answers him, _Crede quod habes et habes, Believe that you have_ [_your Horse_] _and you have him_. It seems, at _Erasmus's_ going away, Sir _Thomas_ had lent him his Horse to carry him to the Sea-side or _Dover_; but he either carried him with him over Sea to _Holland_, or sent him not back to Sir _Thomas_, at least for some Time; upon which Sir _Thomas_ writing to _Erasmus_ about his Horse, _Erasmus_ is said to have written back to him as follows. _Ut mihi scripsisti de corpore Christi, Crede quod edis et edis. Sic tibi rescribo de tuo Palfrido; Crede quod habes et habes_. Being arriv'd at _Flanders_ by the Interest of _Sylvagius_ Chancellor to _Charles of Austria_, afterwards Emperor of _Germany_, known by the name of _Charles_ V: he was made one of his Counsellors. In the mean Time _Johannes Frobenius_, a famous Printer, having printed many of his Works at _Basil_ in _Switzerland_, and being much taken with the Elegancy of his Printing, and the Neatness of his Edition, he went thither, pretending that he undertook that Journey for the Performance of some Vow he had made; he was kindly entertain'd by him, and publish'd several Books there, and dedicated this his Book of Colloquies to _Frobenius's_ Son, and resided till the Mass had been put down there by the Reformers. When he left that Place, he retir'd to _Friburg_ in _Alsace_. Before his going to _Friburg_, he visited the low Countries to settle certain Affairs there. And was at _Cologn_ at the Time that the Assembly was at _Worms_, which being dissolv'd, he went again to _Basil_, either, as some say, for the Recovery of his Health, or, as others, for the publishing of several Books. He receiv'd the Bounty and Munificence of several Kings, Princes, and Popes, and was honourably entertain'd by many of the chief Cities which he pass'd through. And by his Procurement, a College of three Languages was instituted at _Louvain_, at the Charge of _Hieronimus Buslidius_, Governour of _Aria_, out of certain Monies he at his Death bequeath'd to the use of studious and learned Men. An Account of which coming to the Ears of _Francis_ King of _France_, he invited him by Letters to _Paris_, in order, by his Advice to erect the like College there. But certain Affairs happening, his Journey thither was hindred. He went to _Friburg_ in _Alsace_, where he bought him an House, and liv'd seven Years in great Esteem and Reputation, both with the chief Magistrates and Citizens of the Place, and all Persons of any Note in the University. But his Distemper, which was the Gout, coming rudely upon him, he, thinking the Change of Air would afford him Relief, sold his House, and went again to _Basil_, to the House of _Frobenius_; but he had not been there above nine Months before his Gout violently assaulted him, and his strength having gradually decay'd, he was seized with a Dysentery, under which having laboured for a Month, it at last overcame him, and he died at the House of _Jerome Frobenius_, the son of _John_ the famous Printer, the 12th of _July_ 1536, about Midnight, being about seventy Years of Age: After his last retreat to _Basil_, he went seldom abroad; and for some of the last Months stirred not out of his Chamber. He retained a sound Mind, even to the last Moments of his Life; and, as a certain Author saith, bid Farewell to the World, and passed into the State of another Life, after the Manner of a Protestant, without the Papistical Ceremonies of Rosaries, Crosses, Confession, Absolution, or receiving the transubstantiated Wafer, and in one Word, not desiring to have any of the _Romish_ Superstitions administered, but according to the true Tenor of the Gospel, taking Sanctuary in nothing but the Mercies of God in Christ. And finding himself near Death, he gave many Testimonies of Piety and Christian Hope in God's Mercy, and oftentimes cry'd out in the _German_ Language, _Liever Godt_, _i.e._ dear God; often repeating, O Jesus have Mercy on me! O Lord, deliver me! Lord, put an End to my Misery! Lord, have Mercy upon me. In his last Will, he made the celebrated Lawyer _Bonifacius Amerbachius_ his Executor, bequeathing the greatest Part of his Substance to charitable Uses; as for the Maintenance of such as were poor and disabled through Age or Sickness; for the Marrying of poor young Virgins, to keep them from Temptations to Unchastity; for the maintaining hopeful Students in the University, and such like charitable Uses. In the overseeing of his Will, he join'd with _Amerbachius_, two others, _Jerome Frobenius_, and _Nicholas Episcopius_, who were his intimate Friends, and whom a certain Author says, had then espoused the Reformation began by _Luther_ and other Reformers. The city of _Basil_ still pays _Erasmus_ the Respect which is due to the Memory of so eminent a Person; they not only call'd one of the Colleges there after his Name, but shew the House where he died to Strangers, with as much Veneration as the People of _Roterdam_ do the House where he was born. I shall not here pretend to give a Catalogue of all _Erasmus's_ genuine Pieces, which they shew at _Basil_: As to his Colloquies and _Moria Encomium_, they have seen more Editions than any other of his Works; and _Moreri_ says, that a Bookseller at _Paris_, who thoroughly understood his Trade, sold twenty four thousand of them at one Impression, by getting it whisper'd to his Customers, that the Book was prohibited, and would suddenly be call'd in. He was buried at _Basil_, in the Cathedral Church, on the left Side near the Choir, in a Marble Tomb; on the fore Side of which was this Inscription: CHRISTO SERVATORIS. DESID. ERASMO ROTERODAMO. _Viro_ omnibus modis maximo; Cujus incomparabilem in omni disciplinarum genere eruditionem, pari conjunctam prudentia, _Posteri_ et admirabuntur et prædicabunt BONIFACIUS AMERBACHIUS, HIERONYMUS FROBENIUS, NICHOLAS EPISCOPIUS Hæredes, Et nuncupati supremæ suæ voluntatis _vindices_ _Patrono optimo_, non _Memoriæ_, quam immortalem sibi Editis Lucubrationibus comparavit, iis, tantisper dum orbis Terrarum stabit, superfuturo, ac eruditis ubique gentium colloquuturo: sed _Corporis Mortalis_, quo reconditum sit ergo, hoc saxum posuere. Mortuus est IV. Eidus Julias jam septuagenarius, Anno à Christo nato, M.D. XXXVI. Upon the upper Part of the Tomb is a quadrangular Base, upon which stands the Effigies of the Deity of _Terminus_, which _Erasmus_ chose for the Impress of his Seal, and on the Front of that Base is this Inscription. DES. ERASMUM ROTERODAMUM _Amici_ sub hoc saxo condebant, IV, eid. Julias M.D. XXXVI. In the Year 1549, a wooden Statue, in Honour of so great a Man, was erected in the Market-place at _Roterdam_; and in the Year 1557, a Stone one was erected in the Stead of it; but this having been defaced by the _Spaniards_ in the Year 1572, as soon as the Country had recovered its Liberty it was restored again. But in the Year 1622, instead of it, a very compleat one of Brass eight Foot high with the Pedestal, was erected, which is now standing on the Bridge at _Roterdam_, and likely long to remain there, on the Foot of which is the following Inscription. DESIDERIO ERASMO MAGNO, Scientiarum atque Literature politioris _vindici et instauratori_: _Viro_ sæculi sui _Primario_, _civi_ omnium præstantissimo, ac nominis immortalitatem scriptis æviternis jure _consecuto_, S.P.Q. ROTERODAMUS. Ne quod tantis apud se suosque posteros _virtutibus_ præmium deesset, _Statuam_ hanc ex sere publico erigendam curaverunt. On the right Side are these Verses of _Nicholas Heinsius_. _Barbariæ talem se debellator_ Erasmus, _Maxima laus Batavi nominis, ore tulit. Reddidit, en, fatis, Ars obluctata sinistris, De tanto spolium nacta quod urna viro est. Ingenii cæleste jubar, majusque caduco Tempore qui reddat, solus_ Erasmus _erit_. On the left Side, and behind, there is an Inscription in the _Dutch_ Language, much to the Purport of the first Inscription. On the House where _Erasmus_ was born, formerly was this Inscription. _Hæc est parva Domus, magnus quâ natus_ Erasmus. The same House being rebuilt and enlarged, has the following Inscription. _Ædibus his ortus Mundum decoravit_ Erasmus, _Artibus ingenuis, Religione, Fide_. As for his Stature, he was neither very low nor very tall, his Body well set, proportioned and handsome, neither fat nor lean, but of a nice and tender Constitution, and easily put out of Order with the least Deviation from his ordinary Way of Living; he had from his Childhood so great an Aversion to eating of Fish, that he never attempted it without the Danger of his Life, and therefore obtain'd a Dispensation from the Pope from eating Fish in _Lent_, as appears by the Story of _Eras_, (as he stiles himself) in the Colloquy call'd _Ichthyophagia_. He was of a fair and pale Complexion, had a high Forehead, his Hair, in his younger Years, inclining to yellow, his Nose pretty long, a little thick at the End, his Mouth something large, but not ill made, his Eyes grey but lively, his Countenance chearful and pleasant, his Voice small, but musical, his Speech distinct and plain, pleasant and jocose, his Gaite handsome and grave; he had a, most happy Memory and acute Wit, he was very constant to his Friend, and exceeding liberal to those that were under Necessity, especially to studious and hopeful Youths, and to such as were destitute in their Journey: In his Conversation he was very pleasant and affable, free from peevish and morose Humours, but very witty and satyrical. It is related, that when _Erasmus_ was told, that _Luther_ had married and gotten the famous _Catharine Bora_ with Child, he should in a jesting Manner say, that, if according to the popular Tradition, _Antichrist_ was to be begotten between a Monk and a Nun, the World was in a fair Way now to have a Litter of Antichrists. I shall conclude with the Character given of _Erasmus_ by Mr. _Thomas Brown_, who comparing him with _Lucian_, says, That whereas _Erasmus_ had translated Part of his Dialogues into _Latin_, he had made _Lucian_ the Pattern of his Colloquies, and had copied his Graces with that Success, that it is difficult to say which of the two was the Original. That both of them had an equal Aversion to austere, sullen, designing Knaves, of what Complexion, Magnitude, or Party soever. That both of them were Men of Wit and Satyr, but that _Erasmus_, according to the Genius of his Country, had more of the Humourist in him than _Lucian_, and in all Parts of Learning was infinitely his Superior. That _Lucian_ liv'd in an Age, when Fiction and Fable had usurp'd the Name of Religion, and Morality was debauch'd by a Set of sowr Scoundrels, Men of Beard and Grimace, but scandalously lewd and ignorant, who yet had the Impudence to preach up Virtue, and stile themselves Philosophers, perpetually clashing with one another about the Precedence of their several Founders, the Merits of their different Sects, and if it is possible, about Trifles of less Importance; yet all agreeing in a different Way, to dupe and amuse the poor People by the fantastick Singularity of their Habits, the unintelligible Jargon of their Schools, and their Pretentions to a severe and mortified Life. This motly Herd of Jugglers _Lucian_ in a great Measure help'd to chase out of the World, by exposing them in their proper Colours. But in a few Generations after him, a new Generation sprung up in the World, well known by the Name of Monks and Friars, differing from the former in Religion, Garb, and a few other Circumstances, but in the main, the same individual Imposters; the same everlasting Cobweb-Spinners as to their nonsensical Controversies, the same abandon'd Rakehells as to their Morals; but as for the mysterious Arts of heaping up Wealth, and picking the Peoples Pockets, as much superior to their Predecessors the _Pagan_ Philosophers, as an overgrown Favourite that cheats a whole Kingdom, is to a common Malefactor. These were the sanctified Cheats, whose Follies and Vices _Erasmus_ has so effectually lash'd, that some Countries have entirely turn'd these Drones out of their Cells, and in other Places where they are still kept, they are grown contemptible to the highest Degree, and oblig'd to be always upon their Guard. THE _Familiar Colloquies_ OF DESIDERIUS ERASMUS, OF _ROTERDAM_. * * * * * The ARGUMENT. _This Colloquy teaches Courtesy and Civility in Saluting, who, when, and by what Title we ought to Salute_. _At the First Meeting_. A Certain Person teaches, and not without Reason, that we should Salute freely. For a courteous and kind Salutation oftentimes engages Friendship, and reconciles Persons at Variance, and does undoubtedly nourish and increase a mutual Benevolence. There are indeed some Persons that are such Churls, and of so clownish a Disposition, that if you salute them, they will scarcely salute you again. But this Vice is in some Persons rather the Effect of their Education, than their natural Disposition. It is a Piece of Civility to salute those that come in your Way; either such as come to us, or those that we go to speak with. And in like Manner such as are about any Sort of Work, either at Supper, or that yawn, or hiccop, or sneeze, or cough. But it is the Part of a Man that is civil even to an Extreme, to salute one that belches, or breaks Wind backward. But he is uncivilly civil that salutes one that is making Water, or easing Nature. God save you Father, God save you little Mother, God save you Brother, God save you my worthy Master, God save you heartily Uncle, God save you sweet Cousin. It is courteous to make Use of a Title of Relation or Affinity, unless when it carries something of a Reflection along with it, then indeed it is better not to use such Titles, tho' proper; but rather some that are more engaging, as when we call a Mother in Law, Mother; a Son in Law, Son; a Father in Law, Father; a Sister's Husband, Brother; a Brother's Wife, Sister: And the same we should do in Titles, either of Age or Office. For it will be more acceptable to salute an antient Man by the Name of Father, or venerable Sir, than by the Sirname of Age; altho' in antient Times they used to make use of [Greek: hô geron], as an honourable Title. God save you Lieutenant, God save you Captain; but not God save you Hosier or Shoe-maker. God save you Youth, or young Man. Old Men salute young Men that are Strangers to them by the Name of Sons, and young Men again salute them by the Name of Fathers or Sirs. _A more affectionate Salutation between Lovers_. God save you my little _Cornelia_, my Life, my Light, my Delight, my Sweet-heart, my Honey, my only Pleasure, my little Heart, my Hope, my Comfort, my Glory. _Either for the Sake of Honour or otherwise_. _Sal._ O Master, God bless ye. _Ans._ Oh! Good Sir, I wish you the same. _Sal._ God bless you most accomplish'd, and most famous Sir. God bless you again and again thou Glory of Learning. God save you heartily my very good Friend. God save you my _Mæcenas_. _Ans._ God save you my Singular Patron, God save you most approv'd Sir. God save you, the only Ornament of this Age. God bless you, the Delight of _Germany_. _Sal._ God bless you all together. God bless you all alike. _Ans._ God bless you my brave Boys. _Sal._ God save you merry Companion. God bless you Destroyer of Wine. _Ans._ God bless you Glutton, and unmerciful Devourer of Cakes. _Sal._ God bless you heartily President of all Virtue. _Ans._ God bless you in like Manner, Pattern of universal Honesty. _Sal._ God save you little old Woman of Fifteen Years of Age. _Ans._ God save you Girl, eighty Years old. _Sal._ Much good may it do you with your bald Pate. _Ans._ And much good may it do you with your slit Nose. As you salute, so you shall be saluted again. If you say that which is ill, you shall hear that which is worse. _Sal._ God save you again and again. _Ans._ God save you for ever and ever. _Sal._ God save you more than a thousand Times. _Ans._ In truth I had rather be well once for all. _Sal._ God bless you as much as you can desire. _Ans._ And you as much as you deserve. _Sal._ I wish you well. _Ans._ But what if I won't be so? In truth I had rather be sick, than to enjoy the Health that you want. God bless your Holiness, Your Greatness, Your Highness, Your Majesty, Your Beatitude, Your High Mightiness, are Salutations rather us'd by the Vulgar, than approv'd by the Learned. _In the Third Person_. _Sapidus_ wishes Health to his _Erasmus_. _Sapidus_ salutes his _Beatus_, wishing him much Health. * * * * * _Another Form_. _Sal._ God bless you _Crito_, I wish you well good Sir. _Ans._ And I wish you better. Peace be to thee Brother, is indeed a Christian Salutation, borrow'd from the _Jews_: but yet not to be rejected. And of the like Kind is, A happy Life to you. _Sal._ Hail Master. _Ans._ In truth I had rather have than crave. _Sal._ [Greek: Chaire]. _Ans._ Remember you are at _Basil_, and not _Athens_. _Sal._ How do you then dare to speak _Latin_ when you are not at _Rome_? * * * * * _Forms of well Wishing_. And to wish well is a Sort of Salutation. _To a Woman with Child_. God send you a good Delivery, and that you may make your Husband Father of a fine Child. May the Virgin Mother make you a happy Mother. I wish that this swell'd Belly may asswage happily. Heaven grant that this Burthen you carry, whatsoever it is, may have as easy an out-coming as it had an in-going. God give you a good Time. _To Guests_. Happy be this Feast. Much good may it do all the Company. I wish all Happiness to you all. God give you a happy Banquet. _To one that sneezes._ May it be lucky and happy to you. God keep you. May it be for your Health. God bless it to you. _To one that is about to begin any Business._ May it prove happy and prosperous for the Publick Good. May that you are going about be an universal Good. God prosper what you are about. God bless your Labours. God bless your Endeavours. I pray that by God's Assistance you may happily finish what you have begun. May Christ in Heaven prosper what is under your Hand. May what you have begun end happily. May what you are set about end happily. You are about a good Work, I wish you a good End of it, and that propitious Heaven may favour your pious Undertakings. Christ give Prosperity to your Enterprise. May what you have undertaken prosper. I heartily beg of Almighty God that this Design may be as successful as it is honourable. May the Affair so happily begun, more happily end. I wish you a good Journey to _Italy_, and a better Return. I wish you a happy Voyage, and a more happy Return. I pray God that, this Journey being happily perform'd, we may in a short Time have the Opportunity of congratulating you upon your happy Return. May it be your good Fortune to make a good Voyage thither and back again. May your Journey be pleasant, but your Return more pleasant. I wish this Journey may succeed according to your Heart's Desire. I wish this Journey may be as pleasant to you, as the want of your good Company in the mean Time will be troublesome to us. May you set Sail with promising Presages. I wish this Journey may succeed according to both our Wishes. I wish this Bargain may be for the Good and Advantage of us both. I wish this may be a happy Match to us all. The blessed Jesus God keep thee. Kind Heaven return you safe. God keep thee who art one Half of my Life. I wish you a safe Return. I wish that this New-Year may begin happily, go on more happily, and end most happily to you, and that you may have many of them, and every Year happier than other. _Ans._ And I again wish you many happy Ages, that you mayn't wish well to me _gratis_. _Sal._ I wish you a glorious Day to Day. May this Sun-rising be a happy one to you. _Ans._ I wish you the same. May this be a happy and a prosperous Morning to both of us. _Sal._ Father, I wish you a good Night. I wish you good Repose to Night. May you sleep sweetly. God give you good Rest. May you sleep without dreaming. God send you may either sleep sweetly or dream pleasantly. A good Night to you. _Ans._ Since you always love to be on the getting Hand, I wish you a thousand Happinesses to one you wish to me. * * * * * _Farewell at parting._ Fare ye all well. Farewell. Take care of your Health. Take a great Care of your Health. I bid you good by, Time calls me away, fare ye well. I wish you as well as may be. Farewell mightily, or if you had rather have it so, lustily. Fare you well as you are worthy. Fare you as well as you deserve. Farewell for these two Days. If you send me away, farewell till to-morrow. Would you have any Thing with me? Have you any Thing else to say to me? _Ans._ Nothing but to wish you well. _Sal._ Take Care to preserve your Health. Take Care of your Health. Look well to your Health. See that at the next Meeting we see you merry and hearty. I charge you make much of your self. See that you have a sound Mind in a healthful Body. Take Care you be universally well both in Body and Mind. _Ans._ I'll promise you I will do my Endeavour. Fare you well also; and I again wish you prosperous Health. _Of saluting by another._ Remember my hearty Love to _Frobenius_. Be sure to remember my Love to little _Erasmus_. Remember me to _Gertrude's_ Mother with all imaginable Respect; tell them I wish 'em all well. Remember me to my old Companions. Remember me to my Friends. Give my Love to my Wife. Remember me to your Brother in your Letter. Remember my Love to my Kinsman. Have you any Service to command by me to your Friends? _Ans._ Tell them I wish them all heartily well. _Sal._ Have you any Recommendations to send by me to your Friends? _Ans._ Much Health to them all, but especially to my Father. _Sal._ Are there any Persons to whom you would command me any Service? _Ans._ To all that ask how I do. The Health you have brought from my Friends to me, carry back again with much Interest. Carry my hearty Service to all them that have sent their Service to me. Pray do so much as be my Representative in saluting my Friends. I would have written to my Son in Law, but you will serve me instead of a Letter to him. _Sal._ Soho, soho, whither are you going so fast? _Ans._ Strait to _Louvain_. _Sal._ Stay a little, I have something to send by you. _Ans._ But it is inconvenient for a Footman to carry a Fardel? What is it? _Sal._ That you recommend me to _Goclenius, Rutgerus, John Campensis_, and all the Society of Trilinguists. _Ans._ If you put nothing into my Snapsack but Healths, I shall carry them with Ease. _Sal._ And that you may not do that for nothing, I pray that Health may be your Companion both going and coming back. _How we ought to congratulate one that is return'd from a Journey._ We are glad you are come well Home. It is a Pleasure that you are come Home safe. It is a Pleasure to us that you are come well Home. We congratulate your happy Return. We give God Thanks that you are come safe Home to us. The more uneasy we were at the Want of you, the more glad we are to see you again. We congratulate you and ourselves too that you are come Home to us alive and well. Your Return is the more pleasant by how much it was less expected. _Ans._ I am glad too that as I am well myself I find you so. I am very glad to find you in good Health. I should not have thought myself well come Home if I had not found you well; but now I think myself safe, in that I see you safe and in good Health. * * * * * _A Form of asking Questions at the first meeting._ The ARGUMENT. _This Colloquy teaches Forms of enquiring at the first meeting. Whence come you? What News bring you? How do you do? &c._ _GEORGE, LIVINUS._ _George._ Out of what Hen-Coop or Cave came you? _Liv._ Why do you ask me such a Question? _Ge._ Because you have been so poorly fed; you are so thin a Body may see thro' you, and as dry as a Kecks. Whence came you from? _Liv._ From Montacute College. _Ge._ Then sure you are come loaden with Letters for us. _Liv._ Not so, but with Lice I am. _Ge._ Well then you had Company enough. _Liv._ In truth it is not safe for a Traveller now a Days to go without Company. _Ge._ I know well enough a Louse is a Scholar's Companion. Well but do you bring any News from _Paris_? _Liv._ Ay, I do, and that in the first Place that I know you won't believe. At _Paris_ a _Bete_ is wise, and an _Oak_ preaches. _Ge._ What's that you tell me? _Liv._ That which you hear. _Ge._ What is it I hear? _Liv._ That which I tell you. _Ge._ O monstrous! Sure Mushrooms and Stones must be the Hearers where there are such Preachers. _Liv._ Well, but it is even so as I tell you, nor do I speak only by hear say, but what I know to be true. _Ge._ Sure Men must needs be very wise there where _Betes_ and _Oaks_ are so. _Liv._ You are in the right on't. * * * * * _Of enquiring concerning Health._ _Ge._ Are you well? _Liv._ Look in my Face. _Ge._ Why do you not rather bid me cast your Water? Do you take me for a Doctor? I don't ask you if you are in Health, for your Face bespeaks you so to be; but I ask you how you like your own Condition? _Liv._ I am very well in my Body, but sick in my Mind. _Ge._ He's not well indeed that is sick in that Part. _Liv._ This is my Case, I'm well in my Body, but sick in my Pocket. _Ge._ Your Mother will easily cure that Distemper. How have you done for this long Time? _Liv._ Sometimes better, and sometimes worse, as human Affairs commonly go. _Ge._ Are you very well in health? Are your Affairs in a good Condition? Are your Circumstances as you would have them? Have you always had your Health well? _Liv._ Very well, I thank God. By God's Goodness I have always had my Health very well. I have always been very well hitherto. I have been in very good, favourable, secure, happy, prosperous, successful, perfect Health, like a Prince, like a Champion, fit for any Thing. _Ge._ God send you may always enjoy the same. I am glad to hear it. You give me a Pleasure in saying so. It is very pleasant to me to hear that. I am glad at my Heart to hear this from you. This is no bad News to me. I am exceeding glad to hear you say so. I wish you may be so always. I wish you may enjoy the same Health as long as you live. In congratulating you, I joy myself, Thanks to Heaven for it. _Li._ Indeed I am very well if you are so. _Ge._ Well, but have you met with no Trouble all this while? _Li._ None but the Want of your good Company. _Ge._ Well, but how do you do though? _Li._ Well enough, finely, bravely, very well as may be, very well indeed, happily, commodiously, no Way amiss. I enjoy rather what Health I wish, than what I deserved, Princely, Herculean, Champion-like. _Ge._ I was expecting when you would say Bull-like too. * * * * * _Of being Ill._ _Ge._ Are you in good Health? _Li._ I wish I were. Not altogether so well as I would be. Indeed I am so, so. Pretty well. I am as well as I can be, since I can't be so well as I would be. As I use to be. So as it pleases God. Truly not very well. Never worse in all my Life. As I am wont to be. I am as they use to be who have to do with the Doctor. _Ge._ How do you do? _Li._ Not as I would do. _Ge._ Why truly not well, ill, very ill, in an unhappy, unprosperous, unfavourable, bad, adverse, unlucky, feeble, dubious, indifferent, State of Health, not at all as I would, a tolerable, such as I would not wish even to my Enemies. _Ge._ You tell me a melancholy Story. Heavens forbid it. God forbid. No more of that I pray. I wish what you say were not true. But you must be of good Chear, you must pluck up a good Heart. A good Heart is a good Help in bad Circumstances. You must bear up your Mind with the Hope of better Fortune. What Distemper is it? What Sort of Disease is it? What Distemper is it that afflicts you? What Distemper are you troubled with? _Li._ I can't tell, and in that my Condition is the more dangerous. _Ge._ That's true, for when the Disease is known, it is half cured. Have you had the Advice of any Doctor? _Li._ Ay, of a great many. _Ge._ What do they say to your Case? _Li._ What the Lawyers of _Demiphon_ (in the Play) said to him. One says one Thing, another he says another, and the third he'll consider of it. But they all agree in this, that I am in a sad Condition. _Ge._ How long have you been taken with this Illness? How long have you been ill of this Distemper? How long has this Illness seiz'd you? _Li._ About twenty Days more or less, almost a Month. It's now near three Months. It seems an Age to me since I was first taken ill. _Ge._ But I think you ought to take care that the Distemper don't grow upon you. _Li._ It has grown too much upon me already. _Ge._ Is it a Dropsy? _Li._ They say it is not. _Ge._ Is it a Dissentery? _Li._ I think not. _Ge._ Is it a Fever? _Li._ I believe it is a Kind of Fever; but a new one, as ever and anon new ones spring up that were unknown before. _Ge._ There were more old ones than enough before. _Li._ Thus it pleases Nature to deal with us, which is a little too severe. _Ge._ How often does the Fit come? _Li._ How often do you say? Every Day, nay every Hour indeed. _Ge._ O wonderful! It is a sad Affliction. How did you get this Distemper? How do you think you came by it? _Li._ By Reason of Want. _Ge._ Why you don't use to be so superstitious as to starve yourself with Fasting. _Li._ It is not Bigotry but Penury. _Ge._ What do you mean by Penury? _Li._ I mean I could get no Victuals, I believe it came by a Cold. I fancy I got the Distemper by eating rotten Eggs. By drinking too much Water in my Wine. This Crudity in my Stomach came by eating green Apples. _Ge._ But consider whether you han't contracted this Distemper by long and late Studying, by hard Drinking, or immoderate use of Venery? Why don't you send for a Doctor? _Li._ I am afraid he should do me more Harm than good. I am afraid he should poison me instead of curing me. _Ge._ You ought to chuse one that you can confide in. _Li._ If I must dye, I had rather dye once for all, than to be tormented with so many Slops. _Ge._ Well then, be your own Doctor. If you can't trust to a Doctor, pray God be your Physician. There have been some that have recover'd their Health, by putting on a Dominican or a Franciscan Fryars Cowl. _Li._ And perhaps it had been the same Thing, if they had put on a Whore-master's Cloak. These things have no Effect upon those that have no Faith in 'em. _Ge._ Why then, believe that you may recover. Some have been cur'd by making Vows to a Saint. _Li._ But I have no Dealings with Saints. _Ge._ Then pray to Christ that you may have Faith, and that he would be pleased to bestow the Blessing of Health upon you. _Li._ I can't tell whether it would be a Blessing or no. _Ge._ Why, is it not a Blessing to be freed from a Distemper? _Li._ Sometimes it is better to dye. I ask nothing of him, but only that he'd give me what would be best for me. _Ge._ Take something to purge you. _Li._ I am laxative enough already. _Ge._ Take something to make you go to Stool. You must take a Purge. _Li._ I ought to take something that is binding rather, for I am too laxative. * * * * * _Of enquiring of a Person upon his Return_. The ARGUMENT. _Of interrogating a Person returning from a Journey, concerning War, private Affairs, a Disappointment, great Promises, a Wife Lying-in, Dangers, Losses_, &c. _George._ Have you had a good and prosperous Journey? _Li._ Pretty good; but that there is such Robbing every where. _Ge._ This is the Effect of War. _Li._ It is so, but it is a wicked one. _Ge._ Did you come on Foot or on Horse-back? _Li._ Part of the Way a Foot, Part in a Coach, Part on Horse-back, and Part by Sea. _Ge._ How go Matters in _France?_ _Li._ All's in Confusion, there's nothing but War talk'd of. What Mischiefs they may bring upon their Enemies I know not; but this I'm sure of, the _French_ themselves are afflicted with unexpressible Calamities. _Ge._ Whence come all these tumultuary Wars? _Li._ Whence should they come but from the Ambition of Monarchs? _Ge._ But it would be more their Prudence to appease these Storms of human Affairs. _Li._ Appease 'em! Ay, so they do, as the South Wind does the Sea. They fancy themselves to be Gods, and that the World was made for their Sakes. _Ge._ Nay, rather a Prince was made for the Good of the Commonwealth, and not the Commonwealth for the Sake of the Prince. _Li._ Nay, there are Clergymen too, who blow up the Coals, and sound an Alarm to these Tumults. _Ge._ I'd have them set in the Front of the Battel. _Li._ Ay, ay, but they take Care to keep out of Harm's Way. _Ge._ But let us leave these publick Affairs to Providence. How go your own Matters? _Li._ Very well, happily, indifferently well, tolerably. _Ge._ How goes it with your own Business? As you would have it? _Li._ Nay, better than I could have wish'd for, better than I deserve, beyond what I could have hop'd for. _Ge._ Are all Things according to your Mind? Is all well? Has every Thing succeeded? _Li._ It can't be worse. It is impossible it should be worse than it is. _Ge._ What then, han't you got what you sought for? Han't you caught the Game you hunted? _Li._ Hunt! Ay, I did hunt indeed, but with very ill Success. _Ge._ But is there no Hope then? _Li._ Hope enough, but nothing else. _Ge._ Did the Bishop give you no Hopes? _Li._ Yes, whole Cart Loads, and whole Ship Loads of Hope; but nothing else. _Ge._ Has he sent you nothing yet? _Li._ He promis'd me largely, but he has never sent me a Farthing. _Ge._ Then you must live in Hopes. _Li._ Ay, but that won't fill the Belly; they that feed upon Hope may be said to hang, but not to live. _Ge._ But however then, you were the lighter for travelling, not having your Pockets loaded. _Li._ I confess that, nay, and safer too; for an empty Pocket is the best Defence in the World against Thieves; but for all that, I had rather have the Burthen and the Danger too. _Ge._ You was not robb'd of any Thing by the Way, I hope? _Li._ Robb'd! What can you rob a Man of that has nothing? There was more Reason for other Folks to be afraid of me, than I of them, having never a Penny in my Pocket. I might sing and be starved all the Way I went. Have you anything more to say? _Ge._ Where are you going now? _Li._ Strait Home, to see how all do there, whom I han't seen this long Time. _Ge._ I wish you may find all well at Home. _Li._ I pray God I may. Has any Thing new happen'd at our House since I went away? _Ge._ Nothing but only you'll find your Family bigger than it was; for your _Catulla_ has brought you a little _Catulus_ since you have been gone. Your Hen has laid you an Egg. _Li._ That's good News, I like your News, and I'll promise to give you a Gospel for it. _Ge._ What Gospel? The Gospel according to St. _Matthew_? _Li._ No, but according to _Homer_. Here take it. _Ge._ Keep your Gospel to yourself, I have Stones enough at Home. _Li._ Don't slight my Present, it is the Eagle's Stone; It is good for Women with Child; it is good to bring on their Labour. _Ge._ Say you so? Then it is a very acceptable Present to me, and I'll endeavour to make you Amends. _Li._ The Amends is made already by your kind Acceptance. _Ge._ Nay, nothing in the World could come more seasonably, for my Wife's Belly is up to her Mouth almost. _Li._ Then I'll make this Bargain with you; that if she has a Boy, you will let me be the Godfather. _Ge._ Well I'll promise you that, and that you shall name it too. _Li._ I wish it may be for both our Good. _Ge._ Nay, for all our Good. * * * * * _MAURICE, CYPRIAN._ _Ma._ You are come back fatter than you used to be: You are returned taller. _Cy._ But in Truth I had rather it had been wiser, or more learned. _Ma._ You had no Beard when you went away; but you have brought a little one back with you. You are grown somewhat oldish since you went away. What makes you look so pale, so lean, so wrinkled? _Cy._ As is my Fortune, so is the Habit of my Body. _Ma._ Has it been but bad then? _Cy._ She never is otherwise to me, but never worse in my Life than now. _Ma._ I am sorry for that. I am sorry for your Misfortune. But pray, what is this Mischance? _Cy._ I have lost all my Money. _Ma._ What in the Sea? _Cy._ No, on Shore, before I went abroad. _Ma._ Where? _Cy._ Upon the _English_ Coast. _Ma._ It is well you scap'd with your Life; it is better to lose your Money, than that; the loss of ones good Name, is worse than the Loss of Money. _Cy._ My Life and Reputation are safe; but my Money is lost. _Ma._ The Loss of Life never can be repair'd; the Loss of Reputation very hardly; but the Loss of Money may easily be made up one Way or another. But how came it about? _Cy._ I can't tell, unless it was my Destiny. So it pleas'd God. As the Devil would have it. _Ma._ Now you see that Learning and Virtue are the safest Riches; for as they can't be taken from a Man, so neither are they burthensome to him that carries them. _Cy._ Indeed you Philosophize very well; but in the mean Time I'm in Perplexity. * * * * * _CLAUDIUS, BALBUS._ _Cl._ I am glad to see you well come Home _Balbus_. _Ba._ And I to see you alive _Claudius_. _Cl._ You are welcome Home into your own Country again. _Ba._ You should rather congratulate me as a Fugitive from _France_. _Cl._ Why so? _Ba._ Because they are all up in Arms there. _Cl._ But what have Scholars to do with Arms? _Ba._ But there they don't spare even Scholars. _Cl._ It is well you're got off safe. _Ba._ But I did not get off without Danger neither. _Cl._ You are come back quite another Man than you went away. _Ba._ How so? _Cl._ Why, of a _Dutch_ Man, you are become a _French_ Man. _Ba._ Why, was I a Capon when I went away? _Cl._ Your Dress shows that you're turn'd from a _Dutch_ Man into a _French_ Man. _Ba._ I had rather suffer this Metamorphosis, than be turn'd into a Hen. But as a Cowl does not make a Monk, so neither does a Garment a _French_ Man. _Cl._ Have you learn'd to speak _French?_ _Ba._ Indifferently well. _Cl._ How did you learn it? _Ba._ Of Teachers that were no dumb ones I assure you. _Cl._ From whom. _Ba._ Of little Women, more full of Tongue, than Turtle Doves. _Cl._ It is easy to learn to speak in such a School. Do you pronounce the _French_ well? _Ba._ Yes, that I do, and I pronounce _Latin_ after the _French_ Mode. _Cl._ Then you will never write good Verses. _Ba._ Why so? _Cl._ Because you'll make false Quantities. _Ba._ The Quality is enough for me. _Cl._ Is _Paris_ clear of the Plague? _Ba._ Not quite, but it is not continual, sometimes it abates, and anon it returns again; sometimes it slackens, and then rages again. _Cl._ Is not War itself Plague enough? _Ba._ It is so, unless God thought otherwise. _Cl._ Sure Bread must be very dear there. _Ba._ There is a great Scarcity of it. There is a great Want of every Thing but wicked Soldiers. Good Men are wonderful cheap there. _Cl._ What is in the Mind of the _French_ to go to War with the _Germans_? _Ba._ They have a Mind to imitate the Beetle, that won't give Place to the Eagle. Every one thinks himself an _Hercules_ in War. _Cl._ I won't detain you any longer, at some other Time we'll divert ourselves more largely, when we can both spare Time. At present I have a little Business that calls me to another Place. _FAMILY DISCOURSE._ The ARGUMENT. _This Colloquy presents us with the Sayings and Jokes of intimate Acquaintance, and the Repartees and Behaviour of familiar Friends one with another. 1. Of walking abroad, and calling Companions. 2. Of seldom visiting, of asking concerning a Wife, Daughter, Sons. 3. Concerning Leisure, the tingling of the Ear, the Description of a homely Maid. Invitation to a Wedding. 4. Of Studying too hard, &c._ PETER, MIDAS, _a Boy_, JODOCUS. _Peter_, Soho, soho, Boy! does no Body come to the Door? _Mi._ I think this Fellow will beat the Door down. Sure he must needs be some intimate Acquaintance or other. O old Friend _Peter_, what hast brought? _Pe._ Myself. _Mi._ In Truth then you have brought that which is not much worth. _Pe._ But I'm sure I cost my Father a great deal. _Mi._ I believe so, more than you can be sold for again. _Pe._ But is _Jodocus_ at Home? _Mi._ I can't tell, but I'll go see. _Pe._ Go in first, and ask him if he pleases to be at Home now. _Mi._ Go yourself, and be your own Errand Boy. _Pe._ Soho! _Jodocus_, are you at Home? _Jo._ No, I am not. _Pe._ Oh! You impudent Fellow I don't I hear you speak? _Jo._ Nay, you are more impudent, for I took your Maid's Word for it lately, that you were not at Home, and you won't believe me myself. _Pe._ You're in the Right on't, you've serv'd me in my own Kind. _Jo._ As I sleep not for every Body, so I am not at Home to every Body, but for Time to come shall always be at Home to you. _Pe._ Methinks you live the Life of a Snail. _Jo._ Why so? _Pe._ Because you keep always at Home and never stir abroad, just like a lame Cobler always in his Stall. You sit at Home till your Breech grows to your Seat. _Jo._ At Home I have something to do, but I have no Business abroad, and if I had, the Weather we have had for several Days past, would have kept me from going abroad. _Pe._ But now it is fair, and would tempt a Body to walk out; see how charming pleasant it is. _Jo._ If you have a Mind to walk I won't be against it. _Pe._ In Truth, I think we ought to take the Opportunity of this fine Weather. _Jo._ But we ought to get a merry Companion or two, to go along with us. _Pe._ So we will; but tell me who you'd have then. _Jo._ What if we should get Hugh? _Pe._ There is no great Difference between _Hugo_ and _Nugo._ _Jo._ Come on then, I like it mighty well. _Pe._ What if we should call _Alardus?_ _Jo._ He's no dumb Man I'll assure you, what he wants in Hearing he'll make up in Talking. _Pe._ If you will, we'll get _Nævius_ along with us too. _Jo._ If we have but him, we shall never want merry Stories. I like the Company mainly, the next Thing is to pitch upon a pleasant Place. _Pe._ I'll show you a Place where you shall neither want the Shade of a Grove, nor the pleasant Verdure of Meadows, nor the purling Streams of Fountains, you'll say it is a Place worthy of the Muses themselves. _Jo._ You promise nobly. _Pe._ You are too intent upon your Books; you sit too close to your Books; you make yourself lean with immoderate Study. _Jo._ I had rather grow lean with Study than with Love. _Pe._ We don't live to study, but we therefore study that we may live pleasantly. _Jo._ Indeed I could live and dye in my Study. _Pe._ I approve well enough of studying hard, but not to study myself to Death. _Pe._ Has this Walk pleas'd you? _Jo._ It has been a charming pleasant one. * * * * * _2. GILES, LEONARD._ _Gi._ Where is our Leonard a going? _Le._ I was coming to you. _Gi._ That you do but seldom. _Le._ Why so? _Gi._ Because you han't been to see me this twelve Months. _Le._ I had rather err on that Hand to be wanted, than to be tiresome. _Gi._ I am never tired with the Company of a good Friend: Nay, the oftner you come the more welcome you are. _Le._ But by the Way, how goes Matters at your House. _Gi._ Why truly not many Things as I would have them. _Le._ I don't wonder at that, but is your Wife brought to Bed yet? _Gi._ Ay, a great While ago, and had two at a Birth too. _Le._ How, two at once! _Gi._ 'Tis as I tell you, and more than that she's with Child again. _Le._ That's the Way to increase your Family. _Gi._ Ay, but I wish Fortune would increase my Money as much as my Wife does my Family. _Le._ Have you disposed of your Daughter yet? _Gi._ No, not yet. _Le._ I would have you consider if it be not hazardous to keep such a great Maid as she at Home, you should look out for a Husband for her. _Gi._ There's no Need of that, for she has Sweet-hearts enough already. _Le._ But why then don't you single out one for her, him that you like the best of them? _Gi._ They are all so good that I can't tell which to chuse: But my Daughter won't hear of marrying. _Le._ How say you! If I am not mistaken, she has been marriageable for some Time. She has been fit for a Husband a great While, ripe for Wedlock, ready for a Husband this great While. _Gi._ Why not, she is above seventeen, she's above two and twenty, she's in her nineteenth Year, she's above eighteen Years old. _Le._ But why is she averse to Marriage? _Gi._ She says she has a Mind to be married to Christ. _Le._ In Truth he has a great many Brides. But is she married to an evil Genius that lives chastly with a Husband? _Gi._ I don't think so. _Le._ How came that Whimsey into her Head? _Gi._ I can't tell, but there's no persuading her out of it by all that can be said to her. _Le._ You should take Care that there be no Tricksters that inveagle or draw her away. _Gi._ I know these Kidnappers well enough, and I drive this Kind of Cattel as far from my House as I can. _Le._ But what do you intend to do then? Do you intend to let her have her Humour? _Gi._ No, I'll prevent it if possible; I'll try every Method to alter her Mind; but if she persists in it, I'll not force her against her Will, lest I should be found to fight against God, or rather to fight against the Monks. _Le._ Indeed you speak very religiously; but take Care to try her Constancy throughly, lest she should afterwards repent it, when it is too late. _Gi._ I'll do my utmost Endeavours. _Le._ What Employment do your Sons follow? _Gi._ The eldest has been married this good While, and will be a Father in a little Time; I have sent the youngest away to _Paris_, for he did nothing but play while he was here. _Le._ Why did you send him thither? _Gi._ That he might come back a greater Fool than he went. _Le._ Don't talk so. _Gi._ The middlemost has lately enter'd into holy Orders. _Le._ I wish 'em all well. * * * * * 3. _MOPSUS, DROMO._ _Mo._ How is it? What are you doing Dromo? _Dr._ I'm sitting still. _Mo._ I see that; but how do Matters go with you? _Dr._ As they use to do with unfortunate Persons. _Mo._ God forbid that that should be your Case. But what are you doing? _Dr._ I am idling, as you see; doing just nothing at all. _Mo._ It is better to be idle than doing of nothing; it may be I interrupt you, being employ'd in some Matters of Consequence? _Dr._ No, really, entirely at Leisure; I just began to be tir'd of being alone, and was wishing for a merry Companion. _Mo._ It may be I hinder, interrupt, disturb you, being about some Business? _Dr._ No, you divert me, being tired with being idle. _Mo._ Pray pardon me if I have interrupted you unseasonably. _Dr._ Nay, you came very seasonably; you are come in the Nick of Time; I was just now wishing for you; I am extreme glad of your Company. _Mo._ It may be you are about some serious Business, that I would by no means interrupt or hinder? _Dr._ Nay, rather it is according to the old Proverb, _Talk of the Devil and he'll appear_; for we were just now speaking of you. _Mo._ In short, I believe you were, for my Ear tingled mightily as I came along. _Dr._ Which Ear was it? _Mo._ My left, from which I guess there was no Good said of me. _Dr._ Nay, I'll assure you there was nothing but Good said. _Mo._ Then the old Proverb is not true. But what good News have you? _Dr._ They say you are become a Huntsman. _Mo._ Nay, more than that, I have gotten the Game now in my Nets that I have been hunting after. _Dr._ What Game is it? _Mo._ A pretty Girl, that I am to marry in a Day or two; and I intreat you to honour me with your good Company at my Wedding. _Dr._ Pray, who is your Bride? _Mo. Alice_, the Daughter of _Chremes_. _Dr._ You are a rare Fellow to chuse a Beauty for one! Can you fancy that Black-a-top, Snub-nos'd, Sparrow-mouth'd, Paunch-belly'd Creature. _Mo._ Prithee hold thy Tongue, I marry her to please myself, and not you. Pray, is it not enough that I like her? The less she pleases you, the more she'll please me. * * * * * 4. _SYRUS, GETA._ _Sy._ I wish you much Happiness. _Ge._ And I wish you double what you wish me. _Sy._ What are you doing? _Ge._ I am talking. _Sy._ What! By yourself? _Ge._ As you see. _Sy._ It may be you are talking to yourself, and then you ought to see to it that you talk to an honest Man. _Ge._ Nay, I am conversing with a very facetious Companion. _Sy._ With whom? _Ge._ With _Apuleius_. _Sy._ That I think you are always doing, but the Muses love Intermission; you study continually. _Ge._ I am never tired with Study. _Sy._ It may be so, but yet you ought to set Bounds; though Study ought not to be omitted, yet it ought sometimes to be intermitted; Studies are not to be quite thrown aside, yet they ought for a While to be laid aside; there is nothing pleasant that wants Variety; the seldomer Pleasures are made use of the pleasanter they are. You do nothing else but study. You are always studying. You are continually at your Books. You read incessantly. You study Night and Day. You never are but a studying. You are continually at your Study. You are always intent upon your Books. You know no End of, nor set no Bound to Study. You give yourself no Rest from your Studies. You allow yourself no Intermission in, nor ever give over studying. _Ge._ Very well! This is like you. You banter me as you use to do. You make a Game of me. You joke upon me. You satyrize me. You treat me with a Sneer. I see how you jeer me well enough. You only jest with me. I am your Laughing-stock. I am laugh'd at by you. You make yourself merry with me. You make a meer Game and Sport of me. Why don't you put me on Asses Ears too? My Books, that are all over dusty and mouldy, shew how hard a Studier I am. _Sy._ Let me die if I don't speak my Mind. Let me perish if I don't speak as I think. Let me not live if I dissemble. I speak what I think. I speak the Truth. I speak seriously. I speak from my Heart. I speak nothing but what I think. * * * * * _Why don't you come to see me_? _Ge._ What's the Matter you ha'n't come to see me all this While? What's the Matter you visit me so seldom? What has happen'd to you that you never have come at me for so long Time? Why are you so seldom a Visitor? What is the Meaning that you never come near one for so long Time? What has hinder'd you that you have come to see me no oftner? What has prevented you that you have never let me have the Opportunity of seeing you for this long Time? * * * * * _I could not by Reason of Business._ _Sy._ I had not Leisure. I would have come, but I could not for my Business. Business would not permit me hitherto to come to see you. These Floods of Business that I have been plung'd in would not permit me to pay my Respects to you. I have been so busy I could not come. I have been harass'd with so many vexatious Matters that I could not get an Opportunity. I have been so taken up with a troublesome Business that I could never have so much Command of myself. You must impute it to my Business, and not to me. It was not for Want of Will, but Opportunity. I could not get Time till now. I have had no Time till now. I never have had any Leisure till this Time. I have been so ill I could not come. I could not come, the Weather has been so bad. _Ge._ Indeed I accept of your Excuse, but upon this Condition, that you don't make use of it often. If Sickness has been the Occasion of your Absence, your Excuse is juster than I wish it had been; I'll excuse you upon this Condition, that you make Amends for your Omission by Kindness, if you make up your past Neglect by your future frequent Visits. _Sy._ You don't esteem these common Formalities. Our Friendship is more firm than to need to be supported by such vulgar Ceremonies. He visits often enough that loves constantly. _Ge._ A Mischief take those Incumbrances that have depriv'd us of your Company. I can't tell what to wish for bad enough to those Affairs that have envy'd us the Company of so good a Friend. A Mischief take that Fever that hath tormented us so long with the Want of you. I wish that Fever may perish, so thou thyself wert but safe. * * * * * _Of Commanding and Promising._ _JAMES, SAPIDUS._ _Ja._ I pray you take a special Care of this Matter. I earnestly intreat you to take Care of this Affair. If you have any Respect for me, pray manage this Affair diligently. Pray be very careful in this Affair. Pray take a great Deal of Care about this Business for my Sake. If you are indeed the Man I always took you to be, let me see in this Concern what Esteem you have for me. _Sa._ Say no more, I'll dispatch this Affair for you, and that very shortly too. I can't indeed warrant you what the Event shall be, but this I promise you, that neither Fidelity nor Industry shall be wanting in me. I will take more Care of it than if it were mine own Affair; tho' indeed that which is my Friend's I account as my own. I will so manage the Affair, that whatever is wanting, Care and Diligence shall not be wanting. Take you no Care about the Matter, I'll do it for you. Do you be easy, I'll take the Management of it upon myself. I am glad to have an Opportunity put into my Hand of shewing you my Respect. I do not promise you in Words, but I will in Reality perform whatsoever is to be expected from a real Friend, and one that heartily wishes you well. I won't bring you into a Fool's Paradise. I'll do that which shall give you Occasion to say you trusted the Affair to a Friend. * * * * * _Success._ _Sa._ The Matter succeeded better than I could have expected. Fortune has favour'd both our Wishes. If Fortune had been your Wife she could not have been more observant to you. Your Affair went on bravely with Wind and Tide. Fortune has out-done our very Wishes. You must needs be a Favourite of Fortune, to whom all Things fall out just as you would have them. I have obtain'd more than I could presume to wish for. This Journey has been perform'd from Beginning to End with all the fortunate Circumstances imaginable. The whole Affair has fallen out according to our Wish. This Chance fell out happily for us. I think we have been lucky to Admiration, that what has been so imprudently enterpriz'd, has so happily succeeded. * * * * * _A giving one Thanks._ _Ja._ Indeed I thank you, and shall thank you heartily as long as I live for that good Service you have done me. I can scarce give you the Thanks you deserve, and shall never be able to make you Amends. I see how much I am oblig'd to you for your Kindness to me. Indeed I don't wonder at it, for it is no new Thing, and in that I am the more oblig'd to you. My _Sapidus_ I do, and it is my Duty to love you heartily for your Kindness to me. In as much as in this Affair you have not acted the Part of a Courtier, I do, and always shall thank you. I respect you, and thank you, that you made my Affair your Care. You have oblig'd me very much by that Kindness of yours. It is a great Obligation upon me that you have manag'd my Concern with Fidelity. Of all your Kindnesses, which are indeed a great many, you have shew'd me none has oblig'd me more than this. I cannot possibly make you a Return according to your Merit Too much Ceremony between you and I is unnecessary, but that which is in my Power I'll do. I'll be thankful as long as I live. I confess myself highly oblig'd to you for your good Service. For this Kindness I owe you more than I am able to pay. By this good Office you have attach'd me to you so firmly, that I can never be able to disengage myself. You have laid me under so many and great Obligations, that I shall never be able to get out of your Debt. No Slave was ever so engag'd in Duty to his Master as you have engag'd me by this Office. You have by this good Turn brought me more into your Debt than ever I shall be able to pay. I am oblig'd to you upon many Accounts, but upon none more than upon this. Thanks are due for common Kindness, but this is beyond the Power of Thanks to retaliate. * * * * * _The Answer._ _Sa._ Forbear these Compliments, the Friendship between you and I is greater than that we should thank one another for any Service done. I have not bestow'd this Kindness upon you, but only made a Return of it to you. I think the Amends is sufficiently made, if my most sedulous Endeavours are acceptable to you. There is no Reason you should thank me for repaying this small Kindness, for those uncommon Kindnesses I have so often receiv'd from you. Indeed I merit no Praise, but should have been the most ungrateful Man in the World if I had been wanting to my Friend. Whatsoever I have, and whatsoever I can do, you may call as much your own as any Thing that you have the best Title to. I look upon it as a Favour that you take my Service kindly. You pay so great an Acknowledgment to me for so small a Kindness, as tho' I did not owe you much greater. He serves himself that serves his Friend. He that serves a Friend does not give away his Service, but puts it out to Interest. If you approve of my Service, pray make frequent Use of it; then I shall think my Service is acceptable, if as often as you have Occasion for it you would not request but command it. _OF RASH VOWS._ The ARGUMENT. _This Colloquy treats chiefly of three Things, 1. Of the superstitious Pilgrimages of some Persons to_ Jerusalem, _and other holy Places, under Pretence of Devotion. 2. That Vows are not to be made rashly over a Pot of Ale: but that Time, Expence and Pains ought to be employ d otherwise, in such Matters as have a real Tendency to promote trite Piety. 3. Of the Insignificancy and Absurdity of Popish Indulgencies_. ARNOLDUS, CORNELIUS. _ARNOLDUS._ O! _Cornelius_, well met heartily, you have been lost this hundred Years. _Co._ What my old Companion _Arnoldus_, the Man I long'd to see most of any Man in the World! God save you. _Ar._ We all gave thee over for lost. But prithee where hast been rambling all this While? _Co._ In t'other World. _Ar._ Why truly a Body would think so by thy slovenly Dress, lean Carcase, and ghastly Phyz. _Co._ Well, but I am just come from _Jerusalem_, not from the _Stygian_ Shades. _Ar._ What Wind blew thee thither? _Co._ What Wind blows a great many other Folks thither? _Ar._ Why Folly, or else I am mistaken. _Co._ However, I am not the only Fool in the World. _Ar._ What did you hunt after there? _Co._ Why Misery. _Ar._ You might have found that nearer Home. But did you meet with any Thing worth seeing there? _Co._ Why truly, to speak ingenuously, little or nothing. They shew us some certain Monuments of Antiquity, which I look upon to be most of 'em Counterfeits, and meer Contrivances to bubble the Simple and Credulous. I don't think they know precisely the Place that _Jerusalem_ anciently stood in. _Ar._ What did you see then? _Co._ A great deal of Barbarity every where. _Ar._ But I hope you are come back more holy than you went. _Co._ No indeed, rather ten Times worse. _Ar._ Well, but then you are richer? _Co._ Nay, rather poorer than _Job_. _Ar._ But don't you repent you have taken so long a Journey to so little Purpose? _Co._ No, nor I am not asham'd neither, I have so many Companions of my Folly to keep me in Countenance; and as for Repentance, it's too late now. _Ar._ What! do you get no Good then by so dangerous a Voyage? _Co._ Yes, a great Deal. _Ar._ What is it? _Co._ Why, I shall live more pleasantly for it for Time to come. _Ar._ What, because you'll have the Pleasure of telling old Stories when the Danger is over? _Co._ That is something indeed, but that is not all. _Ar._ Is there any other Advantage in it besides that? _Co._ Yes, there is. _Ar._ What is it? Pray tell me. _Co._ Why, I can divert myself and Company, as oft as I have a Mind to it, in romancing upon my Adventures over a Pot of Ale, or a good Dinner. _Ar._ Why, truly that is something, as you say. _Co._ And besides, I shall take as much Pleasure myself when I hear others romancing about Things they never heard nor saw; nay, and that they do with that Assurance, that when they are telling the most ridiculous and impossible Things in Nature, they persuade themselves they are speaking Truth all the While. _Ar._ This is a wonderful Pleasure. Well then, you have not lost all your Cost and Labour, as the Saying is. _Co._ Nay, I think this is something better still than what they do, who, for the sake of little Advance-money, list themselves for Soldiers in the Army, which is the Nursery of all Impiety. _Ar._ But it is an ungentleman-like Thing to take Delight in telling Lies. _Co._ But it is a little more like a Gentleman than either to delight others, or be delighted in slandering other Persons, or lavishing away a Man's Time or Substance in Gaming. _Ar._ Indeed I must be of your Mind in that. _Co._ But then there is another Advantage. _Ar._ What is that? _Co._ If there shall be any Friend that I love very well, who shall happen to be tainted with this Phrensy, I will advise him to stay at Home; as your Mariners that have been cast away, advise them that are going to Sea, to steer clear of the Place where they miscarried. _Ar._ I wish you had been my Moniter in Time. _Co._ What Man! Have you been infected with this Disease too? _Ar._ Yes, I have been at _Rome_ and _Compostella_. _Co._ Good God! how I am pleas'd that you have been as great a Fool as I! What _Pallas_ put that into your Head? _Ar._ No _Pallas_, but _Moria_ rather, especially when I left at Home a handsome young Wife, several Children, and a Family, who had nothing in the World to depend upon for a Maintenance but my daily Labour. _Co._ Sure it must be some important Reason that drew you away from all these engaging Relations. Prithee tell me what it was. _Ar._ I am asham'd to tell it. _Co._ You need not be asham'd to tell me, who, you know, have been sick of the same Distemper. _Ar._ There was a Knot of Neighbours of us drinking together, and when the Wine began to work in our Noddles, one said he had a Mind to make a Visit to St. _James_, and another to St. _Peter_; presently there was one or two that promis'd to go with them, till at last it was concluded upon to go all together; and I, that I might not seem a disagreeable Companion, rather than break good Company, promised to go too. The next Question was, whether we should go to _Rome_ or _Compostella_? Upon the Debate it was determin'd that we should all, God willing, set out the next Day for both Places. _Co._ A grave Decree, fitter to be writ in Wine than engrav'd in Brass. _Ar._ Presently a Bumper was put about to our good Journey, which when every Man had taken off in his Turn, the Vote passed into an Act, and became inviolable. _Co._ A new Religion! But did you all come safe back? _Ar._ All but three, one dy'd by the Way, and gave us in Charge to give his humble Service to _Peter_ and _James_; another dy'd at _Rome_, who bad us remember him to his Wife and Children; and the third we left at _Florence_ dangerously ill, and I believe he is in Heaven before now. _Co._ Was he so good a Man then? _Ar._ The veriest Droll in Nature. _Co._ Why do you think he is in Heaven then? _Ar._ Because he had a whole Satchel full of large Indulgencies. _Co._ I understand you, but it is a long Way to Heaven, and a very dangerous one too, as I am told, by reason of the little Thieves that infest the middle Region of the Air. _Ar._ That's true, but he was well fortify'd with Bulls. _Co._ What Language were they written in? _Ar._ In _Latin_. _Co._ And will they secure him? _Ar._ Yes, unless he should happen upon some Spirit that does not understand _Latin_, in that Case he must go back to _Rome_, and get a new Passport. _Co._ Do they sell Bulls there to dead Men too? _Ar._ Yes. _Co._ But by the Way, let me advise you to have a Care what you say, for now there are a great many Spies abroad. _Ar._ I don't speak slightingly of Indulgencies themselves, but I laugh at the Folly of my fuddling Companion, who tho' he was the greatest Trifler that ever was born, yet chose rather to venture the whole Stress of his Salvation upon a Skin of Parchment than upon the Amendment of his Life. But when shall we have that merry Bout you spoke of just now? _Co._ When Opportunity offers we'll set a Time for a small Collation, and invite some of our Comrades, there we will tell Lies, who can lye fastest, and divert one another with Lies till we have our Bellies full. _Ar._ Come on, a Match. _OF BENEFICE-HUNTERS._ The ARGUMENT. _In this Colloquy those Persons are reprehended that run to and again to_ Rome _hunting after Benefices, and that oftentimes with the Hazard of the Corruption of their Morals, and the Loss of their Money. The Clergy are admonished to divert themselves with reading of good Books, rather than with a Concubine. Jocular Discourse concerning a long Nose_. PAMPHAGUS, COCLES. _PAM._ Either my Sight fails me, or this is my old Pot-Companion _Cocles_. _Co._ No, no, your Eyes don't deceive you at all, you see a Companion that is yours heartily. Nobody ever thought to have seen you again, you have been gone so many Years, and no Body knew what was become of you. But whence come you from? Prithee tell me. _Pa._ From the _Antipodes_. _Co._ Nay, but I believe you are come from the fortunate Islands. _Pa._ I am glad you know your old Companion, I was afraid I should come home as _Ulysses_ did. _Co._ Why pray? After what Manner did he come Home? _Pa._ His own Wife did not know him; only his Dog, being grown very old, acknowledg'd his Master, by wagging his Tail. _Co._ How many Years was he from Home? _Pa._ Twenty. _Co._ You have been absent more than twenty Years, and yet I knew your Face again. But who tells that Story of _Ulysses_? _Pa._ _Homer._ _Co._ He? They say he's the Father of all fabulous Stories. It may be his Wife had gotten herself a Gallant in the mean time, and therefore did not know her own _Ulysses_. _Pa._ No, nothing of that, she was one of the chastest Women in the World. But _Pallas_ had made _Ulysses_ look old, that he might not be known. _Co._ How came he to be known at last? _Pa._ By a little Wart that he had upon one of his Toes. His Nurse, who was now a very old Woman, took Notice of that as she was washing his Feet. _Co._ A curious old Hagg. Well then, do you admire that I know you that have so remarkable a Nose. _Pa._ I am not at all sorry for this Nose. _Co._ No, nor have you any Occasion to be sorry for having a Thing that is fit for so many Uses. _Pa._ For what Uses? _Co._ First of all, it will serve instead of an Extinguisher, to put out Candles. _Pa._ Go on. _Co._ Again, if you want to draw any Thing out of a deep Pit, it will serve instead of an Elephant's Trunk. _Pa._ O wonderful. _Co._ If your Hands be employ'd, it will serve instead of a Pin. _Pa._ Is it good for any Thing else? _Co._ If you have no Bellows, it will serve to blow the Fire. _Pa._ This is very pretty; have you any more of it? _Co._ If the Light offends you when you are writing, it will serve for an Umbrella. _Pa._ Ha, ha, ha! Have you any Thing more to say? _Co._ In a Sea-fight it will serve for a Grappling-hook. _Pa._ What will it serve for in a Land-fight? _Co._ Instead of a Shield. _Pa._ And what else? _Co._ It will serve for a Wedge to cleave Wood withal. _Pa._ Well said. _Co._ If you act the Part of a Herald, it will be for a Trumpet; if you sound an Alarm, a Horn; if you dig, a Spade; if you reap, a Sickle; if you go to Sea, an Anchor; in the Kitchen it will serve for a Flesh-hook; and in Fishing a Fish-hook. _Pa._ I am a happy Fellow indeed, I did not know I carry'd about me a Piece of Houshold Stuff that would serve for so many Uses. _Co._ But in the mean Time, in what Corner of the Earth have you hid yourself all this While? _Pa._ In _Rome_. _Co._ But is it possible that in so publick a Place no Body should know you were alive? _Pa._ Good Men are no where in the World so much _incognito_ as there, so that in the brightest Day you shall scarce see one in a throng'd Market. _Co._ Well, but then you're come home loaden with Benefices. _Pa._ Indeed I hunted after them diligently, but I had no Success; for the Way of Fishing there is according to the Proverb, with a golden Hook. _Co._ That's a foolish Way of Fishing. _Pa._ No Matter for that, some Folks find it a very good Way. _Co._ Are they not the greatest Fools in Nature that change Gold for Lead? _Pa._ But don't you know that there are Veins of Gold in holy Lead? _Co._ What then! Are you come back nothing but a _Pamphagus_? _Pa._ No. _Co._ What then, pray? _Pa._ A ravenous Wolf. _Co._ But they make a better Voyage of it, that return laden with Budgets full of Benefices. Why had you rather have a Benefice than a Wife? _Pa._ Because I love to live at Ease. I love to live a pleasant Life. _Co._ But in my Opinion they live the most pleasant Life that have at Home a pretty Girl, that they may embrace as often as they have a Mind to it. _Pa._ And you may add this to it, sometimes when they have no Mind to it. I love a continual Pleasure; he that marries a Wife is happy for a Month, but he that gets a fat Benefice lives merrily all his Life. _Co._ But Solitude is so melancholy a Life, that _Adam_, in _Paradise_ could not have liv'd happily unless God had given him an _Eve_. _Pa._ He'll ne'er need to want an _Eve_ that has gotten a good Benefice. _Co._ But that Pleasure can't really be call'd Pleasure that carries an ill Name and bad Conscience with it. _Pa._ You say true, and therefore I design to divert the Tediousness of Solitude by a Conversation with Books. _Co._ They are the pleasantest Companions in the World. But do you intend to return to your Fishing again? _Pa._ Yes, I would, if I could get a fresh Bait. _Co._ Would you have a golden one or a silver one? _Pa._ Either of them. _Co._ Be of good Cheer, your Father will supply you. _Pa._ He'll part with nothing; and especially he'll not trust me again, when he comes to understand I have spent what I had to no Purpose. _Co._ That's the Chance of the Dice. _Pa._ But he don't like those Dice. _Co._ If he shall absolutely deny you, I'll shew you where you may have as much as you please. _Pa._ You tell me good News indeed, come shew it me, my Heart leaps for Joy. _Co._ It is here hard by. _Pa._ Why, have you gotten a Treasure? _Co._ If I had, I would have it for myself, not for you. _Pa._ If I could but get together 100 Ducats I should be in Hopes again. _Co._ I'll shew you where you may have 100,000. _Pa._ Prithee put me out of my Pain then, and do not teaze me to Death. Tell me where I may have it. _Co._ From the _Asse Budæi_, there you may find a great many Ten Thousands, whether you'd have it Gold or Silver. _Pa._ Go and be hang'd with your Banter, I'll pay you what I owe you out of that Bank. _Co._ Ay, so you shall, but it shall be what I lend you out of it. _Pa._ I know your waggish Tricks well enough. _Co._ I'm not to be compar'd to you for that. _Pa._ Nay, you are the veriest Wag in Nature, you are nothing but Waggery; you make a Jest of a serious Matter. In this Affair it is far easier Matter to teaze me than it is to please me. The Matter is of too great a Consequence to be made a Jest on. If you were in my Case you would not be so gamesome; you make a mere Game of me; you game and banter me. You joke upon me in a Thing that is not a joking Matter. _Co._ I don't jeer you, I speak what I think. Indeed I do not laugh, I speak my Mind. I speak seriously. I speak from my Heart. I speak sincerely. I speak the Truth. _Pa._ So may your Cap stand always upon your Head, as you speak sincerely. But do I stand loitering here, and make no haste Home to see how all Things go there? _Co._ You'll find a great many Things new. _Pa._ I believe I shall; but I wish I may find all Things as I would have them. _Co._ We may all wish so if we will, but never any Body found it so yet. _Pa._ Our Rambles will do us both this Good, that we shall like Home the better for Time to come. _Co._ I can't tell that, for I have seen some that have play'd the same Game over and over again; if once this Infection seizes a Person he seldom gets rid of it. _OF A SOLDIER'S LIFE._ The ARGUMENT. _The wicked Life of Soldiers is here reprehended, and shewn to be very miserable: That War is Confusion, and a Sink of all manner of Vices, in as much as in it there is no Distinction made betwixt Things sacred and profane. The Hope of Plunder allures many to become Soldiers. The Impieties of a Military Life are here laid open, by this Confession of a Soldier, that Youth may be put out of Conceit of going into the Army._ HANNO, THRASYMACHUS. _Hanno._ How comes it about that you that went away a _Mercury_, come back a _Vulcan_? _Thr._ What do you talk to me of your _Mercuries_ and your _Vulcans_ for? _Ha._ Because you seem'd to be ready to fly when you went away, but you're come limping Home. _Thr._ I'm come back like a Soldier then. _Ha._ You a Soldier, that would out-run a Stag if an Enemy were at your Heels. _Thr._ The Hope of Booty made me valiant. _Ha._ Well, have you brought Home a good Deal of Plunder then? _Thr._ Empty Pockets. _Ha._ Then you were the lighter for travelling. _Thr._ But I was heavy loaden with Sin. _Ha._ That's heavy Luggage indeed, if the Prophet says right, who calls Sin Lead. _Thr._ I have seen and had a Hand in more Villanies this Campaign than in the whole Course of my Life before. _Ha._ How do you like a Soldier's Life? _Thr._ There is no Course of Life in the. World more wicked or more wretched. _Ha._ What then must be in the Minds of those People, that for the Sake of a little Money, and some out of Curiosity, make as much Haste to a Battel as to a Banquet? _Thr._ In Truth, I can think no other but they are possess'd; for if the Devil were not in them they would never anticipate their Fate. _Ha._ So one would think, for if you'd put 'em upon any honest Business, they'll scarce stir a Foot in it for any Money. But tell me, how went the Battel? Who got the better on't? _Thr._ There was such a Hallooing, Hurly-burly, Noise of Guns, Trumpets and Drums, Neighing of Horses, and Shouting of Men, that I was so far from knowing what others were a doing, that I scarcely knew where I was myself. _Ha._ How comes it about then that others, after a Fight is over, do paint you out every Circumstance so to the Life, and tell you what such an Officer said, and what t'other did, as tho' they had been nothing but Lookers on all the Time, and had been every where at the same Time? _Thr._ It is my Opinion that they lye confoundedly. I can tell you what was done in my own Tent, but as to what was done in the Battel, I know nothing at all of that. _Ha._ Don't you know how you came to be lame neither? _Thr._ Scarce that upon my Honour, but I suppose my Knee was hurt by a Stone, or a Horse-heel, or so. _Ha._ Well, but I can tell you. _Thr._ You tell me? Why, has any Body told you? _Ha._ No, but I guess. _Thr._ Tell me then. _Ha._ When you were running away in a Fright, you fell down and hit it against a Stone. _Thr._ Let me die if you han't hit the Nail on the Head. _Ha._ Go, get you Home, and tell your Wife of your Exploits. _Thr._ She'll read me a Juniper-Lecture for coming Home in such a Pickle. _Ha._ But what Restitution will you make for what you have stolen? _Thr._ That's made already. _Ha._ To whom? _Thr._ Why, to Whores, Sutlers, and Gamesters. _Ha._ That's like a Soldier for all the World, it's but just that what's got over the Devil's Back should be spent under his Belly. _Ha._ But I hope you have kept your Fingers all this While from Sacrilege? _Thr._ There's nothing sacred in Hostility, there we neither spare private Houses nor Churches. _Ha._ How will you make Satisfaction? _Thr._ They say there is no Satisfaction to be made for what is done in War, for all Things are lawful there. _Ha._ You mean by the Law of Arms, I suppose? _Thr._ You are right. _Ha._ But that Law is the highest Injustice. It was not the Love of your Country, but the Love of Booty that made you a Soldier. _Thr._ I confess so, and I believe very few go into the Army with any better Design. _Ha._ It is indeed some Excuse to be mad with the greater Part of Mankind. _Thr._ I have heard a Parson say in his Pulpit that War was lawful. _Ha._ Pulpits indeed are the Oracles of Truth. But War may be lawful for a Prince, and yet not so for you. _Thr._ I have heard that every Man must live by his Trade. _Ha._ A very honourable Trade indeed to burn Houses, rob Churches, ravish Nuns, plunder the Poor, and murder the Innocent! _Thr._ Butchers are hired to kill Beasts; and why is our Trade found Fault with who are hired to kill Men? _Ha._ But was you never thoughtful what should become of your Soul if you happen'd to be kill'd in the Battel? _Thr._ Not very much; I was very well satisfied in my Mind, having once for all commended myself to St. _Barbara_. _Ha._ And did she take you under her Protection? _Thr._ I fancied so, for methought she gave me a little Nod. _Ha._ What Time was it? In the Morning? _Thr._ No, no, 'twas after Supper. _Ha._ And by that Time I suppose the Trees seem'd to walk too? _Thr._ How this Man guesses every Thing! But St. _Christopher_ was the Saint I most depended on, whose Picture I had always in my Eye. _Ha._ What in your Tent? _Thr._ We had drawn him with Charcoal upon our Sail-cloth. _Thr._ Then to be sure that _Christopher_ the Collier was a sure Card to trust to? But without jesting, I don't see how you can expect to be forgiven all these Villanies, unless you go to _Rome_. _Thr._ Yes, I can, I know a shorter Way than that. _Ha._ What Way is that? _Thr._ I'll go to the _Dominicans_, and there I can do my Business with the Commissaries for a Trifle. _Ha._ What, for Sacrilege? _Thr._ Ay, if I had robb'd Christ himself, and cut off his Head afterwards, they have Pardons would reach it, and Commissions large enough to compound for it. _Ha._ That is well indeed, if God should ratify your Composition. _Thr._ Nay, I am rather afraid the Devil should not ratify it; God is of a forgiving Nature. _Ha._ What Priest will you get you? _Thr._ One that I know has but little Modesty or Honesty. _Ha._ Like to like. And when that's over, you'll go strait away to the Communion, like a good Christian, will you not? _Thr._ Why should I not? For after I have once discharg'd the Jakes of my Sins into his Cowl, and unburden'd myself of my Luggage, let him look to it that absolv'd me. _Ha._ But how can you be sure that he does absolve you? _Thr._ I know that well enough. _Ha._ How do you know it? _Thr._ Because he lays his Hand upon my Head and mutters over something, I don't know what. _Ha._ What if he should give you all your Sins again when he lays his Hand upon your Head, and these should be the Words he mutters to himself? _I absolve thee from all thy good Deeds, of which I find few or none in thee; I restore thee to thy wonted Manners, and leave thee just as I found thee_. _Thr._ Let him look to what he says, it is enough for me that I believe I am absolv'd. _Ha._ But you run a great Hazard by that Belief, for perhaps that will not be Satisfaction to God, to whom thou art indebted. _Thr._ Who a Mischief put you in my Way to disturb my Conscience, which was very quiet before? _Ha._ Nay, I think it is a very happy Encounter to meet a Friend that gives good Advice. _Thr._ I can't tell how good it is, but I am sure it is not very pleasant. _The COMMANDS OF A MASTER._ The ARGUMENT. _This Colloquy treats of the Commands of a Master, and the Business of a Servant, 1. The Master calls up his sleepy Servant, commands him to set the House to rights; the Servant answers again, that he speaks not a Word about Dinner, &c. 2. Of sending him on various Errands. 3. Concerning Riding_. 1. _Of calling up the Sleeper._ RABANUS, SYRUS. _RA._ Soho, soho, Rascal, I am hoarse a bawling to you, and you lye snoring still, you'll sleep for ever I think in my Conscience; either get up presently or I'll rouze you with a good Cudgel. When will you have slept out your Yesterday's Debauch? Are you not asham'd, you sleepy Sot, to lye a-bed till this time of Day? Good Servants rise as soon as it is Day, and take Care to get every Thing in order before their Master rises. How loth this Drone is to leave his warm Nest! he is a whole Hour a scratching, and stretching, and yawning. _Sy._ It is scarce Day yet. _Ra._ I believe not to you; it is Midnight yet to your Eyes. _Sy._ What do you want me to do? _Ra._ Make the Fire burn, brush my Cap and Cloke, clean my Shoes and Galloshoes, take my Stockings and turn them inside out, and brush them well, first within, and then without, burn a little Perfume to sweeten the Air, light a Candle, give me a clean Shirt, air it well before a clear Fire. _Sy._ It shall be done Sir. _Ra._ But make Haste then, all this ought to have been done before now. _Sy._ I do make Haste Sir. _Ra._ I see what Haste you make, you are never the forwarder, you go a Snail's Gallop. _Sy._ Sir, I cannot do two Things at once. _Ra._ You Scoundrel, do you speak Sentences too? Take away the Chamber-Pot, lay the Bed-Clothes to Rights, draw back the Curtains, sweep the House, sweep the Chamber-floor, fetch me some Water to wash my Hands. What are you a sliving about you Drone? You are a Year a lighting a Candle. _Sy._ I can't find a Spark of Fire. _Ra._ Is it so you rak'd it up last Night? _Sy._ I have no Bellows. _Ra._ How the Knave thwarts me, as if he that has you can want Bellows. _Sy._ What an imperious Master have I gotten! Ten of the nimblest Fellows in the World are scarce sufficient to perform his Orders. _Ra._ What's that you say you slow-Back? _Sy._ Nothing at all, Sir. _Ra._ No, Sirrah, did I not hear you mutter? _Sy._ I was saying my Prayers. _Ra._ Ay, I believe so, but it was the Lord's-Prayer backwards then. Pray, what was that you were chattering about Imperiousness? _Sy._ I was wishing you might be an Emperor. _Ra._ And I wish you may be made a Man of a Stump of a Tree. Wait upon me to Church, and then run Home and make the Bed, and put every Thing in its Place; let the House be set to Rights from Top to Bottom, rub the Chamber-Pot, put these foul Things out of Sight, perhaps I may have some Gentry come to pay me a Visit; if I find any Thing out of Order I'll thresh you soundly. _Sy._ I know your good Humour well enough in that Matter. _Ra._ Then it behoves you to look about you, if you are wise. _Sy._ But all this while here is not one Word about Dinner. _Ra._ Out you Villain, one may see what your Mind runs on. I don't dine at Home, therefore come to me a little before Ten a-Clock, that you may wait upon me where I am to go to Dinner. _Sy._ You have taken Care of yourself, but there is not a Bit of Bread for me to put into my Head. _Ra._ If you have nothing to eat, you have something to hunger after. _Sy._ But Fasting won't fill the Belly. _Ra._ There is Bread for you. _Sy._ There is so, but it is as black as my Hat, and as coarse as the Bran itself. _Ra._ You dainty chap'd Fellow, you ought to be fed with Hay, if you had such Commons as you deserve. What, I warrant you, Mr. Ass, you must be fed with Plumb Cakes, must you? If you can't eat dry Bread, take a Leek to eat with it, or an Onion, if you like that better. * * * * * _2. Of sending about various Businesses._ _Ra._ You must go to Market. _Sy._ What, so far? _Ra._ It is not a Stone's Throw off, but it seems two Miles to such an idle Fellow as you; but however, I'll save you as much Labour as I can, you shall dispatch several Businesses in one Errand; count 'em upon your Fingers, that mayn't forget any of 'em: First of all step to the Salesman, and bring my water'd Camblet Doublet if it be done; then go and enquire for _Cornelius_ the Waggoner, he's commonly at the Sign of the _Roe-buck_, he uses that House, ask him if he has any Letters for me, and what Day he sets out on his Journey; then go to the Woollen Draper, and tell him from me, not to be uneasy, that I have not sent him the Money at the Time appointed, for he shall have it in a very little Time. _Sy._ When? To morrow come never? _Ra._ Do you grin you Pimp? Yes, before the first of _March_: And as you come back, turn on the Left-hand, and go to the Bookseller, and enquire of him, if there be any new Books come out of _Germany_, learn what they are, and the Price of them; then desire _Goclenius_, to do me the Honour to come to Supper with me, tell him I must sup by myself if he don't. _Sy._ What do you invite Guests too? You han't Victuals enough in the House to give a Mouse a Meal. _Ra._ And when you have done all these, go to the Market, and buy a Shoulder of Mutton, and get it nicely roasted: Do you hear this? _Sy._ I hear more than I like to hear. _Ra._ But take you Care you remember 'em all. _Sy._ I shall scarce be able to remember half of 'em. _Ra._ What do you stand loytering here, you idle Knave? You might have been back before now. _Sy._ What one Person in the World can do all these? Truly I must wait upon him out, and attend upon him home; I'm his Swabber, his Chamberlain, his Footman, his Clerk, his Butler, his Book-keeper, his Brawl, his Errand-boy, and last of all he does not think I have Business enough upon my Hands, unless I am his Cook too. * * * * * _3. Concerning Riding._ _Ra._ Bring me my Boots, I am to ride out. _Sy._ Here they are, Sir. _Ra._ You have look'd after them bravely, they are all over mouldy with lying by; I believe they han't been clean'd nor greased this twelve Months Day; they are so dry, they chap again; wipe them with a wet Cloth, and liquor them well before the Fire, and chafe them till they grow soft. _Sy._ It shall be done, Sir. _Ra._ Where are my Spurs? _Sy._ Here they are. _Ra._ Ay, here they are indeed, but all eaten up with Rust. Where is my Bridle and Saddle? _Sy._ They are just by. _Ra._ See that nothing is wanting or broken, or ready to break, that nothing may be a Hinderance to us, when we are upon our Journey. Run to the Sadlers, and get him to mend that Rein: When you come back, look upon the Horses Feet, and Shoes, and see if there be any Nails wanting, or loose. How lean and rough these Horses are! How often do you rub 'em down, or kemb them in a Year? _Sy._ I'm sure I do it every Day? _Ra._ That may be seen, I believe they have not had a bit of Victuals for three Days together. _Sy._ Indeed they have, Sir. _Ra._ You say so, but the Horses would tell me another Tale, if they could but speak: Though indeed their Leanness speaks loud enough. _Sy._ Indeed I take all the Care in the World of 'em. _Ra._ How comes it about then, that they don't look as well as you do? _Sy._ Because I don't eat Hay. _Ra._ You have this to do still; make ready my Portmanteau quickly. _Sy._ It shall be done. _The SCHOOL-MASTER'S ADMONITIONS._ The ARGUMENT. _The School-master's Instructions teach a Boy Modesty, Civility, and Manners becoming his Age, in what Posture he ought to stand while he talks to his Superiors; concerning Habit, Discourse, and Behaviour at Table and in School._ _The School-master and Boy._ _Sch._ You seem not to have been bred at Court, but in a Cow-stall; you behave yourself so clownishly. A Gentleman ought to behave himself like a Gentleman. As often or whenever any one that is your Superior speaks to you, stand strait, pull off your Hat, and look neither doggedly, surlily, saucily, malapertly, nor unsettledly, but with a staid, modest, pleasant Air in your Countenance, and a bashful Look fix'd upon the Person who speaks to you; your Feet set close one by t'other; your Hands without Action: Don't stand titter, totter, first standing upon one Foot, and then upon another, nor playing with your Fingers, biting your Lip, scratching your Head, or picking your Ears: Let your Cloaths be put on tight and neat, that your whole Dress, Air, Motion and Habit, may bespeak a modest and bashful Temper. _Bo._ What if I shall try, Sir? _Ma._ Do so. _Bo._ Is this right? _Ma._ Not quite. _Bo._ Must I do so? _Ma._ That's pretty well. _Bo._ Must I stand so? _Ma._ Ay, that's very well, remember that Posture; don't be a Prittle prattle, nor Prate apace, nor be a minding any Thing but what is said to you. If you are to make an Answer, do it in few Words, and to the Purpose, every now and then prefacing with some Title of Respect, and sometimes use a Title of Honour, and now and then make a Bow, especially when you have done speaking: Nor do you go away without asking Leave, or being bid to go: Now come let me see how you can practise this. How long have you been from Home? _Bo._ Almost six Months. _Ma._ You should have said, Sir. _Bo._ Almost six Months, Sir. _Ma._ Don't you long to see your Mother? _Bo._ Yes, sometimes. _Ma._ Have you a Mind to go to see her? _Bo._ Yes, with your Leave, Sir. _Ma._ Now you should have made a Bow; that's very well, remember to do so; when you speak, don't speak fast, stammer, or speak in your Throat, but use yourself to pronounce your Words distinctly and clearly. If you pass by any ancient Person, a Magistrate, a Minister, or Doctor, or any Person of Figure, be sure to pull off your Hat, and make your Reverence: Do the same when you pass by any sacred Place, or the Image of the Cross. When you are at a Feast, behave yourself chearfully, but always so as to remember what becomes your Age: Serve yourself last; and if any nice Bit be offer'd you, refuse it modestly; but if they press it upon you, take it, and thank the Person, and cutting off a Bit of it, offer the rest either to him that gave it you, or to him that sits next to you. If any Body drinks to you merrily, thank him, and drink moderately. If you don't care to drink, however, kiss the Cup. Look pleasantly upon him that speaks to you; and be sure not to speak till you are spoken to. If any Thing that is obscene be said, don't laugh at it, but keep your Countenance, as though you did not understand it; don't reflect on any Body, nor take place of any Body, nor boast of any Thing of your own, nor undervalue any Thing of another Bodies. Be courteous to your Companions that are your Inferiors; traduce no Body; don't be a Blab with your Tongue, and by this Means you'll get a good Character, and gain Friends without Envy. If the Entertainment shall be long, desire to be excus'd, bid much good may it do the Guests, and withdraw from Table: See that you remember these Things. _Bo._ I'll do my Endeavour, Sir. Is there any Thing else you'd have me do? _Ma._ Now go to your Books. _Bo._ Yes, Sir. _Of VARIOUS PLAYS._ The ARGUMENT. _The Boys sending_ Cocles _their Messenger to their Master, get Leave to go to Play; who shews that moderate Recreations are very necessary both for Mind and Body. The Master admonishes them that they keep together at Play, &c. 1. Of playing at Stool-ball: Of chusing Partners. 2. Of playing at Bowls, the Orders of the Bowling-Green. 3. Of playing at striking a Ball through an Iron Ring. 4. Of Dancing, that they should not dance presently after Dinner: Of playing at Leap-frog: Of Running: Of Swimming._ NICHOLAS, JEROME, COCLES, _the_ MASTER. _Nic._ I have had a great Mind a good While, and this fine Weather is a great Invitation to go to Play. _Jer._ These indeed invite you, but the Master don't. _Nic._ We must get some Spokesman that may extort a Holiday from him. _Jer._ You did very well to say extort, for you may sooner wrest _Hercules's_ Club out of his Hands than get a Play-day from him; but Time was when Nobody lov'd Play better than he did. _Nic._ That is true, but he has forgot a great While ago since he was a Boy himself; he is as ready and free at whipping as any Body, but as sparing and backward at this as any Body in the World. _Jer._ We must pick out a Messenger that is not very bashful that won't be presently dashed out of Countenance by his surly Words. _Nic._ Let who will go for me, I had rather go without Play than ask him for it. _Jer._ There is Nobody fitter for this Business than _Cocles._ _Nic._ Nobody in the World, he has a good bold Face of his own, and Tongue enough; and besides, he knows his Humour too. _Jer._ Go, _Cocles_, you will highly oblige us all. _Coc._ Well, I'll try; but if I do not succeed, do not lay the Fault on your Spokesman. _Jer._ You promise well for it, I am out in my Opinion if you don't get Leave. Go on Intreater, and return an Obtainer. _Coc._ I'll go, may _Mercury_ send me good Luck of my Errand. God save you, Sir. _Ma._ What does this idle Pack want? _Coc._ Your Servant, Reverend Master. _Ma._ This is a treacherous Civility! I am well enough already. Tell me what 'tis you came for. _Coc._ Your whole School beg a Play-day. _Ma._ You do nothing else but play, even without Leave. _Coc._ Your Wisdom knows that moderate Play quickens the Wit, as you have taught us out of _Quintilian_. _Ma._ Very well, how well you can remember what's to your purpose? They that labour hard, had need of some Relaxation: But you that study idly, and play laboriously, had more need of a Curb, than a Snaffle. _Coc._ If any Thing has been wanting in Times past, we'll labour to make it up by future Diligence. _Ma._ O rare Makers up! who will be Sureties for the performing this Promise? _Coc._ I'll venture my Head upon it. _Ma._ Nay, rather venture your Tail. I know there is but little Dependance upon your Word; but however, I'll try this Time what Credit may be given to you; if you deceive me now, you shall never obtain any Thing from me again. Let 'em play; but let them keep together in the Field, don't let them go a tippling or worse Exercises, and see they come Home betimes, before Sun set. _Coc._ We will, Sir, I have gotten Leave, but with much a do. _Jer._ O brave Lad! we all love you dearly. _Coc._ But we must be sure not to transgress our Orders, for if we do, it will be all laid upon my Back; I have engaged for ye all, and if ye do, I'll never be your Spokesman again. _Jer._ We'll take Care: But what Play do you like best? _Coc._ We'll talk of that when we come into the Fields. * * * * * I. _Of playing at Ball._ _NICHOLAS_ and _JEROME._ _Nic._ No Play is better to exercise all Parts of the Body than Stool-ball; but that's fitter for Winter than Summer. _Jer._ There is no Time of the Year with us, but what's fit to play in. _Nic._ We shall sweat less, if we play at Tennis. _Jer._ Let's let Nets alone to Fishermen; it's prettier to catch it in our Hands. _Nic._ Well, come on, I don't much Matter; but how much shall we play for? _Nic._ But I had rather spare my Corps than my Money. _Jer._ And I value my Corps more than my Money: We must play for something, or we shall never play our best. _Nic._ You say true. _Jer._ Which Hand soever shall get the first three Games, shall pay the sixth Part of a Groat to the other; but upon Condition that what's won shall be spent among all the Company alike. _Nic._ Well, I like the Proposal; come done, let's chuse Hands; but we are all so equally match'd, that it's no great Matter who and who's together. _Jer._ You play a great Deal better than I. _Nic._ But for all that, you have the better Luck. _Jer._ Has Fortune anything to do at this Play? _Nic._ She has to do everywhere. _Jer._ Well, come let's toss up. O Boys, very well indeed. I have got the Partners I would have. _Nic._ And we like our Partners very well. _Jer._ Come on, now for't, he that will win, must look to his Game. Let every one stand to his Place bravely. Do you stand behind me ready to catch the Ball, if it goes beyond me; do you mind there, and beat it back when it comes from our Adversaries. _Nic._ I'll warrant ye, I'll hit it if it comes near me. _Jer._ Go on and prosper, throw up the Ball upon the House. He that throws and do's not speak first shall lose his Cast. _Nic._ Well, take it then. _Jer._ Do you toss it; if you throw it beyond the Bounds, or short, or over the House, it shall go for nothing, and we won't be cheated: And truly you throw nastily. As you toss it, I'll give it you again; I'll give you _a Rowland for an Oliver_; but it is better to play fairly and honestly. _Nic._ It is best at Diversion, to beat by fair Play. _Jer._ It is so, and in War too; these Arts have each their respective Laws: There are some Arts that are very unfair ones. _Nic._ I believe so too, and more than seven too. Mark the Bounds with a Shell, or Brick-bat, or with your Hat if you will. _Jer._ I'd rather do it with yours. _Nic._ Take the Ball again. _Jer._ Throw it; score it up. _Nic._ We have two good wide Goals. _Jer._ Pretty wide, but they are not out of Reach. _Nic._ They may be reach'd if no Body hinders it. _Jer._ O brave, I have gone beyond the first Goal. We are fifteen. Play stoutly, we had got this too, if you had stood in your Place. Well, now we are equal. _Nic._ But you shan't be so long. Well, we are thirty; we are forty five. _Jer._ What, Sesterces? _Nic._ No. _Jer._ What then? _Nic._ Numbers. _Jer._ What signifies Numbers, if you have nothing to pay? _Nic._ We have gotten this Game. _Jer._ You are a little too hasty; _you reckon your Chickens before they are hatch'd_. I have seen those lose the Game that have had so many for Love. War and Play is a meer Lottery. We have got thirty, now we are equal again. _Nic._ This is the Game Stroke. O brave! we have got the better of you. _Jer._ Well, but you shan't have it long; did I not say so? We are equally fortunate. _Nic._ Fortune inclines first to one side, and then to t'other, as if she could not tell which to give the Victory to. Fortune, be but on our Side, and we'll help thee to a Husband. O rare! She has answer'd her Desire, we have got this Game, set it up, that we mayn't forget. _Jer._ It is almost Night, and we have play'd enough, we had better leave off, too much of one Thing is good for nothing, let us reckon our Winnings. _Nic._ We have won three Groats, and you have won two; then there is one to be spent. But who must pay for the Balls? _Jer._ All alike, every one his Part. For there is so little won, we can't take any Thing from that. * * * * * _2. BOWL PLAYING._ _ADOLPHUS, BERNARDUS_, the Arbitrators. _Adol._ You have been often bragging what a mighty Gamester you were at Bowls. Come now, I have a Mind to try what a one you are. _Ber._ I'll answer you, if you have a Mind to that Sport. Now you'll find according to the Proverb; _You have met with your Match._ _Adol._ Well, and you shall find I am a Match for you too. _Ber._ Shall we play single Hands or double Hands? _Adol._ I had rather play single, that another may not come in with me for a Share of the Victory. _Ber._ And I had rather have it so too, that the Victory may be entirely my own. _Adol._ They shall look on, and be Judges. _Ber._ I take you up; But what shall he that beats get, or he that is beaten lose? _Adol._ What if he that beats shall have a Piece of his Ear cut off. _Ber._ Nay, rather let one of his Stones be cut out. It is a mean Thing to play for Money; you are a _Frenchman_, and I a _German_, we'll both play for the Honour of his Country. _Adol._ If I shall beat you, you shall cry out thrice, let _France_ flourish; If I shall be beat (which I hope I shan't) I'll in the same Words celebrate your _Germany_. _Ber._ Well, a Match. Now for good Luck; since two great Nations are at Stake in this Game, let the Bowls be both alike. _Adol._ Do you see that Stone that lies by the Port there. _Ber._ Yes I do. _Adol._ That shall be the Jack. _Ber._ Very well, let it be so; but I say let the Bowls be alike. _Adol._ They are as like as two Peas. Take which you please, it's all one to me. _Ber._ Bowl away. _Adol._ Hey-day, you whirl your Bowl as if your Arm was a Sling. _Ber._ You have bit your Lip, and whirled your Bowl long enough: Come bowl away. A strong Bowl indeed, but I am best. _Adol._ If it had not been for that mischievous Bit of a Brick-bat there, that lay in my Way, I had beat you off. _Ber._ Stand fair. _Adol._ I won't cheat: I intend to beat you, by Art, and not to cheat ye, since we contend for the Prize of Honour: Rub, rub. _Ber._ A great Cast in Troth. _Adol._ Nay, don't laugh before you've won. We are equal yet. _Ber._ This is who shall: He that first hits the Jack is up. I have beat you, sing. _Adol._ Stay, you should have said how many you'd make up, for my Hand is not come in yet. _Ber._ Judgment, Gentlemen. _Arbitr._ 3. _Adol._ Very well. _Ber._ Well, what do you say now? Are you beat or no? _Adol._ You have had better Luck than I, but yet I won't vail to you, as to Strength and Art; I'll stand to what the Company says. _Arb._ The _German_ has beat, and the Victory is the more glorious, that he has beat so good a Gamester. _Ber._ Now Cock, crow. _Adol._ I am hoarse. _Ber._ That's no new Thing to Cocks; but if you can't crow like an old Cock, crow like a Cockeril. _Adol._ Let _Germany_ flourish thrice. _Ber._ You ought to have said so thrice. I am a-dry; let us drink somewhere, I'll make an end of the Song there. _Adol._ I won't stand upon that, if the Company likes it. _Arb._ That will be the best, the Cock will crow clearer when his Throat is gargled. * * * * * _3. The Play of striking a Ball through an Iron Ring. GASPAR, ERASMUS. Gas._ Come, let's begin, _Marcolphus_ shall come in, in the Losers Place. _Er._ But what shall we play for? _Gas._ He that is beat shall make and repeat _extempore_ a Distich, in Praise of him that beat him. _Er._ With all my Heart. _Gas._ Shall we toss up who shall go first? _Er._ Do you go first if you will, I had rather go last. _Gas._ You have the better of me, because you know the Ground. _Er._ You're upon your own Ground. _Gas._ Indeed I am better acquainted with the Ground, than I am with my Books; but that's but a small Commendation. _Er._ You that are so good a Gamester ought to give me Odds. _Gas._ Nay, you should rather give me Odds; but there's no great Honour in getting a Victory, when Odds is taken: He only can properly be said to get the Game, that gets it by his own Art; we are as well match'd as can be. _Er._ Yours is a better Ball than mine. _Gas._ And yours is beyond me. _Er._ Play fair, without cheating and cozening. _Gas._ You shall say you have had to do with a fair Gamester. _Er._ But I would first know the Orders of the Bowling-alley. _Gas._ We make 4 up; whoever bowls beyond this Line it goes for nothing; if you can go beyond those other Bounds, do it fairly and welcome: Whoever hits a Bowl out of his Place loses his Cast. _Er._ I understand these Things. _Gas._ I have shut you out. _Er._ But I'll give you a Remove. _Gas._ If you do that I'll give you the Game. _Er._ Will you upon your Word? _Gas._ Yes, upon my Word: You have no other Way for it but to bank your Bowl so as to make it rebound on mine. _Er._ I'll try: Well, what say you now Friend? Are not you beaten away? (Have I not struck you away?) _Gas._ I am, I confess it; I wish you were but as wise as you are lucky; you can scarce do so once in a hundred Times. _Er._ I'll lay you, if you will, that I do it once in three Times. But come pay me what I have won. _Gas._ What's that? _Er._ Why, a Distich. _Gas._ Well, I'll pay it now. _Er._ And an extempore one too. Why do you bite your Nails? _Gas._ I have it. _Er._ Recite it out. _Gas._ As loud as you will. _Young Standers-by, dap ye the Conqueror brave, Who me has beat, is the more learned Knave_. Han't you a Distich now? _Er._ I have, and I'll give you as good as you bring. * * * * * 4. _Leaping._ VINCENT, LAURENCE. _Vi._ Have you a Mind to jump with me? _Lau._ That Play is not good presently after Dinner. _Vi._ Why so? _Lau._ Because that a Fulness of Belly makes the Body heavy. _Vi._ Not very much to those that live upon Scholars Commons, for these oftentimes are ready for a Supper before they have done Dinner. _Lau._ What Sort of leaping is it that you like best? _Vi._ Let us first begin with that which is the plainest, as that of Grasshoppers; or Leap-frog, if you like that better, both Feet at once, and close to one another; and when we have play'd enough at this, then we'll try other Sorts. _Lau._ I'll play at any Sort, where there is no Danger of breaking ones Legs; I have no Mind to make Work for the Surgeon. _Vi._ What if we should play at hopping? _Lau._ That the Ghosts play, I am not for that. _Vi._ It's the cleverest Way to leap with a Pole. _Lau._ Running is a more noble Exercise; for _Æneas_ in _Virgil_ proposed this Exercise. _Vi._ Very true, and he also propos'd the righting with Whirly-bats too, and I don't like that Sport. _Lau._ Mark the Course, let this be the Starting-place, and yonder Oak the Goal. _Vi._ I wish _Æneas_ was here, that he might propose what should be the Conqueror's Prize. _Lau._ Glory is a Reward sufficient for Victory. _Vi._ You should rather give a Reward to him that is beat, to comfort him. _Lau._ Then let the Victor's Reward be to go into the Town crowned with a Bur. _Vi._ Well, 'tis done, provided you'll go before playing upon a Pipe. _Lau._ It is very hot. _Vi._ That is not strange when it is Midsummer. _Lau._ Swimming is better. _Vi._ I don't love to live like a Frog, I am a Land Animal, not an amphibious one. _Lau._ But in old Time this was look'd upon to be one of the most noble Exercises. _Vi._ Nay, and a very useful one too. _Lau._ For What? _Vi._ If Men are forc'd to fly in Battel, they are in the best Condition that can run and swim best. _Lau._ The Art you speak of is not to be set light by; it is as Praise-worthy sometimes to run away nimbly as it is to fight stoutly. _Vi._ I can't swim at all, and it is dangerous to converse with an unaccustomed Element. _Lau._ You ought to learn then, for no Body was born an Artist. _Vi._ But I have heard of a great many of these Artists that have swum in, but never swam out again. _Lau._ First try with Corks. _Vi._ I can't trust more to a Cork than to my Feet; if you have a Mind to swim, I had rather be a Spectator than an Actor. _The CHILD'S PIETY._ The ARGUMENT. _This Discourse furnishes a childish Mind with pious Instructions of Religion, in what it consists. What is to be done in the Morning in Bed, at getting up, at Home, at School, before Meat, after Meat, before going to Sleep. Of beginning the Day, of praying, of behaving themselves studiously at School, Thriftiness of Time: Age flies. What is to be done after Supper. How we ought to sleep. Of Behaviour at holy Worship. All Things to be applied to ourselves. The Meditation of a pious Soul at Church. What Preachers are chiefly to be heard. Fasting is prejudicial to Children. Confession is to be made to Christ. The Society of wicked Persons is to be avoided. Of the prudent chusing a Way of Living. Holy Orders and Matrimony are not to be entred into before the Age of Twenty-two. What Poets are fit to be read, and how._ ERASMUS, GASPAR. _ERASMUS._ Whence came you from? Out of some Alehouse? _Ga._ No, indeed. _Er._ What from a Bowling Green? _Ga._ No, nor from thence neither. _Er._ What from the Tavern then? _Ga._ No. _Er._ Well, since I can't guess, tell me. _Ga._ From St. _Mary's_ Church. _Er._ What Business had you there? _Ga._ I saluted some Persons. _Er._ Who? _Ga._ Christ, and some of the Saints. _Er._ You have more Religion than is common to one of your Age. _Ga._ Religion is becoming to every Age. _Er._ If I had a Mind to be religious, I'd become a Monk. _Ga._ And so would I too, if a Monk's Hood carried in it as much Piety as it does Warmth. _Er._ There is an old Saying, a young Saint and an old Devil. _Ga._ But I believe that old Saying came from old Satan: I can hardly think an old Man to be truly religious, that has not been so in his young Days. Nothing is learn'd to greater Advantage, than what we learn in our youngest Years. _Er._ What is that which is call'd Religion? _Ga._ It is the pure Worship of God, and Observation of his Commandments. _Er._ What are they? _Ga._ It is too long to relate all; but I'll tell you in short, it consists in four Things. _Er._ What are they? _Ga._ In the first Place, that we have a true and pious Apprehension of God himself, and the Holy Scriptures; and that we not only stand in Awe of him as a Lord, but that we love him with all our Heart, as a most beneficent Father. 2. That we take the greatest Care to keep ourselves blameless; that is, that we do no Injury to any one. 3. That we exercise Charity, _i.e._ to deserve well of all Persons (as much as in us lyes). 4. That we practise Patience, _i.e._ to bear patiently Injuries that are offered us, when we can't prevent them, not revenging them, nor requiting Evil for Evil. _Er._ You hold forth finely; but do you practise what you teach? _Ga._ I endeavour it manfully. _Er._ How can you do it like a Man, when you are but a Boy? _Ga._ I meditate according to my Ability, and call myself to an Account every Day; and correct myself for what I have done amiss: That was unhandsomely done this saucily said, this was uncautiously acted; in that it were better to have held my Peace, that was neglected. _Er._ When do you come to this Reckoning? _Ga._ Most commonly at Night; or at any Time that I am most at Leisure. _Er._ But tell me, in what Studies do you spend the Day? _Ga._ I will hide nothing from so intimate a Companion: In the Morning, as soon as I am awake, (and that is commonly about six a Clock, or sometimes at five) I sign myself with my Finger in the Forehead and Breast with the Sign of the Cross. _Er._ What then? _Ga._ I begin the Day in the Name of the Father, Son, and holy Spirit. _Er._ Indeed that is very piously done. _Ga._ By and by I put up a short Ejaculation to Christ. _Er._ What dost thou say to him? _Ga._ I give him Thanks that he has been pleased to bless me that Night; and I pray him that he would in like Manner prosper me the whole of that Day, so as may be for his Glory, and my Soul's Good; and that he who is the true Light that never sets, the eternal Sun, that enlivens, nourishes and exhilarates all Things, would vouchsafe to enlighten my Soul, that I mayn't fall into Sin; but by his Guidance, may attain everlasting Life. _Er._ A very good Beginning of the Day indeed. _Ga._ And then having bid my Parents good Morrow, to whom next to God, I owe the greatest Reverence, when it is Time I go to School; but so that I may pass by some Church, if I can conveniently. _Er._ What do you do there? _Ga._ I salute Jesus again in three Words, and all the Saints, either Men or Women; but the Virgin _Mary_ by Name, and especially that I account most peculiarly my own. _Er._ Indeed you seem to have read that Sentence of _Cato, Saluta libenter_, to good Purpose; was it not enough to have saluted Christ in the Morning, without saluting him again presently? Are you not afraid lest you should be troublesome by your over Officiousness? _Ga._ Christ loves to be often called upon. _Er._ But it seems to be ridiculous to speak to one you don't see. _Ga._ No more do I see that Part of me that speaks to him. _Er._ What Part is that? _Ga._ My Mind. _Er._ But it seems to be Labour lost, to salute one that does not salute you again. _Ga._ He frequently salutes again by his secret Inspiration; and he answers sufficiently that gives what is ask'd of him. _Er._ What is it you ask of him? For I perceive your Salutations are petitionary, like those of Beggars. _Ga._ Indeed you are very right; for I pray that he, who, when he was a Boy of about twelve Years of Age, sitting in the Temple, taught the Doctors themselves, and to whom the heavenly Father, by a Voice from Heaven, gave Authority to teach Mankind, saying, _This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased, hear ye him_; and who is the eternal Wisdom of the most high Father, would vouchsafe to enlighten my Understanding, to receive wholesome Learning, that I may use it to his Glory. _Er._ Who are those Saints that you call peculiarly yours? _Ga._ Of the Apostles, St. _Paul_; of the Martyrs, St. _Cyprian_; of the Doctors, St. _Jerome_; of the Virgins, St. _Agnes_. _Er._ How came these to be yours, more than the rest. Was it by Choice or by Chance? _Ga._ They fell to me by Lot. _Er._ But you only salute them I suppose; do you beg any Thing of them? _Ga._ I pray, that by their Suffrages they would recommend me to Christ, and procure that by his Assistance it may in Time come to pass that I be made one of their Company. _Er._ Indeed what you ask for is no ordinary Thing: But what do you do then? _Ga._ I go to School, and do what is to be done there with my utmost Endeavour; I so implore Christ's Assistance, as if my Study without it would signify nothing; and I study as if he offered no Help but to him that labours industriously; and I do my utmost not to deserve to be beaten, nor to offend my Master either in Word or Deed, nor any of my Companions. _Er._ You are a good Boy to mind these Things. _Ga._ When School is done I make haste Home, and if I can I take a Church in my Way, and in three Words, I salute Jesus again; and I pay my Respects to my Parents; and if I have any Time, I repeat, either by myself, or with one of my School-fellows, what was dictated in School. _Er._ Indeed you are a very good Husband of Time. _Ga._ No wonder I am of that, which is the most precious Thing in the World, and when past is irrecoverable. _Er._ And _Hesiod_ teaches, that good Husbandry ought to be in the Middle, it is too soon in the Beginning, and too late in the End. _Ga._ _Hesiod_ spoke right enough concerning Wine, but of Time no good Husbandry is unseasonable. If you let a Hogshead of Wine alone it won't empty itself; but Time is always a flying, sleeping or waking. _Er._ I confess so, but what do you do after that? _Ga._ When my Parents sit down to Dinner I say Grace, and then wait at Table till I am bid to take my own Dinner; and having returned Thanks, if I have any Time left I divert myself with my Companions with some lawful Recreation till the Time comes to go to School again. _Er._ Do you salute Jesus again? _Ga._ Yes, if I have an Opportunity; but if it so happen that I have not an Opportunity, or it be not seasonable, as I pass by the Church I salute him mentally; and then I do what is to be done at School with all my Might; and when I go Home again I do what I did before Dinner: After Supper I divert myself with some pleasant Stories; and afterwards bidding my Parents and the Family good Night, I go to Bed betimes, and there kneeling down by the Bedside, as I have said, I say over those Things I have been learning that Day at School; if I have committed any great Fault, I implore Christ's Clemency, that he would pardon me, and I promise Amendment: and if I have committed no Fault, I thank him for his Goodness in preserving me from all Vice, and then I recommend myself to him with all my Soul, that he would preserve me from the Attempts of my evil Genius and filthy Dreams. When this is done, and I am got into Bed, I cross my Forehead and Breast, and compose myself to Rest. _Er._ In what Posture do you compose yourself? _Ga._ I don't lye upon my Face or my Back, but first leaning upon my Right-Side, I fold my Arms a-cross, so that they may defend my Breast, as it were with the Figure of a Cross, with my Right-hand upon my Left Shoulder, and my Left upon my Right, and so I sleep sweetly, either till I awake of myself, or am called up. _Er._ You are a little Saint that can do thus. _Ga._ You are a little Fool for saying so. _Er._ I praise your Method, and I would I could practise it. _Ga._ Give your Mind to it and you will do it, for when once you have accustom'd yourself to it for a few Months, these Things will be pleasant, and become natural. _Er._ But I want to hear concerning divine Service. _Ga._ I don't neglect that, especially upon holy Days. _Er._ How do you manage yourself on holy Days? _Ga._ In the first place I examine myself if my Mind be Polluted by any Stain of Sin. _Er._ And if you find it is, what do you do then? Do you refrain from the Altar? _Ga._ Not by my bodily Presence, but I withdraw myself, as to my Mind, and standing as it were afar off, as tho' not daring to lift up my Eyes to God the Father, whom I have offended, I strike upon my Breast, crying out with the Publican in the Gospel, _Lord, be merciful to me a Sinner_. And then if I know I have offended any Man, I take Care to make him Satisfaction if I can presently; but if I cannot do that, I resolve in my Mind to reconcile my Neighbour as soon as possible. If any Body has offended me, I forbear Revenge, and endeavour to bring it about, that he that has offended me may be made sensible of his Fault, and be sorry for it; but if there be no Hope of that, I leave all Vengeance to God. _Er._ That's a hard Task. _Ga._ Is it hard to forgive a small Offence to your Brother, whose mutual Forgiveness thou wilt stand in frequent need of, when Christ has at once forgiven us all our Offences, and is every Day forgiving us? Nay, this seems to me not to be Liberality to our Neighbour, but putting to Interest to God; just as tho' one Fellow-Servant should agree with another to forgive him three Groats, that his Lord might forgive him ten Talents. _Er._ You indeed argue very rationally, if what you say be true. _Ga._ Can you desire any Thing truer than the Gospel? _Er._ That is unreasonable; but there are some who can't believe themselves to be Christians unless they hear Mass (as they call it) every Day. _Ga._ Indeed I don't condemn the Practise in those that have Time enough, and spend whole Days in profane Exercises; but I only disapprove of those who superstitiously fancy that that Day must needs be unfortunate to them that they have not begun with the Mass; and presently after divine Service is over they go either to Trading, Gaming, or the Court, where whatsoever succeeds, though done justly or unjustly, they attribute to the Mass. _Er._ Are there any Persons that are so absurd? _Ga._ The greatest part of Mankind. _Er._ But return to divine Service. _Ga._ If I can, I get to stand so close by the Holy Altar, that I can hear what the Priest reads, especially the Epistle and the Gospel; from these I endeavour to pick something, which I fix in my Mind, and this I ruminate upon for some Time. _Er._ Don't you pray at all in the mean Time? _Ga._ I do pray, but rather mentally than vocally. From the Things the Priest reads I take occasion of Prayer. _Er._ Explain that a little more, I don't well take in what you mean. _Ga._ I'll tell you; suppose this Epistle was read, _Purge out the old Leaven, that ye may be a new Lump, as ye are unleavened_. On occasion of these Words I thus address myself to Christ, "I wish I were the unleavened Bread, pure from all Leaven of Malice; but do thou, O Lord Jesus, who alone art pure, and free from all Malice, grant that I may every Day more and more purge out the old Leaven." Again, if the Gospel chance to be read concerning the Sower sowing his Seed, I thus pray with my self, "Happy is he that deserves to be that good Ground, and I pray that of barren Ground, he of his great Goodness would make me good Ground, without whose Blessing nothing at all is good." These for Example Sake, for it would be tedious to mention every Thing. But if I happen to meet with a dumb Priest, (such as there are many in _Germany_) or that I can't get near the Altar, I commonly get a little Book that has the Gospel of that Day and Epistle, and this I either say out aloud, or run it over with my Eye. _Er._ I understand; but with what Contemplations chiefly dost thou pass away the Time? _Ga._ I give Thanks to Jesus Christ for his unspeakable Love, in condescending to redeem Mankind by his Death; I pray that he would not suffer his most holy Blood to be shed in vain for me, but that with his Body he would always feed my Soul, and that with his Blood he would quicken my Spirit, that growing by little and little in the Increase of Graces, I may be made a fit Member of his mystical Body, which is the Church; nor may ever fall from that holy Covenant that he made with his elect Disciples at the last Supper, when he distributed the Bread, and gave the Cup; and through these, with all who are engraffed into his Society by Baptism. And if I find my Thoughts to wander, I read some Psalms, or some pious Matter, that may keep my Mind from wandring. _Er._ Have you any particular Psalms for this Purpose? _Ga._ I have; but I have not so tyed myself up to them, but that I can omit them, if any Meditation comes into my Mind that is more refreshing, than the Recitation of those Psalms. _Er._ What do you do as to Fasting? _Ga._ I have nothing to do with Fasting, for so _Jerome_ has taught me; that Health is not to be impair'd by fasting, until the Body is arrived at its full Strength. I am not quite 17 Years old; but yet if I find Occasion, I dine and sup sparingly, that I may be more lively for Spiritual Exercises on holy Days. _Er._ Since I have begun, I will go through with my Enquiries. How do you find yourself affected towards Sermons? _Ga._ Very well, I go to them as devoutly as if I was a going to a holy Assembly; and yet I pick and chuse whom to hear, for there are some, one had better not hear than hear; and if such an one happens to preach, or if it happen that no Body preaches, I pass this Time in reading the Scriptures, I read the Gospel or Epistle with _Chrysostom's_ or _Jerome's_ Interpretation, or any other pious and learned Interpreter that I meet with. _Er._ But Word of Mouth is more affecting. _Ga._ I confess it is. I had rather hear if I can but meet with a tolerable Preacher; but I don't seem to be wholly destitute of a Sermon if I hear _Chrysostom_ or _Jerome_ speaking by their Writings. _Er._ I am of your Mind; but how do you stand affected as to Confession? _Ga._ Very well; for I confess daily. _Er._ Every Day? _Ga._ Yes. _Er._ Then you ought to keep a Priest to yourself. _Ga._ But I confess to him who only truly remits Sins, to whom all the Power is given. _Er._ To whom? _Ga._ To Christ. _Er._ And do you think that's sufficient? _Ga._ It would be enough for me, if it were enough for the Rulers of the Church, and receiv'd Custom. _Er._ Who do you call the Rulers of the Church? _Ga._ The Popes, Bishops and Apostles. _Er._ And do you put Christ into this Number? _Ga._ He is without Controversy the chief Head of e'm all. _Er._ And was he the Author of this Confession in use? _Ga._ He is indeed the Author of all good; but whether he appointed Confession as it is now us'd in the Church, I leave to be disputed by Divines. The Authority of my Betters is enough for me that am but a Lad and a private Person. This is certainly the principal Confession; nor is it an easy Matter to confess to Christ; no Body confesses to him, but he that is angry with his Sin. If I have committed any great Offence, I lay it open, and bewail it to him, and implore his Mercy; I cry out, weep and lament, nor do I give over before I feel the Love of Sin throughly purged from the Bottom of my Heart, and some Tranquility and Chearfulness of Mind follow upon it, which is an Argument of the Sin being pardoned. And when the Time requires to go to the holy Communion of the Body and Blood of Christ; then I make Confession to a Priest too, but in few Words, and nothing but what I am well satisfy'd are Faults, or such that carry in them a very great Suspicion that they are such; neither do I always take it to be a capital or enormous Crime, every Thing that is done contrary to human Constitutions, unless a wicked Contemptuousness shall go along with it: Nay, I scarce believe any Crime to be Capital, that has not Malice join'd with it, that is, a perverse Will. _Er._ I commend you, that you are so religious, and yet not superstitious: Here I think the old Proverb takes place: _Nec omnia, nec passim, nec quibuslibet_, That a Person should neither speak all, nor every where, nor to all Persons. _Ga._ I chuse me a Priest, that I can trust with the Secrets of my Heart. _Er._ That's wisely done: For there are a great many, as is found by Experience, do blab out what in Confessions is discovered to them. And there are some vile impudent Fellows that enquire of the Person confessing, those Things, that it were better if they were conceal'd; and there are some unlearned and foolish Fellows, who for the Sake of filthy Gain, lend their Ear, but apply not their Mind, who can't distinguish between a Fault and a good Deed, nor can neither teach, comfort nor advise. These Things I have heard from many, and in Part have experienced my self. _Ga._ And I too much; therefore I chuse me one that is learn'd, grave, of approv'd Integrity, and one that keeps his Tongue within his Teeth. _Er._ Truly you are happy that can make a Judgment of Things so early. _Ga._ But above all, I take Care of doing any Thing that I can't safely trust a Priest with. _Er._ That's the best Thing in the World, if you can but do so. _Ga._ Indeed it is hard to us of ourselves, but by the Help of Christ it is easy; the greatest Matter is, that there be a Will to it. I often renew my Resolution, especially upon Sundays: And besides that, I endeavour as much as I can to keep out of evil Company, and associate myself with good Company, by whose Conversation I may be better'd. _Er._ Indeed you manage yourself rightly: For _evil Conversations corrupt good Manners_. _Ga._ I shun Idleness as the Plague. _Er._ You are very right, for Idleness is the Root of all Evil; but as the World goes now, he must live by himself that would keep out of bad Company. _Ga._ What you say is very true, for as the _Greek_ wise Men said the bad are the greatest Number. But I chuse the best out of a few, and sometimes a good Companion makes his Companion better. I avoid those Diversions that incite to Naughtiness, and use those that are innocent. I behave myself courteous to all; but familiarly with none but those that are good. If I happen at any Time to fall into bad Company, I either correct them by a soft Admonition, or wink at and bear with them, if I can do them no good; but I be sure to get out of their Company as soon as I can. _Er._ Had you never an itching Mind to become a Monk? _Ga._ Never; but I have been often solicited to it by some, that call you into a Monastery, as into a Port from a Shipwreck. _Er._ Say you so? Were they in Hopes of a Prey? _Ga._ They set upon both me and my Parents with a great many crafty Persuasions; but I have taken a Resolution not to give my Mind either to Matrimony or Priesthood, nor to be a Monk, nor to any Kind of Life out of which I can't extricate myself, before I know myself very well. _Er._ When will that be? _Ga._ Perhaps never. But before the 28th Year of ones Age, nothing should be resolved on. _Er._ Why so? _Ga._ Because I hear every where, so many Priests, Monks and married Men lamenting that they hurried themselves rashly into Servitude. _Er._ You are very cautious not to be catch'd. _Ga._ In the mean Time I take a special Care of three Things. _Er._ What are they? _Ga._ First of all to make a good Progress in Morality, and if I can't do that, I am resolv'd to maintain an unspotted Innocence and good Name; and last of all I furnish myself with Languages and Sciences that will be of Use in any Kind of Life. _Er._ But do you neglect the Poets? _Ga._ Not wholly, but I read generally the chastest of them, and if I meet with any Thing that is not modest, I pass that by, as _Ulysses_ passed by the _Sirens_, stopping his Ears. _Er._ To what Kind of Study do you chiefly addict your self? To Physic, the Common or Civil Law, or to Divinity? For Languages, the Sciences and Philosophy are all conducive to any Profession whatsoever. _Ga._ I have not yet thoroughly betaken myself to any one particularly, but I take a Taste of all, that I be not wholly ignorant of any; and the rather, that having tasted of all I may the better chuse that I am fittest for. Medicine is a certain Portion in whatsoever Land a Man is; the Law is the Way to Preferment: But I like Divinity the best, saving that the Manners of some of the Professors of it, and the bitter Contentions that are among them, displease me. _Er._ He won't be very apt to fall that goes so warily along. Many in these Days are frighted from Divinity, because they are afraid they should not be found in the Catholick Faith, because they see no Principle of Religion, but what is called in Question. _Ga._ I believe firmly what I read in the holy Scriptures, and the Creed, called the Apostles, and I don't trouble my Head any farther: I leave the rest to be disputed and defined by the Clergy, if they please; and if any Thing is in common Use with Christians that is not repugnant to the holy Scriptures, I observe it for this Reason, that I may not offend other People. _Er._ What _Thales_ taught you that Philosophy? _Ga._ When I was a Boy and very young, I happen'd to live in the House with that honestest of Men, _John Colet_, do you know him? _Er._ Know him, ay, as well as I do you. _Ga._ He instructed me when I was young in these Precepts. _Er._ You won't envy me, I hope, if I endeavour to imitate you? _Ga._ Nay, by that Means you will be much dearer to me. For you know, Familiarity and good Will, are closer ty'd by Similitude of Manners. _Er._ True, but not among Candidates for the same Office, when they are both sick of the same Disease. _Ga._ No, nor between two Sweet-hearts of the same Mistress, when they are both sick of the same Love. _Er._ But without jesting, I'll try to imitate that Course of Life. _Ga._ I wish you as good Success as may be. _Er._ It may be I shall overtake thee. _Ga._ I wish you might get before me; but in the mean Time I won't stay for you; but I will every Day endeavour to out-go myself, and do you endeavour to out-go me if you can. _The ART OF HUNTING._ The ARGUMENT. _This Colloquy presents you with the Art of Hunting; Fishing, of bringing Earth-Worms out of the Ground, of sticking Frogs._ PAUL, THOMAS, VINCENT, LAWRENCE, BARTHOLUS. _Pa. Every one to his Mind._ I love Hunting. _Th._ And so do I too, but where are the Dogs? The hunting Poles? And the hunting Nets? _Pa._ Farewell Boars, Bears, Bucks, and Foxes, we'll lay Snares for Rabbets. _Vi._ But I'll set Gins for Locusts and Crickets. _La._ But I'll catch Frogs. _Ba._ I'll hunt Butterflies. _La._ 'Tis difficult to follow flying Creatures. _Ba._ It is difficult, but 'tis fine Sport; unless you think it finer Sport to hunt after Earth-Worms, Snails or Cockles, because they have no Wings. _La._ Indeed I had rather go a Fishing; I have a neat Hook. _Ba._ But where will you get Baits? _La._ There are Earth-Worms enough every where to be had. _Ba._ So there is, if they would but creep out of the Ground to you. _La._ But I'll make a great many thousand jump out presently. _Ba._ How? By Witch-Craft? _La._ You shall see the Art. Fill this Bucket with Water, break these green Peels of Walnuts to Pieces and put into it: Wet the Ground with the Water. Now mind a little, do you see them coming out? _Ba._ I see a Miracle. I believe the armed Men started out of the Earth after this Manner from the Serpents Teeth that were sown: But a great many Fish are of too fine and delicate a Palate to be catch'd by such a vulgar Bait. _La._ I know a certain Sort of an Insect that I us'd to catch such with. _Ba._ See if you can impose upon the Fishes so, I'll make work with the Frogs. _La._ How, with a Net? _Ba._ No, with a Bow. _La._ That's a new Way of Fishing! _Ba._ But 'tis a pleasant one; you'll say so, when you see it. _Vi._ What if we two should play at holding up our Fingers? _Ba._ That's an idle, clownish Play indeed, fitter for them that are sitting in a Chimney Corner, than those that are ranging in the Field. _Vi._ What if we should play at Cob-Nut? _Pa._ Let us let Nuts alone for little Chits, we are great Boys. _Vi._ And yet we are but Boys for all that. _Pa._ But they that are fit to play at Cob-Nut, are fit to ride upon a Hobby-Horse. _Vi._ Well then, do you say what we shall play at; and I'll play at what you will. _Pa._ And I'll be conformable. _SCHOLASTIC STUDIES._ The ARGUMENT. _This Colloquy treats of scholastic Studies, and School Plays, I. The Boys going into the School. The striking of a Clock. A whipping Master. Of saying a Lesson. Fear hurts the Memory. 2. Of Writing, the Paper sinks. Of making a Pen. Of a hard Nip. A soft Nip. Of writing quick, well._ SYLVIUS, JOHN. _Sy._ What makes you run so, _John?_ _Jo._ What makes a Hare run before the Dogs, as they use to say? _Sy._ What Proverb is this? _Jo._ Because unless I am there in Time, before the Bill is called over, I am sure to be whipp'd. _Sy._ You need not be afraid of that, it is but a little past five: Look upon the Clock, the Hand is not come to the half Hour Point yet. _Jo._ Ay, but I can scarce trust to Clocks, they go wrong sometimes. _Sy._ But trust me then, I heard the Clock strike. _Jo._ What did that strike? _Sy._ Five. _Jo._ But there is something else that I am more afraid of than that, I must say by Heart a good long Lesson for Yesterday, and I am afraid I can't say it. _Sy._ I am in the same Case with you; for I myself have hardly got mine as it should be. _Jo._ And you know the Master's Severity. Every Fault is a Capital one with him: He has no more Mercy of our Breeches, than if they were made of a Bull's Hide. _Sy._ But he won't be in the School. _Jo._ Who has he appointed in his Place? _Sy. Cornelius._ _Jo._ That squint-ey'd Fellow! Wo to our Back-Sides, he's a greater Whip-Master than _Busby_ himself. _Sy._ You say very true, and for that Reason I have often wish'd he had a Palsy in his Arm. _Jo._ It is not pious to wish ill to ones Master: it is our Business rather to take Care not to fall under the Tyrant's Hands. _Sy._ Let us say one to another, one repeating and the other looking in the Book. _Jo._ That's well thought on. _Sy._ Come, be of good Heart; for Fear spoils the Memory. _Jo._ I could easily lay aside Fear, if I were out of Danger; but who can be at Ease in his Mind, that is in so much Danger. _Sy._ I confess so; but we are not in Danger of our Heads, but of our Tails. * * * * * 2. _Of Writing._ CORNELIUS, ANDREW. _Co._ You write finely, but your Paper sinks. Your Paper is damp, and the Ink sinks through it. _An._ Pray make me a Pen of this. _Co._ I have not a Pen-knife. _An._ Here is one for you. _Co._ Out on't, how blunt it is! _An._ Take the Hoan. _Co._ Do you love to write with a hard-nip'd Pen, or a soft? _An._ Make it fit for your own Hand. _Co._ I use to write with a soft Nip. _An._ Pray write me out the Alphabet. _Co._ Greek or Latin? _An._ Write me the Latin first; I'll try to imitate it. _Co._ Give me some Paper then. _An._ Take some. _Co._ But my Ink is too thin, by often pouring in of Water. _An._ But my Cotton is quite dry. _Co._ Squeeze it, or else piss in it. _An._ I had rather get some Body to give me some. _Co._ It is better to have of one's own, than to borrow. _An._ What's a Scholar without Pen and Ink? _Co._ The same that a Soldier is without Shield or Sword. _An._ I wish my Fingers were so nimble, I can't write as fast as another speaks. _Co._ Let it be your first chief Care to write well, and your next to write quick: No more Haste than good Speed. _An._ Very well; say to the Master when he dictates, no more Haste than good Speed. * * * * * _A Form of giving Thanks. PETER, CHRISTIAN._ _Pe._ You have oblig'd me, in that you have written to me sometimes. I thank you for writing to me often. I love you, that you have not thought much to send me now and then a Letter. I give you Thanks that you have visited me with frequent Letters. I thank you for loading of me with Packets of Letters. I thank you heartily that you have now and then provoked me with Letters. You have oblig'd me very much that you have honour'd me with your Letters. I am much beholden to you for your most obliging Letters to me. I take it as a great Favour, that you have not thought much to write to me. _The Answer._ _Ch._ Indeed I ought to beg Pardon for my Presumption, who dar'd presume to trouble a Man of so much Business, and so much Learning with my unlearned Letters. I acknowledge your usual Humanity, who have taken my Boldness in good Part. I was afraid my Letters had given you some Offence, that you sent me no Answer. There is no Reason that you should thank me, it is more than enough for me, if you have taken my Industry in good Part. * * * * * _A Form of asking after News._ _Pe._ Is there no News come from our Country? Have you had any News from our Countrymen? What News? Do you bring any News? Is there any News come to Town? Is there any News abroad from our Country? _The Answer._ _Ch._ There is much News; but nothing of Truth. News enough indeed; but nothing certain. A great deal of News; but nothing to be depended upon. Not a little News; but not much Truth. There is no News come. I have had no News at all. Something of News; but nothing certain. There are a great many Reports come to Town; but they are all doubtful. There is a great deal of Talk; but nothing true, nothing certain. If Lies please, I have brought you a whole Cart-Load of them. I bring you whole Bushels of Tales. I bring you as many Lies as a good Ship will carry. _Pe._ Then unlade yourself as fast as you can, for fear you should sink, being so over-freighted. _Ch._ I have nothing but what's the Chat of Barbers Shops, Coaches and Boats. _Han't you received any Letters. The Form_. _Pe._ Have you had no Letters? Have you had any Letters out of your own Country? Have no Letters been brought to you? Have you receiv'd any Letters? Have you had any Letters? Have you receiv'd any Letters from your Friends? Are there no Letters come from _France_? _The Answer._ _Ch._ I have received no Letters. I han't had so much as a Letter. I han't had the least Bit of a Letter. No Body has sent me any Letter. There is not the least Word come from any Body. I have received no more Letters for this long Time, than what you see in my Eye. Indeed I had rather have Money than Letters. I had rather receive Money than Letters. I don't matter Letters, so the Money does but come. I had rather be paid, than be written to. * * * * * _I believe so. The Form._ _Pe._ I easily believe you. That is not hard to be believ'd. It is a very easy Thing to believe that. Who would not believe you in that? He will be very incredulous, that won't believe you in that Matter. In Truth I do believe you. You will easily make me believe that. I can believe you without swearing. What you say is very likely. But for all that, Letters bring some Comfort. I had rather have either of them, than neither. * * * * * _Of Profit. A Form._ _Ch._ What signifies Letters without Money? What signifies empty Letters? What do empty Letters avail? What good do they do, what do they profit, advantage? To whom are Letters grateful or acceptable without Money? What Advantage do empty Letters bring? What are idle Letters good for? What do they do? What use are they of? What are they good for? What do they bring with them of Moment? What Use are empty Letters of? _The Answer._ _Pe._ They are useful, fit, proper, to wipe your Breech with. They are good to wipe your Backside with. If you don't know the Use of them, they are good to wipe your Arse with. To wipe your Breech with. To wipe your Backside with. They are good to cleanse that Part of the Body that often fouls itself. They are good to wrap Mackrel in. Good to make up Grocery Ware in. * * * * * _Of wishing well._ 1. _To a Man whose Wife is with Child._ _Pe._ What? are our little Friends well? How does your Wife do? _Ch._ Very well, I left her with her Mother, and with Child. _Pe._ I wish it may be well for you, and her too: To you, because you're shortly to be a Father, and she a Mother. God be with you. I pray and desire that it may be prosperous and happy to you both. I pray, I beg of God that she, having a safe Delivery, may bear a Child worthy of you both; and may make you a Father of a fine Child. I commend you that you have shewed yourself to be a Man. I am glad you have prov'd yourself to be a Man. You have shew'd yourself to be a Gallus, but not _Cybele_'s. Now you may go, I believe you are a Man. _Ch._ You joke upon me, as you are used to do. Well, go on, you may say what you please to me. * * * * * 2. _To one coming Home into his own Country._ _Ch._ I hear, you have lately been in your own Country. _Pe._ I have so, I had been out of it a pretty While. I could not bear to be out of it long. I could not bear to be out of my Parents Sight any longer. I thought it long till I enjoy'd my Friends Company. _Ch._ You have acted very piously. You are very good Humour'd, to think of those Matters. We have all a strange Affection for the Country that hath bred us, and brought us forth. _As_ Ovid _says_: _Nescio quâ natale solum dulcedine cunctos Ducit, et immemores non sinit esse sui._ Pray tell me how did you find all Things there. * * * * * _All Things new. The Form._ _Pe._ Nothing but what was new. All Things changed, all Things become new. See how soon Time changes all human Affairs. Methought I came into another World. I had scarce been absent ten Years, and yet I admired at every Thing, as much as _Epimenides_ the Prince of Sleepers, when he first wak'd out of his Sleep. _Ch._ What Story is that? What Fable is that? _Pe._ I'll tell you if you are at Leisure. _Ch._ There is nothing more pleasant. _Pe._ Then order me a Chair and a Cushion. _Ch._ That's very well thought on, for you will tell Lyes the better, sitting at Ease. _Pe._ Historians tell us a Story, of one _Epimenides_ a Man of _Crete_, who taking a Walk alone by himself without the City, being caught in a hasty Shower of Rain, went for Shelter into a Cave, and there fell asleep, and slept on for seven and forty Years together. _I don't believe it. The Form._ _Ch._ What a Story you tell? 'Tis incredible. What you say is not very likely. You tell me a Fiction. I don't think 'tis true. You tell me a monstrous Story. Are you not asham'd to be guilty of so wicked a Lye? This is a Fable fit to be put among _Lucian's_ Legends. _Pe._ Nay, I tell you what is related by Authors of Credit, unless you think _Aulus Gellius_ is not an Author of approv'd Credit. _Ch._ Nay, whatsoever he has written are Oracles to me. _Pe._ Do you think that a Divine dream'd so many Years? For it is storied that he was a Divine. _Ch._ I am with Child to hear. _The Answer._ _Pe._ What is it more than what _Scotus_ and the School-men did afterwards? But _Epimenides_, he came off pretty well, he came to himself again at last; but a great many Divines never wake out of their Dreams. _Ch._ Well go on, you do like a Poet; But go on with your Lye. _Pe._ _Epimenides_ waking out of his Sleep, goes out of his Cave, and looks about him, and sees all Things chang'd, the Woods, the Banks, the Rivers, the Trees, the Fields; and, in short, there was nothing but was new: He goes to the City, and enquires; he stays there a little While, but knows no Body, nor did any Body know him: the Men were dress'd after another Fashion, than what they were before; they had not the same Countenances; their Speech was alter'd, and their Manners quite different: Nor do I wonder it was so with _Epimenides_, after so many Years, when it was almost so with me, when I had been absent but a few Years. _Ch._ But how do your Father and Mother do? Are they living? _Pe._ They are both alive and well; but pretty much worn out with old Age, Diseases, and lastly, with the Calamities of War. _Ch._ This is the Comedy of human Life. This is the inevitable Law of Destiny. * * * * * _Words, Names of Affinity._ _Pe._ Will you sup at Home to Day? _Ch._ I am to sup abroad: I must go out to Supper. _Pe._ With whom? _Ch._ With my Father in Law; with my Son in Law; at my Daughter's in Law; with my Kinsman. They are call'd, _Affines_, Kinsmen, who are ally'd not by Blood, but Marriage. _Pe._ What are the usual Names of Affinity? _Ch._ A Husband and Wife are noted Names. _Socer_, Is my Wife's Father. _Gener_, My Daughter's Husband. _Socrus_, My Wife's Mother. _Nurus_, My Son's Wife. _Levir_, A Husband's Brother. _Levir_ is call'd by the Wife, as _Helen_ calls _Hector_, _Levir_, because she was married to _Paris_. _Fratria_, My Brother's Wife. _Glos_, A Husband's Sister. _Vitricus_, My Mother's Husband. _Noverca_, My Father's Wife. _Privignus_, The Son of my Wife or Husband. _Privigna_, The Daughter of either of them. _Rivalis_, He that loves the same Woman another does. _Pellex_, She that loves the same Man another does; as _Thraso_ is the Rival of _Phroedria_, and _Europa_ the _Pellex_ of _Juno_. * * * * * _Of inviting to a Feast._ _Dine with me to Morrow._ _Pe._ I give you Thanks, I commend you, I invite you to Supper against to Morrow, I entreat your Company at Supper to Morrow. I desire you'd come to Dinner with me to Morrow. I would have your Company at Dinner to Morrow. _I fear I can't come._ _Ch._ I fear I can't. I am afraid I can't. I will come if I can; but I am afraid I can't. _Why?_ _Pe._ Why can't you? How so? Why so? Wherefore? For what Reason? For what Cause? What hinders you that you can't. _I must stay at Home._ _Ch._ Indeed I must be at Home at that Time. I must needs be at Home at Night. I must not be abroad at that Time. I shall not have an Opportunity to go out any where to Morrow. I must not be absent at Dinner. I expect some Guests myself upon that Day. Some Friends have made an Appointment to sup at our House that Night. I have some Guests to entertain that Night, or else I would come with all my Heart. Unless it were so, I would not be unwilling to come. If it were not so, I should not want much entreating. I would make no Excuse if I could come. If I could come, I would not be ask'd twice. If I could by any Means come, I would come with a very little, or without any Invitation at all. If I could, I would obey your Command very readily. It is in vain to ask one that is not at his own Disposal: And there would be no need to ask me if I could come: But at present, though I had never so much Mind, I can't; and it would be altogether unnecessary to ask one that is willing. _Pe._ Then pray let me have your Company the next Day after: However, I must needs have your Company at Supper the next Day after to Morrow. You must not deny me your Company four Days hence. You must make no Excuse as to coming next Thursday. _I can't promise._ _Ch._ I can't promise. I cannot positively promise you. I can't certainly promise you. I will come when it shall be most convenient for us both. _You ought to set the Day._ _Pe._ I would have you appoint a Day when you will come to sup with me. You must assign a Day. You must set the Day. I desire a certain Day may be prefix'd, prescrib'd, appointed, set; but set a certain Day. I would have you tell me the Day. _I would not have you know before Hand._ _Ch._ Indeed I don't use to set a Day for my Friends. I am used to set a Day for those I'm at Law with. I would not have you know before Hand. I'll take you at unawares. I'll come unexpectedly. I will catch you when you don't think on me. I shall take you when you don't think on me. I'll come unlooked for. I'll come upon you before you are aware. I'll come an uninvited and unexpected Guest. _I would know before Hand._ _Pe._ I would know two Days before Hand. Give me Notice two Days before you come. Make me acquainted two Days before. _Ch._ If you will have me, I'll make a _Sybaritical_ Appointment, that you may have Time enough to provide afore Hand. _Pe._ What Appointment is that? _Ch._ The _Sybarites_ invited their Guests against the next Year, that they might both have Time to be prepar'd. _Pe._ Away with the _Sybarites_, and their troublesome Entertainments: I invite an old Chrony, and not a Courtier. _You desire to your own Detriment._ _Ch._ Indeed 'tis to your Detriment. Indeed 'tis to your own Harm. To your own Loss. You wish for it. You pray for that to your own Ill-convenience. _Pe._ Why so? Wherefore. _Ch._ I'll come provided. I'll come prepar'd. I'll set upon you accoutred. I'll come furnish'd with a sharp Stomach; do you take Care that you have enough to satisfy a Vulture. I'll prepare my Belly and whet my Teeth; do you look to it, to get enough to satisfy a Wolf. _Pe._ Come and welcome, I dare you to it. Come on, if you can do any Thing, do it to your utmost, with all your Might. _Ch._ I'll come, but I won't come alone. _Pe._ You shall be the more welcome for that; but who will you bring with you? _Ch._ My _Umbra_. _Pe._ You can't do otherwise if you come in the Day Time. _Ch._ Ay, but I'll bring one _Umbra_ or two that have got Teeth, that you shan't have invited me for nothing. _Pe._ Well, do as you will, so you don't bring any Ghosts along with you. But if you please explain what is the Meaning of the Word _Umbra_. _Ch._ Among the Learned they are call'd _Umbræ_, who being uninvited, bear another Person, that is invited, Company to a Feast. _Pe._ Well, bring such Ghosts along with you as many as you will. * * * * * _I promise upon this Condition._ _Ch._ Well, I will come, but upon this Condition, that you shall come to Supper with me the next Day. I will do it upon this Condition that you shall be my Guest afterwards. Upon that Condition I promise to come to Supper, that you again shall be my Guest. I promise I will, but upon these Terms, that you in the like Manner shall be my Guest the next Day. I promise I will, I give you my Word I will, upon this Consideration, that you dine with me the next Day. _Pe._ Come on, let it be done, let it be so. It shall be as you would have it. If you command me, I'll do it. I know the _French_ Ambition, You won't sup with me, but you'll make me Amends for it. And so by this Means Feasts use to go round. From hence it comes to pass, that it is a long Time before we have done feasting one with another. By this Interchangeableness Feasts become reciprocal without End. _Ch._ It is the pleasantest Way of Living in the World, if no more Provision be made, but what is used to be made daily. But, I detain you, it may be, when you are going some whither. _Pe._ Nay, I believe, I do you. But we'll talk more largely and more freely to Morrow. But we'll divert ourselves to Morrow more plentifully. In the mean Time take Care of your Health. In the mean Time take Care to keep yourself in good Health. Farewell till then. * * * * * _Whither are you going? The Form._ _Ch._ Where are you a going now? Whither are you going so fast? Where are you a going in such great Haste. Whither go you? What's your Way? * * * * * _I go Home. The Form._ _Pe._ I go Home. I return Home. I go to see what they are a doing at Home. I go to call a Doctor. I am going into the Country. I made an Appointment just at this Time to go to speak with a certain great Man. I made an Appointment to meet a great Man at this Time. _Ch._ Whom? _Pe._ Talkative _Curio_. _Ch._ I wish you _Mercury_'s Assistance. _Pe._ What need of _Mercury_'s Assistance? _Ch._ Because you have to do with a Man of Words. _Pe._ Then it were more proper to wish the Assistance of the Goddess _Memoria_. _Ch._ Why so? _Pe._ Because you'll have more Occasion for patient Ears, than a strenuous Tongue. And the Ear is dedicated to the Goddess _Memoria_. _Ch._ Whither are you going? Whither will you go? _Pe._ This Way, to the left Hand. This Way, that Way, through the Market. _Ch._ Then I'll bear you Company as far as the next Turning. _Pe._ I won't let you go about. You shan't put yourself to so much Trouble on my Account. Save that Trouble till it shall be of Use, it is altogether unnecessary at this Time. Don't go out of your Way upon my Account. _Ch._ I reckon I save my Time while I enjoy the Company of so good a Friend. I have nothing else to do, and I am not so lazy, if my Company won't be troublesome. _Pe._ No Body is a more pleasant Companion. But I won't suffer you to go on my left Hand. I won't let you walk on my left Hand. Here I bid God be with you. I shall not bear you Company any longer. You shan't go further with me. * * * * * _A Form of Recommending._ _Ch._ Recommend me kindly to _Curio_. Recommend me as kindly as may be to talkative _Curio_. Take Care to recommend me heartily to _Curio_. I desire you have me recommended to him. I recommend myself to him by you. I recommend myself to you again and again. I recommend myself to your Favour with all the Earnestness possible. Leave _recommendo_ instead of _commendo_ to _Barbarians_. See that you don't be sparing of your Speech with one that is full of Tongue. See that you be not of few Words with him that is a Man of many Words. * * * * * _A Form of Obsequiousness._ _Pe._ Would you have me obey you? Would you have me be obedient? Shall I obey you? Then you command me to imitate you. Since you would have it so, I'll do it with all my Heart. Don't hinder me any longer; don't let us hinder one another. _Ch._ But before you go, I intreat you not to think much to teach me how I must use these Sentences, _in morâ, in causâ, in culpâ_; you use to be studious of Elegancy. Wherefore come on, I entreat you teach me; explain it to me, I love you dearly. * * * * * _In Culpâ, In Causâ, In Morâ._ _Pe._ I must do as you would have me. The Fault is not in me. It is not in thee. The Delay is in thee. Thou art the Cause, is indeed grammatically spoken; these are more elegant. _In Culpâ._ I am not in the Fault. The Fault is not mine. I am without Fault. Your Idleness has been the Cause, that you have made no Proficiency, not your Master nor your Father. You are all in Fault. You are both in Fault. You are both to be blam'd. Ye are both to be accus'd. You have gotten this Distemper by your own ill Management. In like Manner they are said to be _in vitio_, to whom the Fault is to be imputed; and _in crimine_, they who are to be blam'd; and _in damno_, who are Losers. This sort of Phrase is not to be inverted commonly; _Damnum in illo est. Vitium in illo est._ * * * * * _In Causâ._ Sickness has been the Occasion that I have not written to you. My Affairs have been the Cause that I have written to you so seldom, and not Neglect. What was the Cause? What Cause was there? I was not the Cause. The Post-Man was in the Fault that you have had no Letters from me. Love and not Study is the Cause of your being so lean. This is the Cause. _In Morâ._ I won't hinder you. What has hinder'd you? You have hindred us. You are always a Hindrance. What hindred you? Who has hindred you? You have what you ask'd for. It is your Duty to remember it. You have the Reward of your Respect. Farewell, my _Christian_. _Ch._ And fare you well till to Morrow, my _Peter_. * * * * * _At Meeting._ _CHRISTIAN, AUSTIN._ _Ch._ God save you heartily, sweet _Austin_. _Au._ I wish the same to you, most kind _Christian_. Good Morrow to you. I wish you a good Day; but how do you do? _Ch._ Very well as Things go, and I wish you what you wish for. _Au._ I love you deservedly. I love thee. Thou deservest to be lov'd heartily. Thou speakest kindly. Thou art courteous. I give thee Thanks. * * * * * _I am angry with thee. The Form._ _Ch._ But I am something angry with you. But I am a little angry with you. But I am a little provok'd at you. I have something to be angry with you for. * * * * * _For what Cause. The Form._ _Au._ I pray what is it? Why so? But why, I beseech you? What Crime have I committed? What have I done? _Promereor bona_, I deserve Good; _Commereor mala_, I deserve Ill, or Punishment: The one is used in a good Sense, and the other in an ill. _Demeremur eum_, is said of him that we have attach'd to us by Kindness. * * * * * _Because you don't Regard me._ _Ch._ Because you take no Care of me. Because you don't regard me. Because you come to see us so seldom. Because you wholly neglect us. Because you quite neglect me. Because you seem to have cast off all Care of us. _Au._ But there is no Cause for you to be angry. But you are angry without my Desert, and undeservedly; for it has not been my Fault, that I have come to see you but seldom: Forgive my Hurry of Business that has hindered me from seeing you, as often as I would have done. _Ch._ I will pardon you upon this Condition, if you'll come to Supper with me to Night. I'll quit you upon that Condition, if you come to Supper with me in the Evening. _Au. Christian_, you prescribe no hard Articles of Peace, and therefore I'll come with all my Heart. Indeed I will do it willingly. Indeed I would do that with all Readiness in the World. I shan't do that unwillingly. I won't want much Courting to that. There is nothing in the World that I would do with more Readiness. I will do it with a willing Mind. _Ch._ I commend your obliging Temper in this, and in all other Things. _Au._ I use always to be thus obsequious to my Friends, especially when they require nothing but what's reasonable. O ridiculous! Do you think I would refuse when offer'd me, that which I should have ask'd for of my own Accord? * * * * * _Don't deceive me. The Form._ _Ch._ Well, but take Care you don't delude me. See you don't deceive me. Take Care you don't make me feed a vain Hope. See you don't fail my Expectation. See you don't disappoint me. See you don't lull me on with a vain Hope. _Au._ There is no Need to swear. In other Things, in other Matters you may be afraid of Perfidy. In this I won't deceive you. But hark you, see that you provide nothing but what you do daily: I would have no holy Day made upon my Account. You know that I am a Guest that am no great Trencher Man, but a very merry Man. _Ch._ I'll be sure to take Care. I will entertain you with Scholars Commons, if not with slenderer Fare. _Au._ Nay, if you'd please me, let it be with _Diogenes_'s Fare. _Ch._ You may depend upon it, I will treat you with a _Platonick_ Supper, in which you shall have a great many learned Stories, and but a little Meat, the Pleasure of which shall last till the next Day: whereas they that have been nobly entertain'd, enjoy perhaps a little Pleasure that Day, but the next are troubled with the Head-ach, and Sickness at the Stomach. He that supp'd with _Plato_, had one Pleasure from the easy Preparation, and Philosopher's Stories; and another the next Day, that his Head did not ach, and that his Stomach was not sick, and so had a good Dinner of the sauce of last Night's Supper. _Au._ I like it very well, let it be as you have said. _Ch._ Do you see that you leave all your Cares and melancholy Airs at Home, and bring nothing hither but Jokes and Merriment; and as _Juvenal_ says, _Protenus ante meum, quicquid dolet, exue limen. Lay all that troubles you down before my Door, before you come into it._ _Au._ What? Would you have me bring no Learning along with me? I will bring my Muses with me, unless you think it not convenient. _Ch._ Shut up your ill-natured Muses at Home with your Business, but bring your good-natured Muses, all your witty Jests, your By-words, your Banters, your Pleasantries, your pretty Sayings, and all your Ridiculosities along with you. _Au._ I'll do as you bid me; put on all my best Looks. We'll be merry Fellows. We'll laugh our Bellies full. We'll make much of ourselves. We'll feast jovially. We'll play the _Epicureans_. We'll set a good Face on't, and be boon Blades. These are fine Phrases of clownish Fellows that have a peculiar Way of speaking to themselves. _Ch._ Where are you going so fast? _Au._ To my Son's in Law. _Ch._ What do you do there? Why thither? What do you with him? _Au._ I hear there is Disturbance among them; I am going to make them Friends again, to bring them to an Agreement; to make Peace among them. _Ch._ You do very well, though I believe they don't want you; for they will make the Matter up better among themselves. _Au._ Perhaps there is a Cessation of Arms, and the Peace is to be concluded at Night. But have you any Thing else to say to me? _Ch._ I will send my Boy to call you. _Au._ When you please. I shall be at Home. Farewell. _Ch._ I wish you well. See that you be here by five a-Clock. Soho _Peter_, call _Austin_ to Supper, who you know promised to come to Supper with me to Day. _Pe._ Soho! Poet, God bless you, Supper has been ready this good While, and my Master stays for you at Home, you may come when you will. _Au._ I come this Minute. _The PROFANE FEAST._ The ARGUMENT. _Our_ Erasmus _most elegantly proposes all the Furniture of this Feast; the Discourses and Behaviour of the Entertainer and the Guests_, &c. _Water and a Bason before Dinner. The_ Stoics, _the_ Epicureans; _the Form of the Grace at Table. It is good Wine that pleases four Senses. Why_ Bacchus _is the Poets God; why he is painted a Boy. Mutton very wholsome. That a Man does not live by Bread and Wine only. Sleep makes some Persons fat. Venison is dear. Concerning Deers, Hares, and Geese: They of old defended the Capitol at_ Rome. _Of Cocks, Capons and Fishes. Here is discoursed of by the by, Fasting. Of the Choice of Meats. Some Persons Superstition in that Matter. The Cruelty of those Persons that require these Things of those Persons they are hurtful to; when the eating of Fish is neither necessary, nor commanded by Christ. The eating of Fish is condemned by Physicians. The chief Luxury of old Time consisted in Fishes. We should always live a sober Life. What Number of Guests there should be at an Entertainment. The Bill of Fare of the second Course. The Magnificence of the_ French. _The ancient Law of Feasts. Either drink, or begone. A Variation of Phrases. Thanksgiving after Meat._ AUSTIN, CHRISTIAN, _a_ BOY. _Au._ O, my _Christian_, God bless you. _Ch._ It is very well that you are come. I am glad you're come. I congratulate myself that you are come. I believe it has not struck five yet. _Boy._ Yes, it is a good While past five. It is not far from six. It is almost six. You'll hear it strike six presently. _Au._ It is no great Matter whether I come before five or after five, as long as I am not come after Supper; for that is a miserable Thing, to come after a Feast is over. What's all this great Preparation for? What means all this Provision? What, do you think I'm a Wolf? Do you take me for a Wolf? Do you think I'm a Vulture? _Ch._ Not a Vulture, nor yet do I think you a Grashopper, to live upon Dew. Here is nothing of Extravagancy, I always lov'd Neatness, and abhor Slovenliness. I am for being neither luxurious nor niggardly. We had better leave than lack. If I dress'd but one Dish of Peas, and the Soot should chance to fall in the Pot and spoil it, what should we have to eat then? Nor does every Body love one Thing; therefore I love a moderate Variety. _Au._ An't you afraid of the sumptuary Laws? _Ch._ Nay, I most commonly offend on the contrary Side. There is no need of the _Fannian_ Law at our House. The Slenderness of my Income teaches me Frugality sufficiently. _Au._ This is contrary to our Agreement. You promised me quite otherwise. _Ch._ Well, Mr. Fool, you don't stand to your Agreement. For it was agreed upon that you should bring nothing but merry Tales. But let us have done with these Matters, and wash, and sit down to Supper. Soho, Boy, bring a little Water and a Bason; hang a Towel over your Shoulder, pour out some Water. What do you loiter for? Wash, _Austin_. _Au._ Do you wash first. _Ch._ Pray excuse me. I had rather eat my Supper with unwashen Hands this twelve Months. _Au._ O ridiculous! 'Tis not he that is the most honourable, but he that is the dirtiest that should wash first; then do you wash as the dirtiest. _Ch._ You are too complaisant. You are more complaisant than enough; than is fitting. But to what Purpose is all this Ceremony? Let us leave these trifling Ceremonies to Women, they are quite kick'd out of the Court already, although they came from thence at first. Wash three or four at a Time. Don't let us spend the Time in these Delays. I won't place any Body, let every one take what Place he likes best. He that loves to sit by the Fire, will sit best here. He that can't bear the Light let him take this Corner. He that loves to look about him, let him sit here. Come, here has been Delays enough. Sit down. I am at Home, I'll take my Supper standing, or walking about, which I like best. Why don't you sit down, Supper will be spoiled. _Au._ Now let us enjoy ourselves, and eat heartily. Now let us be _Epicures_. We have nothing to do with Superciliousness. Farewell Care, let all Ill-will and Detraction be banished. Let us be merry, pleasant, and facetious. _Ch. Austin_, pray who are those _Stoics_ and _Epicures_? _Au._ The _Stoics_ are a certain melancholy, rigid, parcimonious Sect of Philosophers, who make the _Summum bonum_ of Mankind, to consist in a certain, I can't tell what, _honestum_. The _Epicures_ are the Reverse of these, and they make the Felicity of a Man to consist in Pleasure. _Ch._ Pray what Sect are you of, a _Stoic_ or an _Epicure_? _Au._ I recommend _Zeno_'s Rules; but I follow _Epicurus_'s Practice. _Ch. Austin_, what you speak in Jest, a great many do in Earnest, and are only Philosophers by their Cloaks and Beards. _Au._ Nay, indeed they out-live the _Asots_ in Luxury. _Ch. Dromo_, come hither. Do your Office, say Grace. _Boy._ "May he that feeds all Things by his Bounty, command his Blessing upon what is or shall be set upon this Table. Amen." _Ch._ Set the Victuals on the Table. Why do we delay to eat up this Capon? Why are we afraid to carve this Cock? _Au._ I'll be _Hercules_, and slay this Beast. Which had you rather have, a Wing or a Leg? _Ch._ Which you will, I don't matter which. _Au._ In this Sort of Fowls the Wing is look'd upon the best; in other Fowls the Leg is commonly esteemed the greater dainty Bit. _Ch._ I put you to a great Deal of Trouble. You take a great Deal of Trouble upon you, upon my Account. You help every Body else, and eat nothing yourself. I'll help you to this Wing; but upon this Condition, that you shall give me Half of it back. _Au._ Say you so, that is serving yourself and not me; keep it for yourself. I am not so bashful as to want any Body to help me. _Ch._ You do very well. _Au._ Do you carve for a Wolf? Have you invited a Vulture? _Ch._ You fast. You don't eat. _Au._ I eat more than any Body. _Ch._ Nay, rather, you lye more than any Body. Pray be as free as if you were at your own House. _Au._ I take myself to be there. I do so. I am resolv'd so to do. I design to do so. _Ch._ How does this Wine please you? Does this Wine please your Palate? _Au._ Indeed it pleases me very well. Indeed it pleases mightily. It pleases me well enough. It pleases me very well. _Ch._ Which had you rather have, Red or White? _It is no Matter what Colour it is._ _Au._ Indeed I like both alike. It is no Matter what Colour 'tis, so the Taste be pleasing. I don't much mind how the Wine pleases the Eye, so it do but please the Palate. I an't much mov'd at the Sight of it, if the Taste be but grateful. It is no great Matter what Colour it is of, or what Colour it has, if it does but taste well. I don't desire to please my Eyes if I can but please my Taste. If it do but please the Palate, I don't regard the Colour, if it be well relish'd. _Ch._ I believe so: But there are some Persons that are mighty deeply read in Table Philosophy, who deny that the Wine can be good, unless it pleases four Senses: The Eye, with its Colour; the Nose, with its Smell; the Palate, with its Taste; the Ears, by its Fame and Name. _Au._ O ridiculous! What signifies Fame to Drink? _Ch._ As much as many that have a good Palate mightily approve of _Lovain_ Wine, when they believe it to be _Bern_ Wine. _Au._ It may be, they had spoiled their Palate by much Drinking. _Ch._ No, before they had drank one Drop. But I have a Mind to hear your Opinion, who are a Man of great Skill in these Matters. _Au._ Our Countrymen prefer White before Red, because the Red is a little more upon the Acid, and the White a smaller Wine; but that is the milder, and in my Opinion the more wholsome. _Ch._ We have a pale red Wine, and a yellow Wine, and a purple Colour Wine. This is new Wine, this Year's Wine. This is two Years old, if any Body is for an old Wine. We have some four Years old, but it is grown flat and dead with Age. The Strength is gone with Age. _Au._ Why, you're as rich as _Lucullus_. _Ch._ Soho, Boy, where are you a loitering? You give us no Attendance; don't you see we have no Wine here? What if a Fire should happen now? How should we put it out? Give every one a full Glass. _Austin_, What's the matter that you are not merry? What makes you sit so Melancholy? What's the Matter with you, that you an't chearful? You are either troubled at something, or you're making Verses. You play the _Crysippus_ now, you want a _Melissa_ to feed you. _Au._ What Story is this you are telling me of? _Ch. Crysippus_ is reported to have been so intent upon his logical Subtilties, that he would have been starved at Table, unless his Maid _Melissa_ had put the Meat into his Mouth. _Au._ He did not deserve to have his Life sav'd; but if Silence is an Offence to you, and you love a noisy Feast, you have gotten that will make one. _Ch._ I remember I have. That's very well minded: We must drink more freely, we ought to drink more largely, more Wine and less Water. _You have hit on the Matter._ _Au._ You have hit the Nail on the Head. You are in the Right. You have hit the Mark. For, _Foecundi calices quem non fecere disertum?_ _Ch._ That is very learnedly spoken, _Austin_, and so indeed is all that comes from you; but since we are fallen into a Discourse concerning Wine, since we have happen'd to make mention of Wine, I have a mind to ask you, for what Reason the Ancients, who will have _Bacchus_ the Inventor of Wine, call him the God of the Poets? What has that drunken God to do with Poets, who are the Votaries of the Virgin Muses? _Au._ By _Bacchus_, this is a Question fit to be put over a Bottle. But I see very well, what your Question drives at. _Ch._ What, prithee? _Au._ You very cunningly put a Question about Wine, by a _French_ Trick, which I believe you learn'd at _Paris_, that you may save your Wine by that Means. Ah, go your Way, I see you're a Sophister; you have made a good Proficiency in that School. _Ch._ Well, I take all your Jokes; I'll return the like to you, when Opportunity shall offer. But to the Matter in Hand. _Au._ I'll go on, but I'll drink first, for it is absurd to dispute about a tippling Question with a dry Throat. Here's to you _Christian_. Half this Cup to you. _Ch._ I thank you kindly. God bless it to you, much good may it do you. _Au._ Now I'm ready, at your Service. I'll do it as well as I can after my Manner. That they have given a Boy's Face to _Bacchus_, has this Mystery in it; that Wine being drank, takes away Cares and Vexations from our Minds, and adds a Sort of a Chearfulness to them. And for this Reason, it adds a Sort of Youthfulness even to old Men, in that it makes them more chearful, and of a better Complexion. The same thing _Horace_ in many Places, and particularly testifies in these Verses: _Ad mare cum veni, generosum et lene requiro, Quod curas abigat, quod cum spe divite manet. In venas, animumque meum, quod verba ministret. Quod me Lucanoe juvenem commendet amicæ._ For that they have assign'd the Poets to this Deity, I believe by it they design'd to intimate this, that Wine both stirs up Wit and administers Eloquence; which two Things are very fit for Poets. Whence it comes to pass, that your Water Drinkers make poor Verses. For _Bacchus_ is of a fiery Constitution naturally, but he is made more temperate, being united with the Nymphs. Have you been answer'd to your Satisfaction? _Ch._ I never heard any Thing more to the Purpose from a Poet. You deserve to drink out of a Cup set with Jewels. Boy, take away this Dish, and set on another. _Au._ You have got a very clownish Boy. _Ch._ He is the unluckiest Knave in the World. _Au._ Why don't you teach him better Manners? _Ch._ He is too old to learn. It is a hard matter to mend the Manners of an old Sinner. An old Dog won't be easily brought to wear the Collar. He's well enough for me. Like Master like Man. * * * * * _If I knew what you lik'd, I would help you._ _Au._ I would cut you a Slice, if I knew what would please you. I would help you, if I knew your Palate. I would help you, if I knew what you lik'd best. If I knew the Disposition of your Palate, I would be your Carver. Indeed my Palate is like my Judgment. _Ch._ You have a very nice Palate. No Body has a nicer Palate than you have. I don't think you come behind him of whose exquisite Skill the Satyrist says, _Ostrea callebat primo deprendere morsu, Et semel aspecti dicebat littus echini._ _Au._ And you, my _Christian_, that I may return the Compliment, seem to have been Scholar to _Epicurus_, or brought up in the _Catian_ School. For what's more delicate or nice than your Palate? _Ch._ If I understood Oratory so well as I do Cookery, I'd challenge _Cicero_ himself. _Au._ Indeed if I must be without one, I had rather want Oratory than Cookery. _Ch._ I am entirely of your Mind, you judge gravely, wisely, and truly. For what is the Prattle of Orators good for, but to tickle idle Ears with a vain Pleasure? But Cookery feeds and repairs the Palate, the Belly, and the whole Man, let him be as big as he will. _Cicero_ says, _Concedat laurea lingæ_; but both of them must give place to Cookery. I never very well liked those _Stoicks_, who referring all things to their (I can't tell what) _honestum_, thought we ought to have no regard to our Persons and our Palates. _Aristippus_ was wiser than _Diogenes_ beyond Expression in my Opinion. _Au._ I despise the _Stoicks_ with all their Fasts. But I praise and approve _Epicurus_ more than that _Cynic Diogenes_, who lived upon raw Herbs and Water; and therefore I don't wonder that _Alexander_, that fortunate King, had rather be _Alexander_ than _Diogenes_. _Ch._ Nor indeed would I myself, who am but an ordinary Man, change my Philosophy for _Diogenes_'s; and I believe your _Catius_ would refuse to do it too. The Philosophers of our Time are wiser, who are content to dispute like _Stoicks_, but in living out-do even _Epicurus_ himself. And yet for all that, I look upon Philosophy to be one of the most excellent Things in Nature, if used moderately. I don't approve of philosophising too much, for it is a very jejune, barren, and melancholy Thing. When I fall into any Calamity or Sickness, then I betake myself to Philosophy, as to a Physician; but when I am well again, I bid it farewell. _Au._ I like your Method. You do philosophize very well. Your humble Servant, Mr. Philosopher; not of the _Stoick_ School, but the Kitchen. _Ch._ What is the Matter with you, _Erasmus_, that you are so melancholy? What makes you look so frowningly? What makes you so silent? Are you angry with me because I have entertained you with such a slender Supper? _Er._ Nay, I am angry with you that you have put your self to so much Charge upon my Account. _Austin_ laid a strict Charge upon you that you would provide nothing extraordinary upon his Account. I believe you have a Mind we should never come to see you again; for they give such a Supper as this that intended to make but one. What sort of Guests did you expect? You seem to have provided not for Friends, but for Princes. Do you think we are Gluttons? This is not to entertain one with a Supper, but victualling one for three Days together. _Ch._ You will be ill-humour'd. Dispute about that Matter to-Morrow; pray be good humour'd to-Day. We'll talk about the Charge to-Morrow; I have no Mind to hear any Thing but what is merry at this time. _Au. Christian_, whether had you rather have, Beef or Mutton? _Ch._ I like Beef best, but I think Mutton is the most wholsome. It is the Disposition of Mankind to be most desirous of those Things that are the most hurtful. _Au._ The _French_ are wonderful Admirers of Pork. _Ch._ The _French_ love that most that costs least. _Au._ I am a Jew in this one Thing, there is nothing I hate so much as Swine's Flesh. _Ch._ Nor without Reason, for what is more unwholsome? In this I am not of the _French_ Man's but of the _Jew's_ Mind. _Er._ But I love both Mutton and Pork, but for a different Reason; for I eat freely of Mutton, because I love it; but Hogs Flesh I don't touch, by Reason of Love, that I may not give Offence. _Ch._ You are a clever Man, _Erasmus_, and a very merry one too. Indeed I am apt to admire from whence it comes to pass that there is such a great Diversity in Mens Palates, for if I may make use of this Verse of _Horace_, Tres mihi convivæ propè dissentire videntur, Poscentes vario multùm diversa palato. _Er._ Although as the Comedian says, _So many Men, so many Minds_, and every Man has his own Way; yet no Body can make me believe, there is more Variety in Mens Dispositions, than there is in their Palates: So that you can scarce find two that love the same Things. I have seen a great many, that can't bear so much as the Smell of Butter and Cheese: Some loath Flesh; one will not eat roast Meat, and another won't eat boil'd. There are many that prefer Water before Wine. And more than this, which you'll hardly believe; I have seen a Man who would neither eat Bread, nor drink Wine. _Ch._ What did that poor Man live on? _Er._ There was nothing else but what he could eat; Meat, Fish, Herbs and Fruit. _Ch._ Would you have me believe you? _Er._ Yes, if you will. _Ch._ I will believe you; but upon this Condition, that you shall believe me when I tell a Lye. _Er._ Well, I will do it, so that you lye modestly. _Ch._ As if any Thing could be more impudent than your Lye. _Er._ What would your Confidence say, if I should shew you the Man? _Ch._ He must needs be a starveling Fellow, a meer Shadow. _Er._ You'd say he was a Champion. _Ch._ Nay, rather a _Polyphemus_. _Er._ I wonder this should seem so strange to you, when there are a great many that eat dry'd Fish instead of Bread: And some that the Roots of Herbs serve for the same Use that Bread does us. _Ch._ I believe you; lye on. _Er._ I remember, I saw a Man when I was in _Italy_, that grew fat with Sleep, without the Assistance either of Meat or Drink. _Ch._ Fie for Shame; I can't forbear making Use of that Expression of the Satyrist, Tunc immensa cavi spirant mendacia folles. Thou poeticisest. You play the Part of a Poet. I am loath to give you the Lye. _Er._ I am the greatest Lyar in the World, if _Pliny_, an Author of undoubted Credit, has not written, that a Bear in fourteen Days Time will grow wonderfully fat with nothing but Sleep: And that he will sleep so sound, that you can scarce wake him, by wounding him: Nay, to make you admire the more, I will add what _Theophrastus_ writes, that during that Time, if the Flesh of the Bear be boil'd, and kept some Time, it will come to Life again. _Ch._ I am afraid that _Parmeno_ in _Terence_ will hardly be able to comprehend these Things. I believe it readily. I would help you to some Venison, if I were well enough accomplished. _Er._ Where have you any Hunting now? How came you by Venison? _Ch._ _Midas_, the most generous spirited Man living, and a very good Friend of mine, sent it me for a Present; but so, that I oftentimes buy it for less. _Er._ How so? _Ch._ Because I am obliged to give more to his Servants, than I could buy it for in the Market. _Er._ Who obliges you to that? _Ch._ The most violent Tyrant in the World. _Er._ Who is he? _Ch._ Custom. _Er._ Indeed, that Tyrant does frequently impose the most unjust Laws upon Mankind. _Ch._ The same Tyrant hunted this Stag, but the Day before Yesterday. What did you do, who used to be a very great Lover of that Sport? _Au._ Indeed I have left off that Sport, and now I hunt after nothing but Learning. _Ch._ In my Opinion, Learning is fleeter than any Stag. _Au._ But I hunt chiefly with two Dogs, that is to say, with Love and Industry: For Love affords a great Deal of Eagerness to learn, and as the most elegant Poet says, ----_Labor improbus omnia vincit._ _Ch. Austin_, you admonish after a friendly Manner, as you use to do; and therefore, I won't give over, nor rest, nor tire, till I attain. _Au._ Venison is now in the Prime. _Pliny_ tells us a very admirable Story concerning this Animal. _Ch._ What is it, I pray you? _Au._ That as often as they prick up their Ears, they are very quick of Hearing; but on the contrary, when they let them down, they are deaf. _Ch._ That very often happens to myself; for if I happen to hear a Word spoken of receiving Guineas, there is no Body quicker of Hearing than I; for then with _Pamphilus_ in _Terence_, I prick up my Ears; but when there is any Mention made of paying them away, I let them down, and am presently hard of Hearing. _Au._ Well, I commend you; you do as you should do. _Ch._ Would you have some of the Leg of this Hare? _Au._ Take it yourself. _Ch._ Or had you rather have some of the Back? _Au._ This Creature has nothing good but its Flank and hind Legs. _Ch._ Did you ever see a white Hare? _Au._ Oftentimes. _Pliny_ writes, that on the _Alps_ there are white Hares; and that it is believed in the Winter Time they feed upon Snow: Whether it be true or no, let _Pliny_ see to that: For if Snow makes a Hare's Skin white, it must make his Stomach white too. _Ch._ I don't know but it may be true. _Au._ I have something for you that is stranger than that; but it may be you have heard of it. The same Man testifies that there is the same Nature in all of them; that is, of Males and Females, and that the Females do as commonly breed without the Use of the Male, as with it. And many Persons assert the same, and especially your skilful Hunters. _Ch._ You say right; but if you please, let us try these Rabbets, for they are fat and tender. I would help that pretty Lady if I sat nigher to her. _Austin_, pray take Care of that Lady that sits by you, for you know how to please the fair Sex. _Au._ I know what you mean, you Joker. _Ch._ Do you love Goose? _Au._ Ay, I love 'em mightily, and I an't very nice. I don't know what's the Matter, but this Goose don't please me; I never saw any Thing dryer in all my Life; it is dryer than a Pumice-Stone, or _Furius_'s Mother in Law, upon whom _Catullus_ breaks so many Jests. I believe it is made of Wood; And in Troth I believe 'tis an old Soldier, that has worn itself out with being upon the Guard. They say a Goose is the most wakeful Creature living. In Truth, if I am not out in my Guess, this Goose was one of them, who when the Watch and their Dogs were fast asleep, in old Time defended the _Roman_ Capitol. _Ch._ As I hope to live I believe it was, for I believe it liv'd in that Age. _Au._ And this Hen was either half starv'd, or else was in love, or was jealous; for this Sort of Creatures are much troubled with that Distemper. This Capon fatten'd much better; see what Cares will do. If we were to geld our _Theodoricus_, he would grow fat much the sooner. _Th._ I an't a Cock. _Au._ I confess you are not _Gallus Cybeles_, nor a Dunghil-Cock; but it may be you are _Gallus Gallaceus_. _Ch._ What Word is that? _Au._ I leave that Word to be unriddled by you: I am _Sphinx_, and you shall be _Oedipus_. _Ch. Austin_, tell me truly, have you had no Conversation with _French_ Men, have you had no Affinity with them? Had you nothing to do with them? _Au._ None at all, indeed. _Ch._ Then you are so much the worse. _Au._ But perhaps I have had to do with _French_ Women. _Ch._ Will you have any of this Goose's Liver? This was look'd upon as a great Delicacy by the Ancients. _Au._ I will refuse nothing that comes from your Hand. _Ch._ You must not expect _Roman_ Dainties. _Au._ What are they? _Ch._ Thistles, Cockles, Tortoises, Conger-Eels, Mushrooms, Truffles, etc. _Au._ I had rather have a Turnip than any of them. You are liberal and bountiful, _Christian_. _Ch._ No Body touches these Partridges nor the Pigeons, to-Morrow is a Fast-Day appointed by the Church; prepare against that Hunger; Ballast your Ship against the impending Storm. War is a coming, furnish your Belly with Provision. _Au._ I wish you had kept that Word in, we should have risen from Supper more merrily. You torment us before the Time. _Ch._ Why so? _Au._ Because I hate Fish worse than I do a Snake. _Ch._ You are not alone. _Au._ Who brought in this troublesome Custom? _Ch._ Who order'd you to take Aloes, Wormwood and Scammony in Physick? _Au._ But these Things are given to Folks that are sick. _Ch._ So these Things are given to them that are too well. It is better sometimes to be sick, than to be too well. _Au._ In my Opinion the _Jews_ themselves did not labour under such a Burden. Indeed I could easily refrain from Eels and Swines Flesh, if I might fill my Belly with Capons and Partridges. _Ch._ In a great many Circumstances it is not the Thing, but the Mind that distinguishes us from _Jews_; they held their Hands from certain Meats, as from unclean Things, that would pollute the Mind; but we, understanding that _to the Pure, all Things are pure_, yet take away Food from the wanton Flesh, as we do Hay from a pamper'd Horse, that it may be more ready to hearken to the Spirit. We sometimes chastise the immoderate Use of pleasant Things, by the Pain of Abstinence. _Au._ I hear you; but by the same Argument, Circumcision of the Flesh may be defended; for that moderates the Itch of Coition, and brings Pain. If all hated Fish as bad as I do, I would scarce put a Parricide to so much Torture. _Ch._ Some Palates are better pleas'd with Fish than Flesh. _Au._ Then they like those Things that please their Gluttony, but don't make for their Health. _Ch._ I have heard of some of the _Æsops_ and _Apitius_'s, that have look'd upon Fish as the greatest Delicacy. _Au._ How then do Dainties agree with Punishment? _Ch._ Every Body han't Lampreys, Scares, and Sturgeons. _Au._ Then it is only the poor Folks that are tormented, with whom it is bad enough, if they were permitted to eat Flesh; and it often happens, that when they may eat Flesh for the Church, they can't for their Purse. _Ch._ Indeed, a very hard Injunction! _Au._ And if the Prohibition of Flesh be turned to delicious Living to the Rich; and if the Poor can't eat Flesh many Times, when otherwise they might, nor can't eat Fish, because they are commonly the dearer; to whom does the Injunction do good? _Ch._ To all; for poor Folks may eat Cockles or Frogs, or may gnaw upon Onions or Leeks. The middle Sort of People will make some Abatement in their usual Provision; and though the Rich do make it an Occasion of living deliciously, they ought to impute that to their Gluttony, and not blame the Constitution of the Church. _Au._ You have said very well; but for all that, to require Abstinence from Flesh of poor Folks, who feed their Families by the Sweat of their Brows, and live a great Way from Rivers and Lakes, is the same Thing as to command a Famine, or rather a _Bulimia_. And if we believe _Homer_, it is the miserablest Death in the World to be starv'd to Death. _Ch._ So it seem'd to blind _Homer_; but with _Christians_, he is not miserable that dies well. _Au._ Let that be so; yet it is a very hard Thing to require any Body to die. _Ch._ The Popes don't prohibit the eating of Flesh with that Design, to kill Men, but that they may be moderately afflicted if they have transgress'd; or that taking away their pleasant Food, their Bodies may be less fierce against the Spirit. _Au._ The moderate Use of Flesh would effect that. _Ch._ But in so great a Variety of Bodies certain Bounds of Flesh can't be prescrib'd, a Kind of Food may. _Au._ There are Fishes that yield much Aliment, and there are Sorts of Flesh that yield but little. _Ch._ But in general Flesh is most nourishing. _Au._ Pray tell me, if you were to go a Journey any whither, would you chuse a lively Horse that was a little wanton, or a diseased Horse, who would often stumble and throw his Rider? _Ch._ What do you mean by that? _Au._ Because Fish-eating, by its corrupt Humours, renders the Body liable to a great many Diseases, that it can't subserve the Spirit as it should do. _Ch._ To what Diseases? _Au._ Gouts, Fevers, Leprosies, the King's-Evil. _Ch._ How do you know? _Au._ I believe Physicians. I had rather do so than try the Experiment. _Ch._ Perhaps that happens to a few. _Au._ Indeed I believe to a great many; besides, in as much as the Mind acts by the material Organs of the Body, which are affected with good or bad Humours, the Instruments being vitiated, it can't exert its Power as it would. _Ch._ I know Doctors do very much find Fault with the eating of Fish; but our Ancestors thought otherwise, and it is our Duty to obey them. _Au._ It was a Piece of Religion formerly not to break the Sabbath; but for all that, it was more eligible to save a Man on the Sabbath-Day. _Ch._ Every one consults his own Health. _Au._ If we will obey St. _Paul, Let no Body mind his own Things, but every one the Things of another_. _Ch._ How come we by this new Divine at our Table? Whence comes this new upstart Master of ours? _Au._ Because I don't like Fishes. _Ch._ What, then won't you abstain from Flesh? _Au._ I do abstain, but grumblingly, and to my great Detriment too. _Ch. Charity suffers all Things._ _Au._ It is true; but then the same requires but little. If it suffers all Things, why won't it suffer us to eat those Meats the Gospel has given us a Liberty to eat? Why do those Persons, from whom Christ has so often required the Love of himself, suffer so many Bodies of Men to be endanger'd by capital Diseases, and their Souls to be in Danger of eternal Damnation, because of a Thing neither forbidden by _Christ_, nor necessary in itself? _Ch._ When Necessity requires it, the Force of a human Constitution ceases, and the Will of the Lawgiver ceases. _Au._ But the Offence of the Weak does not cease. The Scruple of a tender Conscience does not cease. And lastly, it is uncertain with what Limits that Necessity shall be bounded; shall it be when the Fish-eater shall be a giving up the Ghost? It is too late to give Flesh to a Man when he is dying; or shall it be when his Body becomes all feverish? The Choice of Meats is not of so much Consequence. _Ch._ What would you have prescrib'd then? _Au._ I can tell well enough, if I might be allow'd to be a Dictator in Ecclesiastical Affairs. _Ch._ What do you mean by that? _Au._ If I were Pope I would exhort all Persons to a perpetual Sobriety of Life, but especially before an holy-Day; and moreover, I would give every one leave to eat what he would, for the Health of his Body, so he did it moderately, and with Thanksgiving; and I would endeavour that what was abated of these Observations should be made up in the Study of true Piety. _Ch._ That in my Opinion is of so great Weight, that we ought to make you Pope. _Au._ For all your laughing, this Neck could bear a triple Crown. _Ch._ But in the mean Time take Care that these Things be not enter'd down in the _Sorbon_ at _Paris_. _Au._ Nay, rather let what is said be written in Wine, as it is fit those Things should that are said over our Cups; but we have had Divinity enough for a Feast We are at Supper, not at the _Sorbon_. _Ch._ Why mayn't that be call'd _Sorbon_ where we sup plentifully? _Au._ Well, let us sup then, and not dispute, lest the _Sorbon_ be called after us from _Sorbis_, and not from _Sorbendo_. _CHRISTIAN, GUESTS, MIDAS, ERASMUS, the BOY, AUSTIN._ _Ch._ Well, come my kind Guests, I pray you that you would take this little Supper in good Part, though it be but a slender one. Be merry and good humour'd, though the Supper be but mean and slender. I, relying upon your Familiarity, made bold to invite you; and I will assure you, your Company and Presence is not only very grateful to me, but very pleasant. _Gu._ We do assure you, good _Christian_, that we esteem your Supper to have been very pretty and noble; and we have nothing to find Fault with, but that you make Excuses for it, for that it was very magnificent; for indeed I look upon the Entertainment to be splendid to the greatest degree, that in the first Place consisted of Courses agreeable to Nature, and was season'd with Mirth, Laughter, Jokes and Witticisms, none of which have been wanting in our Entertainment. But here is something comes into my Mind, as to the Number of the Guests, which _Varro_ writes, _should not be fewer than three, nor more than nine_. For the _Graces_, who are the Presidents of Humanity and Benevolence, are three; and the _Muses_, that are the Guides of commendable Studies, are nine; and I see here we have ten Guests besides the Virgins. _Au._ Nothing could happen more agreeably; we are in that something wiser than _Varro_, for we have gotten here three pretty Maids for the three _Graces_; and as it is not to be thought that _Apollo_ is ever absent from the Chorus of the _Muses_, we have very much _à propos_ added the tenth Guest. _Ch._ You have spoken very much like a Poet. If I had a Laurel here I would crown you with it, and you should be Poet Laureat. _Au._ If I were crown'd with Mallows, I should be Poet _Maleat_; I do not arrogate that Honour to myself. This is an Honour that I don't deserve. ------_Haud equidem tali me dignor honore._ _Ch._ Will you, every one of you, do as much for me as I will do for you? _Gu._ Ay, that we will with all our Hearts. _Ch._ Then let every one drink off his Cup round as I do. Here's to you first, _Midas_. _Mi._ I thank you heartily. I pledge you heartily; for which the Vulgar says _Præstolor_. Indeed I won't refuse. I won't refuse any Thing for your Sake. _Ch._ Now do you drink to the rest. _Mi. Erasmus_, Half this Cup to you. _Er._ I pray it may do you good. May it do you good. Much good may it do you. _Proficiat_ is an out of the Way Word. _Ch._ Why does the Cup stand still? Why does it not go about? Is our Wine gone? Where are your Eyes, you Rascal? Run quickly, fetch two Quarts of the same Wine. _Boy. Erasmus_, your humble Servant, there is one wants to speak with you at the Door. _Er._ Who is it? _Boy._ He says he is one Mr. _More_'s, Man, his Master is come out of _Britain_, and he desires you would make him a Visit, because he sets out for _Germany_ to-Morrow by Break of Day. _Er. Christian_, gather the Reckoning, for I must be going. _Ch._ The Reckoning, most learned _Erasmus_, of this Supper, I will discharge that. You have no Need to put your Hand in your Pocket. I thank you that you honour'd me with your Company; but I am sorry you are called away before the Comedy is ended. _Er._ Have I any Thing more to do but to bid you _Farewell and be merry?_ _Ch._ Farewell, we can't take it amiss, because you don't leave a Shoulder of Mutton for a Sheep's-Head, but go from Friends to a better Friend. _Er._ And I in like Manner return you my Thanks, that you have been so kind as to invite me to this most pleasant Entertainment. My very good Friends, fare ye well. Drink heartily, and live merrily. _Ch._ Soho, _Dromo_. You, all of you, have sitten still a good While. Does any Body please to have any Thing else? _Gu._ Nothing at all. We have eat very plentifully. _Ch._ Then take away these Things, and set on the Desert. Change the Trenchers and the Plates. Take up my Knife that is fallen down. Pour some Wine over the Pears. Here are some early ripe Mulberries that grew in my own Garden. _Gu._ They will be the better for being of your own Growth. _Ch._ Here are some wheaten Plumbs: See, here are Damascens, a rare Sight with us: See, here are mellow Apples; and here is a new Sort of an Apple, the Stock of which I set with my own Hands; and Chestnuts, and all Kinds of Delicacies, which our Gardens produce plentifully. _Au._ But here are no Flowers. _Ch._ They are _French_ Entertainments, who love that Sort of Splendor most that costs least; but that is not my Humour. _Au._ 'Tis not only among _Frenchmen_ that you will find those that love what is of little Cost. _Ch._ But hark you, _Austin_, do you think to come off so? What, won't you pledge me when I drink to you? You ought to have taken off Half the Cup of him that drank to you. _Au._ He excused me for that a great While ago. He discharg'd me of that Obligation. _Ch._ Pray who gave him that Power? The Pope himself can hardly dispense with this Obligation. You know the ancient Law of Drinking, _Either drink or go your Way_. _Au._ He that an Oath is made to has Power to suspend it, and especially he, whose Concern it was to have it kept. _Ch._ But it is the Duty of all Guests to observe Laws inviolably. _Au._ Well, come on, since this is the _German_ Custom, I'll drink what is left. But what Business have you with me? _Ch._ You must pay for all. Why do you look pale? Don't be afraid, you may do it very easily, do as you have often done, that by some Elegancy we may rise from Table more learned; nor are you ignorant that the Ancients over the second Course used to dispute of some more diverting Subjects. Come on then, by what, and after how many Ways may this Sentence be vary'd, _Indignum auditu?_ * * * * * _It is not worth hearing. The Form._ _Au._ You have very fitly made Use of the latter Supine. It is not worth hearing. It is unworthy to be heard. It is not worthy to be heard. It is so light it ought not to be heard. It is scarce worth While to relate. It is not of such Value as to be heard. It is too silly to be heard. It is not worth While to tell it. _Ch._ How many Ways may this Sentence be turn'd, _Magno mihi constat?_ * * * * * _The Ratio of varying this Sentence._ _Magno mihi constat._ _Au._ By these Words, _impendo, insumo, impertio, constat_, as: I have taken Pains much in teaching you. I have taken much Pains in that Matter. I have not spent less Money than I have Care upon that Matter. I have not spent a little Money, but much Time, and very much Labour, and some Study. I have spent much Study. This Thing has cost me many a Night's Sleep, much Sweat, much Endeavour, very much Labour, a great Expence, a great Deal of Money. It has cost me more than you believe. My Wife stands me in less than my Horse. _Ch._ But what is the meaning, _Austin_, that you put sometimes an Ablative, and sometimes a Genitive Case to the Verb _constat_? _Au._ You have stated a very useful and very copious Question. But that I may not be troublesome to the Company by my too much Talk, I will dispatch it in a few Words. But I desire to hear every Man's Opinion, that I may not be troublesome to any Man, as I have said. _Ch._ But why may not the Damsels desire the same? _Au._ Indeed they do nothing else but hear. I'll attempt it with _Grammatica_'s Assistance. "You know that Verbs of buying and selling, and some others, are of a like Signification, to which these Genitives are put alone, without Substantives, _tanti, quanti, pluris, minoris, tantidem, quantivis, quanticunque_: But in Case Substantives be not added, which, if they happen to be put, they are both turned into the Ablative Case; so that if a certain Price be set down, you put it in the Ablative Case; if by an Adjective put substantively, you put it in the Ablative Case, unless you had rather make Use of an Adverb." _Ch._ What are those Verbs that you speak of? _Au._ "They are commonly _emo, mereor; redimo_, (that is a Thing either taken or lost) _vendo, venundo; revendo_, (that is, I sell again that which was sold to me) _veneo_, (that is, I am sold) whose Prater Tense is _venivi_, or _venii_, the Supine _venum_; hence comes _venalis_; and from that, _i.e._ _vendo_, comes _vendibilis; mereo_, for _inservio et stipendium_ _facio_, _i.e._ to serve under (as a Soldier). _Comparo_, that is, to buy, or commit. _Computo_, I change, I exchange with. _Cambire_ is wholly barbarous in this Sense. _Æstimo_, to tax. _Indico_, for I estimate, rate. _Liceor, liceris; licitor, licitaris_, to cheapen, to bid. _Distrahor_, _i.e._ I am carried about to be sold. _Metior_, for I estimate or rate. _Constat_, for it is bought. _Conducere_, to let to hire. _Fænero_, I put to Interest. _Fæneror_, I take at Interest (to Usury.) _Paciscor, pactus sum pango, pepigi_, _i.e._ I make a Bargain." _Ch._ Give an Example. * * * * * _Of selling and buying._ _The Forms._ _Au._ How much do you lett that Field for by the Year. We will answer. For twenty _French_ Pounds. Whoo! You lett it too dear. Nay, I have lett it for more before now. But I would not give so much for it. If you hire it for less I'll be hang'd. Nay, your Neighbour _Chremes_ offer'd me a Field, and asks for it--How much? Just as much as you ask for yours. But it is much better. That's a Lye. I do as they use to do who cheapen a Thing. Do you keep it yourself at that Price. What, do you cheapen, ask the Price, when you won't buy any Thing. Whatsoever you shall lett it me for shall be paid you very honestly. _Of Selling and Buying._ _Another Example._ How much do you sell that Conger Eel for? _Syra._ For five Pence. That's too much, you nasty Jade. Nay, 'tis too little, no Body will sell you for less. Upon my Life it cost me as much within a Trifle. You Witch, you tell a Lie, that you may sell it for twice or three Times as much as it cost you. Ay, I'll sell it for a hundred Times as much if I can, but I can't find such Fools. What if I should ask the Price of yourself? What do you value yourself at? According as I like the Person. What do you prize yourself at? What Price do you set upon yourself? Tell me, what Price do you rate yourself at? Ten Shillings. Whoo, so much? O strange! Do you value me at less? Time was when I have had as much for one Night. I believe you may, but I believe you an't now worth so much as a Fish by a great Deal. Go hang yourself, you Pimp. I value you as little as you do me. He that shall give a Farthing for you buys you too dear. But I'll be sold for more, or I won't be sold at all. If you would be sold at a great Rate you must get you a Mask, for those Wrinkles in your Forehead won't let you be sold for much. He that won't give so much for me shan't have me. I would not give a Straw for you. I cost more. _A third Example._ I have been at an Auction to-Day. Say you so? I bid Money for a Share in the Customs. But how much? Ten Thousand Pound. Whoo! what, so much? There were those that bid a great Deal more; very few that offer'd less. Well, and who had the Place at last? _Chremes_, your Wife's great Friend. But guess what it was sold for. Ten. Nay, fifteen. O good God! I would not give Half so much for him and all his Family together. But he would give twice as much for your Wife. "Do you take Notice, that in all these, wheresoever there is a Substantive of the Price, that is put in the Ablative Case; but that the rest are either put in the Genitive Case, or are changed into Adverbs. You have never heard a Comparative without a Substantive, except in these two, _pluris_, and _minoris_. There are some other Verbs, of which we have spoken, that are not very much unlike these, _sum, facio, habeo, duco, æstimo, pendo_, which signify (in a Manner) the same Thing; likewise _fio_, and they are for the most Part join'd with these Genitives, _multi, parvi, magni, pluris, plurimi, minoris, minimi, maximi, tanti, quanti, flocci, pili, nihili, nauci, hujus_, and any other like them." _Ch._ Give Examples. _Of valuing. The Form._ _Au._ Do you know how much I have always valu'd you? You will always be made of such Account by Men as you make Account of Virtue. Gold is valued at a great Rate now a-Days, Learning is valued at a very little, or just nothing at all. I value Gold less than you think for. I don't value your Threats of a Rush. I make a very little Account of your Promises. I don't value you of a Hair. If Wisdom were but valued at so great a Rate as Money, no Body would want Gold. With us, Gold without Wisdom is esteem'd to be of more Worth than Wisdom without Gold. I esteem you at a greater Rate, because you are learned. You will be the less esteem'd on here because you don't know how to lye. Here are a great many that will persuade you that Black is White. I set the greater Value upon you because you love Learning. So much as you have, so much you shall be esteem'd by all Men; so much as you have, so much you shall be accounted of every where. It is no Matter what you are accounted, but what you are. I value my _Christian_ above any Man else in the World. "There are some other Verbs found with these Genitives and Ablatives, which in their own Nature don't signify buying, or anything like it." _Peter_ bought a Kiss of the Maid for a Shilling. Much good may it do him. I would not kiss at that Rate. How much do you play for? What did you pay for Supper? We read of some that have spent Six hundred Sesterces for a Supper. But the _French_ often sup for a Half-penny. What Price does _Faustus_ teach for? A very small Matter. But for more than _Delius_. For how much then? For nineteen Guineas. I won't learn to lye at so dear a Rate. _Phædria_ in _Terence_ lost both his Substance and himself. But I would not love at that Rate. Some Persons pay a great Price for sleeping. _Demosthenes_ had more for holding his Tongue than others had for speaking. I pray you to take it in good Part. "There is another Sort of Verbs, that require an Accusative Case, with a Genitive or Ablative, which are, _accuso_, _i.e._ I object a Crime, or _culpo_, also one that's absent; _Incuso_, _i.e._ I blame without Judgment; _arguo_, I reprehend, _insimulo_, _i.e._ I throw in a Suspicion of a Fault. _Postulo_, _i.e._ I require you to answer at Law, _accerso_, I impeach, _damno_, I condemn, I pronounce him to be in Fault. _Admoneo_, I admonish." _Ch._ For Example Sake? _Forms of Accusing._ _Au. Scipio_ is accused of courting the Populace. Thou who art the most impudent, accusest me of Impudence. _Lepidus_ is accused of Bribery. You are accus'd of a capital Crime. If you shall slily insinuate a Man to be guilty of Covetousness, you shall hear that which is worse again. Put him in Mind of his former Fortune. Men are put in Mind of their Condition, by that very Word. Put _Lepidus_ in Mind of his Promise. "There are many that admit of a double Accusative Case. I teach thee Letters. He entreats you to pardon him. I will unteach thee those Manners." "Here I must put you in Mind of that Matter, that in these the Passives also obtain a second Accusative Case. The others will have a Genitive." You are taught Letters by me. They accuse me of Theft. I am accused of Theft. Thou accusest me of Sacrilege. I am accused of Sacrilege. I know you are not satisfied yet. I know you are not satisfied in Mind. For when will so great a Glutton of Elegancies be satisfy'd? But I must have Regard to the Company, who are not all equally diverted with these Matters. After Supper, as we walk, we will finish what is behind, unless you shall rather chuse to have it omitted. _Ch._ Let it be as you say. Let us return Thanks to divine Bounty and afterwards we'll take a little Walk. _Mi._ You say very well, for nothing can be more pleasant, nor wholsome than this Evening Air. _Ch. Peter_, come hither, and take the Things away in Order, one after the other, and fill the Glasses with Wine. _Pe._ Do you bid me return Thanks? _Ch._ Aye, do. _Pe._ Had you rather it should be done in _Greek_, or in _Latin_. _Ch._ Both Ways. _Pe. Gratias agimus tibi, pater coelestis, qui tua ineffabili potentia condidisti omnia, tua inscrutabili sapientia gubernas universa, tua inexhausta bonitate cuncta pascis ac vegetas: largire filiis tuis, ut aliquando tecum bibant in regno tuo nectar illud immortalitatis, quod promisisti ac praeparasti vere diligentibus te, per Iesum Christum. Amen._ We thank thee, heavenly Father, who by thy unspeakable Power, hast created all Things, and by thy inexhaustible Wisdom governest all Things, and by thy inexhaustible Goodness feedest and nourishest all Things: Grant to thy Children, that they may in due Time drink with thee in thy Kingdom, that _Nectar_ of Immortality; which thou hast promis'd and prepar'd for those that truly love thee, through Jesus Christ, _Amen_. _Ch._ Say in _Greek_ too, that the rest mayn't understand what thou sayest. _Pe._ [Greek: Heucharistoumen soi, pater ouranie, ho tê arrêtô sou dunamei ktisas ta panta, ho tê anexereunêtô sou sophia kubernôn hapaxapanta, ho tê anexantlêtô sou chrêstotêti hekasta trephomenos te kai auxanon. Charizou tois yiois sou to meta sou pote piein to tês athanasias nektar, ho upechou kai êtoimasas tois alêthôs agapôsi se, dia Iêsou Christou, tou yiou sou, tou kyriou hêmôn, tou meta sou zôntos kai basileuontos en henotêti tou pneumatos hagiou, eis tous aiônas. Amên.] _Ch._ My most welcome Guests, I give you Thanks that you have honour'd my little Entertainment with your Company. I intreat you to accept it kindly. _Gu._ And we would not only have, but return our Thanks to you. Don't let us be over ceremonious in thanking, but rather let us rise from Table, and walk out a little. _Au._ Let us take these Virgins along with us, so our Walk will be more pleasant. _Ch._ You propose very well. We'll not want Flowers, if the Place we walk in don't afford any. Had you rather take a Turn in our Garden, in a poetical Manner, or walk out abroad by the River-Side. _Au._ Indeed, your Gardens are very pleasant, but keep that Pleasure for Morning Walks. When the Sun is towards setting, Rivers afford wonderful pleasant Prospects. _Ch. Austin_, do you walk foremost as a Poet should do, and I'll walk by your Side. _Au._ O good God, what a jolly Company we have, what a Retinue have I! _Christian_, I can't utter the Pleasure I take, I seem to be some Nobleman. _Ch._ Now be as good as your Word. Perform the Task you have taken upon you. _Au._ What is it you'd have me speak of chiefly? _Ch._ I us'd formerly to admire many Things in _Pollio_'s Orations; but chiefly this, that he us'd so easily, so frequently and beautifully to turn a Sentence, which seemed not only a great Piece of Wit, but of great Use. _Au._ You were much in the Right on't, _Christian_, to admire that in _Pollio_. For he seems, in this Matter, to have had a certain divine Faculty, which I believe, was peculiar to him, by a certain Dexterity of Art, and by much Use of Speaking, Reading and Writing, rather than by any Rules or Instructions. _Ch._ But I would fain have some Rule for it, if there be any to be given. _Au._ You say very well; and since I see you are very desirous of it, I'll endeavour it as much as I can: And I will give those Rules, as well as I can, which I have taken Notice of in _Pollio_'s Orations. _Ch._ Do, I should be very glad to hear 'em. _Au._ I am ready to do it. * * * * * The ARGUMENT. _A short Rule concerning this Copia, it teaches how to vary a Sentence pleasantly, copiously, easily, frequently, and elegantly; by short Rules given, and by a Praxis upon these Rules, in an elegant Turning of one Phrase._ In the first Place, it is to be set forth in pure and choice _Latin_ Words; which to do is no mean Piece of Art: For there are a great many, who do, I don't know after what Manner, affect the _Copia_ and Variation of Phrase, when they don't know how to express it once right. It is not enough for them to have babbled once, but they must render the Babble much more babbling, by first one, and then by another turning of it; as if they were resolv'd to try the Experiment, how barbarously they were able to speak: And therefore, they heap together, certain simple synonymous Words, that are so contrary one to the other, that they may admire themselves how they do agree together. For what is more absurd, than that a ragged old Fellow, that has not a Coat to his Back, but what is so ragged that he may be ashamed to put it on, should every now and then change his Rags, as though he design'd to shew his Beggary by Way of Ostentation: And those Affectators of Variety seem equally ridiculous, who, when they have spoken barbarously once, repeat the same Thing much more barbarously; and then over and over again much more unlearnedly. This is not to abound with Sentences, but Solæcisms: Therefore, in the first Place, as I have said, the Thing is to be express'd in apt and chosen Words. 2. And then we must use Variety of Words, if there are any to be found, that will express the same Thing; and there are a great many. 3. And where proper Words are wanting, then we must use borrow'd Words, so the Way of borrowing them be modest. 4. Where there is a Scarcity of Words, you must have Recourse to Passives, to express what you have said by Actives; which will afford as many Ways of Variation, as there were in the Actives. 5. And after that, if you please, you may turn them again by verbal Nouns and Participles. 6. And last of all, when we have chang'd Adverbs into Nouns, and Nouns sometimes into one Part of Speech, and sometimes into another; then we may speak by contraries. 7. We may either change affirmative Sentences into negative, or the contrary. 8. Or, at least, what we have spoken indicatively, we may speak interrogatively. Now for Example Sake, let us take this Sentence. _Literæ tuæ magnopere me delectârunt. Your Letters have delighted me very much._ _Litertæ._ Epistle, little Epistles, Writings, Sheets, Letters. _Magnopere._ After a wonderful Manner, wonderfully, in a greater, or great Manner, in a wonderful Manner, above Measure, very much, not indifferently (not a little) mightily, highly, very greatly. _Me._ My Mind, my Breast, my Eyes, my Heart, _Christian_. _Delectârunt._ They have affected, recreated, exhilarated with Pleasure, have been a Pleasure, have delighted, have bath'd me with Pleasure; have been very sweet, very pleasant, &c. Now you have Matter, it is your Business to put it together: Let us try. _Ch._ Thy Letters have very greatly delighted me. Thy Epistle has wonderfully chear'd me. _Au._ Turn the Active into a Passive, then it will look with another Face. As, It can't be said how much I have been chear'd by thy Writings. _Also by other Verbs effecting the same Thing._ I have received an incredible Pleasure from thy Writings. I have receiv'd very much Pleasure from your Highness's Letter. Your Writings have brought me not an indifferent Joy. Your Writings have overwhelmed me all over with Joy. "But here you can't turn these into Passives, only in the last, _perfusus gaudio_, as is commonly said, Pleasure was taken by me, Joy was brought, is not so commonly used, or you must not use so frequently." _By Affido._ Thy Letter hath affected me with a singular Pleasure. _Change it into a Passive._ I am affected with an incredible Pleasure by thy Letter. Thy little Epistle has brought not a little Joy. _By_ Sum _and Nouns Adjectives._ Thy Letters have been most pleasant to me many Ways. That Epistle of thine was, indeed, as acceptable, as any Thing in the World. _By Nouns Substantives._ Thy Letter was to us an unspeakable Pleasure. Your Letter was an incredible Pleasure to us. _Change it into a Negative._ Thy Letter was no small Joy. Nothing in Life could happen more delightful than thy Letters. "Although I have sometimes already made Use of this Way, which is not to be pass'd over negligently. For when we would use _multum, plurimum_, to signify, _singulariter_, we do it by a contrary Verb." As, _Henry_ loves you mightily: He loves you with no common Love. Wine pleases me very much: It pleases me not a little. He is a Man of a singular Wit: A Man of no ordinary Wit. He is a Man of admirable Learning: He is a Man not of contemptible Learning. _Thomas_ was born in the highest Place of his Family: Not in the lowest Place. _Austin_ was a most eloquent Man: He was not ineloquent. _Carneades_ the Orator was noble: Not an ignoble, not an obscure Man. "And the like, which are very frequently used." But the Mention of a Thing so plain is enough: Nor are you ignorant, that we make Use of a two-fold Manner of Speech, of this Kind: For Modesty Sake, especially, if we speak of our selves; also for Amplification Sake. For we use rightly and elegantly, not ungrateful, for very grateful; not vulgarly for singularly. _For Modesty Sake._ I have by my Letters gain'd some Reputation of Learning. I have always made it my Business not to have the last Place in the Glory of Learning. The Examples of Amplification are mention'd before: Now let us return to our own. Nothing ever fell out to me more gratefully, acceptably, than thy Letter. Nothing ever was a greater Pleasure than your Letter. I never took so much Pleasure in any Thing, as in thy most loving Letters. "After this Manner all the before-mention'd Sentences may be vary'd by an Interrogation." What in Life could be more pleasant than thy Letters? What has happened to me more sweet, than thy Letter? What has ever delighted me like your last Letter? And after this Manner you may vary almost any Sentence. _Ch._ What shall we do now? _Au._ We will now turn the whole Sentence a little more at large, that we may express one Sentence, by a Circumlocution of many Words. _Ch._ Give Examples. _Au._ "That which was sometimes express'd by the Noun _incredibile_, and then again, by the Adverb _incredibiliter_, we will change the Sentence in some Words." I can't express how much I was delighted with your Letters. It is very hard for me to write, and you to believe how much Pleasure your Letter was to me. I am wholly unable to express how I rejoic'd at your Letter. "And so _in infinitum_: Again, after another Manner. For hitherto we have varied the Sentences by Negations and Interrogations, and in the last Place by Infinitives. Now we will vary by Substantives or Conditionals, after this Manner." Let me die if any Thing ever was more desired and more pleasant than thy Letters. Let me perish if any Thing ever was more desired, and more pleasant than thy Letter. As God shall judge me, nothing in my whole Life ever happen'd more pleasant than thy Letters. "And also a great many more you may contrive after this Manner." _Ch._ What is to be done now? _Au._ Now we must proceed to Translations, Similitudes and Examples. _There is a Translation in these._ I have received your Letters, which were sweet as Honey. Your Writings seem to be nothing but meer Delight. Your Letters are a meer Pleasure; and a great many of the like Kinds. "But Care is to be taken not to make Use of harder Translations; such as this that follows, _Jupiter hybernas canâ nive conspuit Alpes._ such as this is." The Suppers of thy Writings have refreshed me with most delicious Banquets. _A Comparison by Simile._ Thy Writings have been sweeter than either _Ambrosia_ or _Nectar_. Thy Letters have been sweeter to me than any Honey. Your kind Letter has excell'd even Liquorish, Locusts, and _Attic_ Honey, and Sugar; nay, even the _Nectar_ and _Ambrosia_ of the Gods. "And here, whatsoever is ennobled with Sweetness, may be brought into the Comparison." _From Examples._ I will never be induc'd to believe, that _Hero_ receiv'd the Letters of her _Leander_, either with greater Pleasure, or more Kisses, than I received yours. I can scarce believe that _Scipio_, for the Overthrow of _Carthage_, or _Paulus Æmylius_, for the taking of _Perseus_, ever triumphed more magnificently than I did, when the Post-man gave me your most charming Letter. "There are a thousand Things of this Nature, that may be found in Poets and Historians. Likewise Similitudes are borrow'd from Natural Philosophy; the Nature of a great many of which, it is necessary to keep in Memory. Now if you please, we will try in another Sentence." _I will never forget you while I live._ I will always remember you, as long as I live. Forgetfulness of you, shall never seize me as long as I live. I will leave off to live, before I will to remember you. _By Comparisons._ If the Body can get rid of its Shadow, then this Mind of mine may forget you. The River _Lethe_ itself shall never be able to wash away your Memory. "Besides, by an Impossibility, or after the Manner of Poets by contraries. _Dum juga montis aper, fluvios dum piscis amabit. Ante leves ergo pastentur in athere cervi._ which is no hard Matter to invent." But lest I should seem tedious, at the present let these suffice: At another Time, if you please, we will talk more copiously of this Matter. _Ch._ I thought, _Austin_, you had been quite exhausted by this Time. But thou hast shewn me a new Treasure beyond what I expected, which if you shall pursue, I perceive you'll sooner want Time than Words. _Au._ If I can perform this with my little Learning, and indifferent Genius, what do you think _Cicero_ himself could do, who is storied to have vy'd with _Roscius_ the Player? But the Sun is going to leave us; and the Dew rises; it is best to imitate the Birds, to go Home, and hide ourselves in Bed. Therefore, sweet _Christian_, farewell till to Morrow. _Ch._ Fare you well likewise, most learned _Austin._ _The RELIGIOUS TREAT._ The ARGUMENT. _This religious Treat teaches what ought to be the Table-Talk of Christians. The Nature of Things is not dumb, but very loquacious, affording Matter of Contemplation. The Description of a neat Garden, where there is a Variety of Discourse concerning Herbs. Of Marjoram, Celandine, Wolfs-Bane, Hellebore. Of Beasts, Scorpions, the Chamæleon, the Basilisk; of Sows_, Indian _Ants, Dolphins, and of the Gardens of_ Alcinous. _Tables were esteemed sacred by the very Heathens themselves. Of washing Hands before Meat. A Grace before Meat out of_ Chrysostom. _Age is to be honoured, and for what Reason. The Reading of the Scriptures very useful at Meals. That Lay Persons may Discourse concerning the Scriptures. The 21st of_ Prov. _and 1st_ Ver. _illustrated. How God hates Sacrifices, in Comparison of Mercy_, Hos. 6. _No Body is hurt but by himself. That Persons in Wine speak true. That it was unlawful for the_ Ægyptian _Priests to drink Wine. The_ I Cor. 6. _opened. All Things are lawful for me. The Spirit of Christ was in the Heathens and Poets._ Scotus _is slighted in Comparison of_ Cicero _and_ Plutarch. _A Place is cited out of_ Cicero _and_ Cato Major, _and commended;_ dare omni petenti, give to every one that asketh, _how it is to be understood. We ought to give to Christ's Poor, and not to Monasteries. The Custom of burying in Churches blam'd. That we ought to give by Choice, how much, to whom, and to what End. We ought to deny ourselves of something that we may give it to the Poor_. No Body can serve two Masters, _is explained. A Grace after Meat out of St._ Chrysostom. EUSEBIUS, TIMOTHY, THEOPHILUS, CHRYSOGLOTTUS, URANIUS, SOPHRONIUS, EULALIUS, THEODIDACTUS, NEPHALIUS. _Eu._ I admire that any Body can delight to live in smoaky Cities, when every Thing is so fresh and pleasant in the Country. _Ti._ All are not pleased with the Sight of Flowers, springing Meadows, Fountains, or Rivers: Or, if they do take a Pleasure in 'em, there is something else, in which they take more. For 'tis with Pleasure, as it is with Wedges, one drives out another. _Eu._ You speak perhaps of Usurers, or covetous Traders; which, indeed, are all one. _Ti._ I do speak of them; but not of them only, I assure you; but of a thousand other Sorts of People, even to the very Priests and Monks, who for the Sake of Gain, make Choice of the most populous Cities for their Habitation, not following the Opinion of _Plato_ or _Pythagoras_ in this Practice; but rather that of a certain blind Beggar, who loved to be where he was crowded; because, as he said, the more People, the more Profit. _Eu._ Prithee let's leave the blind Beggar and his Gain: We are Philosophers. _Ti._ So was _Socrates_ a Philosopher, and yet he preferr'd a Town Life before a Country one; because, he being desirous of Knowledge, had there the Opportunity of improving it. In the Country, 'tis true, there are Woods, Gardens, Fountains and Brooks, that entertain the Sight, but they are all mute, and therefore teach a Man nothing. _Eu._ I know _Socrates_ puts the Case of a Man's walking alone in the Fields; although, in my Opinion, there Nature is not dumb, but talkative enough, and speaks to the Instruction of a Man that has but a good Will, and a Capacity to learn. What does the beautiful Face of the Spring do, but proclaim the equal Wisdom and Goodness of the Creator? And how many excellent Things did _Socrates_ in his Retirement, both teach his _Phædrus_, and learn from him? _Ti._ If a Man could have such pleasant Company, I confess, no life in the World could be pleasanter than a Country Life. _Eu._ Have you a Mind to make Tryal of it? If you have, come take a Dinner with me to Morrow: I have a pretty neat little Country House, a little Way out of Town. _Ti._ We are too many of us; we shall eat you out of House and Home. _Eu._ Never fear that, you're to expect only a Garden Treat, of such Chear as I need not go to Market for. The Wine is of my own Growth; the Pompions, the Melons, the Figs, the Pears, the Apples and Nuts, are offered to you by the Trees themselves; you need but gape, and they'll fall into your Mouth, as it is in the _fortunate Islands_, if we may give Credit to _Lucian_. Or, it may be, we may get a Pullet out of the Hen-roost, or so. _Ti._ Upon these Terms we'll be your Guests. _Eu._ And let every Man bring his Friend along with him, and then, as you now are four, we shall be the just Number of the Muses. _Ti._ A Match. _Eu._ And take Notice, that I shall only find Meat, you are to bring your own Sauce. _Ti._ What Sauce do you mean, Pepper, or Sugar? _Eu._ No, no, something that's cheaper, but more savoury. _Ti._ What's that? _Eu._ A good Stomach. A light Supper to Night, and a little Walk to Morrow Morning, and that you may thank my Country House for. But at what Hour do you please to dine at? _Ti._ At ten a Clock. Before it grows too hot. _Eu._ I'll give Order accordingly. _Boy._ Sir, the Gentlemen are come. _Eu._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, that you are come according to your Words; but you're twice as welcome for coming so early, and bringing the best of Company along with you. There are some Persons who are guilty of an unmannerly Civility, in making their Host wait for them. _Ti._ We came the earlier, that we might have Time enough to view all the Curiosities of your Palace; for we have heard that it is so admirably contrived every where, as that it speaks who's the Master of it. _Eu._ And you will see a Palace worthy of such a Prince. This little Nest is to me more than a Court, and if he may be said to reign that lives at Liberty according to his Mind, I reign here. But I think it will be best, while the Wench in the Kitchen provides us a Salad, and it is the cool of the Morning, to take a Walk to see the Gardens. _Ti._ Have you any other beside this? For truly this is a wonderful neat one, and with a pleasing Aspect salutes a Man at his entring in, and bids him welcome. _Eu._ Let every Man gather a Nosegay, that may put by any worse Scent he may meet with within Doors. Every one likes not the same Scent, therefore let every one take what he likes. Don't be sparing, for this Place lies in a Manner common; I never shut it up but a-Nights. _Ti._ St. Peter keeps the Gates, I perceive. _Eu._ I like this Porter better than the _Mercuries_, Centaurs, and other fictitious Monsters, that some paint upon their Doors. _Ti._ And 'tis more suitable to a Christian too. _Eu._ Nor is my Porter dumb, for he speaks to you in Three Languages. _Ti._ What does he say? _Eu._ Read it yourself. _Ti._ It is too far off for my Eyes. _Eu._ Here's a reading Glass, that will make you another _Lynceus._ _Ti._ I see the Latin. _Si vis ad vitam ingredi, serva mandata_, Mat. 19, 17. If thou wilt, enter into Life, keep the Commandments. _Eu._ Now read the _Greek_. _Ti._ I see the _Greek_, but I don't well know what to make on't; I'll refer that to _Theophilus_, who's never without _Greek_ in his Mouth. _Th._ [Greek: Metanoêsate kai epistrepsate. Praxeôn tô tritô.] _Repent and be converted._ Acts 3. 19. _Ch._ I'll take the _Hebrew_ upon myself, [Hebrew: vetsadik be'emunato yihyeh] _And the Just shall live by Faithfulness._ _Eu._ Does he seem to be an unmannerly Porter, who at first Dash, bids us turn from our Iniquities, and apply our selves to Godliness, and then tells us, that Salvation comes not from the Works of the Law; but from the Faith of the Gospel; and last of all, that the Way to eternal Life, is by the Observance of evangelical Precepts. _Ti._ And see the Chapel there on the right Hand that he directs us to, it is a very fine one. Upon the Altar there's _Jesus Christ_ looking up to Heaven, and pointing with his right Hand towards God the Father, and the holy Spirit; and with his Left, he seems to court and invite all Comers. _Eu._ Nor is he mute: You see the _Latin; Ego sum via, veritas, et vita; I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life._ [Greek: Egô eimi to alpha kai to ômega.] In _Hebrew_, [Hebrew: Lechu banim shim'uh li, yr'at adonai alamdeichem] _Come, ye Children, hearken unto me; I will teach you the fear of the Lord._ _Ti._ Truly the Lord _Jesus_ salutes us with a good Omen. _Eu._ But that we may not seem uncivil, it is meet that we pay back an Acknowledgment, and pray that since we can do nothing of ourselves, he would vouchsafe of his infinite Goodness to keep us from ever straying out of the Path of Life; but that we casting away _Jewish_ Ceremonies, and the Delusions of the World, he would guide us by the Truth of the Gospel to everlasting Life, drawing us of himself to himself. _Ti._ It is most reasonable that we should pray, and the Place invites us to it. _Eu._ The Pleasantness of the Garden draws a great many Persons to it; and 'tis a rare Thing that any Passes by Jesus without an Ejaculation. I have made him Keeper, not only of my Garden, but of all my Possessions, and of both Body and Mind, instead of filthy _Priapus_. Here is you see a little Fountain pleasantly bubbling with wholsome Waters, this in some Measure represents that only Fountain of Life, that by its divine Streams, refreshes all that are weary and heavy laden; which the Soul, tired with the Evils of this World, pants after, just as the Hart in the Psalmist does after the Water Brooks, having tasted of the Flesh of Serpents. From this Fountain, whoever thirsts, may drink _gratis_. Some make it a Matter of Religion to sprinkle themselves with it; and others for the Sake of Religion, and not of Thirst, drink of it. You are loath, I perceive, to leave this Place: But it is Time to go to see this little square Garden that is wall'd in, 'tis a neater one than the other. What is to be seen within Doors, you shall see after Dinner, when the Heat of the Sun keeps us at Home for some Hours like Snails. _Ti._ Bless me! What a delightful Prospect is here. _Eu._ All this Place was designed for a Pleasure Garden, but for honest Pleasure; for the Entertainment of the Sight, the recreating the Nostrils, and refreshing the Mind; nothing grows here but sweet Herbs, nor every Sort of them, but only choice ones, and every Kind has its Bed by itself. _Ti._ I am now convinced that Plants are not mute with you. _Eu._ You are in the Right; others have magnificent Houses, but mine is made for Conversation, so that I can never be alone in it, and so you'll say, when you have seen it all. As the several Plants are as it were form'd into several Troops, so every Troop has its Standard to itself, with a peculiar Motto, as this Marjoram's is, _Abstine, sus, non tibi spiro: Keep off, Sow, I don't breathe my Perfume for thee_; for though it be of a very fragrant Scent, yet Sows have a natural Aversion to it: And so every Sort has its Title, denoting the peculiar Virtue of the Plant. _Ti._ I have seen nothing yet more delightful than this little Fountain, which being in the midst of them, does as it were smile upon all the Plants, and promises them Refreshment against the scorching Heat of the Sun. But this little Channel which shews the Water to the Eye so advantageously, and divides the Garden every where at such equal Distances, that it shews all the Flowers over on both Sides again, as in a Looking-glass, is it made of Marble? _Eu._ Marble, quoth thee, how should Marble come hither? It is a counterfeit Marble, made of a sort of Loam, and a whitish Colour given it in the Glasing. _Ti._ But where does this delicious Rivulet discharge itself at last? _Eu._ Just as it is with human Obligations, when we have served our own Turns: After this has pleasured our Eyes, it washes our Kitchen, and passes through the Sink into the common Shore. _Ti._ That's very hard-hearted, as I am a Christian. _Eu._ It had been hard-hearted, if the divine Bounty of Providence had not appointed it for this Use. We are then hard-hearted, when we pollute the Fountain of divine Truth, that is much more pleasant than this, and was given us for the refreshing and purging our Minds from our Lusts and vicious Appetites, abusing the unspeakable Bounty of God: For we make no bad Use of the Water, if we put it to the several Uses for which he appointed it, who supplies every Thing abundantly for human Use. _Ti._ You say right: But how comes it about, that all your artificial Hedges are green too? _Eu._ Because I would have every Thing green here. Some are for a Mixture of Red, because that sets off Green: But I like this best, as every Man has his Fancy, though it be but in a Garden. _Ti._ The Garden is very fine of itself; but methinks these three Walks take off very much from the Lightsomeness and Pleasantness of it. _Eu._ Here I either study or walk alone, or talk with a Friend, or eat, as the Humour takes me. _Ti._ Those speckled, wonderful, pretty party-coloured Pillars, that at equal Distances support that Edifice, are they Marble? _Eu._ Of the same Marble that this Channel is made of. _Ti._ In Truth, a pretty Cheat, I should have sworn they had been Marble. _Eu._ For this Reason then, take Care that you neither believe, nor swear any Thing rashly: You see how a Man may be mistaken. What I want in Wealth, I supply by Invention. _Ti._ Could you not be content with so neat, and well furnished a Garden in Substance, without other Gardens in Picture besides? _Eu._ In the first Place, one Garden will not hold all Sorts of Plants; and in the second, 'tis a double Pleasure, to see a painted Flower vie with the Life; and in one we contemplate the Artifice of Nature, in the other the Skill of the Painter; and in both, the Goodness of God, who gives all Things for our Use, in every Thing equally admirable and amiable: And in the last Place, a Garden is not always green; nor the Flowers always fresh; but this Garden is fresh and green all the Winter. _Ti._ But it is not fragrant. _Eu._ But then on the other Hand it wants no dressing. _Ti._ It only delights the Eye. _Eu._ But then it does that always. _Ti._ Pictures themselves grow old. _Eu._ They do so; but yet they out-live us; and besides, whereas we are the worse for Age, they are the better for it. _Ti._ That's too true, if it could be otherwise. _Eu._ In this Walk that looks toward the West, I take the Benefit of the Morning Sun; in that which looks toward the East, I take the Cool of the Evening; in that which looks toward the South, but lies open to the North, I take Sanctuary against the Heats of the Meridian Sun; but we'll walk 'em over, if you please, and take a nearer View of them: See how green 'tis under Foot, and you have the Beauty of painted Flowers in the very Chequers of the Pavement. This Wood, that you see painted upon this Wall, affords me a great Variety of Prospect: For in the first Place, as many Trees as you see, so many Sorts of Trees you see; and all express'd to the Life. As many Birds as you see, so many Kinds you see; especially if there be any scarce Ones, and remarkable upon any Account. For as for Geese, Hens, and Ducks, it is not worth While to draw them. Underneath are four-footed Creatures, or such Birds as live upon the Ground, after the Manner of Quadrupedes. _Ti._ The Variety indeed is wonderful, and every Thing is in Action, either doing or saying something. There's an Owl sits peeping through the Leaves, what says she? _Eu._ She speaks _Greek_; she says, [Greek: Sôphronei, ou pasin hiptêmi], she commands us to act advisedly; _I do not fly to all_; because an inconsiderate Rashness does not fall out happily to all Persons. There is an Eagle quarrying upon a Hare, and a Beetle interceding to no Purpose; there is a Wren stands by the Beetle, and she is a mortal Enemy to the Eagle. _Ti._ What has this Swallow got in her Mouth? _Eu._ The Herb Celandine; don't you know the Plant? with it, she restores Sight to her blind young Ones. _Ti._ What odd Sort of Lizard is this? _Eu._ It is not a Lizard, but a Chamæleon. _Ti._ Is this the Chamæleon, there is so much Talk of? I thought it had been a Beast twice as big as a Lion, and the Name is twice as long too. _En._ This Chamæleon is always gaping, and always hungry. This is a wild Fig-Tree, and that is his Aversion. He is otherwise harmless; and yet the little gaping Creature has Poison in him too, that you mayn't contemn him. _Ti._ But I don't see him change his Colour. _Eu._ True; because he does not change his Place; when he changes his Place, you will see him change his Colour too. _Ti._ What's the Meaning of that Piper? _Eu._ Don't you see a Camel there dancing hard by? _Ti._ I see a very pleasant Fancy; the Ape pipes, and the Camel dances. _Eu._ But it would require at least three Days to run through the Particulars one by one; it will be enough at present to take a cursory View of them. You have in the first Spot, all Sorts of famous Plants painted to the Life: And to increase the Wonder, here are the strongest Poisons in the World, which you may not only look upon, but handle too without Danger. _Ti._ Look ye, here is a Scorpion, an Animal very seldom seen in this Country; but very frequent in _Italy_, and very mischievous too: But the Colour in the Picture seems not to be natural. _Eu._ Why so? _Ti._ It seems too pale methinks; for those in _Italy_ are blacker. _Eu._ Don't you know the Herb it has fallen upon? _Ti._ Not very well. _Eu._ That's no Wonder, for it does not grow in these Parts: It is Wolf's-bane, so deadly a Poison, that upon the very touch of it, a Scorpion is stupified, grows pale, and yields himself overcome; but when he is hurt with one Poison, he seeks his Remedy with another. Do you see the two Sorts of Hellebore hard by; if the Scorpion can but get himself clear of the Wolf's-bane, and get to the white Hellebore, he recovers his former Vigour, by the very Touch of a different Poison. _Ti._ Then the Scorpion is undone, for he is never like to get off from the Wolfs'-bane. But do Scorpions speak here? _Eu._ Yes, they do, and speak _Greek_ too. _Ti._ What does he say? _Eu._ [Greek: Eure theos ton alitron], _God hath found out the Guilty._ Here besides the Grass, you see all Sorts of Serpents. Here is the Basilisk, that is not only formidable for his Poison; but the very Flash of his Eyes is also mortal. _Ti._ And he says something too. _Eu._ Yes, he says, _Oderint, dum metuant; Let them hate me, so they fear me._ _Ti._ Spoken like a King entirely. _Eu._ Like a Tyrant rather, not at all like a King. Here a Lizard fights with a Viper, and here lies the _Dipsas_ Serpent upon the Catch, hid under the Shell of an _Estridge_ Egg. Here you see the whole Policy of the Ant, which we are call'd upon to imitate by _Solomon_ and _Horace_. Here are _Indian_ Ants that carry Gold, and hoard it up. _Ti._ O good God! how is it possible for a Man to be weary of this Entertainment. _Eu._ And yet at some other Time you shall see I'll give you your Belly full of it. Now look before you at a Distance, there is a third Wall, where you have Lakes, Rivers, and Seas, and all Sorts of rare Fishes. This is the River _Nile_, in which you see the _Dolphin_, that natural Friend to Mankind, fighting with a _Crocodile_, Man's deadly Enemy. Upon the Banks and Shores you see several amphibious Creatures, as Crabs, Seals, Beavers. Here is a Polypus, a Catcher catch'd by an Oyster. _Ti._ What does he say? [Greek: airôn airoumai]; _The Taker taken._ The Painter has made the Water wonderfully transparent. _Eu._ If he had not done so, we should have wanted other Eyes. Just by there's another Polypus playing upon the Face of the Sea like a little Cock-Boat; and there you see a Torpedo lying along upon the Sands, both of a Colour, you may touch them here with your Hand without any Danger. But we must go to something else, for these Things feed the Eye, but not the Belly. _Ti._ Have you any more to be seen then? _Eu._ You shall see what the Back-side affords us by and by. Here's an indifferent large Garden parted: The one a Kitchen Garden, that is my Wife's and the Family's; the other is a Physick Garden, containing the choicest physical Herbs. At the left Hand there is an open Meadow, that is only a green Plot enclos'd with a quick-set Hedge. There sometimes I take the Air, and divert myself with good Company. Upon the right Hand there's an Orchard, where, when you have Leisure, you shall see a great Variety of foreign Trees, that I have brought by Degrees to endure this Climate. _Ti._ O wonderful! the King himself has not such a Seat. _Eu._ At the End of the upper Walk there's an Aviary, which I'll shew you after Dinner, and there you'll see various Forms, and hear various Tongues, and their Humours are as various. Among some of them there is an Agreeableness and mutual Love, and among others an irreconcilable Aversion: And then they are so tame and familiar, that when I'm at Supper, they'll come flying in at the Window to me, even to the Table, and take the Meat out of my Hands. If at any Time I am upon the Draw-Bridge you see there, talking, perhaps with a Friend, they'll some of them sit hearkening, others of them will perch upon my Shoulders or Arms, without any Sort of Fear, for they find that no Body hurts them. At the further End of the Orchard I have my Bees, which is a Sight worth seeing. But I must not show you any more now, that I may have something to entertain you with by and by. I'll shew you the rest after Dinner. _Boy._ Sir, my Mistress and Maid say that the Dinner will be spoil'd. _Eu._ Bid her have a little Patience, and we'll come presently. My friends, let us wash, that we may come to the Table with clean Hands as well as Hearts. The very _Pagans_ us'd a Kind of Reverence in this Case; how much more then should _Christians_ do it; if it were but in Imitation of that sacred Solemnity of our Saviour with his Disciples at his last Supper: And thence comes the Custom of washing of Hands, that if any Thing of Hatred, Ill-Will, or any Pollution should remain in the Mind of any one, he might purge it out, before he sits down at the Table. For it is my Opinion, that the Food is the wholesomer for the Body, if taken with a purified Mind. _Ti._ We believe that it is a certain Truth. _Eu. Christ_ himself gave us this Example, that we should sit down to the Table with a Hymn; and I take it from this, that we frequently read in the Evangelists, that he bless'd or gave Thanks to his Father before he broke Bread, and that he concluded with giving of Thanks: And if you please, I'll say you a Grace that St. _Chrysostom_ commends to the Skies in one of his Homilies, which he himself interpreted. _Ti._ We desire you would. _Eu._ Blessed be thou, O God, who has fed me from my Youth up, and providest Food for all Flesh: Fill thou our Hearts with Joy and Gladness, that partaking plentifully of thy Bounty, we may abound to every good Work, through _Christ Jesus_ our Lord, with whom, to thee and the Holy Ghost, be Glory, Honour, and Power, World without End. _Amen._ _Eu._ Now sit down, and let every Man take his Friend next him: The first Place is yours, _Timothy_, in Right of your Grey Hairs. _Ti._ The only Thing in the World that gives a Title to it. _Eu._ We can only judge of what we see, and must leave the rest to God. _Sophronius_, keep you close to your Principal. _Theophilus_ and _Eulalius_, do you take the right Side of the Table; _Chrysoglottus_ and _Theodidactus_ they shall have the left. _Uranius_ and _Nephalius_ must make a Shift with what is left. I'll keep this Corner. _Ti._ This must not be, the Master of the House ought to take the first Place. _Eu._ The House is as much yours as mine, Gentlemen; however, if I may rule within my own Jurisdiction, I'll sit where I please, and I have made my Choice already. Now may Christ, the Enlivener of all, and without whom nothing can be pleasant, vouchsafe to be with us, and exhilarate our Minds by his Presence. _Ti._ I hope he will be pleased so to do; but where shall he sit, for the Places are all taken up? _Eu._ I would have him in every Morsel and Drop that we eat and drink; but especially, in our Minds. And the better to fit us for the Reception of so divine a Guest, if you will, you shall have some Portion of Scripture read in the Interim; but so that you shall not let that hinder you from eating your Dinner heartily. _Ti._ We will eat heartily, and attend diligently. _Eu._ This Entertainment pleases me so much the better, because it diverts vain and frivolous Discourse, and affords Matter of profitable Conversation: I am not of their Mind, who think no Entertainment diverting, that does not abound with foolish wanton Stories, and bawdy Songs. There is pure Joy springs from a clear and pure Conscience; and those are the happy Conversations, where such Things are mentioned, that we can reflect upon afterwards with Satisfaction and Delight; and not such as we shall afterwards be ashamed of, and have Occasion to repent of. _Ti._ It were well if we were all as careful to consider those Things as we are sure they are true. _Eu._ And besides, these Things have not only a certain and valuable Profit in them, but one Month's Use of them, would make them become pleasant too. _Ti._ And therefore it is the best Course we can take to accustom ourselves to that which is best. _Eu._ Read us something, Boy, and speak out distinctly. _Boy._ Prov. xxi. _The King's Heart is in the Hand of the Lord; as the Rivers of Waters, he turneth it whither soever he will. Every Man is right in his own Eyes, but the Lord pondereth the Hearts. To do Justice and Judgment, is more acceptable to the Lord than Sacrifice_, ver. 1, 2, 3. _Eu._ Hold there, that's enough; for it is better to take down a little with an Appetite, than to devour more than a Man can digest. _Ti._ 'Tis better, I must confess, in more Cases than this: _Pliny_ would have one never have _Tully's_ Offices out of ones Hand; and in my Opinion, it were well if all Persons, but especially Statesmen, had him every Word by Heart: And as for this little Book of Proverbs, I have always look'd upon it the best Manual we can carry about with us. _Eu._ I knew our Dinner would be unsavoury, and therefore I procured this Sauce. _Ti._ Here is nothing but what is very good; but if you had given us this Lecture to a Dish of Beets only, without either Pepper, Wine or Vinegar, it would have been a delicious Treat. _Eu._ I could commend it with a better Grace, if I did but perfectly understand what I have heard. And I would we had some able Divine among us, that did not only understand it, but would thoroughly expound it. But I don't know how far it may be lawful for us Laymen to descant upon these Matters. _Ti._ Indeed, I see no Hurt in't, even for a _Tarpawlin_ to do it, abating the Rashness of passing Sentence in the Case. And who knows but that _Christ_ himself (who has promis'd to be present, where two or three are gathered together in his Name) may vouchsafe his Assistance to us, that are a much larger Congregation. _Eu._ What if we should take these three Verses, and divide 'em among us nine Guests? _Guests._ We like it well, provided the Master of the Feast lead the Way. _Eu._ I would not refuse it; but that I am afraid I shall entertain you worse in my Exposition, than I do in my Dinner: But however, Ceremony apart, that I may not seem to want much Persuasion, omitting other Meanings that Interpreters put upon the Place: This seems to me to be the moral Sense; "That private Men may be wrought upon by Admonition, Reproofs, Laws and Menaces; but Kings who are above Fear, the more they are opposed, the fiercer their Displeasure; and therefore Kings, as often as they are resolutely bent upon any, should be left to themselves: Not in respect of any Confidence of the Goodness of their Inclinations; but because God many Times makes Use of their Follies and Wickedness, as the Instruments for the Punishment of the Wicked." As he forbad that _Nebuchodonosor_ should be resisted, because he had determin'd to chastise his People by him, as an Instrument. And peradventure, that which _Job_ says, looks this Way: _Who maketh the Hypocrite reign for the Sins of his People._ And perhaps, that which _David_ says, bewailing his Sin, has the same Tendency: _Against thee only have I sinned, and done this Evil in thy Sight:_ Not as if the Iniquity of Kings were not fatal to the People; but because there is none that has Authority to condemn them, but God, from whose Judgment there is indeed no Appeal, be the Person never so great. _Ti._ I like the Interpretation well enough thus far; but what is meant by _the Rivers of Waters?_ _Eu._ There is a Similitude made Use of that explains it. The Wrath of a King is impetuous and unruly, and not to be led this Way or that Way, but presses forward with a restless Fury: As the Sea spreads itself over the Land, and flows sometimes this Way, and sometimes that Way, not sparing Pastures nor Palaces, and sometimes buries in its own Bowels all that stands in its Way; and if you should attempt to stop its Course, or to turn it another Way, you may e'en as well let it alone: Whereas, let it but alone, and it will sink of itself, as it happens in many great Rivers, as is storied of _Achelous._ There is less Injury done by quietly yielding, than by violently resisting. _Ti._ Is there no Remedy then against the Unruliness of wicked Kings? _Eu._ The first will be, not to receive a Lion into the City: The second, is to tie him up by parliamentary and municipal Laws, that he can't easily break out into Tyranny: But the best of all would be, to train him up from his Childhood, in the Principles of Piety and Virtue, and to form his Will, before he understands his Power. Good Counsels and Persuasions go a great Way, provided they be seasonable and gentle. But the last Resort must be to beg of God, to incline the King's Heart to those Things that are becoming a Christian King. _Ti._ Do you excuse yourself, because you are a Layman? If I were a Batchelor in Divinity, I should value myself upon this Interpretation. _Eu._ I can't tell whether it is right or wrong, it is enough for me if it were not impious or heretical. However, I have done what you required of me; and now, according to the Rules of Conversation, 'tis my Turn to hear your Opinion. _Ti._ The Compliment you pass'd upon my grey Hairs, gives me some kind of Title to speak next to the Text, which will bear yet a more mysterious Meaning. _Eu._ I believe it may, and I should be glad to hear it. _Ti._ "By the Word King, may be meant, a Man so perfected, as to have wholly subdued his Lusts, and to be led by the Impulse of the Divine Spirit only. Now perhaps it may not be proper to tie up such a Person to the Conditions of human Laws; but to leave him to his Master, by whom he is govern'd: Nor is he to be judg'd according to the Measures by which the Frailty of imperfect Men advances towards true Holiness; but if he steers another Course, we ought to say with St. _Paul, God hath accepted him, and to his own Master he stands or falls. He that is spiritual, judgeth of all Things, but he himself is judged of no Man_." To such, therefore, let no Man prescribe; for the Lord, who hath appointed Bounds to the Seas and Rivers, hath the Heart of the King in his Hand, and inclines it which Way soever it pleases him: What need is there to prescribe to him, that does of his own accord better Things than human Laws oblige him to? Or, how great a Rashness were it, to bind that Person by human Constitutions, who, it is manifest, by evident Tokens, is directed by the Inspirations of the Holy Spirit. _Eu._ O _Timothy_, thou hast not only got grey Hairs on this Head, but you have likewise a Mind venerable for experimental Knowledge. And I would to God, that we had more such Kings as this King of yours among Christians, who, indeed, all of them ought to be such. But we have dwelt long enough upon our Eggs and Herbs; let them be taken away, and something else set in their Room. _Ti._ We have done so well already on this Ovation, that there is no Need of any more, either of Supplication or Triumph. _Eu._ But since, by God's Assistance, we have succeeded so well in the first Verse, I wish your _Umbra_ would explain the other, which seems to me a little more obscure. _Soph._ If you'll put a good Construction upon what I shall say, I will give you my Thoughts upon it. How else can a Shadow pretend to give Light to any Thing? _Eu._ I undertake that for all the Company; such Shadows as you give as much Light as our Eyes will well bear. _Soph._ The same Thing seems to be meant here, that _Paul_ says: _That there are several Ways of Life, that lead to Holiness_. Some affect the Ministry, some Celibacy, others a married State; some a retired Life, others publick Administrations of the Government, according to the various Dispositions of their Bodies and Minds: Again, to one Man all Meats are indifferent, another puts a Difference betwixt this Meat and that; another he makes a Difference of Days, another thinks every Day alike. In these Things St. _Paul_ would have every one enjoy his own Freedom of Mind, without reproaching another; nor should we censure any Man in those Cases, but leave him to be judg'd by him that weigheth the Heart. It oftentimes happens, that he that eats may be more acceptable to God, than he that forbears; and he that breaks a Holy-day, than he that seems to observe it; and he that marries, is more acceptable to God, than a great many that live single. I who am but a Shadow, have spoken my Mind. _Eu._ I wish I could have Conversation with such Shadows often. I think you have hit the Nail on the Head: But here is one that has lived a Batchelor, and not of the Number of Saints, who have made themselves Eunuchs for the Sake of the Kingdom of God but was made so by force, to gratify our Bellies, _till God shall destroy both them and Meats_. It is a Capon of my own feeding. I am a great Lover of boil'd Meats. This is a very good Soop, and these are choice Lettuces that are in it. Pray every one help himself to what he likes best. But that you may not be deceiv'd, I tell you, that we have a Course of Roast a coming, and after that some small Desert, and so conclude. _Ti._ But we exclude your Wife from Table. _Eu._ When you bring your own Wives, mine shall keep them Company. She would, if she were here, be nothing but a Mute in our Company. She talks with more Freedom among the Women, and we are more at Liberty to philosophise. And besides that, there would be Danger, lest we should be serv'd as _Socrates_ was, when he had several Philosophers at Table with him, who took more Pleasure in talking than they did in eating, and held a long Dispute, had all their Meat thrown on the Floor by _Xantippe_, who in a Rage overturn'd the Table. _Ti._ I believe you have nothing of that to be afraid of: She's one of the best-humour'd Women in the World. _Eu._ She is such a one indeed, that I should be loath to change her if I might; and I look upon myself to be very happy upon that Account. Nor do I like their Opinion, who think a Man happy, because he never had a Wife; I approve rather what the _Hebrew_ Sage said, _He that has a good Wife has a good Lot_. _Ti._ It is commonly our own Fault, if our Wives be bad, either for loving such as are bad, or making them so; or else for not teaching them better. _Eu._ You say very right, but all this While I want to hear the third Verse expounded: And methinks the divine _Theophilus_ looks as if he had a Mind to do it. _Theo._ Truly my Mind was upon my Belly; but however, I'll speak my Mind, since I may do it without Offence. _Eu._ Nay, it will be a Favour to us if you should happen to be in any Error, because by that Means you will give us Occasion of finding the Truth. _Th._ The Sentence seems to be of the same Importance with that the Lord expresses by the Prophet _Hosea_, Chap. vi. _I desire Mercy and not Sacrifice, and the Knowledge of God more than Burnt-Offerings_. This is fully explain'd, and to the Life, by the Lord _Jesus_, in St. _Matthew_, Chap. ix. who being at Table in the House of _Levi_ the Publican, with several others of the same Stamp and Profession, the _Pharisees_, who were puff'd up with their external Observance of the Law, without any Regard to the Precepts of it, whereupon the whole Law and Prophets depend, (with a Design to alienate the Affections of his Disciples from him) ask'd them, why their Master sat at the Table of Publicans and Sinners. From whose Conversation those _Jews_, that would be accounted the more holy, abstain'd; to that Degree, that if any of the stricter Sort had met any of them by Chance, as soon as they came Home they would wash themselves. And when the Disciples, being yet but raw, could give no Answer; the Lord answer'd both for himself and them: _They_ (says he) _who are whole need not a Physician, but they that are sick; but go you and learn what that meaneth, I will have Mercy and not Sacrifice; for I came not to call the Righteous but Sinners_. _Eu._ Indeed you have very handsomely explain'd the Matter, by the comparing of Texts, which is the best Way of expounding Scripture. But I would fain know what it is he calls Sacrifice, and what Mercy. For how can we reconcile it, that God should be against Sacrifices, who had commanded so many to be offered? _Th._ How far God is against Sacrifices, he himself teaches us in the first Chapter of the Prophecy of _Isaiah_. There were certain legal Obligations among the _Jews_, which were rather Significations of Holiness, than of the Essence of it; of this Sort are Holy-Days, Sabbatisms, Fasts, Sacrifices; and there were certain other Obligations of perpetual Force, being good in their own Nature, and not meerly by being commanded. Now God was displeased with the _Jews_, not because they did observe the Rites and Ceremonies, but because being vainly puffed up with these, they neglected those Things which God does in a more especial Manner require of us; and wallowing in Avarice, Pride, Rapines, Hatred, Envy, and other Iniquities, they thought they merited Heaven, because that upon Holy-Days, they visited the Temple, offered Sacrifices, abstained from forbidden Meats, and frequently fasted; embracing the Shadow of Religion, and neglecting the Substance. But in that, he says, _I will have Mercy, and not Sacrifice_; I take it to be said according to the Idiom of the _Hebrew_ Tongue; that is to say, _Mercy rather than Sacrifices, as Solomon_ interprets it in this Text, _to do Mercy and Judgment, is more acceptable to the Lord than Sacrifices_. And again, the Scripture expresses all the charitable Offices to our Neighbour, under the Terms of Mercy, and eleemosynary Tenderness, which takes its Name from Pity. By Sacrifices, I suppose is intended, whatsoever respects corporal Ceremonies, and has any Affinity with Judaism, such as are the choice of Meats, appointed Garments, Fasting, Sacrifices, the saying over of Prayers, as a Boy says his Lesson: resting upon Holy-Days. These Things, as they are not to be neglected in their due Season, so they become displeasing to God, if a Man relying too much upon these Observances, shall neglect to do Acts of Mercy, as often as his Brother's Necessity requires it. And it has some Appearance of Holiness in it, to avoid the Conversation of wicked Men: But this ought to give Place as oft as there is an Opportunity offer'd of shewing Charity to our Neighbour. It is a Point of Obedience to rest upon Holy Days: But it would be very impious to make such a Conscience of a Day as to suffer a Brother to perish upon it. Therefore to keep the Lord's Day is a Kind of _Sacrifice_: But to be reconcil'd to my Brother is a Point of _Mercy_. And then, as for _Judgment_, though that may seem to respect Persons in Power; who oftentimes oppress the weak therewith, yet it seems reasonable enough in my Opinion that the poor Man should remind him of that in _Hosea, And the Knowledge of God more than burnt Offerings_. No Man can be said to keep the Law of God, but he that keeps it according to the Mind of God. The _Jews_ could lift up an Ass upon the Sabbath that was fallen into a Pit, and yet calumniated our Saviour for preserving a Man upon that Day. This was a preposterous Judgment, and not according to the Knowledge of God; for they did not consider that these Things were made for Man, and not Man for them. But I should have esteem'd it Presumption in me to have said these Things, if you had not commanded it; and I had rather learn of others Things more _à propos_. _Eu._ This is so far from being a Presumption, that it looks rather like an Inspiration. But while we are thus plentifully feeding our Souls, we must not neglect their Companions. _Ti._ Who are those? _Eu._ Our Bodies; are not they the Soul's Companions? I had rather call them so, than Instruments, Habitations or Sepulchres. _Ti._ This is certainly to be plentifully refresh'd when the whole Man is refresh'd. _Eu._ I see you are very backward to help yourselves; therefore, if you please, I'll order the Roast-Meat to be brought us, lest instead of a good Entertainment I should treat you with a long one. Now you see your Ordinary. Here is a Shoulder of Mutton, but it is a very fine one, a Capon and two Brace of Partridges. These indeed I had from the Market, this little Farm supply'd me with the rest. _Ti._ It is a noble Dinner, fit for a Prince. _Eu._ For a _Carmelite_, you mean. But such as it is you are welcome to it. If the Provision be not very dainty you have it very freely. _Ti._ Your House is so full of Talk, that not only the Walls but the very Cup speaks. _Eu._ What does it say? _Ti. No Man is hurt but by himself._ _Eu._ The Cup pleads for the Cause of the Wine. For it is a common Thing, if Persons get a Fever or the Head-ach by over drinking, to lay it upon the Wine, when they have brought it upon themselves by their Excess. _Soph._ Mine speaks _Greek_. [Greek: En oinô alêtheia.] _In Wine there's Truth_ (when Wine is in the Wit is out.) _Eu._ This gives us to understand that it is not safe for Priests or Privy-Counsellors to give themselves so to Wine, because Wine commonly brings that to the Mouth that lay conceal'd in the Heart. _Soph._ In old Time among the _Egyptians_ it was unlawful for their Priests to drink any Wine at all, and yet in those Days there was no auricular Confession. _Eu._ It is now become lawful for all Persons to drink Wine, but how expedient it is I know not. What Book is that, _Eulalius_, you take out of your Pocket? It seems to be a very neat one, it is all over gilded. _Eulal._ It is more valuable for the Inside than the Out. It is St. _Paul's_ Epistles, that I always carry about me, as my beloved Entertainment, which I take out now upon the Occasion of something you said, which minds me of a Place that I have beat my Brains about a long Time, and I am not come to a full Satisfaction in yet. It is in the 6th Chapter of the first Epistle to the _Corinthians_, _All Things are lawful for me, but all Things are not expedient; all Things are lawful for me, but I will not be brought under the Power of any_. In the first Place (if we will believe the Stoicks) nothing can be profitable to us, that is not honest: How comes _Paul_ then to distinguish betwixt that which is lawful, and that which is expedient? It is not lawful to whore, or get drunk, how then are all Things lawful? But if _Paul_ speaks of some particular Things only, which he would have to be lawful, I can't guess by the Tenor of the Place, which those particular Things are. From that which follows, it may be gather'd, that he there speaks of the Choice of Meats. For some abstain from Things offer'd to Idols, and others from Meats forbidden by _Moses_'s Law. In the 8th Chapter he treats of Things offer'd to Idols, and in the 10th Chapter explaining the Meaning of this Place, says, _All Things are lawful for me, but all Things are not expedient; all Things are lawful for me, but all Things edify not. Let no Man seek his own, but every Man the Things of another. Whatsoever is sold in the Shambles, eat ye_. And that which St. _Paul_ subjoins, agrees with what he said before: _Meats for the Belly, and the Belly for Meats; but God shall destroy both it and them_. Now that which has Respect to the _Judaical_ Choice of Meats, is in the Close of the 10th Chapter. _Give none Offence, neither to the Jews nor the Gentiles, nor to the Church of God; even as I please all Men in all Things, not seeking my own Profit, but the Profit of many, that they may be sav'd_. Where in that he saith to the _Gentiles_, he seems to have Respect to Things offer'd to Idols; and where he speaketh to the _Jews_ he seems to refer to the Choice of Meats; what he says to the Church of God appertains to the Weak, collected out of both Sorts. It was lawful, it seems, to eat of all Meats whatsoever, and all Things that are Clean to the Clean. But the Question remaining is, Whether it be expedient or no? The Liberty of the Gospel makes all Things lawful; but Charity has always a Regard to my Neighbour's Good, and therefore often abstains from Things lawful, rather chasing to condescend to what is for another's Advantage, than to make Use of its own Liberty. But now here arises a double Difficulty; first, that here is nothing that either precedes or follows in the Context that agrees with this Sense. For he chides the _Corinthians_ for being Seditious, Fornicators, Adulterers, and given to go to Law before wicked Judges. Now what Coherence is there with this to say, _All Things are lawful for me, but all Things are not expedient_? And in the following Matter, he returns to the Case of _Incontinence_, which he had also repeated before, only leaving out the Charge of Contention: _But the Body_, says he, _is not for Fornication, but for the Lord, and the Lord for the Body._ But however, this Scruple may be solv'd too, because a little before, in the Catalogue of Sins, he had made Mention of Idolatry. _Be not deceived, neither Fornicators, nor Idolaters, nor Adulterers_; now the Eating of Things offer'd to Idols is a certain Kind of Idolatry, and therefore he immediately subjoins, _Meat is for the Belly, and the Belly for Meat_. Intimating, that in a Case of Necessity, and for a Season, a Man may eat any Thing, unless Charity towards his Neighbour shall dissuade it: But that Uncleanness is in all Persons, and at all Times to be detested. It is Matter of Necessity that we eat, but that Necessity shall be taken away at the Resurrection of the Dead. But if we are lustful, that proceeds from Wickedness. But there is another Scruple that I can't tell how to solve, or how to reconcile to that Passage: _But I will not be brought under the Power of any_. For he says, he has the Power of all Things, and yet he will not be brought under the Power of any one. If he may be said to be under another Man's Power, that abstains for Fear of offending, it is what he speaks of himself in the ninth Chapter, _For though I be free from all Men, yet have made myself Servant to all, that I may gain all._ St. _Ambrose_ stumbling, I suppose, at this Scruple, takes this to be the Apostle's genuine Sense for the better Understanding of what he says in the 9th Chapter, where he claims to himself the Power of doing that which the rest of the Apostles (either true or false) did, of receiving a Maintenance from them to whom he preach'd the Gospel. But he forbore this, although he might have done it, as a Thing expedient among the _Corinthians_, whom he reprov'd for so many and enormous Iniquities. And moreover, he that receives, is in some Degree in the Power of him from whom he receives, and suffers some Kind of Abatement in his Authority. For he that takes, cannot so freely reprove his Benefactor; and he that gives will not so easily take a Reprehension from him that he has obliged. And in this did the Apostle _Paul_ abstain from that which was lawful, for the Credit of his apostolical Liberty, which in this Case he would not have to be rendered obnoxious to any one, that he might with the greater Freedom and Authority reprehend their Vices. Indeed, I like this Explication of St. _Ambrose_ very well. But yet, if any Body had rather apply this Passage to Meats, St. _Paul_'s, Saying, _but I will not be brought under the Power of any_, may be taken in this Sense: Although I may sometimes abstain from Meats offered to Idols, or forbidden by the _Mosaical_ Law, out of Regard to the Salvation of my Brothers Souls, and the Furtherance of the Gospel; yet my Mind is free, well knowing that it is lawful to eat all Manner of Meats, according to the Necessity of the Body. But there were some false Apostles, who went about to persuade them, that some Meats, were in themselves, by their own Nature unclean, and were to be forborn, not upon Occasion only, but at all Times; and that as strict as Adultery or Murder. Now those that were thus misled, were reduced under another's Power, and fell from their Gospel Liberty. _Theophylact_ (as I remember) is the only Man that advances an Opinion different from all these. _It is lawful_, says he, _to eat all Sorts of Meats; but it is not expedient to eat to Excess; for from Luxury comes Lust._ There is no Impiety, indeed, in this Sense; but it does not seem to me to be the genuine Sense of the Place. I have acquainted you with my Scruples, it will become your Charity to set me to Rights. _Eu._ Your Discourse is, indeed, answerable to your Name, and one that knows how to propound Questions as you do, has no Need of any Body to answer them but himself. For you have so proposed your Doubts, as to put one quite out of doubt, altho' St. _Paul_, in that Epistle, (proposing to handle many Things at once) passes often from one Argument to another, repeating what he had intermitted. _Ch._ If I were not afraid, that by my Loquacity I should divert you from eating your Dinners, and did think it were lawful to intermix any Thing out of profane Authors with sacred Discourses, I would venture to propose something that I read to Day; not so much with Perplexity, as with a singular Delight. _Eu._ Whatsoever is pious, and conduces to good Manners, ought not to be called profane. The first Place must indeed be given to the Authority of the Scriptures; but nevertheless, I sometimes find some Things said or written by the Antients; nay, even by the Heathens; nay, by the Poets themselves, so chastly, so holily, and so divinely, that I cannot persuade myself, but that when they wrote them, they were divinely inspired; and perhaps the Spirit of Christ diffuses itself farther than we imagine; and that there are more Saints than we have in our Catalogue. To confess freely among Friends, I can't read _Tully_ of _Old Age_, of _Friendship_, his _Offices_, or his _Tusculan Questions_, without kissing the Book, and Veneration for that divine Soul. And on the contrary, when I read some of our modern Authors, treating of _Politics, Oeconomics_ and _Ethics_, good God! how cold they are in Comparison of these? Nay, how do they seem to be insensible of what they write themselves? So that I had rather lose _Scotus_ and twenty more such as he, than one _Cicero_ or _Plutarch_. Not that I am wholly against them neither; but because, by the reading of the one, I find myself become better; whereas, I rise from the other, I know not how coldly affected to Virtue, but most violently inclin'd to Cavil and Contention; therefore never fear to propose it, whatsoever it is. _Ch._ Although all _Tully_'s Books of Philosophy seem to breathe out something divine; yet that Treatise of _Old Age_, that he wrote in old Age, seems to me to be according to the _Greek_ Proverb; _the Song of the dying Swan_. I was reading it to Day, and these Words pleasing me above the rest, I got 'em by Heart: _Should it please God to give me a Grant to begin my Life again from my very Cradle, and once more to run over the Course of my Years I have lived, I would not upon any Terms accept of it: Nor would I, having in a Manner finished my Race, run it over again from the starting Place to the Goal: For what Pleasure has this Life in it? nay, rather, what Pain has it not? But if there were not, there would be undoubtedly in it Satiety or Trouble. I am not for bewailing my past Life as a great many, and learned Men too, have done, nor do I repent that I have liv'd; because, I have liv'd so, that I am satisfy'd I have not liv'd in vain. And when I leave this Life, I leave it as an Inn, and not as a Place of Abode. For Nature has given us our Bodies as an Inn to lodge in, and not to dwell in. O! glorious Day will that be, when I shall leave this Rabble-rout and Defilements of the World behind me, to go to that Society and World of Spirits!_ Thus far out of _Cato_. What could be spoken more divinely by a Christian? I wish all the Discourses of our Monks, even with their holy Virgins, were such as the Dialogue of this aged Pagan, with the Pagan Youths of his Time. _Eu._ It may be objected, that this Colloquy of _Tully_'s was but a Fiction. _Ch._ It is all one to me, whether the Honour of these Expressions be given to _Cato_, who thought and spoke them, or to _Cicero_, whose Mind could form such divine Things in Contemplation, and whose Pen could represent such excellent Matter in Words so answerable to it; though indeed I am apt to think that _Cato_, if he did not speak these very Words, yet that in his familiar Conversation he us'd Words of the very same Import. For indeed, _M. Tully_ was not a Man of that Impudence, to draw _Cato_ otherwise than he was. Beside, that such an Unlikeness in a Dialogue would have been a great Indecorum, which is the thing chiefly to be avoided in this Sort of Discourse; and especially, at a Time when his Character was fresh in the Memories of all Men. _Th._ That which you say is very likely: But I'll tell you what came into my Mind upon your Recital. I have often admired with myself, that considering that all Men wish for long Life, and are afraid of Death; that yet, I have scarce found any Man so happy, (I don't speak of old, but of middle-aged Men); but that if the Question were put to him, whether or no, if it should be granted him to grow young again, and run over the same good and ill Fortune that he had before, he would not make the same Answer that _Cato_ did; especially passing a true Reflection upon the Mixture of Good and Ill of his past Life. For the Remembrance even of the pleasantest Part of it is commonly attended with Shame, and Sting of Conscience, insomuch that the Memory of past Delights is more painful to us, than that of past Misfortunes. Therefore it was wisely done of the ancient Poets in the Fable of _Lethe_, to represent the Dead drinking largely of the Waters of Forgetfulness, before their Souls were affected with any Desire of the Bodies they had left behind them. _Ur._ It is a Thing well worthy of our Admiration, and what I myself have observ'd in some Persons. But that in _Cato_ that pleases me the most is his Declaration. _Neither am I sorry that I have liv'd._ Where is the _Christian_, that has so led his Life, as to be able to say as much as this old Man? It is a common Thing for Men, who have scrap'd great Estates together by Hook or by Crook, when they are upon their Death Beds, and about to leave them, then to think they have not liv'd in vain. But _Cato_ therefore thought, that he had not liv'd in vain, upon the Conscience of his having discharg'd all the Parts of an honest and useful Citizen, and an uncorrupted Magistrate; and that he should leave to Posterity, Monuments of his Virtue and Industry. And what could be spoken more divinely than this, _I depart as from an Inn, and not an Habitation_. So long we may stay in an Inn till the Host bids us be gone, but a Man will not easily be forc'd from his own House. And yet from hence the Fall of the House, or Fire, or some Accident drives us. Or if nothing of these happen, the Structure falls to Pieces with old Age, thereby admonishing us that we must change our Quarters. _Neph._ That Expression of _Socrates_ in _Plato_ is not less elegant: _Methinks_, says he, _the Soul of a Man is in the Body as in a Garrison, there is no quitting of it without the Leave of the Generals, nor no staying any longer in it, than during the Pleasure of him that plac'd him there._ This Allusion of _Plato'_s, of a Garrison instead of a House, is the more significant of the two. For in a House is only imply'd Abode, in a Garrison we are appointed to some Duty by our Governor. And much to the same Purpose is it, that in Holy Writ the Life of Man is sometimes call'd a Warfare, and at other times a Race. _Ur._ But _Cato_'s Speech, methinks, seems to agree very well with that of St. _Paul_, who writing to the _Corinthians_, calls that heavenly Mansion, which we look for after this Life in one Place [Greek: oikian] a House, in another [Greek: oikêtêrion] a Mansion, and moreover (besides that) he calls the Body [Greek: skênos] a Tabernacle. For _we also_, (says he) _who are in this Tabernacle, groan, being burthened._ _Neph._ Much after this Manner says St. _Peter; And I think it meet_ (says he) _as long as I am in this Tabernacle, to stir you up by putting you in Mind, being assured that I shall shortly put off this Tabernacle._ And what else does _Christ_ himself say to us, but that we should live and watch, as if we were presently to die: And so apply ourselves to honest Things, as if we were to live for ever? And when we hear these excellent Words of _Cato, O that glorious Day_, do we not seem to hear St. _Paul_ himself saying, _I desire to be dissolved, and to be with Christ_? _Ch._ How happy are they that wait for Death with such a Frame of Mind? But as for _Cato_'s Speech, altho' it be an excellent one, methinks there is more Boldness and Arrogance in it, than becomes a Christian. Indeed, I never read anything in a Heathen, that comes nearer to a Christian, than what _Socrates_ said to _Crito_, a little before he drank his Poison; _Whether I shall be approv'd or not in the Sight of God, I cannot tell; but this I am certain of, that I have most affectionately endeavoured to please him; and I have a good Hope, that he will accept of my Endeavours._ This great Man was diffident of his own Performances; but so, that being conscious to himself of the Propensity of his Inclination to obey the divine Will, he conceived a good Hope, that God, of his Goodness, would accept him for the Honesty of his Intentions. _Neph._ Indeed, it was a wonderful Elevation of Mind in a Man, that knew not Christ, nor the holy Scriptures: And therefore, I can scarce forbear, when I read such Things of such Men, but cry out, _Sancte Socrates, ora pro nobis; Saint_ Socrates, _pray for us._ _Ch._ And I have much ado sometimes to keep myself from entertaining good Hopes of the Souls of _Virgil_ and _Horace._ _Neph._ But how unwillingly have I seen many Christians die? Some put their Trust in Things not to be confided in; others breathe out their Souls in Desperation, either out of a Consciousness of their lewd Lives, or by Reason of Scruples that have been injected into their Minds, even in their dying Hours, by some indiscreet Men. _Ch._ It is no wonder to find them die so, who have spent their Time in philosophizing about Ceremonies all their Lives. _Neph._ What do you mean by Ceremonies? _Ch._ I'll tell you, but with Protestation over and over beforehand, that I don't find Fault with the Sacraments and Rites of the Church, but rather highly approve of them; but I blame a wicked and superstitious Sort of People, or (to put it in the softest Term) the simple and unlearned Persons, who teach People to put their Confidence in these Things, omitting those Things which make them truly Christians. _Neph._ I don't yet clearly understand what it is you aim at. _Ch._ I'll be plainer then. If you look into Christians in common, don't you find they live as if the whole Sum of Religion consisted in Ceremonies? With how much Pomp are the antient Rites of the Church set forth in Baptism? The Infant waits without the Church Door, the Exorcism is performed, the Catechizing is performed, Vows are made, Satan is abjured, with all his Pomps and Pleasures; then the Child is anointed, sign'd, season'd with Salt, dipt, a Charge given to his Sureties to see it well brought up; and the Oblation-Money being paid, they are discharged, and by this Time the Child passes for a Christian, and in some Sense is so. A little Time after, it is anointed again, and in Time learns to confess, receives the Sacrament, is accustom'd to rest upon Holy-Days, to hear Divine Service, to fast sometimes, to abstain from Flesh; and if he observes all these, he passes for an absolute Christian. He marries a Wife, and then comes on another Sacrament; he enters into Holy Orders, is anointed again, and consecrated, his Habit is chang'd, and then to Prayers. Now I approve of the doing of all this well enough; but the doing of them more out of Custom than Conscience, I don't approve; but to think that nothing else is requisite for the making a Christian, I absolutely disapprove: For the greatest Part of Men in the World trust to these Things, and think they have nothing else to do, but get Wealth by Right or Wrong, to gratify their Passions of Rage, Lust, Malice, Ambition: And this they do till they come upon their Death Bed; and then there follows more Ceremonies; Confession upon Confession, more Unction still, the Eucharist is administred; Tapers, the Cross, holy Water are brought in; Indulgencies are procured, if they are to be had for Love or Money; Orders are given for a magnificent Funeral; and then comes on another solemn Contract: When the Man is in the Agony of Death, there's one stands by bawling in his Ear, and now and then dispatches him before his Time, if he chance to be a little in Drink, or have better Lungs than ordinary. Now although these Things may be well enough, as they are done in Conformity to ecclesiastical Customs; yet there are some more internal Impressions, which have an Efficacy to fortify us against the Assaults of Death, by filling our Hearts with Joy, and helping us to go out of the World with a Christian Assurance. _Eu._ You speak very piously and truly; but in the mean Time here is no Body eats; I told you before, that you must expect nothing after the second Course, and that a Country one too, lest any Body should look for Pheasants, Moorhens, and fine Kickshaws. Here, Boy! take away these Things, and bring up the rest. You see, not the Affluence, but the Straitness of my Fortune. This is the Product of my Gardens you have seen; don't spare, if you like any Thing. _Ti._ There's so great a Variety, it does a Man good to look upon it. _Eu._ That you mayn't altogether despise my Thriftiness, this Dish would have chear'd up the Heart of old _Hilarion_, the evangelical Monk, with a hundred more of his Fellows, the Monks of that Age. But _Paul_ and _Anthony_ would have lived a Month upon it. _Ti._ Yes, and Prince _Peter_ too, I fancy would have leap'd at it, when he lodg'd at _Simon_ the Tanner's. _Eu._ Yes; and _Paul_ too, I believe, when by Reason of Poverty he sat up a-Nights to make Tents. _Ti._ How much do we owe to the Goodness of God! But yet, I had rather suffer Hunger with _Peter_ and _Paul_, upon Condition, that what I wanted for my Body, might be made up by the Satisfaction of my Mind. _Eu._ Let us learn of St. _Paul_, both how to abound, and how to suffer Want. When we want, let us praise God, that he has afforded us Matter to exercise our Frugality and Patience upon: When we abound, let us be thankful for his Munificence, who by his Liberality, invites and provokes us to love him; and using those Things the divine Bounty has plentifully bestowed upon us, with Moderation and Temperance; let us be mindful of the Poor, whom God has been pleas'd to suffer to want what he has made abound to us, that neither Side may want an Occasion of exercising Virtue: For he bestows upon us sufficient for the Relief of our Brother's Necessity, that we may obtain his Mercy, and that the Poor on the other Hand, being refresh'd by our Liberality, may give him Thanks for putting it into our Hearts, and recommend us to him in their Prayers; and, very well remember'd! Come hither, Boy; bid my Wife send _Gudula_ some of the roast Meat that's left, 'tis a very good poor Woman in the Neighbourhood big with Child, her Husband is lately dead, a profuse, lazy Fellow, that has left nothing but a Stock of Children. _Ti._ Christ has commanded _to give to every one that asks_; but if I should do so, I should go a begging myself in a Month's Time. _Eu._ I suppose Christ means only such as ask for Necessaries: For to them who ask, nay, who importune, or rather extort great Sums from People to furnish voluptuous Entertainments, or, which is worse, to feed Luxury and Lust, it is Charity to deny; nay, it is a Kind of Rapine to bestow that which we owe to the present Necessity of our Neighbours, upon those that will abuse it; upon this Consideration it is, that it seems to me, that they can scarcely be excus'd from being guilty of a mortal Sin, who at a prodigious Expence, either build or beautify Monasteries or Churches, when in the mean Time so many living Temples of Christ are ready to starve for Want of Food and Clothing, and are sadly afflicted with the Want of other Necessaries. When I was in _England_, I saw St. _Thomas_'s, Tomb all over bedeck'd with a vast Number of Jewels of an immense Price, besides other rich Furniture, even to Admiration; I had rather that these Superfluities should be apply'd to charitable Uses, than to be reserv'd for Princes, that shall one Time or other make a Booty of them. The holy Man, I am confident, would have been better pleas'd, to have his Tomb adorn'd with Leaves and Flowers. When I was in _Lombardy_, I saw a Cloyster of the _Carthusians_, not far from _Pavia_; the Chapel is built from Top to Bottom, within and without, of white Marble, and almost all that is in it, as Altars, Pillars, and Tombs, are all Marble. To what Purpose was it to be at such a vast Expence upon a Marble Temple, for a few solitary Monks to sing in? And 'tis more Burthen to them than Use too, for they are perpetually troubled with Strangers, that come thither, only out of mere Curiosity, to see the Marble Temple. And that, which is yet more ridiculous, I was told there, that there is an Endowment of three thousand Ducats a Year for keeping the Monastery in Repair. And there are some that think that it is Sacrilege, to convert a Penny of that Money to any other pious Uses, contrary to the Intention of the Testator; they had rather pull down, that they may rebuild, than not go on with building. I thought meet to mention these, being something more remarkable than ordinary; tho' we have a World of Instances of this Kind up and down in our Churches. This, in my Opinion, is rather Ambition than Charity. Rich Men now-a-Days will have their Monuments in Churches, whereas in Times past they could hardly get Room for the Saints there: They must have their Images there, and their Pictures, forsooth, with their Names at length, their Titles, and the Inscription of their Donation; and this takes up a considerable Part of the Church; and I believe in Time they'll be for having their Corpse laid even in the very Altars themselves. But perhaps, some will say, would you have their Munificence be discourag'd? I say no, by no Means, provided what they offer to the Temple of God be worthy of it. But if I were a Priest or a Bishop, I would put it into the Heads of those thick-scull'd Courtiers or Merchants, that if they would atone for their Sins to Almighty God, they should privately bestow their Liberality upon the Relief of the Poor. But they reckon all as lost, that goes out so by Piece-meal, and is privily distributed toward the Succour of the Needy, that the next Age shall have no Memorial of the Bounty. But I think no Money can be better bestow'd, than that which Christ himself would have put to his Account, and makes himself Debtor for. _Ti._ Don't you take that Bounty to be well plac'd that is bestow'd upon Monasteries? _Eu._ Yes, and I would be a Benefactor myself, if I had an Estate that would allow it; but it should be such a Provision for Necessaries, as should not reach to Luxury. And I would give something too, wheresoever I found a religious Man that wanted it. _Ti._ Many are of Opinion, that what is given to common Beggars, is not well bestowed. _Eu._ I would do something that Way too; but with Discretion: But in my Opinion, it were better if every City were to maintain their own Poor; and Vagabonds and sturdy Beggars were not suffer'd to strole about, who want Work more than Money. _Ti._ To whom then would you in an especial Manner give? How much? And to what Purposes? _Eu._ It is a hard Matter for me to answer to all these Points exactly: First of all, there should be an Inclination to be helpful to all, and after that, the Proportion must be according to my Ability, as Opportunity should offer; and especially to those whom I know to be poor and honest; and when my own Purse fail'd me, I would exhort others to Charity. _Ti._ But will you give us Leave now to discourse freely in your Dominions? _Eu._ As freely as if you were at Home at your own Houses. _Ti._ You don't love vast Expences upon Churches, you say, and this House might have been built for less than it was. _Eu._ Indeed, I think this House of mine to be within the Compass of cleanly and convenient, far from Luxury, or I am mistaken. Some that live by begging, have built with more State; and yet, these Gardens of Mine, such as they are, pay a Tribute to the Poor; and I daily lessen my Expence, and am the more frugal in Expence upon myself and Family, that I may contribute the more plentifully to them. _Ti._ If all Men were of your Mind, it would be better than it is with a good many People who deserve better, that are now in extreme Want; and on the other Hand, many of those pamper'd Carcases would be brought down, who deserve to be taught Sobriety and Modesty by Penury. _Eu._ It may be so: but shall I mend your mean Entertainment now, with the best Bit at last? _Ti._ We have had more than enough of Delicacies already. _Eu._ That which I am now about to give you, let your Bellies be never so full, won't over-charge your Stomachs. _Ti._ What is it? _Eu._ The Book of the four Evangelists, that I may treat you with the best at last. Read, Boy, from the Place where you left off last. _Boy. No Man can serve two Masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other, or else he will hold to the one and despise the other: You cannot serve God and Mammon. Therefore, I say unto you, take no thought for your Life, what you shall eat, or what you shall drink: Nor yet for your Body, what you shall put on. Is not the Life more than Meat, and the Body than Raiment?_ _Eu._ Give me the Book. In this Place _Jesus Christ_ seems to me, to have said the same Thing twice: For instead of what he had said in the first Place, _i.e._ _he will hate_; he says immediately, _he will despise_. And for what he had said before, _he will love_, he by and by turns it, _he will hold to_. The Sense is the same, tho' the Persons are chang'd. _Ti._ I do not very well apprehend what you mean. _Eu._ Let me, if you please, demonstrate it mathematically. In the first Part, put _A_ for the one, and _B_ for the other. In the latter Part, put _B_ for one, and _A_ for the other, inverting the Order; for either _A_ will hate, and _B_ will love, or _B_ will hold to, and _A_ will despise. Is it not plain now, that _A_ is twice hated, and _B_ twice beloved? _Ti._ 'Tis very clear. _Eu._ This Conjunction, _or_, especially repeated, has the Emphasis of a contrary, or at least, a different Meaning. Would it not be otherwise absurd to say, _Either_ Peter _shall overcome me, and I'll yield; or I'll yield, and_ Peter _shall overcome me?_ _Ti._ A pretty Sophism, as I'm an honest Man. _Eu._ I shall think it so when you have made it out, not before. _The._ I have something runs in my Mind, and I'm with Child to have it out: I can't tell what to make on't, but let it be what it will, you shall have it if you please; if it be a Dream, you shall be the Interpreters, or midwife it into the World. _Eu._ Although it is looked upon to be unlucky to talk of Dreams at Table, and it is immodest to bring forth before so many Men; but this Dream, or this Conception of thy Mind, be it what it will, let us have it. _The._ In my Judgment it is rather the Thing than the Person that is chang'd in this Text. And the Words _one_ and _one_ do not refer to _A_ and _B_; but either Part of them, to which of the other you please; so that chuse which you will, it must be opposed to that, which is signified by the other; as if you should say, you _shall either exclude_ A _and admit_ B, _or you shall admit_ A _and exclude_ B. Here's the Thing chang'd, and the Person the same: And it is so spoken of _A_, that it is the same Case, if you should say the same Thing of _B_; as thus, either you shall exclude _B_ or admit _A_, or admit _B_ or exclude _A_. _Eu._ In Truth, you have very artificially solv'd this Problem: No Mathematician could have demonstrated it better upon a Slate. _Soph._ That which is the greatest Difficulty to me is this; that we are forbidden to take Thought for to Morrow; when yet, _Paul_ himself wrought with his own Hands for Bread, and sharply rebukes lazy People, and those that live upon other Men's Labour, exhorting them to take Pains, and get their Living by their Fingers Ends, that they may have wherewith to relieve others in their Necessities. Are not they holy and warrantable Labours, by which a poor Husband provides for his dear Wife and Children? _Ti._ This is a Question, which, in my Opinion, may be resolv'd several Ways. First of all, This Text had a particular Respect to those Times. The Apostles being dispers'd far and wide for the Preaching of the Gospel, all sollicitous Care for a Maintenance was to be thrown aside, it being to be supply'd otherwise, having not Leisure to get their Living by their Labour; and especially, they having no Way of getting it, but by Fishing. But now the World is come to another Pass, and we all love to live at Ease, and shun Painstaking. Another Way of expounding it may be this; Christ had not forbid Industry, but Anxiety of Thought, and this Anxiety of Thought is to be understood according to the Temper of Men in common, who are anxious for nothing more than getting a Livelihood; that setting all other Things aside, this is the only Thing they mind. And our Saviour does in a Manner intimate the same himself, when he says, that one Man cannot serve two Masters. For he that wholly gives himself up to any Thing, is a Servant to it. Now he would have the Propagation of the Gospel be our chief, but yet, not our only Care. For he says, _Seek ye first the Kingdom of Heaven, and these Things shall be added unto you_. He does not say, seek only; but seek first. And besides, I take the Word to Morrow, to be hyperbolical, and in that, signifies a Time to come, a great While hence, it being the Custom of the Misers of this World, to be anxiously scraping together, and laying up for Posterity. _Eu._ We allow of your Interpretation; but what does he mean, when he says, _Be not sollicitous for your Life, what you shall eat_? The Body is cloth'd, but the Soul does not eat. _Ti._ By _Anima_, is meant Life, which can't subsist without Meat (or is in Danger, if you take away its Food): But it is not so, if you take away the Garment, which is more for Modesty than Necessity. If a Person is forc'd to go naked, he does not die presently; but Want of Food is certain Death. _Eu._ I do not well understand how this Sentence agrees with that which follows; _Is not the Life more than Meat, and the Body than Raiment_? For if Life be so precious, we ought to take the more Care of it. _Ti._ This Argument does rather increase our Sollicitousness than lessen it. _Eu._ But this is none of our Saviour's Meaning; who, by this Argument, creates in us a stronger Confidence in the Father: For if a bountiful Father hath given us _gratis_ that which is the more valuable, he will also bestow upon us what is less valuable: He that has given us Life, will not deny us Food: And he that has given us Bodies, will by some Means or other give us Cloaths too: Therefore, relying upon his Bounty, we have no Reason to disquiet ourselves with Anxiety of Thought, for Things of smaller Moment. What remains then, but using this World, as though we used it not, we transfer our whole Study and Application to the Love of heavenly Things, and rejecting the World and the Devil universally, with all his crafty Delusions, we chearfully serve God alone, who will never forsake his Children? But all this While, here's no Body touches the Fruits. Certainly you may eat this with Joy, for this is the Product of my own Farm, and did not cost much Care to provide it. _Ti._ We have very plentifully satisfied our Bodies. _Eu._ I should be glad if you had satisfied your Minds too. _Ti._ Our Minds have been satisfy'd more plentifully than our Bodies. _Eu._ Boy, take away, and bring some Water; now, my Friends, let us wash, that if we have in eating contracted any Guilt, being cleansed, we may conclude with a Hymn: If you please, I'll conclude with what I begun out of St. _Chrysostom_. _Ti._ We entreat you that you would do it. _Eu. Glory to thee, O Lord; Glory to thee, O holy One; Glory to thee, O King; as thou hast given us Meat for our Bodies, so replenish our Souls with Joy and Gladness in thy holy Spirit, that we may be found acceptable in thy Sight, and may not be made asham'd, when thou shalt render to every one according to his Works_. Boy. _Amen_. _Ti._ In Truth, it is a pious and elegant Hymn. _Eu._ Of St. _Chrysostom_'s Translation too. _Ti._ Where is it to be found? _Eu._ In his 56th Homily on St. _Matthew_. _Ti._ I'll be sure to read it to Day: But I have a Mind to be informed of one Thing, why we thrice wish Glory to Christ under these three Denominations, of _Lord, Holy, and King_. _Eu._ Because all Honour is due to him, and especially in these three Respects. We call him Lord, because he hath redeem'd us by his holy Blood from the Tyranny of the Devil, and hath taken us to himself. Secondly, We stile him Holy, because he being the Sanctifier of all Men, not being content alone to have freely pardoned us all our Sins _gratis_ by his holy Spirit, hath bestow'd upon us his Righteousness, that we might follow Holiness. Lastly, We call him King, because we hope for the Reward of a heavenly Kingdom, from him who sits at the Right-Hand of God the Father. And all this Felicity we owe to his gratuitous Bounty, that we have _Jesus Christ_ for our Lord, rather than the Devil to be a Tyrant over us; that we have Innocence and Sanctity, instead of the Filth and Uncleanness of our Sins; and instead of the Torments of Hell, the Joys of Life everlasting. _Ti._ Indeed it is a very pious Sentence. _Eu._ This is your first Visit, Gentlemen, and I must not dismiss you without Presents; but plain ones, such as your Entertainment has been. Boy, bring out the Presents: It is all one to me, whether you will draw Lots, or every one chuse for himself, they are all of a Price; that is to say, of no Value. You will not find _Heliogabatus_'s Lottery, a hundred Horses for one, and as many Flies for another. Here are four little Books, two Dials, a Lamp, and a Pen-Case: These I suppose will be more agreeable to you than Balsams, Dentrifices, or Looking-Glasses. _Ti._ They are all so good, that it is a hard Matter to chuse; but do you distribute them according to your own Mind, and they'll come the welcomer where they fall. _Eu._ This little Book contains _Solomon_'s Proverbs in Parchment, it teaches Wisdom, and it is gilded, because Gold is a Symbol of Wisdom. This shall be given to our grey-headed _Timothy_; that according to the Doctrine of the Gospel, to him that has Wisdom, Wisdom shall be given and abound. _Ti._ I will be sure to make it my Study, to stand in less Need of it. _Eu. Sophronius_, this Dial will suit you very well, whom I know to be so good a Husband of your Time, that you won't let a Moment of that precious Thing be lost. It came out of the furthest Part of _Dalmatia_, and that's all the Commendation I shall give it. _Sophr._ You indeed admonish a Sluggard to be diligent. _Eu._ You have in this little Book the Gospel written on Vellum; it deserv'd to be set with Diamonds, except that the Heart of a Man were a fitter Repository for it. Lay it up there, _Theophilus_, that you may be more and more like to your Name. _The._ I will do my Endeavour, that you may not think your Present ill bestow'd. _Eu._ There are St. _Paul_'s Epistles; your constant Companions, _Eulalius_, are in this Book; you use to have _Paul_ constantly in your Mouth, and he would not be there, if he were not in your Heart too: And now for the Time to come, you may more conveniently have him in your Hand, and in your Eye. This is a Gift with good Counsel into the Bargain. And there is no Present more precious than good Counsel. _Eu._ This Lamp is very fit for _Chrysoglottus_, who is an insatiable Reader; and as M. _Tully_ says, a Glutton of Books. _Ch._ I give you double Thanks; first, for so choice a Present, and in the next Place, for admonishing a drowsy Person of Vigilance. _Eu. Theodidactus_ must have this Pen-Case, who writes much, and to excellent Purposes; and I dare pronounce these Pens to be happy, by which the Honour of our Lord _Jesus Christ_ shall be celebrated, and that by such an Artist. _The._ I would you could as well have supply'd me with Abilities, as you have with Instruments. _Eu._ This contains some of the choicest of _Plutarch's_ Books of Morals, and very fairly written by one very well skill'd in the _Greek_; I find in them so much Purity of Thought, that it is my Amazement, how such evangelical Notions should come into the Heart of a Heathen. This I will present to young _Uranius_, that is a Lover of the _Greek_ Language. Here is one Dial left, and that falls to our _Nephalius_, as a thrifty Dispenser of his Time. _Neph._ We give you Thanks, not only for your Presents, but your Compliments too. For this is not so much a making of Presents, as Panegyricks. _Eu._ I give you double Thanks, Gentlemen: First for taking these small Matters in so good Part; and secondly, for the Comfort I have receiv'd by your learned and pious Discourses. What Effect my Entertainment may have upon you I know not; but this I am sure of, you'll leave me wiser and better for it. I know you take no Pleasure in Fiddles or Fools, and much less in Dice: Wherefore, if you please, we will pass away an Hour in seeing the rest of the Curiosities of my little Palace. _Ti._ That's the very Thing we were about to desire of you. _Eu._ There is no Need of entreating a Man of his Word. I believe you have seen enough of this Summer Hall. It looks three Ways, you see; and which Way soever you turn your Eye, you have a most delicate Green before you. If we please, we can keep out the Air or Rain, by putting down the Sashes, if either of them be troublesome; and if the Sun is incommodious, we have thick folding Shutters on the out-Side, and thin ones within, to prevent that. When I dine here, I seem to dine in my Garden, not in my House, for the very Walls have their Greens and their Flowers intermix'd; and 'tis no ill Painting neither. Here's our Saviour celebrating his last Supper with his elect Disciples. Here's _Herod_ a keeping his Birth-Day with a bloody Banquet. Here's _Dives_, mention'd in the Gospel, in the Height of his Luxury, by and by sinking into Hell. And here is _Lazarus_, driven away from his Doors, by and by to be receiv'd into _Abraham's_ Bosom. _Ti._ We don't very well know this Story. _Eu._ It is _Cleopatra_ contending with _Anthony_, which should be most luxurious; she has drunk down the first Pearl, and now reaches forth her Hand for the other. Here is the Battel of the _Centaurs_; and here _Alexander_ the Great thrusts his Launce through the Body of _Clytus_. These Examples preach Sobriety to us at Table, and deter a Man from Gluttony and Excess. Now let us go into my Library, it is not furnish'd with very many Books, but those I have, are very good ones. _Ti._ This Place carries a Sort of Divinity in it, every Thing is so shining. _Eu._ You have now before you my chiefest Treasure: You see nothing at the Table but Glass and Tin, and I have in my whole House but one Piece of Plate, and that is a gilt Cup, which I preserve very carefully for the Sake of him that gave it me. This hanging Globe gives you a Prospect of the whole World. And here upon the Wall, are the several Regions of it describ'd more at large. Upon those other Walls, you have the Pictures of the most eminent Authors: There would be no End of Painting them all. In the first Place, here is _Christ_ sitting on the Mount, and stretching forth his Hand over his Head; the Father sends a Voice, saying, _Hear ye him_: the Holy Ghost, with outstretch'd Wings, and in a Glory, embracing him. _Ti._ As God shall bless me, a Piece of Work worthy of _Apelles_. _Eu._ Adjoining to the Library, there is a little Study, but a very neat one; and 'tis but removing a Picture, and there is a Chimney behind it, if the Cold be troublesome. In Summer-Time it passes for solid Wall. _Ti._ Every Thing here looks like Jewels; and here's a wonderful pretty Scent. _Eu._ Above all Things, I love to have my House neat and sweet, and both these may be with little Cost. My Library has a little Gallery that looks into the Garden, and there is a Chapel adjoining to it. _Ti._ The Place itself deserves a Deity. _Eu._ Let us go now to those three Walks above the other that you have seen, that look into the Kitchen Garden. These upper Walks have a Prospect into both Gardens; but only by Windows with Shutters; especially, in the Walls that have no Prospect into the inner Garden, and that's for the Safety of the House. Here upon the Left-Hand, because there is more Light, and fewer Windows, is painted the whole Life of _Jesus_, out of the History of the four Evangelists, as far as to the Mission of the Holy Ghost, and the first Preaching of the Apostles out of the Acts; and there are Notes upon the Places, that the Spectator may see near what Lake, or upon what Mountain such or such a Thing was done. There are also Titles to every Story, with an Abstract of the Contents, as that of our Saviour, _I will, Be thou clean_. Over against it you have the Types and Prophecies of the Old Testament; especially, out of the Prophets and Psalms, which are little else but the Life of Christ and Apostles related another Way. Here I sometimes walk, discoursing with myself, and meditating upon the unspeakable Counsel of God, in giving his Son for the Redemption of Mankind. Sometimes my Wife bears me Company, or sometimes a Friend that takes Delight in pious Things. _Ti._ Who could be tired with this House? _Eu._ No Body that has learn'd to live by himself. Upon the upper Border (as though not fit to be among the rest) are all the Popes Heads with their Titles, and over against them the Heads of the _Cæsars_, for the better taking in the Order of History. At each Corner, there is a Lodging Room, where I can repose myself, and have a Prospect of my Orchard, and my little Birds. Here, in the farthest Nook of the Meadow, is a little Banquetting House; there I sup sometimes in Summer, and I make Use of it, as an Infirmary, if any of my Family be taken ill, with any infectious Disease. _Ti._ Some People are of Opinion, that those Diseases are not to be avoided. _Eu._ Why then do Men shun a Pit or Poison? Or do they fear this the less, because they don't see it? No more is the Poison seen, that a Basilisk darts from his Eyes. When Necessity calls for it, I would not stick to venture my Life: But to do it without any Necessity, is Rashness. There are some other Things worth your seeing; but my Wife shall shew you them: Stay here this three Days if you please, and make my House your Home; entertain your Eyes and your Minds, I have a little Business abroad: I must ride out to some of the Neighbouring Towns. _Ti._ What, a Money Business? _Eu._ I would not leave such Friends for the Sake of receiving a little Money. _Ti._ Perhaps you have appointed a hunting Match. _Eu._ It is a Kind of Hunting indeed, but it is something else I hunt, than either Boars or Stags. _Ti._ What is it then? _Eu._ I'll tell you: I have a Friend in one Town lies dangerously ill; the Physician fears his Life, but I am afraid of his Soul: For I don't think he's so well prepar'd for his End as a Christian should be: I'll go and give him some pious Admonitions that he may be the better for, whether he lives or dies. In another Town there are two Men bitterly at odds, they are no ill Men neither, but Men of a very obstinate Temper. If the Matter should rise to a greater Height, I am afraid it would be of ill Consequence to more than themselves: I will do all I can in the World, to reconcile them; they are both my Kinsmen. This is my hunting Match, and if I shall have good Success in it, we'll drink their Healths. _Ti._ A very pious Hunting, indeed; we pray heartily, that not _Delia_ but _Christ_ would give you good Success. _Eu._ I had rather obtain this Prey, than have two thousand Ducats left me for a Legacy. _Ti._ Will you come back quickly? _Eu._ Not till I have try'd every Thing; therefore, I can't set a Time. In the mean Time, be as free with any Thing of mine, as though it were your own, and enjoy yourselves. _Ti._ God be with you, forward and backward. _The APOTHEOSIS of CAPNIO._ The ARGUMENT. _Canonizing, or entring the incomparable Man_, John Reuclin, _into the Number of the Saints, teaches how much Honour is due to famous Men, who have by their Industry improv'd the liberal Sciences_. None that has liv'd Well, dies Ill. POMPILIUS, BRASSICANUS. _Po._ Where have you been, with your Spatter-Lashes? _Br._ At _Tubinga_. _Po._ Is there no News there? _Br._ I can't but admire, that the World should run so strangely a gadding after News. I heard a _Camel_ preach at _Lovain_, that we should have nothing to do with any Thing that is new. _Po._ Indeed, it is a Conceit fit for a Camel. That Man, (if he be a Man,) ought never to change his old Shoes, or his Shirt, and always to feed upon stale Eggs, and drink nothing but sour Wine. _Br._ But for all this, you must know, the good Man does not love old Things so well, but that he had rather have his Porridge fresh than stale. _Po._ No more of the Camel; but prithee tell me, what News have you? _Br._ Nay, I have News in my Budget too; but News which he says is naught. _Po._ But that which is new, will be old in Time. Now if all old Things be good, and all new Things be bad, then it follows of Consequence, that that which is good at present, has been bad heretofore, and that which is now bad, will in Time come to be good. _Br._ According to the Doctrine of the Camel, it must be so; and therefore, hence it follows, that he that was a young wicked Fool in Time past, because he was new, will come to be a good One, because he is grown old. Po. But prithee, let's have the News, be it what it will. _Br._ The famous triple-tongu'd Phoenix of Learning, _John Reuclin_, is departed this Life. _Po._ For certain? _Br._ Nay, it is too certain. _Po._ Why, pray, what Harm is that, for a Man to leave an immortal Memory of a good Name and Reputation behind him, and to pass out of this miserable World, into the Society of the Blessed? _Br._ How do you know that to be the Case? _Po._ It is plain, for he can't die otherwise, who has liv'd as he did. _Br._ You would say so, indeed, if you knew what I know. _Po._ What's that, I pray? _Br._ No, no, I must not tell you. _Po._ Why so? _Br._ Because he that entrusted me with the Secret, made me promise Silence. _Po._ Do you entrust me with it upon the same Condition, and, upon my honest Word, I'll keep Counsel. _Br._ That honest Word has often deceived me; but however, I'll venture; especially, it being a Matter of that Kind, that it is fit all honest Men should know it. There is at _Tubinge_, a certain _Franciscan_, a Man accounted of singular Holiness in every Bodies Opinion but his own. _Po._ That you mention, is the greatest Argument in the World of true Piety. _Br._ If I should tell you his Name, you'd say as much, for you know the Man. _Po._ What if I shall guess at him? _Br._ Do, if you will. _Po._ Hold your Ear then. _Br._ What needs that, when here's no Body within Hearing? _Po._ But however, for Fashion Sake. _Br._ 'Tis the very same. _Po._ He is a Man of undoubted Credit. If he says a Thing, it is to me, as true as the Gospel. _Br._ Mind me then, and I'll give you the naked Truth of the Story. My Friend _Reuclin_ was sick, indeed very dangerously; but yet, there was some Hopes of his Recovery; he was a Man worthy never to grow old, be sick, or die. One Morning I went to visit my Franciscan, that he might ease my Mind of my Trouble by his Discourse. For when my Friend was sick, I was sick too, for I lov'd him as my own Father. _Po._ Phoo! There's no Body but lov'd him, except he were a very bad Man indeed. _Br._ My Franciscan says to me, _Brassicanus_, leave off grieving, our _Reuclin_ is well. What, said I, Is he well all on a sudden then? For but two Days ago, the Doctors gave but little Hopes of him. Then, says he, he is so well recover'd, that he will never be sick again. Don't weep, says he, (for he saw the Tears standing in my Eyes) before you have heard the Matter out. I have not indeed seen the Man this six Days, but I pray for him constantly every Day that goes over my Head. This Morning after Mattins, I laid myself upon my Couch, and fell into a gentle pleasant Slumber. _Po._ My Mind presages some joyful Thing. _Br._ You have no bad Guess with you. Methought, says he, I was standing by a little Bridge, that leads into a wonderful pleasant Meadow; the emerald Verdure of the Grass and Leaves affording such a charming Prospect; the infinite Beauty, and Variety of the Flowers, like little Stars, were so delightful, and every Thing so fragrant, that all the Fields on this Side the River, by which that blessed Field was divided from the rest, seem'd neither to grow, nor to be green; but look'd dead, blasted, and withered. And in the Interim, while I was wholly taken up with the Prospect, _Reuclin_, as good Luck would have it, came by; and as he past by, gave me his Blessing in _Hebrew_. He was gotten half Way over the Bridge before I perceived him, and as I was about to run to him, he look'd back, and bid me keep off. You must not come yet, says he, but five Years hence, you shall follow me. In the mean Time, do you stand by a Spectator, and a Witness of what is done. Here I put in a Word, says I, was _Reuclin_ naked, or had he Cloaths on; was he alone, or had he Company? He had, says he, but one Garment, and that was a very white one; you would have said, it had been a Damask, of a wonderful shining White, and a very pretty Boy with Wings followed him, which I took to be his good Genius. _Po._ But had he no evil Genius with him? _Br._ Yes, the Franciscan told me he thought he had. For there followed him a great Way off, some Birds, that were all over Black, except, that when they spread their Wings, they seem'd to have Feathers, of a Mixture of White and Carnation. He said, that by their Colour and Cry, one might have taken them for Magpies, but that they were sixteen Times as big; about the size of Vultures, having Combs upon their Heads, with crooked Beaks and Gorbellies. If there had been but three of them, one would have taken them for Harpyes. _Po._ And what did these Devils attempt to do? _Br._ They kept at a Distance, chattering and squalling at the Hero _Reuclin_, and were ready to set upon him, if they durst. _Po._ What hindred them? _Br._ Turning upon them, and making the Sign of the Cross with his Hand at them, he said, _Be gone, ye cursed Fiends to a Place that's fitter for you. You have Work enough to do among Mortals, your Madness has no Power over me, that am now lifted in the Roll of Immortality._ The Words were no sooner out of his Mouth, says the Franciscan, but these filthy Birds took their Flight, but left such a Stink behind them, that a House of Office would have seem'd Oyl of sweet Marjoram, or Ointment of Spikenard to it. He swore, he had rather go to Hell, than snuff up such a Perfume again. _Po._ A Curse upon these Pests. _Br._ But, hear what the Franciscan told me besides: While I was intent upon these Things, says he, St. _Jerome_ was come close to the Bridge, and saluted _Reuclin_ in these Words, _God save thee, my most holy Companion, I am ordered to conduct thee to the Mansions of the blessed Souls above, which the divine Bounty has appointed thee as a Reward for thy most pious Labours._ With that he took out a Garment, and put it upon _Reuclin_. Then, said I, tell me in what Habit or Form St. _Jerome_ appear'd, was he so old as they paint him? Did he wear a Cowl or a Hat, or the Garb of a Cardinal? Or had he a Lion by his Side? Nothing of all these, said he; but his Person was comely, which made his Age appear such as carried in it much Comeliness, but no Deformity. What Need had he to have a Lion by his Side, as he is commonly painted? His Gown came down to his Heels, as transparent as Crystal, and of the same Fashion of that he gave to _Reuclin_. It was all over painted with Tongues of three several Colours; some imitated Rubies, some Emeralds, and others Sapphires; and beside the Clearness of it, the Order set it off very much. _Po._ An Intimation, I suppose, of the three Tongues that he profess'd. _Br._ Without doubt: For he said, that upon the very Borders of the Garments were the Characters of these three Languages inscrib'd in their different Colours. _Po._ Had _Jerome_ no Company with him? _Br._ No Company, do you say? The whole Field swarm'd with Myriads of Angels, that fill'd the Air as thick, as those little Corpuscles they call Atoms, fly in the Sun Beams; pardon the Meanness of the Comparison. If they had not been as transparent as Glass, there would have been no Heaven nor Earth to have been seen. _Po._ O brave, I am glad with all my Heart, for _Reuclin_'s, Sake; but what follow'd? _Br. Jerome_, (says he) for Honour's Sake, giving _Reuclin_ the Right-Hand, and embracing him, conducts him into the Meadow, and up a Hill that was in the middle of it, where they kiss'd and embrac'd one another again: In the mean Time, the Heavens open'd over their Heads to a prodigious Wideness, and there appear'd a Glory so unutterable, as made every Thing else, that pass'd for wonderful before, to look mean and sordid. _Po._ Can't you give us some Representation of it? Br. No, how should I, that did not see it? He who did see it, says, that he was not able to express the very Dream of it. He said, he would die a thousand Deaths to see it over again, if it were but for one Moment. _Po._ How then? _Br._ Out of this Overture of the Heavens, there was let down a great Pillar of Fire that was transparent, and of a very pleasant Form: By this the two holy Souls were carried into Heaven, in one anothers Embraces; a Choir of Angels all the While accompanying them, with so charming a Melody, that the Franciscan says, he is never able to think of the Delight of it without weeping. And after this there follow'd a wonderful fragrant Smell. When he waked out of his Dream, if you will call it a Dream, he was just like a mad Man. He would not believe he was in his Cell; he called for his Bridge and his Meadow; he could not speak or think of any Thing else but them. The Seniors of the Convent, when they found the Story to be no Fable, for it is certain that _Reuclin_ dy'd at the very Instant that the holy Man had this Vision, they unanimously gave Thanks to God, that abundantly rewards good Men for their good Deeds. _Po._ What have we to do, but to set down this holy Man's Name in the Calendar of Saints? _Br._ I should have done that if the Franciscan had seen nothing at all of this, and in Gold Letters too, I'll assure you, next to St. _Jerome_ himself. _Po._ And let me die if I don't put him down in my Book so too. _Br._ And besides that, I'll set him in Gold in my little Chapel, among the choicest of my Saints. _Po._ And if I had a Fortune to my Mind, I'd have him in Diamonds. _Br._ He shall stand in my Library, the very next to St. _Jerome_. _Po._ And I'll have him in mine too. _Br._ If they were grateful, every one who loves Learning and Languages, especially, the holy Tongues, would do so too. _Po._ Truly it is no more than he deserves. But han't you some Scruple upon your Mind, in as much as he is not yet canoniz'd by the Authority of the Bishop of _Rome_? _Br._ Why, pray, who canoniz'd (for that's the Word) St. _Jerome_? Who canoniz'd St. _Paul_, or the Virgin _Mary_? Pray tell me whose Memory is most sacred among all good Men? Those that by their eminent Piety, and the Monuments of their Learning and good Life, have entitled themselves to the Veneration of all Men; or _Catherine_ of _Sien_, that was sainted by _Pius_ the Second, in favour of the Order and the City? _Po._ You say true: That's the right Worship, that by the Will of Heaven, is paid to the Merits of the Dead, whose Benefits are always sensibly felt. _Br._ And can you then deplore the Death of this Man? If long Life be a Blessing, he enjoyed it. He has left behind him immortal Monuments of his Vertue, and by his good Works, consecrated his Name to Immortality. He is now in Heaven, out of the Reach of Misfortunes, conversing with St. _Jerome_ himself. _Po._ But he suffer'd a great Deal tho' in his Life. _Br._ But yet St. _Jerome_ suffered more. It is a Blessing to be persecuted by wicked Men for being good. _Po._ I confess so, and St. _Jerome_ suffer'd many unworthy Things from the worst of Men, for the best of Deeds. _Br._ That which Satan did formerly by the Scribes and Pharisees against the Lord Jesus, he continues still to do by Pharisaical Men, against good Men, who have deserved well from the World by their Studies. He now reaps the blessed Harvest of the Seed he has been sowing. In the mean Time, it will be our Duty, to preserve his Memory sacred; to honour his Name, and to address him often in some such Manner as follows. _O holy Soul, be thou propitious to Languages, and to those that cultivate them: Favour the holy Tongues, and destroy evil Tongues that are infected with the Poison of Hell._ _Po._ I'll do't myself, and earnestly persuade all my Friends to do it. I make no Question but there will be those that will desire to have some little Form of Prayer, according to Custom, to celebrate the Memory of this most holy Hero. _Br._ Do you mean that which they call a Collect? _Po._ Yes. _Br._ I have one ready, that I provided before his Death. _Po._ I pray let's hear it. _Br. O God, that art the Lover of Mankind, that hast by thy chosen Servant_ John Reuclin, _renew'd to Mankind the Gift of Tongues, by which thy holy Spirit from above, did formerly furnish thy Apostles for their Preaching the Gospel; grant that all thy People may every where, in all Languages, preach the Glory of thy Son Jesus Christ, to the confounding of the Tongues of false Apostles; who being in a Confederacy to uphold the impious Tower of_ Babel, _endeavour to obscure thy Glory, and to advance their own, when to thee alone, together with thy only Son Jesus Christ our Lord, and the holy Spirit, is due all Glory to eternal Ages._ Amen. _Po._ A most elegant and holy Prayer. As I live, it shall be mine daily. And I account this a happy Opportunity, that has brought me to the Knowledge of so joyful a Story. _Br._ Mayst thou long enjoy that Comfort, and so farewell. _Po._ Fare you well too. _Br._ I will fare well, but not be a Cook. _A LOVER and MAIDEN._ The ARGUMENT. _This Colloquy presents you with a very chaste Wooing, mingling many philosophical Notions with pleasant Jokes. Of not being hasty in marrying; of chusing, not only for the Sake of the outward Person, but the inward Endowments of the Mind; of the Firmness of Wedlock; of not contracting Matrimony without the Consent of Parents; of living chastly in Matrimony; of bringing up Children piously; that the Soul is not where it animates, but where it loves. The Description of a deformed Man. That Wedlock is to be preferr'd before a single Life, and is not, as it is vulgarly called, a Halter. That we must not consult our Affections so much as Reason._ PAMPHILUS _and_ MARY. _PA._ Good Morrow, Madam, cruel, hard Heart, inflexible. _Ma._ Good Morrow to you too, Mr. _Pamphilus_, as often, and as much, and by what Names you please: But you seem to have forgotten my Name, 'tis _Mary_. _Pa._ It should rather have been _Martia_. _Ma._ Why so, pray, what is _Mars_ to me? _Pa._ Because just as _Mars_ makes a Sport of killing Men, so do you; saving that you do it the more cruelly of the two, because you kill one that loves you. _Ma._ Say you so! pray where's the great Slaughter of Men that I have made? Where's the Blood of the Slain? _Pa._ You may see one dead Corpse before your Face, if you look upon me. _Ma._ What strange Story is this? Does a dead Man talk and walk? I wish I may never meet with more frightful Ghosts than you are. _Pa._ Ay, indeed, you make a Jest of it; but for all that, you kill poor me, and more cruelly too, than if you stuck a Dagger in my Breast. For now I, poor Wretch as I am, die a lingering Death. _Ma._ Prithee tell me, how many Women with Child have miscarried at the Sight of thee? _Pa._ My Paleness shews I have no more Blood in my Body than a Ghost. _Ma._ Indeed you are as pale as a Violet; You are as pale as a ripe Cherry, or purple Grape. _Pa._ You coquet it with my Misery. _Ma._ If you can't believe me, look in the Glass. _Pa._ I would never desire a better Glass, nor do I believe there is a better in the World than I am a looking in already. _Ma._ What Looking-Glass do you mean? _Pa._ Your Eyes. _Ma._ You Banterer! that's like you. But how do you prove yourself to be dead? Do dead Folks eat? _Pa._ Yes, they do; but Things that have no Relish, as I do. _Ma._ What do they feed upon? _Pa._ Mallows, Leeks, and Lupines. _Ma._ But you feed upon Capons and Partridges. _Pa._ If I do, I relish them no more than Beets without Pepper or Vinegar. _Ma._ Poor Creature! but yet you're in pretty good Case, for all that. And do dead Folks talk too? _Pa._ Just as I do, with a weak Voice. _Ma._ But when I heard you rallying your Rival a little While ago, your Voice was not very low then. But, prithee, do Ghosts walk, wear Cloaths, and sleep? _Pa._ Yes, and enjoy one another too, after their Manner. _Ma._ Thou art a merry Fellow. _Pa._ But what will you say, if I prove it by undeniable Arguments, that I am dead, and that you have kill'd me too. _Ma._ God forbid, _Pamphilus_; but let's hear your Arguments, however. _Pa._ In the first Place, I think you will grant me this, that Death is only a Separation of Soul and Body. _Ma._ I grant it. _Pa._ But you must grant it so as not to eat your Words. _Ma._ No, I will not. _Pa._ You will not deny, I suppose, that the Person that takes away another's Life, is a Murtherer. _Ma._ I grant that too. _Pa._ I suppose you will grant that which has been allow'd by the greatest Men of many Ages, that the Soul of a Man is not really where it animates, but where it loves. _Ma._ Make that a little plainer, I can't well understand it then. _Pa._ You might as well bid me make an Adamant sensible of it. _Ma._ I am a Maid, not a Stone. _Pa._ Tis true, but harder than an Adamant Stone. _Ma._ Go on with your Inferences. _Pa._ Those that are in a Trance, do neither hear, nor see, nor smell, nor feel, if you kill them outright. _Ma._ Indeed I have heard so. _Pa._ What do you think is the Reason? _Ma._ Do you, Philosopher, tell that. _Pa._ Because their Mind is in Heaven, where it enjoys what it dearly loves; and therefore is absent from the Body. _Ma._ Well, what then? _Pa._ What then, hard-hearted Creature? Then it follows, that I am dead, and you have killed me. _Ma._ Where is your Soul then? _Pa._ Where it loves. _Ma._ Who took this Soul of yours away? What do you Sigh for? Tell me freely: There's no Hurt in it. _Pa._ A cruel Maid, that I could not be angry with if she kill'd me outright. _Ma._ You're very good-humour'd; but why don't you take her Soul from her too, and pay her in her own Coin, according to the old Proverb. _Pa._ I should be the happiest Man in the World, if I could make that Exchange, that her Heart would pass as wholly into my Breast, as mine has into hers. _Ma._ But may I play the Sophister with you now? _Pa._ The Sophistress. _Ma._ Can one and the same Body be both alive and dead? _Pa._ Not at the same Time. _Ma._ Is the Body dead, when the Soul is out of it? _Pa._ Yes. _Ma._ Nor does it animate it, but when it is in it? _Pa._ No, it does not. _Ma._ How comes it to pass then, that when it is there where it loves, it yet animates the Body it is gone out of? And if it animates when it loves any where, how is that called a dead Body which it animates? _Pa._ Indeed, you argue very cunningly, but you shan't catch me there. That Soul, which after some Sort governs the Body of the Lover, is but improperly call'd a Soul, when it is but some small Remains of the Soul; just as the Smell of a Rose remains in the Hand, when the Rose is gone. _Ma._ I see it is a hard Matter to catch a Fox in a Trap. But answer me this Question, does not the Person that kills, act? _Pa._ Yes. _Ma._ And does not he suffer who is kill'd? _Pa._ Yes. _Ma._ And how comes it about then, that when he that loves, acts, and she that is lov'd, suffers, she that is lov'd should be said to kill, when he that loves, rather kills himself? _Pa._ Nay, on the Contrary, 'tis he that loves that suffers, and she is lov'd, that acts. _Ma._ You will never prove that by all your Grammar. _Pa._ Well, I'll prove it by Logic then. _Ma._ But do so much as answer me this one Question, do you love voluntarily, or against your Will? _Pa._ Voluntarily. _Ma._ Then since a Person is at Liberty, whether he will love or no; he that does love, is guilty of _Felo de se_, and accuses a Maid wrongfully. _Pa._ A Maid does not kill in being lov'd, but in not loving again. He is guilty of killing, that can save and don't save. _Ma._ What if a young Man should fall into an unlawful Love, as suppose with another Man's Wife, or a Vestal Virgin? Must she love him again, to save the Lover? _Pa._ But the young Man, meaning myself, loves one whom he ought to love, and by Right and good Reason, and yet am murthered. If Murther be a light Matter, I could indict you for Witchcraft too. _Ma._ God forbid, do you make a _Circe_ of me? _Pa._ You are more barbarous than _Circe_ herself, I had rather be a Hog or a Bear, than as I now am, half dead. _Ma._ By what Sort of Enchantments do I kill Men? _Pa._ By the Witchcraft of your Eyes. _Ma._ Would you have me take my noxious Eyes off of you then. _Pa._ No, by no Means, rather look more upon me. _Ma._ If my Eyes are so infectious, how comes it about they don't throw others I look upon into a Consumption too? I therefore rather believe the Infection is in your own Eyes than mine. _Pa._ Is it not enough for you to kill poor _Pamphilus_, but you must insult him too. _Ma._ O pretty dead Creature! but when must I come to your Funeral? _Pa._ Sooner than you think for, if you don't relieve me. _Ma._ Can I perform such a wonderful Cure? _Pa._ You can raise a dead Man to Life again with the greatest Ease imaginable. _Ma._ Ay, if I had the Grand-Elixir. _Pa._ You have no Need of any Medicine, do but love me again. And what's easier than that? Nay, what's more just? You can no other Way in the World get clear of the Crime of Murther. _Ma._ In what Court must I be try'd? In the Court of Chancery? _Pa._ No, in the Court of _Venus_. _Ma._ They say, she is a very merciful Goddess. _Pa._ Nay, the most severe in the World. _Ma._ Has she any Thunderbolts? _Pa._ No. _Ma._ Has she got a Trident? _Pa._ No. _Ma._ Has she got a Spear? _Pa._ No; but she is the Goddess of the Sea. _Ma._ But I don't go to Sea. _Pa._ But she has a Son. _Ma._ Youth is not very formidable. _Pa._ But he is very revengeful and resolute. _Ma._ What will he do to me? _Pa._ What will he do? That which I can't wish to be done to one I wish so well to. God forbid I should. _Ma._ Tell me what it is, for I an't afraid to hear it. _Pa._ Well, I'll tell you then; if you slight me that love you, and am no Way unworthy of your Love; I shall be much mistaken if he don't by his Mother's Order shoot you with a venomous Dart, and make you fall deeply in Love with some sorry Fellow or other, that would not love you again. _Ma._ That's a most horrid Punishment indeed. I had rather die a thousand Deaths than to be so bitterly in Love with an ugly Man, and one that won't love me neither. _Pa._ But we had a notable Example of this not long since upon a certain Maid. _Ma._ Where did she live? _Pa._ At _Orleans_. _Ma._ How many Years ago was it? _Pa._ How many Years! not ten Months. _Ma._ What was her Name? What do you stick at? _Pa._ Nothing at all. I know her as well as I know you. _Ma._ Why don't you tell me her Name then? _Pa._ Because I am afraid it is ominous. I wish she had been of some other Name. She was your own Namesake. _Ma._ Who was her Father? _Pa._ Her Father is alive at this Time, and is a topping Lawyer, and a rich Man. _Ma._ Tell me his Name. _Pa. Mauritius._ _Ma._ His Sirname. _Pa. Aglaius._ _Ma._ Is her Mother alive? _Pa._ No, she died lately. _Ma._ What did she die of, say you? _Pa._ Why of Grief, and it had like to have cost her Father his Life too, for all he was a Man of a strong Constitution. _Ma._ Mayn't a Body know her Mother's Name. _Pa._ Yes, _Sophrona_, every Body knows her Name. What do you mean by that Question? Do you think I invent a Lye? _Ma._ Why should I think so of you? Our Sex is most to be suspected for that. But tell me what became of the Maid? _Pa._ The Maid, as I told you before, came of very honest Parents, had a good Fortune, was very handsome, and in few Words, was a Match for a Prince; a certain Gentleman of an equal Fortune courted her. _Ma._ What was his Name? _Pa._ Ah me, I can't bear the Thoughts of it, his Name was _Pamphilus_ as well as mine. He try'd all the Ways in the World to gain her good Will; but she slighted all his Offers. The young Man pines away with Grief. Presently after she fell deep in Love with one more like an Ape than a Man. _Ma._ How! _Pa._ Ay, so wretchedly in Love, that 'tis impossible to relate it. _Ma._ Such a pretty Maid to fall in Love with such an ugly Fellow? _Pa._ Ay, with a long-visag'd, scald-headed, bald-pated, hollow-ey'd, snub-nos'd, wide-mouth'd, rotton-tooth'd, stuttering, scabby-bearded, hump-back'd, gor-belly'd, bandy-legg'd Fellow. _Ma._ You tell me of a mere _Thersites_. _Pa._ Nay, they said he had but one Ear, neither. _Ma._ It may be he had lost the other in the War. _Pa._ No, he lost it in Peace. _Ma._ Who dar'd to cut it off? _Pa. Jack Ketch._ _Ma._ It may be his Riches made Amends. _Pa._ Over Head and Ears in Debt. And with this Husband this charming Girl now spends her Days, and is now and then drubb'd into the Bargain. _Ma._ That is a miserable Story indeed. _Pa._ But it is a true one. It is a just Retaliation upon her, for slighting the young Gentleman. _Ma._ I should rather chuse to be thunder-struck than ty'd to endure such a Husband. _Pa._ Then don't provoke Justice, but love him that loves you. _Ma._ Well, if that will do, I do love you again. _Pa._ Ay, But I would have that Love constant as mine own. I court a Wife, not a Mistress. _Ma._ I suppose so, but yet we ought to be very deliberate in that which being once done, can never be undone again. _Pa._ I have been deliberating too long already. _Ma._ Love is none of the best Advisers; see that he han't impos'd upon you, for they say he is blind. _Pa._ But that Love has Eyes in his Head, that proceeds from Judgment; you don't appear so amiable, only because I love you, but you are really so, and therefore I love you. _Ma._ But perhaps you don't know me thoroughly. When once a Shoe is on, then you'll know where it pinches. _Pa._ I'll venture it, but I gather from many Conjectures, that it will be happy for me. _Ma._ What, are you an Augur then? _Pa._ Yes, I am. _Ma._ Pray by what Auguries do you prognosticate all this? What, hath the Night Owl appear'd luckily? _Pa._ She flies for Fools. _Ma._ Did you see a pair of Pigeons on your right Hand? _Pa._ Nothing of all this. But have for some Years been satisfy'd of the Honesty of your Father and Mother; and in the first Place, that's no bad Sign. Nor am I ignorant how modestly and religiously you have been brought up by them, and it is a greater Advantage to be honestly educated, than honourably born. And then there's another good Circumstance besides, that as my Parents are none of the worst, so yours and mine have been very intimate for many Years, and you and I have known one another from our very Childhood, as they use to say; and besides all this, our Humours agree very well together. Our Age, Fortunes, Quality, and Parentage are pretty equal. And last of all, that which is the chief Thing in Friendship, your Temper seems to agree very well with mine. There are some Things that may be very good in themselves that may not agree with others. How acceptable my Temper may be to yours, I don't know. These are the Auguries, my Dear, that make me prognosticate that a Marriage between you and me would be happy, lasting, comfortable and pleasant, unless you shall prevent it by a Denial. _Ma._ What would you have me say? _Pa._ I will sing _I am thine_ first, and you shall sing _I am thine_ after me. _Ma._ That indeed is but a short Song, but it has a long Chorus. _Pa._ What signifies it how long it is, so it be a merry one. _Ma._ I have that Respect for you, I would not have you do what you should repent of when done. _Pa._ Leave off teasing me. _Ma._ Perhaps I shall not appear so amiable in your Eye, when Age or Sickness have spoil'd my Beauty. _Pa._ No more, my Dear, shall I myself be always so young and lusty. I don't only look at that blooming, lovely Body of yours, but it is your Guest within it I am most in Love with. _Ma._ What Guest do you mean? _Pa._ This Soul of yours, whose Beauty will grow as Years increase. _Ma._ In Truth you have a very penetrating Sight, if you can see that through so many Coverings. _Pa._ It is with the Eyes of my Mind that I see your Mind, and then besides we shall be ever and anon renewing our Age by our Children. _Ma._ But then I shall lose my Maidenhead. _Pa._ Right enough; but prithee tell me, if you had a fine Orchard, would you rather chuse never to have nothing but Blossoms on the Trees; or would you rather, that the Blossoms should fall off, and see the Boughs laden with ripe Apples? _Ma._ Oh, how cunningly you can argue! _Pa._ Answer me but this one Question, which is the finest Sight, a Vine lying along upon the Ground and rotting, or twining round a Stake or an Elm-Tree, loaden with ripe Grapes of a curious purple Colour? _Ma._ And pray do you answer me this Question; which is the most pleasant Sight, a Rose fresh and fair upon the Tree, or one gathered and withering in the Hand? _Pa._ I look upon that the happier Rose that dies in a Man's Hand; there delighting the Sight and Smell, than that which withers away upon the Bush, for it would die there, if it were let alone. As that Wine has the most Honour done it; that is drank before it grows dead: Though this is to be said, that the Flower of a Maid does not presently fade, as soon as she is married: Nay, I have seen a great many, that before Marriage look'd pale and languid, and just as if they were dropping into the Ground: but having been in the Embraces of a Husband, they have brightened up, just as if they just then began to bloom. _Ma._ But for all that, a Maidenhead is accounted a fine Thing. _Pa._ A young Virgin is indeed a pretty Thing: But what's more monstrous than an old Maid? If your Mother had not shed that Blossom, we should never have had this fine Flower, yourself. And if we don't make a barren Match, as I hope we shan't, there will be never a Maid the less for us. _Ma._ But they say Chastity is very well pleasing to God. _Pa._ And for that Reason I would marry a chaste Maid, that I may live chastly with her. The Union of Minds will be more than that of Bodies. We'll get Subjects for the King, and Servants for Christ, and where will the Unchastity of this Matrimony be? And who can tell but we may live together like _Joseph_ and _Mary_? And in the mean Time, we'll learn to be Virgins, we don't arrive at Perfection all at once. _Ma._ What do you talk of? Is Virginity to be violated, that it may be learned? _Pa._ Why not? As by little and little drinking Wine sparingly, we learn to be abstemious. Which do you think is the most temperate Person, he that is sitting at a Table full of Delicacies, and abstains from them, or he who is out of the Reach of those Things that incite Intemperance? _Ma._ I think he is the most temperate Person, that the greatest Plenty can't debauch. _Pa._ Which is the most laudable for Chastity, he that castrates himself, or he that having his Members entire, forbears Venery? _Ma._ The latter, in my Opinion: I should call the former a Madman. _Pa._ Don't they in a Manner castrate themselves, that abjure Matrimony? _Ma._ I think they do. _Pa._ Then it is no Virtue to forbear Coition. _Ma._ Is it not? _Pa._ I prove it thus; if it were of itself a Virtue not to copulate, it were a Sin to do it: so that it follows of Consequence, it is a Fault not to copulate, and a Virtue to do it. _Ma._ When does this Case happen? _Pa._ As often as the Husband requires his due of his Wife; especially if he would embrace her for the Sake of Procreation. _Ma._ But if it be out of Wantonness? Is it not lawful to deny him? _Pa._ He may be admonish'd or dissuaded by soft Language to forbear; but if he insists upon it, he ought not to be refus'd. But I hear very few Husbands complain of their Wives upon this Account. _Ma._ But Liberty is a very sweet Thing. _Pa._ Virginity is rather a greater Burthen. I will be your King, and you shall be my Queen, and we'll govern the Family according to our Pleasure: And do you think that a Bondage? _Ma._ Marriage is called a Halter. _Pa._ They deserve a Halter that call it so. Pray tell me, is not your Soul and Body bound together? _Ma._ Yes, I think they are. _Pa._ Just like a Bird in a Cage; and yet, ask it if it would be freed from it, I believe it will say, no: And what's the Reason of that? Because it is bound by its own Consent. _Ma._ But we have neither of us got much of Portion. _Pa._ We are the safer for that, you shall add to it at Home by good Housewifery, and that is not without good Reason said to be a great Revenue, and I'll increase it abroad by my Industry. _Ma._ But Children bring a great many Cares along with them. _Pa._ Have done with Scruples. _Ma._ Would you have me marry a dead Man? _Pa._ No, but I shall come to Life again then. _Ma._ Well, you have removed my Objection. My _Pamphilus_, farewell. _Pa._ Do you take Care of that. _Ma._ I wish you a good Night. Why do you sigh? _Pa._ A good Night, say you, I wish you would give me what you wish me. _Ma._ Soft and fair, you are a little too hasty. _Pa._ Must I not carry nothing of you along with me? _Ma._ This sweet Ball; it will cheer your Heart. _Pa._ But give me a Kiss too. _Ma._ No, I have a Mind to keep my Maidenhead for you entire and untouch'd. _Pa._ Will a Kiss take any Thing from your Virginity? _Ma._ Will you give me leave to kiss other Folks? _Pa._ No, by no Means, I'd have my Kisses kept for myself. _Ma._ Well, I'll keep 'em for you: But there is another Reason why I dare not give you a Kiss, as Things are at present. _Pa._ What is that? _Ma._ You say your Soul is gone out of your Body into mine, so that there is but very little left. I am afraid that in Kissing, the little that is left in you, should jump out of you into me, and so you should be quite dead. Shake Hands as a Pledge of my Love, and so farewell. Do you see that you manage the Matter vigorously, and I'll pray to God in the mean Time, that whatsoever be done, may be for both our good. _The VIRGIN AVERSE TO MATRIMONY._ The ARGUMENT. _A Virgin averse to Matrimony, will needs be a Nun. She is dissuaded from it, and persuaded to moderate her Inclination in that Matter, and to do nothing against her Parents Consent, but rather to marry. That Virginity may be maintain'd in a conjugal Life. The Monks Way of living in Celibacy is rally'd. Children, why so call'd. He abhors those Plagiaries who entice young Men and Maids into Monasteries, as though Salvation was to be had no other Way; whence it comes to pass, that many great Wits are as it were buried alive._ EUBULUS, CATHERINE. _Eub._ I am glad with all my Heart, that Supper is over at last, that we may have an Opportunity to take a Walk, which is the greatest Diversion in the World. _Ca._ And I was quite tir'd of sitting so long at Table. _Eu._ How green and charming does every Thing in the World look! surely this is its Youth. _Ca._ Ay, so it is. _Eu._ But why is it not Spring with you too? _Ca._ What do you mean? _Eu._ Because you look a little dull. _Ca._ Why, don't I look as I use to do? _Eu._ Shall I show you how you look? _Ca._ With all my Heart. _Eu._ Do you see this Rose, how it contracts itself, now towards Night? _Ca._ Yes, I do see it: And what then? _Eu._ Why, just so you look. _Ca._ A very fine Comparison. _Eu._ If you won't believe me, see your own Face in this Fountain here. What was the Meaning you sat sighing at Supper so? _Ca._ Pray don't ask Questions about that which don't concern you. _Eu._ But it does very much concern me, since I can't be chearful myself, without you be so too. See now, there's another Sigh, and a deep one too! _Ca._ There is indeed something that troubles my Mind. But I must not tell it. _Eu._ What, won't you tell it me, that love you more dearly than I do my own Sister: My _Katy_, don't be afraid to speak; be it what it will you are safe. _Ca._ If I should be safe enough, yet I'm afraid I shall be never the better in telling my Tale to one that can do me no good. _Eu._ How do you know that? If I can't serve you in the Thing itself, perhaps I may in Counsel or Consolation. _Ca._ I can't speak it out. _Eu._ What is the Matter? Do you hate me? _Ca._ I love you more dearly than my own Brother, and yet for all that my Heart won't let me divulge it. _Eu._ Will you tell me, if I guess it? Why do you quibble now? Give me your Word, or I'll never let you alone till I have it out. _Ca._ Well then, I do give you my Word. _Eu._ Upon the whole of the Matter, I can't imagine what you should want of being compleatly happy. _Ca._ I would I were so. _Eu._ You are in the very Flower of your Age: If I'm not mistaken, you are now in your seventeenth Year. _Ca._ That's true. _Eu._ So that in my Opinion the Fear of old Age can't yet be any Part of your Trouble. _Ca._ Nothing less, I assure you. _Eu._ And you are every Way lovely, and that is the singular Gift of God. _Ca._ Of my Person, such as it is, I neither glory nor complain. _Eu._ And besides the Habit of your Body and your Complexion bespeak you to be in perfect Health, unless you have some hidden Distemper. _Ca._ Nothing of that, I thank God. _Eu._ And besides, your Credit is fair. _Ca._ I trust it is. _Eu._ And you are endow'd with a good Understanding suitable to the Perfections of your Body, and such a one as I could wish to myself, in order to my Attainment of the liberal Sciences. _Ca._ If I have, I thank God for it. _Eu._ And again, you are of a good agreeable Humour, which is rarely met with in great Beauties, they are not wanting neither. _Ca._ I wish they were such as they should be. _Eu._ Some People are uneasy at the Meanness of their Extraction, but your Parents are both of them well descended, and virtuous, of plentiful Fortunes, and very kind to you. _Ca._ I have nothing to complain of upon that Account. _Eu._ What Need of many Words? Of all the young Women in the Country you are the Person I would chuse for a Wife, if I were in Condition to pretend to't. _Ca._ And I would chuse none but you for a Husband, if I were dispos'd to marry. _Eu._ It must needs be some extraordinary Matter that troubles your Mind so. _Ca._ It is no light Matter, you may depend upon it. _Eu._ You won't take it ill I hope if I guess at it. _Ca._ I have promis'd you I won't. _Eu._ I know by Experience what a Torment Love is. Come, confess now, is that it? You promis'd to tell me. _Ca._ There's Love in the Case, but not that Sort of Love that you imagine. _Eu._ What Sort of Love is it that you mean? _Ca._ Guess. _Eu._ I have guess'd all the Guesses I can guess; but I'm resolv'd I'll never let go this Hand till I have gotten it out of you. _Ca._ How violent you are. _Eu._ Whatever your Care is, repose it in my Breast. _Ca._ Since you are so urgent, I will tell you. From my very Infancy I have had a very strong Inclination. _Eu._ To what, I beseech you? _Ca._ To put myself into a Cloyster. _Eu._ What, to be a Nun? _Ca._ Yes. _Eu._ Ho! I find I was out in my Notion; to leave a Shoulder of Mutton for a Sheep's Head. _Ca._ What's that you say, _Eubulus_? _Eu._ Nothing, my Dear, I did but cough. But, go on, tell me it out. _Ca._ This was my Inclination; but my Parents were violently set against it. _Eu._ I hear ye. _Ca._ On the other Hand, I strove by Intreaties, fair Words, and Tears, to overcome that pious Aversion of my Parents. _Eu._ O strange! _Ca._ At Length when they saw I persisted in Intreaties, Prayers, and Tears, they promis'd me that if I continu'd in the same Mind till I was seventeen Years of Age, they would leave me to my own Liberty: The Time is now come, I continue still in the same Mind, and they go from their Words. This is that which troubles my Mind. I have told you my Distemper, do you be my Physician, and cure me, if you can. _Eu._ In the first Place, my sweet Creature, I would advise you to moderate your Affections; and if you can't do all you would, do all that you can. _Ca._ It will certainly be the Death of me, if I han't my Desire. _Eu._ What was it that gave the first Rise to this fatal Resolution? _Ca._ Formerly, when I was a little Girl, they carried me into one of those Cloysters of Virgins, carry'd me all about it, and shew'd me the whole College. I was mightily taken with the Virgins, they look'd so charming pretty, just like Angels; the Chapels were so neat, and smelt so sweet, the Gardens look'd so delicately well order'd, that in short which Way soever I turn'd my Eye every Thing seem'd delightful. And then I had the prettiest Discourse with the Nuns. And I found two or three that had been my Play-Fellows when I was a Child, and I have had a strange Passion for that Sort of Life ever since. _Eu._ I have no Dislike to the Nunneries themselves, though the same Thing can never agree with all Persons: But considering your Genius, as far as I can gather from your Complexion and Manners, I should rather advise you to an agreeable Husband, and set up a College in your own House, of which he should be the Abbot and you the Abbess. _Ca._ I will rather die than quit my Resolution of Virginity. _Eu._ Nay, it is indeed an admirable Thing to be a pure Virgin, but you may keep yourself so without running yourself into a Cloyster, from which you never can come out. You may keep your Maidenhead at Home with your Parents. _Ca._ Yes, I may, but it is not so safe there. _Eu._ Much safer truly in my Judgment there, than with those brawny, swill-belly'd Monks. They are no Capons, I'll assure you, whatever you may think of them. They are call'd Fathers, and they commonly make good their Calling to the very Letter. Time was when Maids liv'd no where honester than at home with their Parents, when the only spiritual Father they had was the Bishop. But, prithee, tell me, what Cloyster hast thou made Choice of among 'em all, to be a Slave in? _Ca._ The _Chrysertian_. _Eu._ Oh! I know it, it is a little Way from your Father's House. _Ca._ You're right. _Eu._ I am very well acquainted with the whole Gang. A sweet Fellowship to renounce Father and Mother, Friends, and a worthy Family for! For the Patriarch himself, what with Age, Wine, and a certain natural Drowsiness, has been mop'd this many a Day, he can't now relish any Thing but Wine; and he has two Companions, _John_ and _Jodocus_, that match him to a Hair. And as for _John_, indeed I can't say he is an ill Man, for he has nothing at all of a Man about him but his Beard, not a Grain of Learning in him, and not much more common Prudence. And _Jodocus_ he's so arrant a Sot, that if he were not ty'd up to the Habit of his Order, he would walk the Streets in a Fool's Cap with Ears and Bells at it. _Ca._ Truly they seem to me to be very good Men. _Eu._ But, my _Kitty_, I know 'em better than you do. They will do good Offices perhaps between you and your Parents, that they may gain a Proselyte. _Ca. Jodocus_ is very civil to me. _Eu._ A great Favour indeed. But suppose 'em good and learned Men to Day, you'll find 'em the contrary perhaps to Morrow; and let them be what they will then, you must bear with them. _Ca._ I am troubled to see so many Entertainments at my Father's House, and marry'd Folks are so given to talk smutty; I'm put to't sometimes when Men come to kiss me, and you know one can't well deny a Kiss. _Eu._ He that would avoid every Thing that offends him, must go out of the World; we must accustom our Ears to hear every Thing, but let nothing enter the Mind but what is good. I suppose your Parents allow you a Chamber to yourself. _Ca._ Yes, they do. _Eu._ Then you may retire thither, if you find the Company grow troublesome; and while they are drinking and joking, you may entertain yourself with Christ your Spouse, praying, singing, and giving Thanks: Your Father's House will not defile you, and you will make it the more pure. _Ca._ But it is a great Deal safer to be in Virgins Company. _Eu._ I do not disapprove of a chaste Society: Yet I would not have you delude yourself with false Imaginations. When once you come to be throughly acquainted there, and see Things nearer Hand, perhaps Things won't look with so good a Face as they did once. They are not all Virgins that wear Vails; believe me. _Ca._ Good Words, I beseech you. _Eu._ Those are good Words that are true Words. I never read of but one Virgin that was a Mother, _i.e._ the Virgin _Mary_, unless the Eulogy we appropriate to the Virgin be transferr'd to a great many to be call'd Virgins after Childbearing. _Ca._ I abhor the Thoughts on't. _Eu._ Nay, and more than that, those Maids, I'll assure you, do more than becomes Maids to do. _Ca._ Ay! why so, pray? _Eu._ Because there are more among 'em that imitate _Sappho_ in Manners, than are like her in Wit. _Ca._ I don't very well understand you. _Eu._ My dear _Kitty_, I therefore speak in Cypher that you may not understand me. _Ca._ But my Mind runs strangely upon this Course of Life, and I have a strong Opinion that this Disposition comes from God, because it hath continu'd with me so many Years, and grows every Day stronger and stronger. _Eu._ Your good Parents being so violently set against it, makes me suspect it. If what you attempt were good, God would have inclined your Parents to favour the Motion. But you have contracted this Affection from the gay Things you saw when you were a Child; the Tittle-tattles of the Nuns, and the Hankering you have after your old Companions, the external Pomp and specious Ceremonies, and the Importunities of the senseless Monks which hunt you to make a Proselyte of you, that they may tipple more largely. They know your Father to be liberal and bountiful, and they'll either give him an Invitation to them, because they know he'll bring Wine enough with him to serve for ten lusty Soaks, or else they'll come to him. Therefore let me advise you to do nothing without your Parents Consent, whom God has appointed your Guardians. God would have inspired their Minds too, if the Thing you were attempting were a religious Matter. _Ca._ In this Matter it is Piety to contemn Father and Mother. _Eu._ It is, I grant, sometimes a Piece of Piety to contemn Father or Mother for the Sake of Christ; but for all that, he would not act piously, that being a Christian, and had a Pagan to his Father, who had nothing but his Son's Charity to support him, should forsake him, and leave him to starve. If you had not to this Day profess'd Christ by Baptism, and your Parents should forbid you to be baptis'd, you would indeed then do piously to prefer Christ before your impious Parents; or if your Parents should offer to force you to do some impious, scandalous Thing, their Authority in that Case were to be contemned. But what is this to the Case of a Nunnery? You have Christ at home. You have the Dictates of Nature, the Approbation of Heaven, the Exhortation of St. _Paul_, and the Obligation of human Laws, for your Obedience to Parents; and will you now withdraw yourself from under the Authority of good and natural Parents, to give yourself up a Slave to a fictitious Father, rather than to your real Father, and a strange Mother instead of your true Mother, and to severe Masters and Mistresses rather than Parents? For you are so under your Parents Direction, that they would have you be at Liberty wholly. And therefore Sons and Daughters are call'd [_liberi_] Children, because they are free from the Condition of Servants. You are now of a free Woman about to make yourself voluntarily a Slave. The Clemency of the Christian Religion has in a great Measure cast out of the World the old Bondage, saving only some obscure Foot-Steps in some few Places. But there is now a Days found out under pretence of Religion a new Sort of Servitude, as they now live indeed in many Monasteries. You must do nothing there but by a Rule, and then all that you lose they get. If you offer to step but one Step out of the Door, you're lugg'd back again just like a Criminal that had poison'd her Father. And to make the Slavery yet the more evident, they change the Habit your Parents gave you, and after the Manner of those Slaves in old Time, bought and sold in the Market, they change the very Name that was given you in Baptism, and _Peter_ or _John_ are call'd _Francis_, or _Dominic_, or _Thomas_. _Peter_ first gives his Name up to Christ, and being to be enter'd into _Dominic's_ Order, he's called _Thomas_. If a military Servant casts off the Garment his Master gave him, is he not look'd upon to have renounc'd his Master? And do we applaud him that takes upon him a Habit that Christ the Master of us all never gave him? He is punish'd more severely for the changing it again, than if he had a hundred Times thrown away the Livery of his Lord and Emperor, which is the Innocency of his Mind. _Ca._ But they say, it is a meritorious Work to enter into this voluntary Confinement. _Eu._ That is a pharisaical Doctrine. St. _Paul_ teacheth us otherwise, _and will not have him that is called free, make himself a Servant, but rather endeavour that he may be more free:_ And this makes the Servitude the worse, that you must serve many Masters, and those most commonly Fools too, and Debauchees; and besides that, they are uncertain, being every now and then new. But answer me this one Thing, I beseech you, do any Laws discharge you from your Duty to your Parents? _Ca._ No. _Eu._ Can you buy or sell an Estate against your Parents Consent? _Ca._ No, I can't. _Eu._ What Right have you then to give away yourself to I know not whom, against your Parents Consent? Are you not their Child, the dearest and most appropriate Part of their Possession? _Ca._ In the Business of Religion, the Laws of Nature give Place. _Eu._ The great Point of our Religion lies in our Baptism: But the Matter in Question here is, only the changing of a Habit, or of such a Course of Life, which in itself is neither Good nor Evil. And now consider but this one Thing, how many valuable Privileges you lose, together with your Liberty. Now, if you have a Mind to read, pray, or sing, you may go into your own Chamber, as much and as often as you please. When you have enough of Retirement, you may go to Church, hear Anthems, Prayers and Sermons; and if you see any Matron or Virgin remarkable for Piety, in whose Company you may get good; if you see any Man that is endow'd with singular Probity, from whom you may learn what will make for your bettering, you may have their Conversation; and you may chuse that Preacher that preaches Christ most purely. When once you come into a Cloyster, all these Things, that are the greatest Assistances in the Promotion of true Piety, you lose at once. _Ca._ But in the mean Time I shall not be a Nun. _Eu._ What signifies the Name? Consider the Thing itself. They make their boast of Obedience, and won't you be praise-worthy, in being obedient to your Parents, your Bishop and your Pastor, whom God has commanded you to obey? Do you profess Poverty? And may not you too, when all is in your Parents Hands? Although the Virgins of former Times were in an especial Manner commended by holy Men, for their Liberality towards the Poor; but they could never have given any Thing, if they had possessed nothing. Nor will your Charity be ever the less for living with your Parents. And what is there more in a Convent than these? A Vail, a Linnen-Shift turned into a Stole, and certain Ceremonies, which of themselves signify nothing to the Advancement of Piety, and make no Body more acceptable in the Eyes of Christ, who only regards the Purity of the Mind. _Ca._ This is News to me. _Eu._ But it is true News. When you, not being discharg'd from the Government of your Parents, can't dispose of, or sell so much as a Rag, or an Inch of Ground, what Right can you pretend to for disposing of yourself into the Service of a Stranger? _Ca._ They say, that the Authority of a Parent does not hinder a Child from entering into a religious Life. _Eu._ Did you not make Profession of Religion in your Baptism? _Ca._ Yes. _Eu._ And are not they religious Persons that conform to the Precepts of Christ? _Ca._ They are so. _Eu._ What new Religion is that then, which makes that void, that the Law of Nature had establish'd? What the old Law hath taught, and the Gospel approv'd, and the Apostles confirm'd? That is an Ordinance that never came from Heaven, but was hatch'd by a Company of Monks in their Cells. And after this Manner, some of them undertake to justify a Marriage between a Boy and a Girl, though without the Privity, and against the Consent of their Parents; if the Contract be (as they phrase it) in Words of the present Tense. And yet that Position is neither according to the Dictate of Nature, the Law of _Moses_, or the Doctrine of _Christ_ or his Apostles. _Ca._ Do you think then, that I may not espouse myself to Christ without my Parents Consent? _Eu._ I say, you have espous'd him already, and so we have all. Where is the Woman that marries the same Man twice? The Question is here only about Places, Garments and Ceremonies. I don't think Duty to Parents is to be abandon'd for the Sake of these Things; and you ought to look to it, that instead of espousing Christ, you don't espouse some Body else. _Ca._ But I am told, that in this Case it is a Piece of the highest Sanctity, even to contemn ones Parents. _Eu._ Pray, require these Doctors to shew you a Text for it, out of the holy Scriptures, that teach this Doctrine; but if they can't do this, bid them drink off a good large Bumper of _Burgundian_ Wine: That they can do bravely. It is indeed a Piece of Piety to fly from wicked Parents to Christ: But to fly from pious Parents to a Monkery, that is (as it too often proves) to fly from ought to stark naught. What Pity is that I pray? Although in old Time, he that was converted from Paganism to Christianity, paid yet as great a Reverence to his idolatrous Parents, as it was possible to do without prejudice to Religion itself. _Ca._ Are you then against the main Institution of a monastick Life? _Eu._ No, by no Means: But as I will not persuade any Body against it, that is already engag'd in this Sort of Life, to endeavour to get out of it, so I would most undoubtedly caution all young Women; especially those of generous Tempers, not to precipitate themselves unadvisedly into that State from whence there is no getting out afterwards: And the rather, because their Chastity is more in Danger in a Cloyster than out of it; and beside that, you may do whatsoever is done there as well at Home. _Ca._ You have indeed urg'd many, and very considerable Arguments; yet this Affection of mine can't be removed. _Eu._ If I can't dissuade you from it, as I wish heartily I could, however, remember this one Thing, that _Eubulus_ told you before Hand. In the mean Time, out of the Love I bear you, I wish your Inclinations may succeed better than my Counsel. _The PENITENT VIRGIN._ The ARGUMENT. _A Virgin repenting before she had profess'd herself, goes Home again to her Parents. The crafty Tricks of the Monks are detected, who terrify and frighten unexperienced Minds into their Cloysters, by feign'd Apparitions and Visions_. EUBULUS, CATHERINE. _Eu._ I could always wish to have such a Porter. _Ca._ And I to have such Visitors. _Eu._ But fare you well, _Kitty_. _Ca._ What's the Matter, do you take Leave before you salute? _Eu._ I did not come hither to see you cry: What's the Matter, that as soon as ever you see me, the Tears stand in your Eyes? _Ca._ Why in such Haste? Stay a little; pray stay. I'll put on my better Looks, and we'll be merry together. _Eu._ What Sort of Cattle have we got here? _Ca._ 'Tis the Patriarch of the College: Don't go away, they have had their Dose of Fuddle: Stay but a little While, and as soon as he is gone, we will discourse as we use to do. _Eu._ Well, I'll be so good natur'd as to hearken to you, though you would not to me. Now we are alone, you must tell me the whole Story, I would fain have it from your Mouth. _Ca._ Now I have found by Experience, of all my Friends, which I took to be very wise Men too, that no Body gave more wise and grave Advice than you, that are the youngest of 'em all. _Eu._ Tell me, how did you get your Parents Consent at last? _Ca._ First, by the restless Sollicitations of the Monks and Nuns, and then by my own Importunities and Tears, my Mother was at length brought over; but my Father stood out stiffly still: But at last being ply'd by several Engines, he was prevail'd upon to yield; but yet, rather like one that was forced, than that consented. The Matter was concluded in their Cups, and they preach'd Damnation to him, if he refus'd to let Christ have his Spouse. _Eu._ O the Villany of Fools! But what then? _Ca._ I was kept close at Home for three Days; but in the mean Time there were always with me some Women of the College that they call _Convertites_, mightily encouraging me to persist in my holy Resolution, and watching me narrowly, lest any of my Friends or Kindred should come at me, and make me alter my Mind. In the mean While, my Habit was making ready, and the Provision for the Feast. _Eu._ How did you find yourself? Did not your Mind misgive you yet? _Ca._ No, not at all; and yet I was so horridly frighted, that I had rather die ten Times over, than suffer the same again. _Eu._ What was that, pray? _Ca._ It is not to be uttered. _Eu._ Come, tell me freely, you know I'm your Friend. _Ca._ Will you keep Counsel? _Eu._ I should do that without promising, and I hope you know me better than to doubt of it. _Ca._ I had a most dreadful Apparition. _Eu._ Perhaps it was your evil Genius that push'd you on to this. _Ca._ I am fully persuaded it was an evil Spirit. _Eu._ Tell me what Shape it was in. Was it such as we use to paint with a crooked Beak, long Horns, Harpies Claws, and swinging Tail? _Ca._ You make a Game of it, but I had rather sink into the Earth, than see such another. _Eu._ And were your Women Sollicitresses with you then? _Ca._ No, nor I would not so much as open my Lips of it to them, though they sifted me most particularly about it, when they found me almost dead with the Surprise. _Eu._ Shall I tell you what it was? _Ca._ Do if you can. _Eu._ Those Women had certainly bewitch'd you, or conjur'd your Brain out of your Head rather. But did you persist in your Resolution still, for all this? _Ca._ Yes, for they told me, that many were thus troubled upon their first consecrating themselves to Christ; but if they got the better of the Devil that Bout, he'd let them alone for ever after. _Eu._ Well, what Pomp were you carried out with? _Ca._ They put on all my Finery, let down my Hair, and dress'd me just as if it had been for my Wedding. _Eu._ To a fat Monk, perhaps; Hem! a Mischief take this Cough. _Ca._ I was carried from my Father's House to the College by broad Day-Light, and a World of People staring at me. _Eu._ O these Scaramouches, how they know to wheedle the poor People! How many Days did you continue in that holy College of Virgins, forsooth? _Ca._ Till Part of the twelfth Day. _Eu._ But what was it that changed your Mind, that had been so resolutely bent upon it? _Ca._ I must not tell you what it was, but it was something very considerable. When I had been there six Days, I sent for my Mother; I begged of her, and besought her, as she lov'd my Life, to get me out of the College again. She would not hear on't, but bad me hold to my Resolution. Upon that I sent for my Father, but he chid me too, telling me, that I had made him master his Affections, and that now he'd make me master mine, and not disgrace him, by starting from my Purpose. At last, when I saw that I could do no good with them this Way, I told my Father and Mother both, that to please them, I would submit to die, and that would certainly be my Fate, if they did not take me out, and that very quickly too; and upon this, they took me Home. _Eu._ It was very well that you recanted before you had profess'd yourself for good and all: But still, I don't hear what it was changed your Mind so suddenly. _Ca._ I never told any Mortal yet, nor shall. _Eu._ What if I should guess? _Ca._ I'm sure you can't guess it; and if you do, I won't tell you. _Eu._ Well, for all that, I guess what it was. But in the mean Time, you have been at a great Charge. _Ca._ Above 400 Crowns. _Eu._ O these guttling Nuptials! Well, but I am glad though the Money is gone, that you're safe: For the Time to come, hearken to good Counsel when it is given you. _Ca._ So I will. _The burnt Child dreads the Fire._ _The UNEASY WIFE._ The ARGUMENT. _This Colloquy, entitled_, The uneasy Wife: _Or_, Uxor [Greek: Mempsigamos], _treats of many Things that relate to the mutual Nourishment of conjugal Affection. Concerning the concealing a Husband's Faults; of not interrupting conjugal Benevolence; of making up Differences; of mending a Husband's Manners; of a Woman's Condescension to her Husband. What is the Beauty of a Woman; she disgraces herself, that disgraces her Husband; that the Wife ought to submit to the Husband; that the Husband ought not to be out of Humour when the Wife is; and on the Contrary; that they ought to study mutual Concord, since there is no Room for Advice; that they ought to conceal one another's Faults, and not expose one another; that it is in the Power of the Wife to mend her Husband; that she ought to carry herself engagingly, learn his Humour, what provokes him or appeases him; that all Things be in Order at Home; that he have what he likes best to eat; that if the Husband be vext, the Wife don't laugh; if he be angry, that she should speak pleasantly to him, or hold her Tongue; that what she blames him for, should be betwixt themselves; the Method of admonishing; that she ought to make her Complaint to no Body but her Husband's Parents; or to some peculiar Friends that have an Influence upon him. The Example of a prudent Man, excellently managing a young morose Wife, by making his Complaint to her Father. Another of a prudent Wife, that by her good Carriage reformed a Husband that frequented leud Company, Another of a Man that had beaten his Wife in his angry Fit; that Husbands are to be overcome, brought into Temper by Mildness, Sweetness, and Kindness; that there should be no Contention in the Chamber or in the Bed; but that Care should be taken, that nothing but Pleasantness and Engagingness be there. The Girdle of_ Venus _is Agreeableness of Manners. Children make a mutual Amity. That a Woman separated from her Husband, is nothing: Let her always be mindful of the Respect that is due to a Husband._ EULALIA, XANTIPPE. _EU._ Most welcome _Xantippe_, a good Morning to you. _Xa._ I wish you the same, my dear _Eulalia_. Methinks you look prettier than you use to do. _Eu._ What, do you begin to banter me already? _Xa._ No, upon my Word, for you seem so to me. _Eu._ Perhaps then my new Cloaths may set me off to Advantage. _Xa._ You guess right, it is one of the prettiest Suits I ever beheld in all my Life. It is _English_ Cloth, I suppose. _Eu._ It is indeed of _English_ Wool, but it is a _Venetian_ Dye. _Xa._ It is as soft as Silk, and 'tis a charming Purple. Who gave you this fine Present? _Eu._ My Husband. From whom should a virtuous Wife receive Presents but from him? _Xa._ Well, you are a happy Woman, that you are, to have such a good Husband. For my Part, I wish I had been married to a Mushroom when I was married to my _Nick_. _Eu._ Why so, pray? What! is it come to an open Rupture between you already? _Xa._ There is no Possibility of agreeing with such a one as I have got. You see what a ragged Condition I am in; so he lets me go like a Dowdy! May I never stir, if I an't asham'd to go out of Doors any whither, when I see how fine other Women are, whose Husbands are nothing nigh so rich as mine is. _Eu._ The Ornament of a Matron does not consist in fine Cloaths or other Deckings of the Body, as the Apostle _Peter_ teaches, for I heard that lately in a Sermon; but in chaste and modest Behaviour, and the Ornaments of the Mind. Whores are trick'd up to take the Eyes of many but we are well enough drest, if we do but please our own Husbands. _Xa._ But mean while this worthy Tool of mine, that is so sparing toward his Wife, lavishly squanders away the Portion I brought along with me, which by the Way was not a mean one. _Eu._ In what? _Xa._ Why, as the Maggot bites, sometimes at the Tavern, sometimes upon his Whores, sometimes a gaming. _Eu._ O fie, you should never say so of your Husband. _Xa._ But I'm sure 'tis too true; and then when he comes Home, after I have been waiting for him till I don't know what Time at Night, as drunk as _David's_ Sow, he does nothing but lye snoring all Night long by my Side, and sometimes bespues the Bed too, to say nothing more. _Eu._ Hold your Tongue: You disgrace yourself in disgracing your Husband. _Xa._ Let me dye, if I had not rather lye with a Swine than such a Husband as I have got. _Eu._ Don't you scold at him then? _Xa._ Yes, indeed, I use him as he deserves. He finds I have got a Tongue in my Head. _Eu._ Well, and what does he say to you again? _Xa._ At first he used to hector at me lustily, thinking to fright me with his big Words. _Eu._ Well, and did your Words never come to downright Blows? _Xa._ Once, and but once, and then the Quarrel rose to that Height on both Sides, that we were within an Ace of going to Fisty-Cuffs. _Eu._ How, Woman! say you so? _Xa._ He held up his Stick at me, swearing and cursing like a Foot-Soldier, and threatening me dreadfully. _Eu._ Were not you afraid then? _Xa._ Nay, I snatch'd up a three legg'd Stool, and if he had but touch'd me with his Finger, he should have known he had to do with a Woman of Spirit. _Eu._ Ah! my _Xantippe_, that was not becoming. _Xa._ What becoming? If he does not use me like a Wife, I won't use him like a Husband. _Eu._ But St. _Paul_ teaches, that Wives ought to be subject to their own Husbands with all Reverence. And St. _Peter_ proposes the Example of _Sarah_ to us, who call'd her Husband _Abraham_ Lord. _Xa._ I have heard those Things, but the same _Paul_ likewise teaches that _Men should love their Wives as Christ lov'd his Spouse the Church_. Let him remember his Duty and I'll remember mine. _Eu._ But nevertheless when Things are come to that Pass that one must submit to the other, it is but reasonable that the Wife submit to her Husband. _Xa._ Yes indeed, if he deserves the Name of a Husband who uses me like a Kitchen Wench. _Eu._ But tell me, _Xantippe_, did he leave off threatening after this? _Xa._ He did leave off, and it was his Wisdom so to do, or else he would have been thresh'd. _Eu._ But did not you leave off Scolding at him? _Xa._ No, nor never will. _Eu._ But what does he do in the mean Time? _Xa._ What! Why sometimes he pretends himself to be fast asleep, and sometimes does nothing in the World but laugh at me; sometimes he catches up his Fiddle that has but three Strings, scraping upon it with all his Might, and drowns the Noise of my Bawling. _Eu._ And does not that vex you to the Heart? _Xa._ Ay, so that it is impossible to be express'd, so that sometimes I can scarce keep my Hands off of him. _Eu._ Well, my _Xantippe_, give me Leave to talk a little freely with you. _Xa._ I do give you Leave. _Eu._ Nay, you shall use the same Freedom with me. Our Intimacy, which has been in a Manner from our very Cradles, requires this. _Xa._ You say true, nor was there any of my Playfellows that I more dearly lov'd than you. _Eu._ Let your Husband be as bad as bad can be, think upon this, That there is no changing. Heretofore, indeed, Divorce was a Remedy for irreconcilable Disagreements, but now this is entirely taken away: He must be your Husband and you his Wife to the very last Day of Life. _Xa._ The Gods did very wrong that depriv'd us of this Privilege. _Eu._ Have a Care what you say. It was the Will of Christ. _Xa._ I can scarce believe it. _Eu._ It is as I tell you. Now you have nothing left to do but to study to suit your Tempers and Dispositions one to another, and agree together. _Xa._ Do you think, I can be able to new-make him? _Eu._ It does not a little depend upon the Wives, what Men Husbands shall be. _Xa._ Do you and your Husband agree very well together? _Eu._ All is quiet with us now. _Xa._ Well then, you had some Difference at first. _Eu._ Never any Thing of a Storm; but yet, as it is common with human Kind, sometimes a few small Clouds would rise, which might have produc'd a Storm, if it had not been prevented by Condescention. Every one has his Humours, and every one their Fancies, and if we would honestly speak the Truth, every one his Faults, more or less, which if in any State, certainly in Matrimony we ought to connive at, and not to hate. _Xa._ You speak very right. _Eu._ It frequently happens that that mutual Love that ought to be between the Husband and Wife is cooled before they come to be throughly acquainted one with another. This is the first Thing that ought to be provided against; for when a Spirit of Dissention is once sprung up, it is a difficult Matter to bring them to a Reconciliation, especially if it ever proceeded so far as to come to reproachful Reflections. Those Things that are joined together with Glue, are easily pull'd one from another if they be handled roughly as soon as done, but when once they have been fast united together, and the Glue is dry, there is nothing more firm. For this Reason, all the Care possible is to be taken that good Will between Man and Wife be cultivated and confirmed even in the Infancy of Matrimony. This is principally effected by Obsequiousness, and an Agreeableness of Tempers. For that Love that is founded only upon Beauty, is for the most part but short-liv'd. _Xa._ But prithee tell me by what Arts you brought your Husband to your Humour. _Eu._ I'll tell you for this End, that you may copy after me. _Xa._ Well, I will, if I can. _Eu._ It will be very easy to do, if you will; nor is it too late yet; for he is in the Flower of his Youth, and you are but a Girl; and as I take it, have not been married this Twelve Months yet. _Xa._ You are very right. _Eu._ Then I'll tell you; but upon Condition, that you'll not speak of it. _Xa._ Well, I will not. _Eu._ It was my first Care that I might please my Husband in every Respect, that nothing might give him Offence. I diligently observed his Inclinations and Temper, and also observed what were his easiest Moments, what Things pleas'd him, and what vex'd him, as they use to do who tame _Elephants_ and _Lions_, or such Sort of Creatures, that can't be master'd by downright Strength. _Xa._ And such an Animal have I at Home. _Eu._ Those that go near Elephants, wear no Garment that is white; nor those who manage Bulls, red; because it is found by Experience, that these Creatures are made fierce by these Colours, just as Tygers are made so raging mad by the Sound of a Drum, that they will tear their own selves; and Jockies have particular Sounds, and Whistles, and Stroakings, and other Methods to sooth Horses that are mettlesome: How much more does it become us to use these Acts towards our Husbands, with whom, whether we will or no, we must live all our Lives at Bed and Board? _Xa._ Well, go on with what you have begun. _Eu._ Having found out his Humour, I accommodated myself to him, taking Care that nothing should offend him. _Xa._ How could you do that? _Eu._ I was very diligent in the Care of my Family, which is the peculiar Province of Women, that nothing was neglected, and that every Thing should be suitable to his Temper, altho' it were in the most minute Things. _Xa._ What Things? _Eu._ Suppose my Husband peculiarly fancied such a Dish of Meat, or liked it dress'd after such a Manner; or if he lik'd his Bed made after such or such a Manner. _Xa._ But how could you humour one who was never at Home, or was drunk? _Eu._ Have Patience, I was coming to that Point. If at any Time my Husband seem'd to be melancholy, and did not much care for talking, I did not laugh, and put on a gay Humour, as some Women are us'd to do; but I put on a grave demure Countenance, as well as he. For as a Looking-glass, if it be a true one, represents the Face of the Person that looks into it, so a Wife ought to frame herself to the Temper of her Husband, not to be chearful when he is melancholy, nor be merry when he is in a Passion. And if at any Time he was in a Passion, I either endeavoured to sooth him with fair Words, or held my Tongue till his Passion was over; and having had Time to cool, Opportunity offered, either of clearing myself, or of admonishing him. I took the same Method, if at any Time he came Home fuddled, and at such a Time never gave him any Thing but tender Language, that by kind Expressions, I might get him to go to Bed. _Xa._ That is indeed a very unhappy Portion for Wives, if they must only humour their Husbands, when they are in a Passion, and doing every Thing that they have a Mind to do. _Eu._ As tho' this Duty were not reciprocal, and that our Husbands are not forc'd to bear with many of our Humours: However, there is a Time, when a Wife may take the Freedom in a Matter of some Importance to advise her Husband; but as for small Faults, it is better to wink at them. _Xa._ But what Time is that? _Eu._ When his Mind is serene; when he's neither in a Passion, nor in the Hippo, nor in Liquor; then being in private, you may kindly advise him, but rather intreat him, that he would act more prudently in this or that Matter, relating either to his Estate, Reputation, or Health. And this very Advice is to be season'd with witty Jests and Pleasantries. Sometimes by Way of Preface, I make a Bargain with him before-Hand, that he shall not be angry with me, if being a foolish Woman, I take upon me to advise him in any Thing, that might seem to concern his Honour, Health, or Preservation. When I have said what I had a Mind to say, I break off that Discourse, and turn it into some other more entertaining Subject. For, my _Xantippe_, this is the Fault of us Women, that when once we have begun, we don't know when to make an End. _Xa._ Why, so they say, indeed. _Eu._ This chiefly I observed as a Rule, never to chide my Husband before Company, nor to carry any Complaints out of Doors. What passes between two People, is more easily made up, than when once it has taken Air. Now if any Thing of that kind shall happen, that cannot be born with, and that the Husband can't be cur'd by the Admonition of his Wife, it is more prudent for the Wife to carry her Complaints to her Husband's Parents and Kindred, than to her own; and so to soften her Complaint, that she mayn't seem to hate her Husband, but her Husband's Vices: And not to blab out all neither, that her Husband may tacitly own and love his Wife for her Civility. _Xa._ A Woman must needs be a Philosopher, who can be able to do this. _Eu._ By this Deportment we invite our Husbands to return the Civility. _Xa._ But there are some Brutes in the World, whom you cannot amend, by the utmost good Carriage. _Eu._ In Truth, I don't think it: But put the Case there are: First, consider this; a Husband must be born with, let him be as bad as he will. It is better therefore to bear with him as he is, or made a little better by our courteous Temper, than by our Outrageousness to make him grow every Day worse and worse. What if I should give Instances of Husbands, who by the like civil Treatment have altered their Spouses much for the better? How much more does it become us to use our Husbands after this Manner? _Xa._ You will give an Instance then of a Man, that is as unlike my Husband, as black is from white. _Eu._ I have the Honour to be acquainted with a Gentleman of a noble Family; Learned, and of singular Address and Dexterity; he married a young Lady, a Virgin of seventeen Years of Age, that had been educated all along in the Country in her Father's House, as Men of Quality love to reside in the Country, for the Sake of Hunting and Fowling: He had a Mind to have a raw unexperienc'd Maid, that he might the more easily form her Manners to his own Humour. He began to instruct her in Literature and Musick, and to use her by Degrees to repeat the Heads of Sermons, which she heard, and to accomplish her with other Things, which would afterwards be of Use to her. Now these Things being wholly new to the Girl, which had been brought up at Home, to do nothing but gossip and play, she soon grew weary of this Life, she absolutely refus'd to submit to what her Husband requir'd of her; and when her Husband press'd her about it, she would cry continually, sometimes she would throw herself flat on the Ground, and beat her Head against the Ground, as tho' she wish'd for Death. Her Husband finding there was no End of this, conceal'd his Resentment, gave his Wife an Invitation to go along with him into the Country to his Father-in-Law's House, for the Sake of a little Diversion. His Wife very readily obey'd him in this Matter. When they came there, the Husband left his Wife with her Mother and Sisters, and went a Hunting with his Father-in-Law; there having taken him aside privately, he tells his Father-in-law, that whereas he was in good Hopes to have had an agreeable Companion of his Daughter, he now had one that was always a crying, and fretting herself; nor could she be cured by any Admonitions, and intreats him to lend a helping Hand to cure his Daughter's Disorder. His Father-in-Law made him answer, that he had once put his Daughter into his Hand, and if she did not obey him, he might use his Authority, and cudgel her into a due Submission. The Son-in-Law replies, I know my own Power, but I had much rather she should be reform'd by your Art or Authority, than to come to these Extremities. The Father-in-Law promis'd him to take some Care about the Matter: So a Day or two after, he takes a proper Time and Place, when he was alone with his Daughter, and looking austerely upon her, begins in telling her how homely she was, and how disagreeable as to her Disposition, and how often he had been in Fear that he should never be able to get her a Husband: But after much Pains, says he, I found you such a one, that the best Lady of the Land would have been glad of; and yet, you not being sensible what I have done for you, nor considering that you have such a Husband, who if he were not the best natur'd Man in the World, would scarce do you the Honour to take you for one of his Maid Servants, you are disobedient to him: To make short of my Story, the Father grew so hot in his Discourse, that he seem'd to be scarce able to keep his Hands off her; for he was so wonderful cunning a Man, that he would act any Part, as well as any Comedian. The young Lady, partly for Fear, and partly convinc'd by the Truth of what was told her, fell down at her Father's Feet, beseeching him to forget past Faults, and for the Time to come, she would be mindful of her Duty. Her Father freely forgave her, and also promised, that he would be to her a very indulgent Father, provided she perform'd what she promis'd. _Xa._ Well, what happened after that? _Eu._ The young Lady going away, after her Fathers Discourse was ended, went directly into her Chamber, and finding her Husband alone, she fell down on her Knees, and said, Husband, till this very Moment, I neither knew you nor myself; but from this Time forward, you shall find me another Sort of Person; only, I intreat you to forget what is past. The Husband receiv'd this Speech with a Kiss, and promised to do every Thing she could desire, if she did but continue in that Resolution. _Xa._ What! Did she continue in it? _Eu._ Even to her dying Day; nor was any Thing so mean, but she readily and chearfully went about it, if her Husband would have it so. So great a Love grew, and was confirm'd between them. Some Years after, the young Lady would often congratulate herself, that she had happen'd to marry such a Husband, which had it not happen'd, said she, I had been the most wretched Woman alive. _Xa._ Such Husbands are as scarce now a Days as white Crows. _Eu._ Now if it will not be tedious to you, I'll tell you a Story, that lately happen'd in this City, of a Husband that was reclaimed by the good Management of his Wife. _Xa._ I have nothing to do at present, and your Conversation is very diverting. _Eu._ There is a certain Gentleman of no mean Descent; he, like the rest of his Quality, used often to go a Hunting: Being in the Country, he happen'd to see a young Damsel, the Daughter of a poor old Woman, and began to fall desperately in love with her. He was a Man pretty well in Years; and for the Sake of this young Maid, he often lay out a Nights, and his Pretence for it was Hunting. His Wife, a Woman of an admirable Temper, suspecting something more than ordinary, went in search to find out her Husband's Intrigues, and having discover'd them, by I can't tell what Method, she goes to the Country Cottage, and learnt all the Particulars where he lay, what he drank, and what Manner of Entertainment he had at Table. There was no Furniture in the House, nothing but naked Walls. The Gentlewoman goes Home, and quickly after goes back again, carrying with her a handsome Bed and Furniture, some Plate and Money, bidding them to treat him with more Respect, if at any Time he came there again. A few Days after, her Husband steals an Opportunity to go thither, and sees the Furniture increas'd, and finds his Entertainment more delicate than it us'd to be; he enquir'd from whence this unaccustomed Finery came: They said, that a certain honest Gentlewoman of his Acquaintance, brought these Things; and gave them in Charge, that he should be treated with more Respect for the future. He presently suspected that this was done by his Wife. When he came Home, he ask'd her if she had been there. She did not deny it. Then he ask'd her for what Reason she had sent thither that household Furniture? My Dear, says she, you are us'd to a handsomer Way of Living: I found that you far'd hardly there, I thought it my Duty, since you took a Fancy to the Place, that your Reception should be more agreeable. _Xa._ A Wife good even to an Excess. I should sooner have sent him a Bundle of Nettles and Thorns, than furnish'd him with a fine Bed. _Eu._ But hear the Conclusion of my Story; the Gentleman was so touch'd, seeing so much good Nature and Temper in his Wife, that he never after that violated her Bed, but solaced himself with her at Home. I know you know _Gilbert_ the _Dutchman_. _Xa._ I know him. _Eu._ He, you know, in the prime of his Age, marry'd a Gentlewoman well stricken in Years, and in a declining Age. _Xa._ It may be he marry'd the Portion, and not the Woman. _Eu._ So it was. He having an Aversion to his Wife, was over Head and Ears in Love with a young Woman, with whom he us'd ever and anon to divert himself abroad. He very seldom either din'd or supp'd at home. What would you have done, if this had been your Case, _Xantippe_? _Xa._ Why I would have torn his beloved Strumpet's Headcloths off, and I would have wash'd him well with a Chamber-Pot, when he was going to her, that he might have gone thus perfum'd to his Entertainment. _Eu._ But how much more prudently did this Gentlewoman behave herself. She invited his Mistress home to her House, and treated her with all the Civility imaginable. So she kept her Husband without any magical Charms. And if at any Time he supp'd abroad with her, she sent them thither some Nicety or other, desiring them to be merry together. _Xa._ As for me, I would sooner chuse to lose my Life than to be Bawd to my own Husband. _Eu._ But in the mean Time, pray consider the Matter soberly and coolly. Was not this much better, than if she had by her ill Temper totally alienated her Husband's Affections from her, and spent her whole Life in quarrelling and brawling. _Xa._ I believe, that of two Evils it was the least, but I could never have submitted to it. _Eu._ I will add one more, and then I'll have done with Examples. A next Door Neighbour of ours is a very honest, good Man, but a little too subject to Passion. One Day he beat his Wife, a Woman of commendable Prudence. She immediately withdrew into a private Room, and there gave Vent to her Grief by Tears and Sighs. Soon after upon some Occasion her Husband came into the Room, and found his Wife all in Tears. What's the Matter, says he, that you're crying and sobbing like a Child? To which she prudently reply'd, Why, says she, is it not much better to lament my Misfortune here, than if I should make a Bawling in the Street, as other Women do? The Man's Mind was so overcome and mollified by this Answer, so like a Wife, that giving her his Hand, he made a solemn Promise to his Wife, he would never lay his Hand upon her after, as long as he liv'd. Nor did he ever do it. _Xa._ I have obtain'd as much from my Husband, but by a different Conduct. _Eu._ But in the mean Time there are perpetual Wars between you. _Xa._ What then would you have me to do? _Eu._ If your Husband offers you any Affront, you must take no Notice of it, but endeavour to gain his good Will by all good Offices, courteous Carriage, and Meekness of Spirit, and by these Methods, you will in Time, either wholly reclaim him, or at least you will live with him much more easy than now you do. _Xa._ Ay, but he's too ill-natur'd to be wrought upon by all the kind Offices in the World. _Eu._ Hold, don't say so, there is no Beast that is so savage but he may be tam'd by good Management; therefore don't despair of it as to a Man. Do but make the Experiment for a few Months, and if you do not find that this Advice has been of Benefit to you, blame me. And there are also some Faults that you must wink at; but above all Things, it is my Opinion, you ought to avoid ever to begin any Quarrel either in the Bed-Chamber, or in Bed, and to take a special Care that every Thing there be chearful and pleasant. For if that Place which is consecrated for the wiping out old Miscarriages and the cementing of Love, comes to be unhallowed by Contention and Sourness of Temper, all Remedy for the Reconcilement is taken away. For there are some Women of so morose Tempers that they will be querulous, and scold even while the Rites of Love are performing, and will by the Uneasiness of their Tempers render that Fruition itself disagreeable which is wont to discharge the Minds of Men from any Heart-burning, that they may have had; and by this Means they spoil that Cordial, by which Misunderstandings in Matrimony might be cured. _Xa._ That has been often my Case. _Eu._ And tho' it ought always to be the Care of a Wife, not to make her Husband uneasy in any Thing; yet that ought to be especially her Care to study, in conjugal Embraces to render herself by all ways possible, agreeable and delightful to her Husband. _Xa._ To a Man, indeed! But I have to do with an untractable Beast. _Eu._ Come, come, leave off Railing. For the most part Husbands are made bad, by our bad Conduct. But to return to our Argument, those that are conversant in the antient Fables of the Poets, tell you that _Venus_, (whom they make a Goddess, that presides over Matrimony) had a Girdle or _Cestus_ which was made for her by _Vulcan's_ Art, in which were interwoven all bewitching Ingredients of an amorous Medicament, and that she put this on whenever she went to bed to her Husband. _Xa._ I hear a Fable. _Eu._ It is true: But hear the Moral of it. _Xa._ Tell it me. _Eu._ That teaches that a Wife ought to use all the Care imaginable to be so engaging to her Husband in conjugal Embraces, that matrimonial Affection may be retain'd and renew'd, and if there has been any Distaste or Aversion, it may be expell'd the Mind. _Xa._ But where can a Body get this Girdle? _Eu._ There is no Need of Witchcrafts and Spells to procure one. There is no Enchantment so effectual as Virtue, join'd with a Sweetness of Disposition. _Xa._ I can't be able to bring myself to humour such a Husband as I have got. _Eu._ But this is for your Interest, that he would leave off to be such a bad Husband. If you could by _Circe_'s Art transform your Husband into a Swine or a Bear, would you do it? _Xa._ I can't tell, whether I should or no. _Eu._ Which had you rather have, a Swine to your Husband, or a Man? _Xa._ In Truth, I had rather have a Man. _Eu._ Well, come on. What if you could by _Circe_'s Arts make him a sober Man of a Drunkard, a frugal Man of a Spendthrift, a diligent Man of an idle Fellow, would you not do it? _Xa._ To be sure, I would do it. But how shall I attain the Art? _Eu._ You have the Art in yourself, if you would but make Use of it. Whether you will or no he must be your Husband, and the better Man you make him, the more you consult your own Advantage. You only keep your Eyes fix'd upon his Faults, and those aggravate your Aversion to him; and only hold him by this Handle, which is such a one that he cannot be held by; but rather take Notice of what good Qualities he has, and hold him by this Handle, which is a Handle he may be held by: Before you married him, you had Time of considering what his Defects were. A Husband is not to be chosen by the Eyes only, but by the Ears too. Now 'tis your Time to cure him, and not to find Fault with him. _Xa._ What Woman ever made Choice of a Husband by her Ears? _Eu._ She chuses a Husband by her Eyes, which looks at nothing else but his Person and bare Outside: She chuses him by her Ears, who carefully observes what Reputation he has in the World. _Xa._ This is good Advice, but it is too late. _Eu._ But it is not too late to endeavour to amend your Husband. It will contribute something to the Matter, if you could have any Children by him. _Xa._ I have had one. _Eu._ When? _Xa._ A long Time ago. _Eu._ How many Months? _Xa._ Why, about Seven. _Eu._ What do I hear! You put me in Mind of the Joke of the three Months Lying in. _Xa._ By no Means. _Eu._ It must be so, if you reckon from the Day of Marriage. _Xa._ But I had some private Discourse with him before Marriage. _Eu._ Are Children got by Talking? _Xa._ He having by Chance got me into a Room by myself, began to play with me, tickling me about the Arm-pits and Sides, to make me laugh, and I not being able to bear being tickled any longer, threw myself flat upon the Bed, and he lying upon me, kiss'd me, and I don't know what he did to me besides; but this is certain, within a few Days after, my Belly began to swell. _Eu._ Get you gone now, and slight a Husband, who if he can get Children jesting, what will he do if he sets about it in earnest? _Xa._ I suspect that I am now with Child by him again. _Eu._ O brave! to a good Soil, here's a good Ploughman to till it. _Xa._ As to this Affair, he's better than I wish he was. _Eu._ Very few Wives have this Complaint to make: But, I suppose, the Marriage Contract was made between you, before this happened. _Xa._ It was made. _Eu._ Then the Sin was so much the less. Is your Child a Boy? _Xa._ It is. _Eu._ That will reconcile you both, if you will but qualify yourself a little for it. What Sort of Character do your Husband's Companions give him? And what Company does he keep when he is abroad? _Xa._ They give him the Character of an exceeding good-humour'd, courteous, generous Man, and a true Friend to his Friend. _Eu._ These Things give me great Hopes, that he will become such as we would have him be. _Xa._ But I am the only Person he is not so to. _Eu._ Do you but be to him what I have told you, and if he does not begin to be so to you, instead of _Eulalia_ (a good Speaker), call me _Pseudolalia_ (a prating Liar); and besides, consider this, that he's but a young Man yet, I believe not above twenty-four Years of Age, and does not yet know what it is to be the Master of a Family. You must never think of a Divorce now. _Xa._ But I have thought on it a great many Times. _Eu._ But if ever that Thought comes into your Mind again, first of all consider with yourself, what an insignificant Figure a Woman makes when she is parted from her Husband. It is the greatest Glory of a Matron, to be obedient to her Husband. This Nature dictates, and it is the Will of God, that the Woman should wholly depend upon her Husband: Only think, as it really is, he is your Husband, you cannot have another. Then call to Mind that the little Boy belongs to you both. What would you do with him? Would you take him away with you? Then will you defraud your Husband of his own. Will you leave him to him? Then you will deprive yourself of that, than which nothing is more dear. Last of all, tell me, is there any Body that wishes you ill? _Xa._ I have a Step-Mother, and a Mother-in-Law, as like her as may be. _Eu._ And they wish you ill, do they? _Xa._ They wish me in my Grave. _Eu._ Then think of them likewise. What can you be able to do, that would be more grateful to them, than if they should see you divorc'd from your Husband; a Widow, nay, to live, a Widow bewitcht, worse than a Widow? For Widows may marry again. _Xa._ I approve of your Advice; but can't bear the Thoughts of being always a Slave. _Eu._ Recount what Pains you took before you could teach that Parrot to prattle. _Xa._ A great Deal indeed. _Eu._ And yet you think much to bestow a little Pains to mould your Husband, with whom you may live a pleasant Life all your Days. What a Deal of Pains do Men take to render a Horse tractable to them: And shall we think much to take a little Pains to render our Husbands more agreeable? _Xa._ What must I do? _Eu._ I have told you already, take Care that all Things be neat, and in Order at Home, that there be nothing discomposing, to make him go out of Doors; behave yourself easy and free to him, always remembring that Respect which is due from a Wife to a Husband. Let all Melancholy and ill-tim'd Gaiety be banished out of Doors; be not morose nor frolicksome. Let your Table be handsomely provided. You know your Husband's Palate, dress that which he likes best. Behave yourself courteously and affably to those of his Acquaintance he respects. Invite them frequently to Dinner; let all Things be pleasant and chearful at Table. Lastly, if at any Time he happens to come Home a little merry with Wine, and shall fall to playing on his Fiddle, do you sing, to him, so you will gradually inure your Husband to keep at Home, and also lessen his Expences: For he will thus reason with himself; was not I mad with a Witness, who live abroad with a nasty Harlot, to the apparent Prejudice of my Estate and Reputation, when I have at Home a Wife much more entertaining and affectionate to me, with whom I may be entertained more handsomely and more plentifully? _Xa._ Do you think I shall succeed, if I try? _Eu._ Look to me for that. I engage that you will: In the mean Time I'll talk to your Husband, and put him in Mind of his Duty. _Xa._ I approve of your Design; but take Care that he mayn't discover any Thing of what has past between us two, for he would throw the House out of the Windows. _Eu._ Don't fear, I'll order my Discourse so by Turnings and Windings, that he shall tell me himself, what Quarrels have happened between you. When I have brought this about, I'll treat him after my Way, as engagingly as can be, and I hope, shall render him to you better temper'd: I'll likewise take Occasion to tell a Lie or two in your Favour, how lovingly and respectfully you spoke of him. _Xa._ Heaven prosper both our Undertakings. _Eu._ It will, I doubt not, if you are not wanting to yourself. _The SOLDIER and CARTHUSIAN._ The ARGUMENT. _This Colloquy sets out to the Life, the Madness of young Men that run into the Wars, and the Life of a pious Carthusian, which without the love of Study, can't but be melancholy and unpleasant. The Manners of Soldiers, the Manners and Diet of Carthusians. Advice in chusing a Way of getting a Livelihood. The Conveniency of a single Life, to be at Leisure for Reading and Meditation. Wicked Soldiers oftentimes butcher Men for a pitiful Reward. The daily Danger of a Soldier's Life._ _The_ SOLDIER _and_ CARTHUSIAN. _Sol._ Good Morrow, my Brother. _Cart._ Good Morrow to you, dear Cousin. _Sol._ I scarce knew you. _Cart._ Am I grown so old in two Years Time? _Sol._ No; but your bald Crown, and your new Dress, make you look to me like another Sort of Creature. _Cart._ It may be you would not know your own Wife, if she should meet you in a new Gown. _Sol._ No; not if she was in such a one as yours. _Cart._ But I know you very well, who are not altered as to your Dress; but your Face, and the whole Habit of your Body: Why, how many Colours are you painted with? No Bird had ever such a Variety of Feathers. How all is cut and slash'd! Nothing according to Nature or Fashion! your cut Hair, your half-shav'd Beard, and that Wood upon your upper Lip, entangled and standing out straggling like the Whiskers of a Cat. Nor is it one single Scar that has disfigured your Face, that you may very well be taken for one of the _Samian literati_, [q.d. burnt in the Cheek] concerning whom there is a joking Proverb. _Sol._ Thus it becomes a Man to come back from the Wars. But, pray, tell me, was there so great a Scarcity of good Physicians in this Quarter of the World? _Cart._ Why do you ask? _Sol._ Because you did not get the Distemper of your Brain cur'd, before you plung'd yourself into this Slavery. _Cart._ Why, do you think I was mad then? _Sol._ Yes, I do. What Occasion was there for you to be buried here, before your Time, when you had enough in the World to have lived handsomely upon? _Cart._ What, don't you think I live in the World now? _Sol._ No, by _Jove_. _Cart._ Tell me why. _Sol._ Because you can't go where you list. You are confin'd in this Place as in a Coop. Besides, your bald Pate, and your prodigious strange Dress, your Lonesomeness, your eating Fish perpetually, so that I admire you are not turn'd into a Fish. _Cart._ If Men were turn'd into what they eat, you had long ago been turn'd into a Hog, for you us'd to be a mighty Lover of Pork. _Sol._ I don't doubt but you have repented of what you have done, long enough before now, for I find very few that don't repent of it. _Cart._ This usually happens to those who plunge themselves headlong into this Kind of Life, as if they threw themselves into a Well; but I have enter'd into it warily and considerately, having first made Trial of myself, and having duly examined the whole Ratio of this Way of Living, being twenty-eight Years of Age, at which Time, every one may be suppos'd to know himself. And as for the Place, you are confined in a small Compass as well as I, if you compare it to the Extent of the whole World. Nor does it signify any Thing how large the Place is, as long as it wants nothing of the Conveniences of Life. There are many that seldom stir out of the City in which they were born, which if they were prohibited from going out, would be very uneasy, and would be wonderfully desirous to do it. This is a common Humour, that I am not troubled with. I fancy this Place to be the whole World to me, and this Map represents the whole Globe of the Earth, which I can travel over in Thought with more Delight and Security than he that sails to the new-found Islands. _Sol._ What you say as to this, comes pretty near the Truth. _Cart._ You can't blame me for shaving my Head, who voluntarily have your own Hair clipp'd, for Conveniency Sake. Shaving, to me, if it does nothing else, certainly keeps my Head more clean, and perhaps more healthful too. How many Noblemen at _Venice_ shave their Heads all over? What has my Garment in it that is monstrous? Does it not cover my Body? Our Garments are for two Uses, to defend us from the Inclemency of the Weather, and to cover our Nakedness. Does not this Garment answer both these Ends? But perhaps the Colour offends you. What Colour is more becoming Christians than that which was given to all in Baptism? It has been said also, _Take a white Garment_; so that this Garment puts me in Mind of what I promised in Baptism, that is, the perpetual Study of Innocency. And besides, if you call that Solitude which is only a retiring from the Crowd, we have for this the Example, not only of our own, but of the ancient Prophets, the _Ethnick_ Philosophers, and all that had any Regard to the keeping a good Conscience. Nay, Poets, Astrologers, and Persons devoted to such-like Arts, whensoever they take in Hand any Thing that's great and beyond the Sphere of the common People, commonly betake themselves to a Retreat. But why should you call this Kind of Life Solitude? The Conversation of one single Friend drives away the Tædium of Solitude. I have here more than sixteen Companions, fit for all Manner of Conversation. And besides, I have Friends who come to visit me oftner than I would have them, or is convenient Do I then, in your Opinion, live melancholy? _Sol._ But you cannot always have these to talk with. _Cart._ Nor is it always expedient: For Conversation is the pleasanter, for being something interrupted. _Sol._ You don't think amiss; for even to me myself, Flesh relishes much better after Lent. _Cart._ And more than that, when I seem to be most alone, I don't want Companions, which are by far more delightful and entertaining than those common Jesters. _Sol._ Where are they? _Cart._ Look you, here are the four Evangelists. In this Book he that so pleasantly commun'd with the two Disciples in the Way going to _Emaus_, and who by his heavenly Discourse caus'd them not to be sensible of the Fatigue of their Journey, but made their Hearts burn within them with a divine Ardour of hearing his sweet Words, holds Conversation with me. In this I converse with _Paul_, with _Isaiah_, and the rest of the Prophets. Here the most sweet _Chrysostom_ converses with me, and _Basil_, and _Austin_, and _Jerome_, and _Cyprian_, and the rest of the Doctors that are both learned and eloquent. Do you know any such pleasant Companions abroad in the World, that you can have Conversation with? Do you think I can be weary of Retirement, in such Society as this? And I am never without it. _Sol._ But they would speak to me to no Purpose, who do not understand them. _Cart._ Now for our Diet, what signifies it with what Food this Body of ours is fed which is satisfied with very little, if we live according to Nature? Which of us two is in the best Plight? You who live upon Partridges, Pheasants and Capons; or I who live upon Fish? _Sol._ If you had a Wife as I have, you would not be so lusty. _Cart._ And for that Reason, any Food serves us, let it be never so little. _Sol._ But in the mean Time, you live the Life of a _Jew_. _Cart._ Forbear Reflections: If we cannot come up to Christianity, at least we follow after it. _Sol._ You put too much Confidence in Habits, Meats, Forms of Prayer, and outward Ceremonies, and neglect the Study of Gospel Religion. _Cart._ It is none of my Business to judge what others do: As to myself, I place no Confidence in these Things, I attribute nothing to them; but I put my Confidence in Purity of Mind, and in _Christ_ himself. _Sol._ Why do you observe these Things then? _Cart._ That I may be at Peace with my Brethren, and give no Body Offence. I would give no Offence to any one for the Sake of these trivial Things, which it is but a very little Trouble to observe. As we are Men, let us wear what Cloaths we will. Men are so humoursome, the Agreement or Disagreement in the most minute Matters, either procures or destroys Concord. The shaving of the Head, or Colour of the Habit does not indeed, of themselves, recommend me to God: But what would the People say, if I should let my Hair grow, or put on your Habit? I have given you my Reasons for my Way of Life; now, pray, in your Turn, give me your Reasons for yours, and tell me, were there no good Physicians in your Quarter, when you listed yourself for a Soldier, leaving a young Wife and Children at Home, and was hired for a pitiful Pay to cut Men's Throats, and that with the Hazard of your own Life too? For your Business did not lie among Mushrooms and Poppies, but armed Men. What do you think is a more unhappy Way of living, for a poor Pay, to murder a Fellow Christian, who never did you Harm, and to run yourself Body and Soul into eternal Damnation? _Sol._ Why, it is lawful to kill an Enemy. _Cart._ Perhaps it may be so, if he invades your native Country: Nay, and it is pious too, to fight for your Wife, Children, your Parents and Friends, your Religion and Liberties, and the publick Peace. But what is all that to your fighting for Money? If you had been knocked on the Head, I would not have given a rotten Nut to redeem the very Soul of you. _Sol._ No? _Cart._ No, by Christ, I would not. Now which do you think is the harder Task, to be obedient to a good Man, which we call Prior, who calls us to Prayers, and holy Lectures, the Hearing of the saving Doctrine, and to sing to the Glory of God: Or, to be under the Command of some barbarous Officer, who often calls you out to fatiguing Marches at Midnight, and sends you out, and commands you back at his Pleasure, exposes you to the Shot of great Guns, assigns you a Station where you must either kill or be killed? _Sol._ There are more Evils than you have mentioned yet. _Cart._ If I shall happen to deviate from the Discipline of my Order, my Punishment is only Admonition, or some such slight Matter: But in War, if you do any Thing contrary to the General's Orders, you must either be hang'd for it, or run the Gantlope; for it would be a Favour to have your Head cut off. _Sol._ I can't deny what you say to be true. _Cart._ And now your Habit bespeaks, that you han't brought much Money Home, after all your brave Adventures. _Sol._ As for Money, I have not had a Farthing this good While; nay, I have gotten a good Deal into Debt, and for that Reason I come hither out of my Way, that you might furnish me with some Money to bear my Charges. _Cart._ I wish you had come out of your Way hither, when you hurried yourself into that wicked Life of a Soldier. But how come you so bare? _Sol._ Do you ask that? Why, whatsoever I got of Pay, Plunder, Sacrilege, Rapine and Theft, was spent in Wine, Whores and Gaming. _Cart._ O miserable Creature! And all this While your Wife, for whose Sake God commanded you to leave Father and Mother, being forsaken by you, sat grieving at Home with her young Children. And do you think this is Living, to be involved in so many Miseries, and to wallow in so great Iniquities? _Sol._ The having so many Companions of my Wickedness, made me insensible of my Evil. _Cart._ But I'm afraid your Wife won't know you again. _Sol._ Why so? _Cart._ Because your Scars have made you the Picture of quite another Man. What a Trench have you got here in your Forehead? It looks as if you had had a Horn cut out. _Sol._ Nay, if you did but know the Matter, you would congratulate me upon this Scar. _Cart._ Why so? _Sol._ I was within a Hair's Breadth of losing my Life. _Cart._ Why, what Mischief was there? _Sol._ As one was drawing a Steel Cross-bow, it broke, and a Splinter of it hit me in the Forehead. _Cart._ You have got a Scar upon your Cheek that is above a Span long. _Sol._ I got this Wound in a Battel. _Cart._ In what Battel, in the Field? _Sol._ No, but in a Quarrel that arose at Dice. _Cart._ And I see I can't tell what Sort of Rubies on your Chin. _Sol._ O they are nothing. _Cart._ I suspect that you have had the Pox. _Sol._ You guess very right, Brother. It was the third Time I had that Distemper, and it had like to have cost me my Life. _Cart._ But how came it, that you walk so stooping, as if you were ninety Years of Age; or like a Mower, or as if your Back was broke? _Sol._ The Disease has contracted my Nerves to that Degree. _Cart._ In Truth you have undergone a wonderful Metamorphosis: Formerly you were a Horseman, and now of a Centaur, you are become a Kind of semi-reptile Animal. _Sol._ This is the Fortune of War. _Cart._ Nay, 'tis the Madness of your own Mind. But what Spoils will you carry Home to your Wife and Children? The Leprosy? for that Scab is only a Species of the Leprosy; and it is only not accounted so, because it is the Disease in Fashion, and especially among Noblemen: And for this very Reason, it should be the more carefully avoided. And now you will infect with it those that ought to be the dearest to you of any in the World, and you yourself will all your Days carry about a rotten Carcass. _Sol._ Prithee, Brother, have done chiding me. I have enough upon me without Chiding. _Cart._ As to those Calamities, I have hitherto taken Notice of, they only relate to the Body: But what a Sort of a Soul do you bring back with you? How putrid and ulcered? With how many Wounds is that sore? _Sol._ Just as clean as a _Paris_ common Shore in _Maburtus_'s Road, or a common House of Office. _Cart._ I am afraid it stinks worse in the Nostrils of God and his Angels. _Sol._ Well, but I have had Chiding enough, now speak to the Matter, of something to bear my Charges. _Cart._ I have nothing to give you, but I'll go and try what the Prior will do. _Sol._ If any Thing was to be given, your Hands would be ready to receive it; but now there are a great many Difficulties in the Way, when something is to be paid. _Cart._ As to what others do, let them look to that, I have no Hands, either to give or take Money: But we'll talk more of these Matters after Dinner, for it is now Time to sit down at Table. _PHILETYMUS and PSEUDOCHEUS._ The ARGUMENT. _This Colloquy sets forth the Disposition and Nature of a Liar, who seems to be born to lie for crafty Gain. A Liar is a Thief. Gain got by Lying, is baser than that which is got by a Tax upon Urine. An egregious Method of deceiving is laid open. Cheating Tradesmen live better than honest ones._ _PHILETYMUS and PSEUDOCHEUS._ _Phil._ From what Fountain does this Flood of Lies flow? _Pseud._ From whence do Spiders Webs proceed? _Phil._ Then it is not the _Product_ of Art, but of Nature. _Pseud._ The Seeds indeed proceed from Nature; but Art and Use have enlarg'd the Faculty. _Phil._ Why, are you not asham'd of it? _Pseud._ No more than a Cuckow is of her Singing. _Phil._ But you can alter your Note upon every Occasion. The Tongue of Man was given him to speak the Truth. _Pseud._ Ay, to speak those Things that tend to his Profit: The Truth is not to be spoken at all Times. _Phil._ It is sometimes for a Man's Advantage to have pilfering Hands; and the old Proverb is a Witness, that that is a Vice that is Cousin-German to yours of Lying. _Pseud._ Both these Vices are supported by good Authorities: One has _Ulysses_, so much commended by _Homer_, and the other has _Mercury_, that was a God, for its Example, if we believe the Poets. _Phil._ Why then do People in common curse Liars, and hang Thieves? _Pseud._ Not because they lie or steal, but because they do it bunglingly or unnaturally, not rightly understanding the Art. _Phil._ Is there any Author that teaches the Art of Lying? _Pseud._ Your Rhetoricians have instructed in the best Part of the Art. _Phil._ These indeed present us with the Art of well speaking. _Pseud._ True: and the good Part of speaking well, is to lie cleverly. _Phil._ What is clever Lying? _Pseud._ Would you have me define it? _Phil._ I would have you do it. _Pseud._ It is to lie so, that you may get Profit by it, and not be caught in a Lie. _Phil._ But a great many are caught in lying every Day. _Pseud._ That's because they are not perfect Masters of the Art. _Phil._ Are you a perfect Master in it? _Pseud._ In a Manner. _Phil._ See, if you can tell me a Lie, so as to deceive me. _Pseud._ Yes, best of Men, I can deceive you yourself, if I have a Mind to it. _Phil._ Well, tell me some Lie or other then. _Pseud._ Why, I have told one already, and did you not catch me in it? _Phil._ No. _Pseud._ Come on, listen attentively; now I'll begin to lie then. _Phil._ I do listen attentively; tell one. _Pseud._ Why, I have told another Lie, and you have not caught me. _Phil._ In Truth, I hear no Lie yet. _Pseud._ You would have heard some, if you understood the Art. _Phil._ Do you shew it me then. _Pseud._ First of all, I call'd you the best of Men, is not that a swinging Lie, when you are not so much as good? And if you were good, you could not be said to be the best, there are a thousand others better than you. _Phil._ Here, indeed, you have deceiv'd me. _Pseud._ Well, now try if you can catch me again in another Lie. _Phil._ I cannot. _Pseud._ I want to have you shew that Sharpness of Wit, that you do in other Things. _Phil._ I confess, I am deficient. Shew me. _Pseud._ When I said, now I will begin to lie, did I not tell you a swinging Lie then, when I had been accustomed to lie for so many Years, and I had also told a Lie, just the Moment before. _Phil._ An admirable Piece of Witchcraft. _Pseud._ Well, but now you have been forewarn'd, prick up your Ears, listen attentively, and see if you can catch me in a Lie. _Phil._ I do prick them up; say on. _Pseud._ I have said already, and you have imitated me in lying. _Phil._ Why, you'll persuade me I have neither Ears nor Eyes by and by. _Pseud._ When Mens Ears are immoveable, and can neither be prick'd up nor let down, I told a Lie in bidding you prick up your Ears. _Phil._ The whole Life of Man is full of such Lies. _Pseud._ Not only such as these, O good Man, for these are but Jokes: But there are those that bring Profit. _Phil._ The Gain that is got by Lying, is more sordid, than that which is got by laying a Tax on Urine. _Pseud._ That is true, I own; but then 'tis to those that han't the Art of lying. _Phil._ What Art is this that you understand? _Pseud._ It is not fit I should teach you for nothing; pay me, and you shall hear it. _Phil._ I will not pay for bad Arts. _Pseud._ Then will you give away your Estate? _Phil._ I am not so mad neither. _Pseud._ But my Gain by this Art is more certain than yours from your Estate. _Phil._ Well, keep your Art to yourself, only give me a Specimen that I may understand that what you say is not all Pretence. _Pseud._ Here's a Specimen for you: I concern myself in all Manner of Business, I buy, I sell, I receive, I borrow, I take Pawns. _Phil._ Well, what then? _Pseud._ And in these Affairs I entrap those by whom I cannot easily be caught. _Phil._ Who are those? _Pseud._ The soft-headed, the forgetful, the unthinking, those that live a great Way off, and those that are dead. _Phil._ The Dead, to be sure, tell no Tales. _Pseud._ If I sell any Thing upon Credit, I set it down carefully in my Book of Accounts. _Phil._ And what then? _Pseud._ When the Money is to be paid, I charge the Buyer with more than he had. If he is unthinking or forgetful, my Gain is certain. _Phil._ But what if he catches you? _Pseud._ I produce my Book of Accounts. _Phil._ What if he informs you, and proves to your Face he has not had the Goods you charge him with? _Pseud._ I stand to it stiffly; for Bashfulness is altogether an unprofitable Qualification in this Art. My last Shift is, I frame some Excuse or other. _Phil._ But when you are caught openly? _Pseud._ Nothing's more easy, I pretend my Servant has made a Mistake, or I myself have a treacherous Memory: It is a very pretty Way to jumble the Accounts together, and this is an easy Way to impose on a Person: As for Example, some are cross'd out, the Money being paid, and others have not been paid; these I mingle one with another at the latter End of the Book, nothing being cross'd out. When the Sum is cast up, we contend about it, and I for the most Part get the better, tho' it be by forswearing myself. Then besides, I have this Trick, I make up my Account with a Person when he is just going a Journey, and not prepared for the Settling it. For as for me, I am always ready. If any Thing be left with me, I conceal it, and restore it not again. It is a long Time before he can come to the Knowledge of it, to whom it is sent; and, after all, if I can't deny the receiving of a Thing, I say it is lost, or else affirm I have sent that which I have not sent, and charge it upon the Carrier. And lastly, if I can no Way avoid restoring it, I restore but Part of it. _Phil._ A very fine Art. _Pseud._ Sometimes I receive Money twice over, if I can: First at Home, afterwards there where I have gone, and I am every where. Sometimes Length of Time puts Things out of Remembrance: The Accounts are perplexed, one dies, or goes a long Journey: And if nothing else will hit, in the mean Time I make Use of other People's Money. I bring some over to my Interest, by a Shew of Generosity, that they may help me out in lying; but it is always at other People's Cost; of my own, I would not give my own Mother a Doit. And tho' the Gain in each Particular may be but small; but being many put together, makes a good round Sum; for as I said, I concern myself in a great many Affairs; and besides all, that I may not be catch'd, as there are many Tricks, this is one of the chief. I intercept all the Letters I can, open them, and read them. If any Thing in them makes against me, I destroy them, or keep them a long Time before I deliver them: And besides all this, I sow Discord between those that live at a great Distance one from another. _Phil._ What do you get by that? _Pseud._ There is a double Advantage in it. First of all, if that is not performed that I have promised in another Person's Name, or in whose Name I have received any Present, I lay it to this or that Man's Door, that it was not performed, and so these Forgeries I make turn to a considerable Account. _Phil._ But what if he denies it? _Pseud._ He's a great Way off, as suppose at _Basil_; and I promise to give it in _England._ And so it is brought about, that both being incensed, neither will believe the one the other, if I accuse them of any Thing. Now you have a Specimen of my Art. _Phil._ But this Art is what we Dullards call Theft; who call a Fig a Fig, and a Spade a Spade. _Pseud._ O Ignoramus in the Law! Can you bring an Action of Theft for Trover or Conversion, or for one that having borrow'd a Thing forswears it, that puts a Trick upon one, by some such Artifice? _Phil._ He ought to be sued for Theft. _Pseud._ Do but then see the Prudence of Artists. From these Methods there is more Gain, or at least as much, and less Danger. _Phil._ A Mischief take you, with your cheating Tricks and Lies, for I han't a Mind to learn 'em. Good by to ye. _Pseud._ You may go on, and be plagu'd with your ragged Truth. In the mean Time, I'll live merrily upon my thieving, lying Tricks, with Slight of Hand. _The SHIPWRECK._ The ARGUMENT. Naufragium _exposes the Dangers of those that go to Sea; the various and foolish Superstition of Mariners. An elegant Description of a Storm. They indeed run a Risque that throw their valuable Commodities into the Sea. Mariners impiously invoke the Virgin_ Mary, _St._ Christopher, _and the Sea itself. Saints are not to be pray'd to, but God alone._ ANTONY _and_ ADOLPH. _Ant._ You tell dreadful Stories: Is this going to Sea? God forbid that ever any such Thing should come into my Mind. _Adol._ That which I have related, is but a Diversion, in Comparison to what you'll hear presently. _Ant._ I have heard Calamities enough already, my Flesh trembles to hear you relate them, as if I were in Danger myself. _Adol._ But Dangers that are past, are pleasant to be thought on. One thing happen'd that Night, that almost put the Pilot out of all Hopes of Safety. _Ant._ Pray what was that? _Adol._ The Night was something lightish, and one of the Sailors was got into the Skuttle (so I think they call it) at the Main-Top-Mast, looking out if he could see any Land; a certain Ball of Fire began to stand by him, which is the worst Sign in the World to Sailors, if it be single; but a very good one, if double. The Antients believed these to be _Castor_ and _Pollux_. _Ant._ What have they to do with Sailors, one of which was a Horseman, and the other a Prize-Fighter? _Adol._ It was the Pleasure of Poets, so to feign. The Steersman who sat at the Helm, calls to him, Mate, says he, (for so Sailors call one another) don't you see what a Companion you have by your Side? I do see, says he, and I pray that he may be a lucky one. By and by this fiery Ball glides down the Ropes, and rolls itself over and over close to the Pilot. _Ant._ And was not he frighted out of his Wits? _Adol._ Sailors are us'd to terrible Sights. It stopp'd a little there, then roll'd itself all round the Sides of the Ship; after that, slipping through the Hatches, it vanished away. About Noon the Storm began to increase. Did you ever see the _Alps_? _Ant._ I have seen them. _Adol._ Those Mountains are Mole Hills, if they be compar'd to the Waves of the Sea. As oft as we were toss'd up, one might have touch'd the Moon with his Finger; and as oft as we were let fall down into the Sea, we seem'd to be going directly down to Hell, the Earth gaping to receive us. _Ant._ O mad Folks, that trust themselves to the Sea! _Adol._ The Mariners striving in Vain with the Storm, at length the Pilot, all pale as Death comes to us. _Ant._ That Paleness presages some great Evil. _Adol._ My Friends, says he, I am no longer Master of my Ship, the Wind has got the better of me; all that we have now to do is to place our Hope in God, and every one to prepare himself for Death. _Ant._ This was cold Comfort. _Adol._ But in the first Place, says he, we must lighten the Ship; Necessity requires it, tho' 'tis a hard Portion. It is better to endeavour to save our Lives with the Loss of our Goods, than to perish with them. The Truth persuaded, and a great many Casks of rich Merchandize were thrown over-Board. _Ant._ This was casting away, according to the Letter. _Adol._ There was in the Company, a certain _Italian_, that had been upon an Embassy to the King of _Scotland_. He had a whole Cabinet full of Plate, Rings, Cloth, and rich wearing Apparel. _Ant._ And he, I warrant ye, was unwilling to come to a Composition with the Sea. _Adol._ No, he would not; he had a Mind either to sink or swim with his beloved Riches. _Ant._ What said the Pilot to this? _Adol._ If you and your Trinkets were to drown by yourselves, says he, here's no Body would hinder you; but it is not fit that we should run the Risque of our Lives, for the Sake of your Cabinet: If you won't consent, we'll throw you and your Cabinet into the Sea together. _Ant._ Spoken like a Tarpawlin. _Adol._ So the Italian submitted, and threw his Goods over-Board, with many a bitter Curse to the Gods both above and below, that he had committed his Life to so barbarous an Element. _Ant._ I know the Italian Humour. _Adol._ The Winds were nothing the less boisterous for our Presents, but by and by burst our Cordage, and threw down our Sails. _Ant._ Lamentable! _Adol._ Then the Pilot comes to us again. _Ant._ What, with another Preachment? _Adol._ He gives us a Salute; my Friends, says he, the Time exhorts us that every one of us should recommend himself to God, and prepare for Death. Being ask'd by some that were not ignorant in Sea Affairs, how long he thought the Ship might be kept above Water, he said, he could promise nothing, but that it could not be done above three Hours. _Ant._ This was yet a harder Chapter than the former. _Adol._ When he had said this, he orders to cut the Shrouds and the Mast down by the Board, and to throw them, Sails and all, into the Sea. _Ant._ Why was this done? _Adol._ Because, the Sail either being gone or torn, it would only be a Burden, but not of Use; all our Hope was in the Helm. _Ant._ What did the Passengers do in the mean Time? _Adol._ There you might have seen a wretched Face of Things; the Mariners, they were singing their _Salve Regina_, imploring the Virgin Mother, calling her the Star of the Sea, the Queen of Heaven, the Lady of the World, the Haven of Health, and many other flattering Titles, which the sacred Scriptures never attributed to her. _Ant._ What has she to do with the Sea, who, as I believe, never went a Voyage in her Life? _Adol._ In ancient Times, _Venus_ took Care of Mariners, because she was believ'd to be born of the Sea and because she left off to take Care of them, the Virgin Mother was put in her Place, that was a Mother, but not a Virgin. _Ant._ You joke. _Adol._ Some were lying along upon the Boards, worshipping the Sea, pouring all they had into it, and flattering it, as if it had been some incensed Prince. _Ant._ What did they say? _Adol._ O most merciful Sea! O most generous Sea! O most rich Sea! O most beautiful Sea, be pacified, save us; and a Deal of such Stuff they sung to the deaf Ocean. _Ant._ Ridiculous Superstition! What did the rest do? _Adol._ Some did nothing but spew, and some made Vows. There was an _Englishman_ there, that promis'd golden Mountains to our Lady of _Walsingham_, so he did but get ashore alive. Others promis'd a great many Things to the Wood of the Cross, which was in such a Place; others again, to that which was in such a Place; and the same was done by the Virgin _Mary_, which reigns in a great many Places, and they think the Vow is of no Effect, unless the Place be mentioned. _Ant._ Ridiculous! As if the Saints did not dwell in Heaven. _Adol._ Some made Promises to become _Carthusians_. There was one who promised he would go a _Pilgrimage_ to St. _James_ at _Compostella_, bare Foot and bare Head, cloth'd in a Coat of Mail, and begging his Bread all the Way. _Ant._ Did no Body make any Mention of St. _Christopher_? _Adol._ Yes, I heard one, and I could not forbear laughing, who bawling out aloud, lest St. _Christopher_ should not hear him, promised him, who is at the Top of a Church at _Paris_, rather a Mountain than a Statue, a wax Taper as big as he was himself: When he had bawl'd out this over and over as loud as he could, an Acquaintance of his jogg'd him on the Elbow, and caution'd him: Have a Care what you promise, for if you should sell all you have in the World, you will not be able to pay for it. He answer'd him softly, lest St. _Christopher_ should hear him, you Fool, says he, do you think I mean as I speak, if I once got safe to Shore, I would not give him so much as a tallow Candle. _Ant._ O Blockhead! I fancy he was a _Hollander_. _Adol._ No, he was a _Zealander_. _Ant._ I wonder no Body thought of St. _Paul_, who has been at Sea, and having suffered Shipwreck, leapt on Shore. For he being not unacquainted with the Distress, knows how to pity those that are in it. _Adol._ He was not so much as named. _Ant._ Were they at their Prayers all the While? _Adol._ Ay, as if it had been for a Wager. One sung his _Hail Queen_; another, _I believe in God_. There were some who had certain particular Prayers not unlike magical Charms against Dangers. _Ant._ How Affliction makes Men religious! In Prosperity we neither think of God nor Saint. But what did you do all this While? Did you not make Vows to some Saints? _Adol._ No, none at all. _Ant._ Why so? _Adol._ I make no Bargains with Saints. For what is this but a Bargain in Form? I'll give you, if you do so and so; or I will do so and so, if you do so and so: I'll give you a wax Taper, if I swim out alive; I'll go to _Rome_, if you save me. _Ant._ But did you call upon none of the Saints for Help? _Adol._ No, not so much as that neither. _Ant._ Why so? _Adol._ Because Heaven is a large Place, and if I should recommend my Safety to any Saint, as suppose, to St. _Peter_, who perhaps, would hear soonest, because he stands at the Door; before he can come to God Almighty, or before he could tell him my Condition, I may be lost. _Ant._ What did you do then? _Adol._ I e'en went the next Way to God the Father, saying, _Our Father which art in Heaven_. There's none of the Saints hears sooner than he does, or more readily gives what is ask'd for. _Ant._ But in the mean Time did not your Conscience check you? Was you not afraid to call him Father, whom you had offended with so many Wickednesses? _Adol._ To speak ingenuously, my Conscience did a little terrify me at first, but I presently took Heart again, thus reasoning with myself; There is no Father so angry with his Son, but if he sees him in Danger of being drowned in a River or Pond, he will take him, tho' it be by the Hair of the Head, and throw him out upon a Bank. There was no Body among them all behaved herself more composed than a Woman, who had a Child sucking at her Breast. _Ant._ What did she do? _Adol._ She only neither bawl'd, nor wept, nor made Vows, but hugging her little Boy, pray'd softly. In the mean Time the Ship dashing ever and anon against the Ground, the Pilot being afraid she would be beat all to Pieces, under-girded her with Cables from Head to Stern. _Ant._ That was a sad Shift! _Adol._ Upon this, up starts an old Priest about threescore Years of Age, his Name was _Adam_. He strips himself to his Shirt, throws away his Boots and Shoes, and bids us all in like Manner to prepare ourselves for swimming. Then standing in the middle of the Ship, he preach'd a Sermon to us, upon the five Truths of the Benefit of Confession, and exhorted every Man to prepare himself, for either Life or Death. There was a _Dominican_ there too, and they confess'd those that had a Mind to it. _Ant._ What did you do? _Adol._ I seeing that every thing was in a Hurry, confess'd privately to God, condemning before him my Iniquity, and imploring his Mercy. _Ant._ And whither should you have gone, do you think, if you had perished? _Adol._ I left that to God, who is my Judge; I would not be my own Judge. But I was not without comfortable Hopes neither. While these Things were transacting, the Steersman comes to us again all in Tears; Prepare your selves every one of you, says he, for the Ship will be of no Service to us for a quarter of an Hour. For now she leak'd in several Places. Presently after this he brings us Word that he saw a Steeple a good Way off, and exhorts us to implore the Aid of that Saint, whoever it was, who had the protection of that Temple. They all fall down and pray to the unknown Saint. _Ant._ Perhaps he would have heard ye, if ye had call'd upon him by his Name. _Adol._ But that we did not know. In the mean Time the Pilate steers the Ship, torn and leaking every where, and ready to fall in Pieces, if she had not been undergirt with Cables, as much as he could toward that Place. _Ant._ A miserable Condition. _Adol._ We were now come so near the Shoar, that the Inhabitants of the Place could see us in Distress, and ran down in Throngs to the utmost Edge of the Shoar, and holding up Gowns and Hats upon Spears, invited us to make towards them, and stretching out their Arms towards Heaven, signified to us that they pitied our Misfortune. _Ant._ I long to know what happened. _Adol._ The Ship was now every where full of Water, that we were no safer in the Ship than if we had been in the Sea. _Ant._ Now was your Time to betake yourself to divine Help. _Adol._ Ay, to a wretched one. The Sailors emptied the Ship's Boat of Water, and let it down into the Sea. Every Body was for getting into it, the Mariners cry'd out amain, they'll sink the Boat, it will not hold so many; that every one should take what he could get, and swim for it. There was no Time now for long Deliberation. One gets an Oar, another a Pole, another a Gutter, another a Bucket, another a Plank, and every one relying upon their Security, they commit themselves to the Billows. _Ant._ But what became of the Woman that was the only Person that made no Bawling? _Adol._ She got to Shoar the first of them all. _Ant._ How could she do that? _Adol._ We set her upon a broad Plank, and ty'd her on so fast that she could not easily fall off, and we gave her a Board in her Hand to make Use of instead of an Oar, and wishing her good Success, we set her afloat, thrusting her off from the Ship with Poles, that she might be clear of it, whence was the greatest Danger. And she held her Child in her left Hand, and row'd with her right Hand. _Ant._ O _Virago_! _Adol._ Now when there was nothing else left, one pull'd up a wooden Image of the Virgin _Mary_, rotten, and rat-eaten, and embracing it in his Arms, try'd to swim upon it. _Ant._ Did the Boat get safe to Land? _Adol._ None perish'd sooner than they that were in that, and there were above thirty that had got into it. _Ant._ By what bad Accident was that brought about? _Adol._ It was overset by the rolling of the Ship, before they could get clear of it. _Ant._ A sad Accident: But how then? _Adol._ While I was taking Care for others, I had like to have been lost myself. _Ant._ How so? _Adol._ Because there was nothing left that was fit for swimming. _Ant._ There Corks would have been of good Use. _Adol._ In that Condition I would rather have had a sorry Cork than a gold Candlestick. I look'd round about me, at Length I bethought myself of the Stump of the Mast, and because I could not get it out alone, I took a Partner; upon this we both plac'd ourselves, and committed ourselves to the Sea. I held the right End, and my Companion the left End. While we lay tumbling and tossing, the old preaching Sea-Priest threw himself upon our Shoulders. He was a huge Fellow. We cry out, who's that third Person? He'll drown us all. But he very calmly bids us be easy, for there was Room enough, God will be with us. _Ant._ How came he to be so late? _Adol._ He was to have been in the Boat with the _Dominican_. For they all paid him this Deference. But tho' they had confess'd themselves in the Ship, yet having forgotten I know not what Circumstances, they confess'd over again at the Ship-Side, and each lays his Hand upon the other, and while this was doing the Boat was over-turn'd. This I had from _Adam_ himself. _Ant._ What became of the _Dominican_? _Adol._ As the same Man told me, having implor'd the Help of his Saints, and stript himself, he threw himself naked into the Sea. _Ant._ What Saints did he call upon? _Adol._ St. _Dominick_, St. _Thomas_, St. _Vincent_, and one of the _Peters_, but I can't tell which: But his chief Reliance was upon _Catherinea Senensis_. _Ant._ Did he not remember _Christ_? _Adol._ Not, as the old Priest told me. _Ant._ He would have swam better if he had thrown off his sanctified Coul: But if that had been laid aside, how should _Catherine_ of _Siena_ have known him? But go on and tell me about yourself. _Adol._ While we were yet tumbling and tossing near the Ship, which roll'd hither and thither at the Mercy of the Waves, the Thigh of him that held the left End of the Stump of the Mast was broken by a great Spike, and so that made him let go his Hold. The old Priest wishing him everlasting Rest, took his Place, encouraging me to maintain my Post on the right Hand resolutely, and to strike out my Feet stoutly. In the mean Time we drank in abundance of salt Water. For _Neptune_ had provided us not only a salt Bath, but a salt Potion too, altho' the old Priest prescribed a Remedy for it. _Ant._ What was that? _Adol._ Why, as often as a Billow met us, he turn'd his Head and shut his Mouth. _Ant._ You tell me of a brave old Fellow. _Adol._ When we had been some Time swimming at this Rate, and had made some Way, the old Priest being a very tall Man, cries out, Be of good Heart, I feel Ground; but I durst not hope for such a Blessing. No, no, says I, we are too far from Shoar to hope to feel Ground. Nay, says he, I feel the Ground with my Feet. Said I, perhaps it is some of the Chests that have been roll'd thither by the Sea. Nay, says he, I am sure I feel Ground by the Scratching of my Toes. Having floated thus a little longer, and he had felt the Bottom again, Do you do what you please, says he, I'll leave you the whole Mast, and wade for it. And so he took his Opportunity, at the Ebbing of the Billows, he made what Haste he could on his Feet, and when the Billows came again, he took Hold of his Knees with his Hands, and bore up against the Billows, hiding himself under them as Sea Gulls and Ducks do, and at the Ebbing of the Wave, he would start up and run for it. I seeing that this succeeded so well to him, followed his Example. There stood upon the Shoar Men, who had long Pikes handed from one to another, which kept them firm against the Force of the Waves, strong bodied Men, and accustom'd to the Waves, and he that was last of them held out a Pike to the Person swimming towards him. All that came to Shoar, and laying hold of that, were drawn safely to dry Land. Some were sav'd this Way. _Ant._ How many? _Adol._ Seven. But two of these fainted away being brought to the Fire. _Ant._ How many were in the Ship? _Adol._ Fifty-eight. _Ant._ O cruel Sea. At least it might have been content with the Tithes, which are enough for Priests. Did it restore so few out of so great a Number? _Adol._ There we had Experience of the wonderful Humanity of the Nation, that supply'd us with all Necessaries with exceeding Chearfulness; as Lodging, Fire, Victuals, Cloaths, and Money to bear our Charges when we went away. _Ant._ What Country was it? _Adol. Holland._ _Ant._ There's no Nation more human, altho' they are encompass'd with such fierce Nations. I fancy you won't be for going to Sea again. _Adol._ No, unless God shall please to deprive me of my Reason. _Ant._ I would rather hear such Stories than feel them. _DIVERSORIA._ The ARGUMENT. _This Colloquy shews the various Customs of Nations and their Civility in treating Strangers. An Inn at_ Leyden _where are nothing but Women. The Manners of the_ French _Inns, who are us'd to tell Stories, and break Jests. The_ Germans, _far more uncivil in treating Travellers, being rude, and wholly inhospitable: The Guests look after their own Horses: The Method of receiving them into the Stove: They provide no Supper, till they know how many Guests they shall have: All that come that Night, sit down to Supper together: All pay alike, tho' one drinks twice as much Wine as another does._ BERTULPH and WILLIAM. _Bert._ I wonder what is the Fancy of a great many, for staying two or three Days at _Lyons_? When I have once set out on a Journey, I an't at Rest till I come to my Journey's End. _Will._ Nay, I wonder as much, that any Body can get away from thence. _Bert._ But why so? _Will._ Because that's a Place the Companions of _Ulysses_ could not have got away from. There are _Sirens_. No Body is better entertain'd at his own House, than he is there at an Inn. _Bert._ What is done there? _Will._ There's a Woman always waiting at Table, which makes the Entertainment pleasant with Railleries, and pleasant Jests. And the Women are very handsome there. First the Mistress of the House came and bad us Welcome, and to accept kindly what Fare we should have; after her, comes her Daughter, a very fine Woman, of so handsome a Carriage, and so pleasant in Discourse, that she would make even _Cato_ himself merry, were he there: And they don't talk to you as if you were perfect Strangers, but as those they have been a long Time acquainted with, and familiar Friends. _Bert._ O, I know the _French_ Way of Civility very well. _Will._ And because they can't be always with you, by Reason of the other Affairs of the House, and the welcoming of other Guests, there comes a Lass, that supplies the Place of the Daughter, till she is at Leisure to return again. This Lass is so well instructed in the Knack of Repartees, that she has a Word ready for every Body, and no Conceit comes amiss to her. The Mother, you must know, was somewhat in Years. _Bert._ But what was your Table furnish'd with? For Stories fill no Bellies. _Will._ Truly, so splendid, that I was amaz'd that they could afford to entertain their Guests so, for so small a Price. And then after Dinner, they entertain a Man with such facetious Discourse, that one cannot be tired; that I seemed to be at my own House, and not in a strange Place. _Bert._ And how went Matters in your Chambers? _Will._ Why, there was every where some pretty Lass or other, giggling and playing wanton Tricks? They ask'd us if we had any foul Linnen to wash; which they wash and bring to us again: In a word, we saw nothing there but young Lasses and Women, except in the Stable, and they would every now and then run in there too. When you go away, they embrace ye, and part with you with as much Affection, as if you were their own Brothers, or near Kinsfolks. _Bert._ This Mode perhaps may become the _French_, but methinks the Way of the _Germans_ pleases me better, which is more manly. _Will._ I never have seen _Germany_; therefore, pray don't think much to tell how they entertain a Traveller. _Bert._ I can't tell whether the Method of entertaining be the same every where; but I'll tell you what I saw there. No Body bids a Guest welcome, lest he should seem to court his Guests to come to him, for that they look upon to be sordid and mean, and not becoming the German Gravity. When you have called a good While at the Gate, at Length one puts his Head out of the Stove Window (for they commonly live in Stoves till Midsummer) like a Tortoise from under his Shell: Him you must ask if you can have any Lodging there; if he does not say no, you may take it for granted, that there is Room for you. When you ask where the Stable is, he points to it; there you may curry your Horse as you please yourself, for there is no Servant will put a Hand to it. If it be a noted Inn, there is a Servant shews you the Stable, and a Place for your Horse, but incommodious enough; for they keep the best Places for those that shall come afterwards; especially for Noblemen. If you find Fault with any Thing, they tell you presently, if you don't like, look for another Inn. In their Cities, they allow Hay, but very unwillingly and sparingly, and that is almost as dear as Oats. When you have taken Care of your Horse, you come whole into the Stove, Boots, Baggage, Dirt and all, for that is a common Room for all Comers. _Will._ In _France_, they appoint you a separate Chamber, where you may change your Cloaths, clean and warm your self, or take Rest if you have a Mind to it. _Bert._ There's nothing of that here. In the Stove, you pull off your Boots, put on your Shoes, and if you will, change your Shirt, hang up your wet Cloths near the Stove Iron, and get near it to dry yourself. There's Water provided for you to wash your Hands, if you will; but as for the Cleanness of it, it is for the most Part such that you will want another Water to wash that off. _Will._ I commend this Sort of People, that have nothing of Effeminacy in them. _Bert._ If you come in at four a-Clock in the Afternoon, you must not go to Supper till nine, and sometimes not till ten. _Will._ Why so? _Bert._ They never make any Thing ready till they see all their Company together, that one Trouble may serve for all. _Will._ They are for taking the shortest Way. _Bert._ You are right; so that oftentimes, there come all together into the same Stove, eighty or ninety Foot-Men, Horse-Men, Merchants, Marriners, Waggoners, Husband-Men, Children, Women, sick and sound. _Will._ This is having all Things in common. _Bert._ There one combs his Head, another wipes off his Sweat, another cleans his Spatterdashes or Boots, another belches Garlick; and in short, there is as great a Confusion of Tongues and Persons, as there was at the Building the Tower of _Babel_. And if they see any Body of another Country, who by his Habit looks like a Man of Quality, they all stare at him so wistfully, as if he was a Sort of strange Animal brought out of _Africa_. And when they are set at Table, and he behind them, they will be still looking back at him, and be staring him in the Face, till they have forgot their Suppers. _Will._ At _Rome_, _Paris_ or _Venice_, there's no Body thinks any Thing strange. _Bert._ In the mean Time, 'tis a Crime for you to call for any Thing. When it is grown pretty late, and they don't expect any more Guests, out comes an old grey-bearded Servant, with his Hair cut short, and a crabbed Look, and a slovenly Dress. _Will._ Such Fellows ought to be Cup-Bearers to the Cardinals at _Rome_. _Bert._ He having cast his Eyes about, counts to himself, how many there are in the Stove; the more he sees there, the more Fire he makes in the Stove although it be at a Time when the very Heat of the Sun would be troublesome; and this with them, is accounted a principal Part of good Entertainment, to make them all sweat till they drop again. If any one who is not used to the Steam, shall presume to open the Window never so little, that he be not stifled, presently they cry out to shut it again: If you answer you are not able to bear it, you'll presently hear, get you another Inn then. _Will._ But in my Opinion, nothing is more dangerous, than for so many to draw in the same Vapour; especially when their Bodies are opened with the Heat; and to eat in the same Place, and to stay there so many Hours, not to mention the belching of Garlick, the Farting, the stinking Breaths, for many have secret Distempers, and every Distemper has its Contagion; and without doubt, many have the _Spanish_, or as it is call'd, the _French_ Pox, although it is common to all Nations. And it is my Opinion, there is as much Danger from such Persons, as there is from those that have the Leprosy. Tell me now, what is this short of a Pestilence? _Bert._ They are Persons of a strong Constitution, and laugh at, and disregard those Niceties. _Will._ But in the mean Time, they are bold at the Perils of other Men. _Bert._ What would you do in this Case? 'Tis what they have been used to, and it is a Part of a constant Mind, not to depart from a Custom. _Will._ And yet, within these five and twenty Years, nothing was more in Vogue in _Brabant_, than hot Baths, but now they are every where grown out of Use; but the new Scabbado has taught us to lay them down. _Bert._ Well, but hear the rest: By and by, in comes our bearded _Ganymede_ again, and lays on the Table as many Napkins as there are Guests: But, good God! not Damask ones, but such as you'd take to have been made out of old Sails. There are at least eight Guests allotted to every Table. Now those that know the Way of the Country, take their Places, every one as he pleases, for there's no Difference between Poor or Rich, between the Master and Servant. _Will._ This was that ancient Equality which now the Tyrant Custom has driven quite out of the World. I suppose Christ liv'd after this Manner with his Disciples. _Bert._ After they are all plac'd, out comes the sour-look'd _Ganymede_ again, and counts his Company over again; by and by he comes in again, and brings every Man a Wooden Dish, and a Spoon of the same Silver, and then a Glass; and then a little after he brings Bread, which the Guests may chip every one for themselves at Leisure, while the Porridge is boiling. For sometimes they sit thus for near an Hour. _Will._ Do none of the Guests call for Meat in the mean Time? _Bert._ None who knows the Way of the Country. At last the Wine is set upon the Table: Good God! how far from being tasteless? So thin and sharp, that Sophisters ought to drink no other. And if any of the Guests should privately offer a Piece of Money to get a little better Wine some where else; at first they'll say nothing to you, but give you a Look, as if they were going to murder you; and if you press it farther, they answer you, there have been so many Counts and Marquisses that have lodg'd here, and none of them ever found fault with this Wine: If you don't like it, get you another Inn. They account only the Noblemen of their own Nation to be Men, and where-ever you come, they are shewing you their Arms. By this time, comes a Morsel to pacify a barking Stomach: And by and by follow the Dishes in great Pomp; commonly the first has Sippits of Bread in Flesh Broth, or if it be a Fish Day, in a Soup of Pulse. After that comes in another Soup, and then a Service of Butcher's Meat, that has been twice boil'd, or salt Meats warm'd again, and then Pulse again, and by and by something of more solid Food, until their Stomachs being pretty well staid, they bring roast Meat or stewed Fish, which is not to be at all contemn'd; but this they are sparing of, and take it away again quickly. This is the Manner they order the Entertainment, as Comedians do, who intermingle Dances among their Scenes, so do they their Chops and Soups by Turns: But they take Care that the last Act shall be the best. _Will._ This is the Part of a good Poet. _Bert._ And it would be a heinous Offence, if in the mean Time any Body should say, Take away this Dish, there's no Body eats. You must sit your Time appointed, which I think they measure by the Hour-Glass. At length, out comes that bearded Fellow, or the Landlord himself, in a Habit but little differing from his Servants, and asks how cheer you? And by and by some better Wine is brought. And they like those best that drink most, tho' he that drinks most pays no more than he that drinks least. _Will._ A strange Temper of the Nation! _Bert._ There are some of them that drink twice as much Wine as they pay for their Ordinary. But before I leave this Entertainment, it is wonderful what a Noise and Chattering there is, when once they come to be warm with Wine. In short, it deafens a Man. They oftentimes bring in a Mixture of Mimicks, which these People very much delight in, tho' they are a detestable Sort of Men. There's such a singing, prating, bawling, jumping, and knocking, that you would think the Stove were falling upon your Head, and one Man can't hear another speak. And this they think is a pleasant Way of living, and there you must sit in Spight of your Heart till near Midnight. _Will._ Make an End of your Meal now, for I myself am tir'd with such a tedious one. _Bert._ Well, I will. At length the Cheese is taken away, which scarcely pleases them, except it be rotten and full of Maggots. Then the old bearded Fellow comes again with a Trencher, and a many Circles and semi-Circles drawn upon it with Chalk, this he lays down upon the Table, with a grim Countenance, and without speaking. You would say he was some _Charon_. They that understand the Meaning of this lay down their Money one after another till the Trencher is fill'd. Having taken Notice of those who lay down, he reckons it up himself, and if all is paid, he gives you a Nod. _Will._ But what if there should be any Thing over and above? _Bert._ Perhaps he'll give it you again, and they oftentimes do so. _Will._ Does no Body find fault with the Reckoning? _Bert._ No Body that is wise. For they will say, what Sort of a Fellow are you? You pay no more than the rest. _Will._ This is a frank Sort of Men, you are speaking of. _Bert._ If any one is weary with his Journey, and desires to go to Bed as soon as he has supp'd, he is bid to stay till the rest go too. _Will._ This seems to me to be _Plato_'s City. _Bert._ Then every one is shew'd to his Chamber, and truly 'tis nothing else but a Chamber, there is only a Bed there, and nothing else that you can either make Use of or steal. _Will._ Are Things very clean there? _Bert._ As clean as they were at the Table. Sheets wash'd perhaps six Months ago. _Will._ What becomes of your Horses all this While? _Bert._ They are treated after the Manner that the Men are. _Will._ But is there the same Treatment every where. _Bert._ It is a little more civil in some Places, and worse in others, than I have told you; but in general it is thus. _Will._ What if I should now tell you how they treat their Guests in that Part of _Italy_ call'd _Lombardy_, and in _Spain_, and in _England_, and in _Wales_, for the _English_ have the Manners both of the _French_ and the _Germans_, being a Mixture of those two Nations. The _Welsh_ boast themselves to be the original _English_. _Bert._ Pray relate it. I never had the Opportunity of travelling in them. _Will._ I have not Leisure now, and the Master of the Ship bid me be on board by three a Clock, unless I would lose my Passage. Another Time we shall have an Opportunity of prating our Bellies full. _The YOUNG MAN and HARLOT._ The ARGUMENT. _This is certainly a divine Colloquy, that makes even a Bawdy-House a chaste Place! God can't be deceiv'd, his Eyes penetrate into the most secret Places. That young Persons ought in an especial Manner to take Care of their Chastity. A young Woman, who made herself common to get a Livelihood, is recovered from that Course of Life, as wretched as it is scandalous._ LUCRETIA, SOPHRONIUS. _Lu._ O brave! My pretty _Sophronius_, have I gotten you again? It is an Age methinks since I saw you. I did not know you at first Sight. _So._ Why so, my _Lucretia_? _Lu._ Because you had no Beard when you went away, but you're come back with something of a Beard. What's the Matter, my little Heart, you look duller than you use to do? _So._ I want to have a little Talk with you in private. _Lu._ Ah, ah, are we not by ourselves already, my Cocky? _So._ Let us go out of the Way somewhere, into a more private Place. _Lu._ Come on then, we'll go into my inner Bed-Chamber, if you have a Mind to do any Thing. _So._ I don't think this Place is private enough yet. _Lu._ How comes it about you're so bashful all on a sudden? Well, come, I have a Closet where I lay up my Cloaths, a Place so dark, that we can scarce see one another there. _So._ See if there be no Chink. _Lu._ There is not so much as a Chink. _So._ Is there no Body near to hear us? _Lu._ Not so much as a Fly, my Dear; Why do you lose Time? _So._ Can we escape the Eye of God here? _Lu._ No, he sees all Things clearly. _So._ And of the Angels? _Lu._ No, we cannot escape their Sight. _So._ How comes it about then, that Men are not asham'd to do that in the Sight of God, and before the Face of the holy Angels, that they would be ashamed to do before Men? _Lu._ What Sort of an Alteration is this? Did you come hither to preach a Sermon? Prithee put on a _Franciscan_'s Hood, and get up into a Pulpit, and then we'll hear you hold forth, my little bearded Rogue. _So._ I should not think much to do that, if I could but reclaim you from this Kind of Life, that is the most shameful and miserable Life in the World. _Lu._ Why so, good Man? I am born, and I must be kept; every one must live by his Calling. This is my Business; this is all I have to live on. _So._ I wish with all my Heart, my _Lucretia_, that setting aside for a While that Infatuation of Mind, you would seriously weigh the Matter. _Lu._ Keep your Preachment till another Time; now let us enjoy one another, my _Sophronius_. _So._ You do what you do for the Sake of Gain. _Lu._ You are much about the Matter. _So._ Thou shalt lose nothing by it, do but hearken to me, and I'll pay you four Times over. _Lu._ Well, say what you have a Mind to say. _So._ Answer me this Question in the first Place: Are there any Persons that owe you any ill Will? _Lu._ Not one. _So._ Is there any Body that you have a Spleen against? _Lu._ According as they deserve. _So._ And if you could do any Thing that would gratify them, would you do it? _Lu._ I would poison 'em sooner. _So._ But then do but consider with yourself; is there any Thing that you can do that gratifies them more than to let them see you live this shameful and wretched Life? And what is there thou canst do that would be more afflicting to them that wish thee well? _Lu._ It is my Destiny. _So._ Now that which uses to be the greatest Hardship to such as are transported, or banish'd into the most remote Parts of the World, this you undergo voluntarily. _Lu._ What is that? _So._ Hast thou not of thy own Accord renounc'd all thy Affections to Father, Mother, Brother, Sisters, Aunts, (by Father's and Mother's Side) and all thy Relations? For thou makest them all asham'd to own thee, and thyself asham'd to come into their Sight. _Lu._ Nay, I have made a very happy Exchange of Affections; for instead of a few, now I have a great many, of which you are one, and whom I have always esteem'd as a Brother. _So._ Leave off Jesting, and consider the Matter seriously, as it really is. Believe me, my _Lucretia_, she who has so many Friends, has never a one, for they that follow thee do it not as a Friend, but as a House of Office rather. Do but consider, poor Thing, into what a Condition thou hast brought thyself. _Christ_ lov'd thee so dearly as to redeem thee with his own Blood, and would have thee be a Partaker with him in an heavenly Inheritance, and thou makest thyself a common Sewer, into which all the base, nasty, pocky Fellows resort, and empty their Filthiness. And if that leprous Infection they call the _French_ Pox han't yet seiz'd thee, thou wilt not escape it long. And if once thou gettest it, how miserable wilt thou be, though all things should go favourably on thy Side? I mean thy Substance and Reputation. Thou wouldest be nothing but a living Carcase. Thou thoughtest much to obey thy Mother, and now thou art a mere Slave to a filthy Bawd. You could not endure to hear your Parents Instructions; and here you are often beaten by drunken Fellows and mad Whoremasters. It was irksome to thee to do any Work at Home, to get a Living; but here, how many Quarrels art thou forc'd to endure, and how late a Nights art thou oblig'd to sit up? _Lu._ How came you to be a Preacher? _So._ And do but seriously consider, this Flower of thy Beauty that now brings thee so many Gallants, will soon fade: And then, poor Creature, what wilt thou do? Thou wilt be piss'd upon by every Body. It may be, thou thinkest, instead of a Mistress, I'll then be a Bawd. All Whores can't attain to that, and if thou shouldst, what Employment is more impious, and more like the Devil himself? _Lu._ Why, indeed, my _Sophronius_, almost all you say is very true. But how came you to be so religious all of a sudden? Thou usedst to be the greatest Rake in the World, one of 'em. No Body used to come hither more frequently, nor at more unseasonable Hours than you did. I hear you have been at _Rome_. _So._ I have so. _Lu._ Well, but other People use to come from thence worse than they went: How comes it about, it is otherwise with you? _So._ I'll tell you, because I did not go to _Rome_ with the same Intent, and after the same Manner that others do. Others commonly go to _Rome_, on purpose to come Home worse, and there they meet with a great many Opportunities of becoming so. I went along with an honest Man, by whose Advice, I took along with me a Book instead of a Bottle: The New Testament with _Erasmus_'s Paraphrase. _Lu._ _Erasmus_'s? They say that he's Half a Heretick. _So._ Has his Name reached to this Place too? _Lu._ There's no Name more noted among us. _So._ Did you ever see him? _Lu._ No, I never saw him; but I should be glad to see him; I have heard so many bad Reports of him. _So._ It may be you have heard 'em, from them that are bad themselves. _Lu._ Nay, from Men of the Gown. _So._ Who are they? _Lu._ It is not convenient to name Names. _So._ Why so? _Lu._ Because if you should blab it out, and it should come to their Ears, I should lose a great many good Cullies. _So._ Don't be afraid, I won't speak a Word of it. _Lu._ I will whisper then. _So._ You foolish Girl, what Need is there to whisper, when there is no Body but ourselves? What, lest God should hear? Ah, good God! I perceive you're a religious Whore, that relievest Mendicants. _Lu._ I get more by them Beggars than by you rich Men. _So._ They rob honest Women, to lavish it away upon naughty Strumpets. _Lu._ But go on, as to your Book. _So._ So I will, and that's best. In that Book, Paul, that can't lie, told me, that _neither Whores nor Whore-mongers shall obtain the Kingdom of Heaven_. When I read this, I began thus to think with myself: It is but a small Matter that I look for from my Father's Inheritance, and yet I can renounce all the Whores in the World, rather than be disinherited by my Father; how much more then ought I to take Care, lest my heavenly Father should disinherit me? And human Laws do afford some Relief in the Case of a Father's disinheriting or discarding a Son: But here is no Provision at all made, in case of God's disinheriting; and upon that, I immediately ty'd myself up from all Conversation with lewd Women. _Lu._ It will be well if you can hold it. _So._ It is a good Step towards Continence, to desire to be so. And last of all, there is one Remedy left, and that is a Wife. When I was at _Rome_, I empty'd the whole Jakes of my Sins into the Bosom of a Confessor. And he exhorted me very earnestly to Purity, both of Mind and Body, and to the reading of the holy Scripture, to frequent Prayer, and Sobriety of Life, and enjoin'd me no other Penance, but that I should upon my bended Knees before the high Altar say this Psalm, _Have Mercy upon me, O God_: And that if I had any Money, I should give one Penny to some poor Body. And I wondring that for so many whoring Tricks he enjoin'd me so small a Penance, he answer'd me very pleasantly, My Son, says he, if you truly repent and change your Life, I don't lay much Stress upon the Penance; but if thou shalt go on in it, the very Lust itself will at last punish thee very severely, although the Priest impose none upon thee. Look upon me, I am blear-ey'd, troubled with the Palsy, and go stooping: Time was I was such a one as you say you have been heretofore. And thus I repented. _Lu._ Then as far as I perceive, I have lost my _Sophronius_. _So._ Nay, you have rather gain'd him, for he was lost before, and was neither his own Friend nor thine: Now he loves thee in Reality, and longs for the Salvation of thy Soul. _Lu._ What would you have me to do then, my _Sophronius_? _So._ To leave off that Course of Life out of Hand: Thou art but a Girl yet, and that Stain that you have contracted may be wip'd off in Time. Either marry, and I'll give you something toward a Portion, or go into some Cloyster, that takes in crakt Maids, or go into some strange Place and get into some honest Family, I'll lend you my Assistance to any of these. _Lu._ My _Sophronius_, I love thee dearly, look out for one for me, I'll follow thy Advice. _So._ But in the mean Time get away from hence. _Lu._ Whoo! what so suddenly! _So._ Why not to Day rather than to Morrow, if Delays are dangerous? _Lu._ Whither shall I go? _So._ Get all your Things together, give 'em to me in the Evening, my Servant shall carry 'em privately to a faithful Matron: And I'll come a little after and take you out as if it were to take a little Walk; you shall live with her some Time upon my Cost till I can provide for you, and that shall be very quickly. _Lu._ Well, my _Sophronius_, I commit myself wholly to thy Management. _So._ In Time to come you'll be glad you have done so. _The POETICAL FEAST._ The ARGUMENT. _The Poetical Feast teaches the Studious how to banquet. That Thriftiness with Jocoseness, Chearfulness without Obscenity, and learned Stories, ought to season their Feasts. Iambics are bloody. Poets are Men of no great Judgment. The three chief Properties of a good Maid Servant. Fidelity, Deformity, and a high Spirit. A Place out of the Prologue of_ Terence's Eunuchus _is illustrated. Also_ Horace's _Epode to_ Canidia. _A Place out of_ Seneca. Aliud agere, nihil agere, male agere. _A Place out of the Elenchi of_ Aristotle _is explain'd. A Theme poetically varied, and in a different Metre. Sentences are taken from Flowers and Trees in the Garden. Also some Verses are compos'd in_ Greek. HILARY, LEONARD, CRATO, GUESTS, MARGARET, CARINUS, EUBULUS, SBRULIUS, PARTHENIUS, MUS, _Hilary_'s Servant. Hi. _Levis apparatus, animus est lautissimus._ Le. _Cænam sinistro es auspicatus omine._ Hi. _Imo absit omen triste. Sed cur hoc putas?_ Le. _Cruenti Iambi haud congruent convivio._ Hi. _I have but slender Fare, but a very liberal Mind._ Le. _You have begun the Banquet with a bad Omen._ Hi. _Away with bad Presages. But why do you think so?_ Le. _Bloody Iambics are not fit for a Feast._ _Cr._ O brave! I am sure the Muses are amongst us, Verses flow so from us, when we don't think of 'em. _Si rotatiles trochaeos mavelis, en, accipe: Vilis apparatus heic est, animus est lautissimus._ If you had rather have whirling Trochees, lo, here they are for you: Here is but mean Provision, but I have a liberal Mind. Although Iambics in old Time were made for Contentions and Quarrels, they were afterwards made to serve any Subject whatsoever. O Melons! Here you have Melons that grew in my own Garden. These are creeping Lettuces of a very milky Juice, like their Name. What Man in his Wits would not prefer these Delicacies before Brawn, Lampreys, and Moor-Hens? _Cr._ If a Man may be allow'd to speak Truth at a Poetic Banquet, those you call Lettuces are Beets. _Hi._ God forbid. _Cr._ It is as I tell you. See the Shape of 'em, and besides where is the milky Juice? Where are their soft Prickles? _Hi._ Truly you make me doubt. Soho, call the Wench. _Margaret_, you Hag, what did you mean to give us Beets instead of Lettuces? _Ma._ I did it on Purpose. _Hi._ What do you say, you Witch? _Ma._ I had a Mind to try among so many Poets if any could know a Lettuce from a Beet. For I know you don't tell me truly who 'twas that discover'd 'em to be Beets. _Guests._ _Crato_. _Ma._ I thought it was no Poet who did it. _Hi._ If ever you serve me so again, I'll call you _Blitea_ instead of _Margarita_. _Gu._ Ha, ha, ha. _Ma._ Your calling me will neither make me fatter nor leaner. He calls me by twenty Names in a Day's Time: When he has a Mind to wheedle me, then I'm call'd _Galatea, Euterpe, Calliope, Callirhoe, Melissa, Venus, Minerva_, and what not? When he's out of Humour at any Thing, then presently I'm _Tisiphone_, _Megaera_, _Alecto_, _Medusa_, _Baucis_, and whatsoever comes into his Head in his mad Mood. _Hi._ Get you gone with your Beets, _Blitea_. _Ma._ I wonder what you call'd me for. _Hi._ That you may go whence you came. _Ma._ 'Tis an old Saying and a true, 'tis an easier Matter to raise the Devil, than 'tis to lay him. _Gu._ Ha, ha, ha: Very well said. As the Matter is, _Hilary_, you stand in Need of some magic Verse to lay her with. _Hi._ I have got one ready. [Greek: Pheugete, kantharides lukos agrios umme diôkei.] Be gone ye Beetles, for the cruel Wolf pursues you. _Ma._ What says _Æsop?_ _Cr._ Have a Care, _Hilary_, she'll hit you a Slap on the Face: This is your laying her with your _Greek_ Verse. A notable Conjurer indeed! _Hi._ _Crato_, What do you think of this Jade? I could have laid ten great Devils with such a Verse as this. _Ma._ I don't care a Straw for your _Greek_ Verses. _Hi._ Well then, I must make use of a magical Spell, or, if that won't do, _Mercury's_ Mace. _Cr._ My _Margaret_, you know we Poets are a Sort of Enthusiasts, I won't say Mad-Men; prithee let me intreat you to let alone this Contention 'till another Time, and treat us with good Humour at this Supper for my Sake. _Ma._ What does he trouble me with his Verses for? Often when I am to go to Market he has never a Penny of Money to give me, and yet he's a humming of Verses. _Cr._ Poets are such Sort of Men. But however, prithee do as I say. _Ma._ Indeed I will do it for your Sake, because I know you are an honest Gentleman, that never beat your Brain about such Fooleries. I wonder how you came to fall into such Company. _Cr._ How come you to think so? _Ma._ Because you have a full Nose, sparkling Eyes, and a plump Body. Now do but see how he leers and sneers at me. _Cr._ But prithee, Sweet-Heart, keep your Temper for my Sake. _Ma._ Well, I will go, and 'tis for your Sake and no Body's else. _Hi._ Is she gone? _Ma._ Not so far but she can hear you. _Mus._ She is in the Kitchen, now, muttering something to herself I can't tell what. _Cr._ I'll assure you your Maid is not dumb. _Hi._ They say a good Maid Servant ought especially to have three Qualifications; to be honest, ugly, and high-spirited, which the Vulgar call evil. An honest Servant won't waste, an ugly one Sweet-Hearts won't woo, and one that is high-spirited will defend her Master's Right; for sometimes there is Occasion for Hands as well as a Tongue. This Maid of mine has two of these Qualifications, she's as ugly as she's surly; as to her Honesty I can't tell what to say to that. _Cr._ We have heard her Tongue, we were afraid of her Hands upon your Account. _Hi._ Take some of these Pompions: We have done with the Lettuces. For I know if I should bid her bring any Lettuces, she would bring Thistles. Here are Melons too, if any Body likes them better. Here are new Figs too just gather'd, as you may see by the Milk in the Stalks. It is customary to drink Water after Figs, lest they clog the Stomach. Here is very cool clear Spring Water that runs out of this Fountain, that is good to mix with Wine. _Cr._ But I can't tell whether I had best to mix Water with my Wine, or Wine with Water; this Wine seems to me so likely to have been drawn out of the Muses Fountain. _Hi._ Such Wine as this is good for Poets to sharpen their Wits. You dull Fellows love heavy Liquors. _Cr._ I wish I was that happy _Crassus_. _Hi._ I had rather be _Codrus_ or _Ennius_. And seeing I happen to have the Company of so many learned Guests at my Table, I won't let 'em go away without learning something of 'em. There is a Place in the Prologue of _Eunuchus_ that puzzles many. For most Copies have it thus: _Sic existimet, sciat, Responsum, non dictum esse, quid laesit prior, Qui bene vertendo, et ects describendo male, &c. Let him so esteem or know, that it is an Answer, not a common Saying; because he first did the Injury, who by well translating and ill describing them, &c._ In these Words I want a witty Sense, and such as is worthy of _Terence_. For he did not therefore do the Wrong first, because he translated the _Greek_ Comedies badly, but because he had found Fault with _Terence's._ Eu. According to the old Proverb, _He that sings worst let him begin first._ When I was at _London_ in _Thomas Linacre's_ House, who is a Man tho' well skill'd in all Manner of Philosophy, yet he is very ready in all Criticisms in Grammar, he shew'd me a Book of great Antiquity which had it thus: _Sic existimet, stiat, Responsum, non dictum esse, quale sit prius Qui bene vertendo, et eas describendo male, Ex Graecis bonis Latinas fecit non bonas: Idem Menandri Phasma nunc nuper dedit._ The Sentence is so to be ordered, that _quale sit_ may shew that an Example of that which is spoken before is to be subjoin'd. He threatened that he would again find Fault with something in his Comedies who had found Fault with him, and he here denies that it ought to seem a Reproach but an Answer. He that provokes begins the Quarrel; he that being provok'd, replies, only makes his Defence or Answer. He promises to give an Example thereof, _quale sit_, being the same with [Greek: oion] in _Greek_, and _quod genus, veluti_, or _videlicet_, or _puta_ in Latin. Then afterwards he brings a reproof, wherein the Adverb _prius_ hath Relation to another Adverb, as it were a contrary one, which follows, _viz. nuper_ even as the Pronoun _qui_ answers to the Word _idem_. For he altogether explodes the old Comedies of _Lavinius_, because they were now lost out of the Memory of Men. In those which he had lately published, he sets down the certain Places. I think that this is the proper Reading, and the true Sense of the Comedian: If the chief and ordinary Poets dissent not from it. _Gu._ We are all entirely of your Opinion. _Eu._ But I again desire to be inform'd by you of one small and very easy Thing, how this Verse is to be scann'd. _Ex Græcis bonis Latinas fecit non bonas._ Scan it upon your Fingers. _Hi._ I think that according to the Custom of the Antients _s_ is to be cut off, so that there be an _Anapaestus_ in the second Place. _Eu._ I should agree to it, but that the Ablative Case ends in _is_, and is long by Nature. Therefore though the Consonant should be taken away, yet nevertheless a long Vowel remains. _Hi._ You say right. _Cr._ If any unlearned Person or Stranger should come in, he would certainly think we were bringing up again among ourselves the Countrymens Play of holding up our Fingers (_dimicatione digitorum_, _i.e._ the Play of Love). _Le._ As far as I see, we scan it upon our Fingers to no Purpose. Do you help us out if you can. _Eu._ To see how small a Matter sometimes puzzles Men, though they be good Scholars! The Preposition _ex_ belongs to the End of the foregoing Verse. _Qui bene vertendo, et eas describendo male, ex Graecis bonis Latinas fecit non bonas._ Thus there is no Scruple. _Le._ It is so, by the Muses. Since we have begun to scan upon our Fingers, I desire that somebody would put this Verse out of _Andria_ into its Feet. Sine invidia laudem invenias, et amicos pares. For I have often tri'd and could do no good on't. _Le. Sine in_ is an Iambic, _vidia_ an Anapæstus, _Laudem in_ is a Spondee, _venias_ an Anapæstus, _et ami_ another Anapæstus. _Ca._ You have five Feet already, and there are three Syllables yet behind, the first of which is long; so that thou canst neither make it an _Iambic_ nor a _Tribrach._ _Le._ Indeed you say true. We are aground; who shall help us off? _Eu._ No Body can do it better than he that brought us into it. Well, _Carinus_, if thou canst say any Thing to the Matter, don't conceal it from your poor sincere Friends. _Ca._ If my Memory does not fail me, I think I have read something of this Nature in _Priscian_, who says, that among the Latin Comedians _v_ Consonant is cut off as well as the Vowel, as oftentimes in this Word _enimvero;_ so that the part _enime_ makes an Anapæstus. _Le._ Then scan it for us. _Ca._ I'll do it. _Sine inidi_ is a proseleusmatic Foot, unless you had rather have it cut off _i_ by Syneresis, as when _Virgil_ puts _aureo_ at the End of an heroick Verse for _auro._ But if you please let there be a Tribrach in the first Place, _a lau_ is a Spondee, _d'inveni_ a Dactyl, _as et a_ a Dactyl, _micos_ a Spondee, _pares_ an Iambic. _Sb. Carinus_ hath indeed got us out of these Briars. But in the same Scene there is a Place, which I can't tell whether any Body has taken Notice of or not. _Hi._ Prithee, let us have it. _Sb._ There _Simo_ speaks after this Manner. Sine ut eveniat, quod volo, In Pamphilo ut nihil sit morae, restat Chremes. _Suppose it happen, as I desire, that there be no delay in_ Pamphilus; Chremes _remains._ What is it that troubles you in these Words? _Sb. Sine_ being a Term of Threatning, there is nothing follows in this Place that makes for a Threatning. Therefore it is my Opinion that the Poet wrote it, _Sin eveniat, quod volo;_ that _Sin_ may answer to the _Si_ that went before. _Si propter amorem uxorem nolit ducere._ For the old Man propounds two Parts differing from one another: _Si, &c. If_ Pamphilus _for the Love of_ Glycerie _refuseth to marry, I shall have some Cause to chide him; but if he shall not refuse, then it remains that I must intreat_ Chremes. Moreover the Interruption of _Sosia_, and _Simo_'s Anger against _Davus_ made too long a Transposition of the Words. _Hi._ _Mouse_, reach me that Book. _Cr._ Do you commit your Book to a Mouse? _Hi._ More safely than my Wine. Let me never stir, if _Sbrulius_ has not spoken the Truth. _Ca._ Give me the Book, I'll shew you another doubtful Place. This Verse is not found in the Prologue of _Eunuchus_: _Habeo alia multa, quæ nunc condonabuntur._ _I have many other Things, which shall now be delivered._ Although the _Latin_ Comedians especially take great Liberty to themselves in this Kind of Verse, yet I don't remember that they any where conclude a Trimetre with a Spondee, unless it be read _Condonabitur_ impersonally, or _Condonabimus_, changing the Number of the Person. _Ma._ Oh, this is like Poets Manners indeed! As soon as ever they are set down to Dinner they are at Play, holding up their Fingers, and poring upon their Books. It were better to reserve your Plays and your Scholarship for the second Course. _Cr. Margaret_ gives us no bad Counsel, we'll humour her; when we have fill'd our Bellies, we'll go to our Play again; now we'll play with our Fingers in the Dish. _Hi._ Take Notice of Poetick Luxury. You have three Sorts of Eggs, boil'd, roasted, and fry'd; they are all very new, laid within these two Days. _Par._ I can't abide to eat Butter; if they are fry'd with Oil, I shall like 'em very well. _Hi._ Boy, go ask _Margaret_ what they are fry'd in. _Mo._ She says they are fry'd in neither. _Hi._ What! neither in Butter nor Oil. In what then? _Mo._ She says they are fry'd in Lye. _Cr._ She has given you an Answer like your Question. What a great Difficulty 'tis to distinguish Butter from Oil. _Ca._ Especially for those that can so easily know a Lettuce from a Beet. _Hi._ Well, you have had the Ovation, the Triumph will follow in Time. Soho, Boy, look about you, do you perceive nothing to be wanting? _Mo._ Yes, a great many Things. _Hi._ These Eggs lack Sauce to allay their Heat. _Mo._ What Sauce would you have? _Hi._ Bid her send us some Juice of the Tendrels of a Vine pounded. _Mo._ I'll tell her, Sir. _Hi._ What, do you come back empty-handed? _Mo._ She says, Juice is not used to be squeez'd out of Vine Tendrels. _Le._ A fine Maid Servant, indeed! _Sb._ Well, we'll season our Eggs with pleasant Stories. I found a Place in the Epodes of _Horace_, not corrupted as to the Writing, but wrong interpreted, and not only by _Mancinellus_, and other later Writers; but by _Porphyry_ himself. The Place is in the Poem, where he sings a Recantation to the Witch _Canidia_. _tuusque venter pactumeius, et tuo cruore rubros obstetrix pannos lavit, utcunque fortis exilis puerpera._ For they all take _exilis_ to be a Noun in this Place, when it is a Verb. I'll write down _Porphyry_'s Words, if we can believe 'em to be his: She is _exilis_, says he, under that Form, as though she were become deform'd by Travel; by Slenderness of Body, he means a natural Leanness. A shameful Mistake, if so great a Man did not perceive that the Law of the Metre did contradict this Sense. Nor does the fourth Place admit of a Spondee: but the Poet makes a Jest of it; that she did indeed bear a Child, though she was not long weak, nor kept her Bed long after her Delivery; but presently jumpt out of Bed, as some lusty lying-in Women used to do. _Hi._ We thank you _Sbrulius_, for giving us such fine Sauce to our Eggs. _Le._ There is another Thing in the first Book of _Odes_ that is not much unlike this. The _Ode_ begins thus: _Tu ne quæ sieris._ Now the common Reading is thus, _Neu Babylonios Tentaris numeros, ut melius quicquid erit pati_. The antient Interpreters pass this Place over, as if there were no Difficulty in it. Only _Mancinettus_ thinking the Sentence imperfect, bids us add _possis_. _Sb._ Have you any Thing more that is certain about this Matter? _Le._ I don't know whether I have or no; but in my Opinion, _Horace_ seems here to have made Use of the _Greek_ Idiom; and this he does more than any other of the Poets. For it is a very common Thing with the _Greeks_, to join an infinitive Mood with the Word [Greek: hôs] and [Greek: hôste]. And so _Horace_ uses _ut pati_, for _ut patiaris_: Although what _Mancinellus_ guesses, is not altogether absurd. _Hi._ I like what you say very well. Run, _Mouse_, and bring what is to come, if there be any Thing. _Cr._ What new dainty Dish is this? _Hi._ This is a Cucumber sliced; this is the Broth of the Pulp of a Gourd boil'd, it is good to make the Belly loose. _Sb._ Truly a medical feast. _Hi._ Take it in good Part. There's a Fowl to come out of our Hen-Coop. _Sb._ We will change thy Name, and call thee _Apicius_, instead of _Hilary_. _Hi._ Well, laugh now as much as you will, it may be you'll highly commend this Supper to Morrow. _Sb._ Why so? _Hi._ When you find that your Dinner has been well season'd. _Sb._ What, with a good Stomach? _Hi._ Yes, indeed. _Cr._ _Hilary_, do you know what Task I would have you take upon you? _Hi._ I shall know when you have told me. _Cr._ The Choir sings some Hymns, that are indeed learned ones; but are corrupted in many Places by unlearned Persons. I desire that you would mend 'em; and to give you an Example, we sing thus: _Hostis Herodes impie, Christum venire quid times?_ _Thou wicked Enemy_ Herod, _why dost thou dread the Coming of Christ?_ The mis-placing of one Word spoils the Verse two Ways. For the Word _hostis_, making a Trochee, has no Place in an _Iambick Verse_, and _Hero_ being a _Spondee_ won't stand in the second Place. Nor is there any doubt but the Verse at first was thus written, _Herodes hostis impie._ For the Epithete _impie_ better agrees with _Hostis_ than with _Herod_. Besides _Herodes_ being a _Greek_ Word [Greek: ê or ae] is turned into [Greek: e] in the vocative; as [Greek: Sôkrataes, ô Sokrates]; and so [Greek: Agamemnôn [Transcribers Note: this word appears in Greek with the ô represented by the character omega.]] in the nominative Case is turned into _[Greek: o]_. So again we sing the Hymn, _Jesu corona virginum, Quem mater ilia concepit, Quæ sola virgo parturit. O Jesus the Crown of Virgins, Whom she the Mother conceiv'd, Which was the only Person of a Virgin that brought forth._ There is no Doubt but the Word should be pronounc'd _concipit._ For the Change of the Tense sets off a Word. And it is ridiculous for us to find Fault with _concipit_ when _parlurit_ follows. _Hi._ Truly I have been puzzled at a great many such Things; nor will it be amiss, if hereafter we bestow a little Time upon this Matter. For methinks _Ambrose_ has not a little Grace in this Kind of Verse, for he does commonly end a Verse of four Feet with a Word of three Syllables, and commonly places a _cæsura_ in the End of a Word. It is so common with him that it cannot seem to have been by Chance. If you would have an Example, _Deus Creator_. Here is a _Penthemimeris_, it follows, _omnium; Polique rector_, then follows, _vestiens; diem decoro_, and then _lumine; noctem soporis_, then follows _gratia_. _Hi._ But here's a good fat Hen that has laid me Eggs, and hatch'd me Chickens for ten Years together. _Cr._ It is Pity that she should have been kill'd. _Ca._ If it were fit to intermingle any Thing of graver Studies, I have something to propose. _Hi._ Yes, if it be not too crabbed. _Ca._ That it is not. I lately began to read _Seneca's_ Epistles, and stumbled, as they say, at the very Threshold. The Place is in the first Epistle; _And if_, says he, _thou wilt but observe it, great Part of our Life passes away while we are doing what is ill; the greatest Part, while we are doing nothing, and the whole of it while we are doing that which is to no Purpose_. In this Sentence, he seems to affect I can't tell what Sort of Witticism, which I do not well understand. _Le._ I'll guess, if you will. _Ca._ Do so. _Le._ No Man offends continually. But, nevertheless, a great Part of one's Life is lost in Excess, Lust, Ambition, and other Vices; but a much greater Part is lost in doing of nothing. Moreover they are said to do nothing, not who live in Idleness, but they who are busied about frivolous Things which conduce nothing at all to our Happiness: And thence comes the Proverb, _It is better to be idle, than to be doing, but to no Purpose_. But the whole Life is spent in doing another Thing. He is said, _aliud agere_, who does not mind what he is about. So that the whole of Life is lost: Because when we are vitiously employ'd we are doing what we should not do; when we are employ'd about frivolous Matters we do that we should not do; and when we study Philosophy, in that we do it negligently and carelesly, we do something to no Purpose. If this Interpretation don't please you, let this Sentence of _Seneca_ be set down among those Things of this Author that _Aulus Gellius_ condemns in this Writer as frivolously witty. _Hi._ Indeed I like it very well. But in the mean Time, let us fall manfully upon the Hen. I would not have you mistaken, I have no more Provision for you. It agrees with what went before. _That is the basest Loss that comes by Negligence_, and he shews it by this Sentence consisting of three Parts. But methinks I see a Fault a little after: _We foresee not Death, a great Part of it is past already._ It is my Opinion it ought to be read; _We foresee Death._ For we foresee those Things which are a great Way off from us, when Death for the most Part is gone by us. _Le._ If Philosophers do sometimes give themselves Leave to go aside into the Meadows of the Muses, perhaps it will not be amiss for us, if we, to gratify our Fancy, take a Turn into their Territories. _Hi._ Why not? _Le._ As I was lately reading over again _Aristotle_'s Book that he entitles [Greek: Peri tôn elenchôn], the Argument of which is for the most Part common both to Rhetoricians and Philosophers, I happen'd to fall upon some egregious Mistakes of the Interpreters. And there is no Doubt but that they that are unskill'd in the _Greek_ have often miss'd it in many Places. For _Aristotle_ proposes a Sort of such Kind of Ambiguity as arises from a Word of a contrary Signification. [Greek: ho ti manthanousin oi epistamenoi ta gar apostomatizomena manthanousin oi grammatikoi to gar manthanein omônymon, to te xunienai chrômenon tê epistêmê, kai to lambanein tên epistêmên.] And they turn it thus. _Because intelligent Persons learn; for Grammarians are only tongue-learn'd; for to learn is an equivocal Word, proper both to him that exerciseth and to him that receiveth Knowledge._ _Hi._ Methinks you speak _Hebrew_, and not _English_. _Le._ Have any of you heard any equivocal Word? _Hi._ No. _Le._ What then can be more foolish than to desire to turn that which cannot possibly be turn'd. For although the _Greek_ Word [Greek: manthanein], signifies as much as [Greek: mathein] and [Greek: mathêteuein], so among the _Latins_, _discere_, to learn, signifies as much as _doctrinam accipere_, or _doctrinam tradere._ But whether this be true or no I can't tell. I rather think [Greek: manthanein], is of doubtful Signification with the _Greeks_, as _cognoscere_ is among the _Latins._ For he that informs, and the Judge that learns, both of them know the Cause. And so I think among the _Greeks_ the Master is said [Greek: manthanein] whilst he hears his Scholars, as also the Scholars who learn of him. But how gracefully hath he turn'd that [Greek: ta gar apostomatizomena manthanousin oi grammatikoi], _nam secundum os grammatici discunt: For the Grammarians are tongue-learn'd_; since it ought to be translated, _Nam grammatici, quæ dictitant, docent: Grammarians teach what they dictate_. Here the Interpreters ought to have given another Expression, which might not express the same Words, but the same Kind of Thing. Tho' I am apt to suspect here is some Error in the _Greek_ Copy, and that it ought to be written [Greek: homônumon tô te xunienai kai tô lambanein]. And a little after he subjoins another Example of Ambiguity, which arises not from the Diversity of the Signification of the same Word, but from a different Connection, [Greek: to boulesthai labein me tous polemious], _velleme accipere pugnantes. To be willing that I should receive the fighting Men_: For so he translates it, instead of _velle me capere hostes, to be willing that I take the Enemies;_ and if one should read [Greek: boulesthe], it is more perspicuous. _Vultis ut ego capiam hostes? Will ye that I take the Enemies?_ For the Pronoun may both go before and follow the Verb _capere_. If it go before it, the Sense will be this, _Will ye that I take the Enemies?_ If it follows, then this will be the Sense, _Are ye willing that the Enemies should take me?_ He adds also another Example of the same Kind, [Greek: ara ho tis ginôskei, touto ginôskei]. i.e. _An quod quis novit hoc novit._ The Ambiguity lies in [Greek: touto]. If it should be taken in the accusative Case, the Sense will be this; _Whatsoever it is that any Body knows, that Thing he knows to be._ But if in the nominative Case, the Sense will be this, _That Thing which any Body knows, it knows;_ as though that could not be known that knows not again by Course. Again he adds another Example. [Greek: apa ho tis hora, touto hora; hora de ton kiona hôste hora ho kiôn]. _That which any one sees, does that Thing see; but he sees a Post, does the Post therefore see?_ The Ambiguity lies again in [Greek: touto], as we shew'd before. But these Sentences may be render'd into _Latin_ well enough; but that which follows cannot possibly by any Means be render'd, [Greek: Ara ho sy phês einai, touto sy phês einai; phês de lithon einai sy ara phês lithos einai]. Which they thus render, _putas quod tu dicis esse, hoc tu dicis esse: dicis autem lapidem esse, tu ergo lapis dicis esse._ Pray tell me what Sense can be made of these Words? For the Ambiguity lies partly in the Idiom of the _Greek_ Phrase, which is in the major and minor. Although in the major there is another Ambiguity in the two Words [Greek: o] and [Greek: touto], which if they be taken in the nominative Case, the Sense will be, _That which thou sayest thou art, that thou art._ But if in the accusative Case the Sense will be, _Whatsoever thou sayst is, that thou sayst is;_ and to this Sense he subjoins [Greek: lithon phês einai], but to the former Sense he subjoins [Greek: sy ara phês lithos einai]. _Catullus_ once attempted to imitate the Propriety of the _Greek_ Tongue: _Phaselus iste, quem videtis, hospites, Ait fuisse navium celerrimus. My Guests, that Gally which you see The most swift of the Navy is, says he._ For so was this Verse in the old Edition. Those who write Commentaries on these Places being ignorant of this, must of Necessity err many Ways. Neither indeed can that which immediately follows be perspicuous in the _Latin_. [Greek: Kai ara eoti sigônta legein; ditton gar esti to sigonta legein, to te ton legonta sigan, kai to ta legomena.] That they have render'd thus; _Et putas, est tacentem dicere? Duplex enim est, tacentem dicere; et hunc dicere tacentem, et quæ dicuntur._ Are not these Words more obscure than the Books of the _Sibyls_? _Hi._ I am not satisfy'd with the _Greek_. _Le._ I'll interpret it as well as I can. _Is it possible for a Man to speak while he is silent?_ This Interrogation has a two-Fold Sense, the one of which is false and absurd, and the other may be true; for it cannot possibly be that he who speaks, should not speak what he does speak; that is that he should be silent while he is speaking; but it is possible, that he who speaks may be silent of him who speaks. Although this Example falls into another Form that he adds a little after. And again, I admire, that a little after, in that kind of Ambiguity that arises from more Words conjoin'd, the _Greeks_ have chang'd the Word _Seculum_ into the Letters, [Greek: epistasthai ta grammata], seeing that the _Latin_ Copies have it, _scire seculum_. For here arises a double Sense, either _that the Age itself might know something_, or _that somebody might know the Age_. But this is an easier Translation of it into [Greek: aiôna] or [Greek: kosmon], than into [Greek: grammata]. For it is absurd to say that Letters know any Thing; but it is no absurdity to say, _something is known to our Age_, or _that any one knows his Age_. And a little after, where he propounds an Ambiguity in the Accent, the Translator does not stick to put _Virgil's_ Words instead of _Homer's_, when there was the same Necessity in that Example, _quicquid dicis esse, hoc est_, _What thou sayst is, it is_. _Aristotle_ out of _Homer_ says, [Greek: ou kataputhetai ombrô], if [Greek: ou] should be aspirated and circumflected, it sounds in _Latin_ thus; _Cujus computrescit pluviâ_; _by whose Rain it putrifies_; but if [Greek: ou] be acuted and exile, it sounds, _Non computrescit pluviâ; it does not putrify with Rain_; and this indeed is taken out of the _Iliad_ [Greek: ps]. Another is, [Greek: didomen de oi euchos aresthai]: the Accent being placed upon the last Syllable but one, signifies, _grant to him_; but plac'd upon the first Syllable [Greek: didomen], signifies, _we grant_. But the Poet did not think _Jupiter_ said, _we grant to him_; but commands the Dream itself to grant him, to whom it is sent to obtain his Desire. For [Greek: didomen], is used for [Greek: didonai]. For these two of _Homer_, these two are added out of our Poets; as that out of the Odes of _Horace_. _Me tuo longas pereunte noctes, Lydia, dormis._ For if the Accent be on _me_ being short, and _tu_ be pronounc'd short, it is one Word _metuo_; that is, _timeo, I am afraid_: Although this Ambiguity lies not in the Accent only, but also arises from the Composition. They have brought another Example out of _Virgil_: _Heu quia nam tanti cinxerunt aethera nymbi!_ Although here also the Ambiguity lies in the Composition. _Hi._ _Leonard_, These Things are indeed Niceties, worthy to be known; but in the mean Time, I'm afraid our Entertainment should seem rather a Sophistical one, than a Poetical one: At another Time, if you please, we'll hunt Niceties and Criticisms for a whole Day together. _Le._ That is as much as to say, we'll hunt for Wood in a Grove, or seek for Water in the Sea. _Hi._ Where is my Mouse? _Mou._ Here he is. _Hi._ Bid _Margaret_ bring up the Sweet-Meats. _Mus._ I go, Sir. _Hi._ What! do you come again empty-handed? _Mus._ She says, she never thought of any Sweet-Meats, and that you have sat long enough already. _Hi._ I am afraid, if we should philosophize any longer, she'll come and overthrow the Table, as _Xantippe_ did to _Socrates_; therefore it is better for us to take our Sweet-Meats in the Garden; and there we may walk and talk freely; and let every one gather what Fruit he likes best off of the Trees. _Guests._ We like your Motion very well. _Hi._ There is a little Spring sweeter than any Wine. _Ca._ How comes it about, that your Garden is neater than your Hall? _Hi._ Because I spend most of my Time here. If you like any Thing that is here, don't spare whatever you find. And now if you think you have walk'd enough, what if we should sit down together under this Teil Tree, and rouze up our Muses. _Pa._ Come on then, let us do so. _Hi._ The Garden itself will afford us a Theme. _Pa._ If you lead the Way, we will follow you. _Hi._ Well, I'll do so. He acts very preposterously, who has a Garden neatly trimm'd up, and furnish'd with various Delicacies, and at the same Time, has a Mind adorn'd with no Sciences nor Virtues. _Le._ We shall believe the Muses themselves are amongst us, if thou shalt give us the same Sentence in Verse. _Hi._ That's a great Deal more easy to me to turn Prose into Verse, than it is to turn Silver into Gold. _Le._ Let us have it then: _Hi. Cui renidet hortus undiquaque flosculis, Animumque nullis expolitum dotibus Squalere patitur, is facit praepostere. Whose Garden is all grac'd with Flowers sweet, His Soul mean While being impolite, Is far from doing what is meet._ Here's Verses for you, without the _Muses_ or _Apollo_; but it will be very entertaining, if every one of you will render this Sentence into several different Kinds of Verse. _Le._ What shall be his Prize that gets the Victory? _Hi._ This Basket full, either of Apples, or Plumbs, or Cherries, or Medlars, or Pears, or of any Thing else he likes better. _Le._ Who should be the Umpire of the Trial of Skill? _Hi._ Who shall but _Crato_? And therefore he shall be excused from versifying, that he may attend the more diligently. _Cr._ I'm afraid you'll have such a Kind of Judge, as the Cuckoo and Nightingal once had, when they vy'd one with the other, who should sing best. _Hi._ I like him if the rest do. _Gu._ We like our Umpire. Begin, _Leonard_. _Le. Cui tot deliciis renidet hortus, Herbis, fioribus, arborumque foetu, Et multo et vario, nec excolendum Curat pectus et artibus probatis, Et virtutibus, is mihi videtur Lævo judicio, parumque recto. Who that his Garden shine doth mind With Herbs and Flowers, and Fruits of various kind; And in mean While, his Mind neglected lies Of Art and Virtue void, he is not wise._ I have said. _Hi. Carinus_ bites his Nails, we look for something elaborate from him. _Ca._ I'm out of the poetical Vein. _Cura cui est, ut niteat hortus flosculis ac foetibus, Negligenti excolere pectus disciplinis optimis; Hic labore, mihi ut videtur, ringitur praepostero. Whose only Care is that his Gardens be With Flow'rs and Fruits furnish'd most pleasantly, But disregards his Mind with Art to grace, Bestows his Pains and Care much like an Ass._ _Hi._ You han't bit your Nails for nothing. _Eu._ Well, since my Turn is next, that I may do something, _Qui studet ut variis niteat cultissimus hortus Deliciis, patiens animum squalere, nec ullis Artibus expoliens, huic est praepostera cura. Who cares to have his Garden neat and rare. And doth of Ornaments his Mind leave bare, Acts but with a preposterous Care._ We have no Need to spur _Sbrulius_ on, for he is so fluent at Verses, that he oftentimes tumbles 'em out, before he is aware. Sb. _Cui vernat hortus cultus et elegans, Nee pectus uttis artibus excolit; Praepostera is mra laborat. Sit ratio tibiprima mentis. Who to make his Garden spring, much Care imparts, And yet neglects his Mind to grace with Arts, Acts wrong: Look chiefly to improve thy Parts._ Pa. _Quisquis accurat, variis ut hortus Floribus vernet, neque pectus idem Artibus sanctis colit, hunc habet praepostera cura. Who to his Soul prefers a Flower or worse, May well be said to set the Cart before the Horse._ _Hi._ Now let us try to which of us the Garden will afford the most Sentences. _Le._ How can so rich a Garden but do that? even this Rose-Bed will furnish me with what to say. _As the Beauty of a Rose is fading, so is Youth soon gone; you make haste to gather your Rose before it withers; you ought more earnestly to endeavour that your Youth pass not away without Fruit._ _Hi._ It is a Theme very fit for a Verse. _Ca. As among Trees, every one hath its Fruits: So among Men, every one hath his natural Gift._ _Eu. As the Earth, if it be till'd, brings forth various Things for human Use; and being neglected, is covered with Thorns and Briars: So the Genius of a Man, if it be accomplish'd with honest Studies, yields a great many Virtues; but if it be neglected, is over-run with various Vices._ _Sb. A Garden ought to be drest every Year, that it may look handsome: The Mind being once furnish'd with good Learning, does always flourish and spring forth._ _Pa. As the Pleasantness of Gardens does not draw the Mind off from honest Studies, but rather invites it to them: So we ought to seek for such Recreations and Divertisements, as are not contrary to Learning._ _Hi._ O brave! I see a whole Swarm of Sentences. Now for Verse: But before we go upon that, I am of the Mind, it will be no improper nor unprofitable Exercise to turn the first Sentence into _Greek_ Verse, as often as we have turn'd it into _Latin._ And let _Leonard_ begin, that has been an old Acquaintance of the _Greek_ Poets. _Le._ I'll begin if you bid me. _Hi._ I both bid and command you. _Le._ [Greek: Hôi kêpos estin anthesin gelôn kalois, Ho de nous mal auchmôn tois kalois muthêmasin, Ouk esti kompsos outos, ouk orthôs phronei, Peri pleionos poiôn ta phaul, ê kreittona]. He never entered Wisdom's Doors Who delights himself in simple Flowers, And his foul Soul neglects to cleanse. This Man knows not what Virtue means. I have begun, let him follow me that will. _Hi. Carinus._ _Ca._ Nay, _Hilary._ _Le._ But I see here's _Margaret_ coming upon us of a sudden, she's bringing I know not what Dainties. _Hi._ If she does so, my Fury'll do more than I thought she'd do. What hast brought us? _Ma._ Mustard-Seed, to season your Sweet-Meats. An't you ashamed to stand prating here till I can't tell what Time of Night? And yet you Poets are always reflecting against Womens Talkativeness. _Cr. Margaret_ says very right, it is high Time for every one to go Home to Bed: At another Time we'll spend a Day in this commendable Kind of Contest. _Hi._ But who do you give the Prize to? _Cr._ For this Time I allot it to myself. For no Body has overcome but I. _Hi._ How did you overcome that did not contend at all. _Cr._ Ye have contended, but not try'd it out. I have overcome _Marget_, and that is more than any of you could do. _Ca. Hilary._ He demands what's his Right, let him have the Basket. _An ENQUIRY CONCERNING FAITH._ The ARGUMENT. _This Inquisition concerning Faith, comprehends the Sum and Substance of the Catholick Profession. He here introduces a_ Lutheran _that by the Means of the orthodox Faith, he may bring either Party to a Reconciliation. Concerning Excommunication, and the Popes Thunderbolts. And also that we ought to associate ourselves with the Impious and Heretical, if we have any Hope of amending them._ Symbolum _is a military Word. A most divine and elegant Paraphrase upon the Apostles Creed._ AULUS, BARBATUS. _AU._ _Salute freely_, is a Lesson for Children. But I can't tell whether I should bid you be well or no. _Ba._ In Truth I had rather any one would make me well, than bid me be so. _Aulus_, Why do you say that? _Au._ Why? Because if you have a Mind to know, you smell of Brimstone, or _Jupiter's_ Thunderbolt. _Ba._ There are mischievous Deities, and there are harmless Thunderbolts, that differ much in their Original from those that are ominous. For I fancy you mean something about Excommunication. _Au._ You're right. _Ba._ I have indeed heard dreadful Thunders, but I never yet felt the Blow of the Thunderbolt. _Au._ How so? _Ba._ Because I have never the worse Stomach, nor my Sleep the less sound. _Au._ But a Distemper is commonly so much the more dangerous, the less it is felt. But these brute Thunderbolts as you call 'em, strike the Mountains and the Seas. _Ba._ They do strike 'em indeed, but with Strokes that have no effect upon 'em. There is a Sort of Lightning that proceeds from a Glass or a Vessel of Brass. _Au._ Why, and that affrights too. _Ba._ It may be so, but then none but Children are frighted at it. None but God has Thunderbolts that strike the Soul. _Au._ But suppose God is in his Vicar. _Ba._ I wish he were. _Au._ A great many Folks admire, that you are not become blacker than a Coal before now. _Ba._ Suppose I were so, then the Salvation of a lost Person were so much the more to be desired, if Men followed the Doctrine of the Gospel. _Au._ It is to be wished indeed, but not to be spoken of. _Ba._ Why so? _Au._ That he that is smitten with the Thunderbolt may be ashamed and repent. _Ba._ If God had done so by us, we had been all lost. _Au._ Why so? _Ba._ Because when we were Enemies to God, and Worshippers of Idols, fighting under Satan's Banner, that is to say, every Way most accursed; then in an especial Manner he spake to us by his Son, and by his treating with us restored us to Life when we were dead. _Au._ That thou say'st is indeed very true. _Ba._ In Truth it would go very hard with all sick Persons, if the Physician should avoid speaking to 'em, whensoever any poor Wretch was seized with a grievous Distemper, for then he has most Occasion for the Assistance of a Doctor. _Au._ But I am afraid that you will sooner infect me with your Distemper than I shall cure you of it. It sometimes falls out that he that visits a sick Man is forced to be a Fighter instead of a Physician. _Ba._ Indeed it sometimes happens so in bodily Distempers: But in the Diseases of the Mind you have an Antidote ready against every Contagion. _Au._ What's that? _Ba._ A strong Resolution not to be removed from the Opinion that has been fixed in you. But besides, what Need you fear to become a Fighter, where the Business is managed by Words? _Au._ There is something in what you say, if there be any Hope of doing any good. _Ba._ While there is Life there is Hope, and according to St. _Paul, Charity can't despair, because it hopes all Things_. _Au._ You observe very well, and upon this Hope I may venture to discourse with you a little; and if you'll permit me, I'll be a Physician to you. _Ba._ Do, with all my Heart. _Au._ Inquisitive Persons are commonly hated, but yet Physicians are allowed to be inquisitive after every particular Thing. _Ba._ Ask me any Thing that you have a Mind to ask me. _Au._ I'll try. But you must promise me you'll answer me sincerely. _Ba._ I'll promise you. But let me know what you'll ask me about. _Au._ Concerning the Apostles Creed. _Ba._ _Symbolum_ is indeed a military Word. I will be content to be look'd upon an Enemy to Christ, if I shall deceive you in this Matter. _Au._ Dost thou believe in God the Father Almighty, who made the Heaven and Earth. _Ba._ Yes, and whatsoever is contained in the Heaven and Earth, and the Angels also which are Spirits. _Au._ When thou say'st God, what dost thou understand by it? _Ba._ I understand a certain eternal Mind, which neither had Beginning nor shall have any End, than which nothing can be either greater, wiser, or better. _Au._ Thou believest indeed like a good Christian. _Ba._ Who by his omnipotent Beck made all Things visible or invisible; who by his wonderful Wisdom orders and governs all Things; who by his Goodness feeds and maintains all Things, and freely restored Mankind when fallen. _Au._ These are indeed three especial Attributes in God: But what Benefit dost thou receive by the Knowledge of them? _Ba._ When I conceive him to be Omnipotent, I submit myself wholly to him, in comparison of whose Majesty, the Excellency of Men and Angels is nothing. Moreover, I firmly believe whatsoever the holy Scriptures teach to have been done, and also that what he hath promised shall be done by him, seeing he can by his single Beck do whatsoever he pleases, how impossible soever it may seem to Man. And upon that Account distrusting my own Strength, I depend wholly upon him who can do all Things. When I consider his Wisdom, I attribute nothing at all to my own, but I believe all Things are done by him righteously and justly, although they may seem to human Sense absurd or unjust. When I animadvert on his Goodness, I see nothing in myself that I do not owe to free Grace, and I think there is no Sin so great, but he is willing to forgive to a true Penitent, nor nothing but what he will freely bestow on him that asks in Faith. _Au._ Dost thou think that it is sufficient for thee to believe him to be so? _Ba._ By no Means. But with a sincere Affection I put my whole Trust and Confidence in him alone, detesting Satan, and all Idolatry, and magic Arts. I worship him alone, preferring nothing before him, nor equalling nothing with him, neither Angel, nor my Parents, nor Children, nor Wife, nor Prince, nor Riches, nor Honours, nor Pleasures; being ready to lay down my Life if he call for it, being assur'd that he can't possibly perish who commits himself wholly to him. _Au._ What then, dost thou worship nothing, fear nothing, love nothing but God alone? _Ba._ If I reverence any Thing, fear any Thing, or love any Thing, it is for his Sake I love it, fear it, and reverence it; referring all Things to his Glory, always giving Thanks to him for whatsoever happens, whether prosperous or adverse, Life or Death. _Au._ In Truth your Confession is very sound so far. What do you think concerning the second Person? _Ba._ Examine me. _Au._ Dost thou believe Jesus was God and Man? _Ba._ Yes. _Au._ Could it be that the same should be both immortal God and mortal Man? _Ba._ That was an easy Thing for him to do who can do what he will: And by Reason of his divine Nature, which is common to him with the Father, whatsoever Greatness, Wisdom, and Goodness I attribute to the Father, I attribute the same to the Son; and whatsoever I owe to the Father, I owe also to the Son, but only that it hath seemed good to the Father to bestow all Things on us through him. _Au._ Why then do the holy Scriptures more frequently call the Son Lord than God? _Ba._ Because God is a Name of Authority, that is to say, of Sovereignty, which in an especial Manner belongeth to the Father, who is absolutely the Original of all Things, and the Fountain even of the Godhead itself. Lord is the Name of a Redeemer and Deliverer, altho' the Father also redeemed us by his Son, and the Son is God, but of God the Father. But the Father only is from none, and obtains the first Place among the divine Persons. _Au._ Then dost thou put thy Confidence in _Jesus_? _Ba._ Why not? _Au._ But the Prophet calls him accursed who puts his Trust in Man. _Ba._ But to this Man alone hath all the Power in Heaven and Earth been given, that at his Name every Knee should bow, both of Things in Heaven, Things in Earth, and Things under the Earth. Although I would not put my chief Confidence and Hope in him, unless he were God. _Au._ Why do you call him Son? _Ba._ Lest any should imagine him to be a Creature. _Au._ Why an only Son? _Ba._ To distinguish the natural Son from the Sons by Adoption, the Honour of which Sirname he imputes to us also, that we may look for no other besides this Son. _Au._ Why would he have him to be made Man, who was God? _Ba._ That being Man, he might reconcile Men to God. _Au._ Dost thou believe he was conceived without the Help of Man, by the Operation of the holy Ghost, and born of the undented Virgin _Mary_, taking a mortal Body of her Substance? _Ba._ Yes. _Au._ Why would he be so born? _Ba._ Because it so became God to be born, because it became him to be born in this Manner, who was to cleanse away the Filthiness of our Conception and Birth. God would have him to be born the Son of Man, that we being regenerated into him, might be made the Sons of God. _Au._ Dost thou believe that he lived here upon Earth, did Miracles, taught those Things that are recorded to us in the Gospel? _Ba._ Ay, more certainly than I believe you to be a Man. _Au._ I am not an _Apuleius_ turned inside out, that you should suspect that an Ass lies hid under the Form of a Man. But do you believe this very Person to be the very Messiah whom the Types of the Law shadowed out, which the Oracle of the Prophets promised, which the _Jews_ looked for so many Ages? _Ba._ I believe nothing more firmly. _Au._ Dost thou believe his Doctrine and Life are sufficient to lead us to perfect Piety? _Ba._ Yes, perfectly sufficient. _Au._ Dost thou believe that the same was really apprehended by the _Jews_, bound, buffeted, beaten, spit upon, mock'd, scourg'd under _Pontius Pilate_; and lastly, nailed to the Cross, and there died? _Ba._ Yes, I do. _Au._ Do you believe him to have been free from all the Law of Sin whatsoever? _Ba._ Why should I not? A Lamb without Spot. _Au._ Dost thou believe he suffered all these Things of his own accord? _Ba._ Not only willingly, but even with great Desire; but according to the Will of his Father. _Au._ Why would the Father have his only Son, being innocent and most dear to him, suffer all these Things? _Ba._ That by this Sacrifice he might reconcile to himself us who were guilty, we putting our Confidence and Hope in his Name. _Au._ Why did God suffer all Mankind thus to fall? And if he did suffer them, was there no other Way to be found out to repair our Fall? _Ba._ Not human Reason, but Faith hath persuaded me of this, that it could be done no Way better nor more beneficially for our Salvation. _Au._ Why did this Kind of Death please him best? _Ba._ Because in the Esteem of the World it was the most disgraceful, and because the Torment of it was cruel and lingring, because it was meet for him who would invite all the Nations of the World unto Salvation, with his Members stretch'd out into every Coast of the World, and call off Men, who were glew'd unto earthly Cares, to heavenly Things; and, last of all, that he might represent to us the brazen Serpent that _Moses_ set up upon a Pole, that whoever should fix his Eyes upon it, should be heal'd of the Wounds of the Serpent, and fulfil the Prophet's Promise, who prophesied, _say ye among the Nations, God hath reign'd from a Tree_. _Au._ Why would he be buried also, and that so curiously, anointed with Myrrh and Ointments, inclosed in a new Tomb, cut out of a hard and natural Rock, the Door being seal'd, and also publick Watchmen set there? _Ba._ That it might be the more manifest that he was really dead. _Au._ Why did he not rise again presently? _Ba._ For the very same Reason; for if his Death had been doubtful, his Resurrection had been doubtful too; but he would have that to be as certain as possible could be. _Au._ Do you believe his Soul descended into Hell? _Ba._ St. _Cyprian_ affirms that this Clause was not formerly inserted either in the _Roman_ Creed or in the Creed of the Eastern Churches, neither is it recorded in _Tertullian_, a very ancient Writer. And yet notwithstanding, I do firmly believe it, both because it agrees with the Prophecy of the Psalm, _Thou wilt not leave my Soul in Hell_; and again, _O Lord, thou hast brought my Soul out of Hell_. And also because the Apostle _Peter_, in the third Chapter of his first Epistle (of the Author whereof no Man ever doubted,) writes after this Manner, _Being put to Death in the Flesh, but quickned by the Spirit, in which also he came and preach'd by his Spirit to those that were in Prison_. But though I believe he descended into Hell, yet I believe he did not suffer anything there. For he descended not to be tormented there, but that he might destroy the Kingdom of Satan. _Au._ Well, I hear nothing yet that is impious; but he died that he might restore us to Life again, who were dead in Sin. But why did he rise to live again? _Ba._ For three Reasons especially. _Au._ Which are they? _Ba._ First of all, to give us an assur'd Hope of our Resurrection. Secondly, that we might know that he in whom we have plac'd the Safety of our Resurrection is immortal, and shall never die. Lastly, that we being dead in Sins by Repentance, and buried together with him by Baptism, should by his Grace be raised up again to Newness of Life. _Au._ Do you believe that the very same Body that died upon the Cross, which reviv'd in the Grave, which was seen and handled by the Disciples, ascended into Heaven? _Ba._ Yes, I do. _Au._ Why would he leave the Earth? _Ba._ That we might all love him spiritually, and that no Man should appropriate Christ to himself upon the Earth, but that we should equally lift up our Minds to Heaven, knowing that our Head is there. For if Men now so much please themselves in the Colour and Shape of the Garment, and do boast so much of the Blood or the Foreskin of Christ, and the Milk of the Virgin _Mary_, what do you think would have been, had he abode on the Earth, eating and discoursing? What Dissentions would those Peculiarities of his Body have occasioned? _Au._ Dost thou believe that he, being made immortal, sitteth at the right Hand of the Father? _Ba._ Why not? As being Lord of all Things, and Partaker of all his Father's Kingdom. He promised his Disciples that this should be, and he presented this Sight to his Martyr _Stephen_. _Au._ Why did he shew it? _Ba._ That we may not be discouraged in any Thing, well knowing what a powerful Defender and Lord we have in Heaven. _Au._ Do you believe that he will come again in the same Body, to judge the Quick and the Dead? _Ba._ As certain as I am, that those Things the Prophets have foretold concerning Christ hitherto have come to pass, so certain I am, that whatsoever he would have us look for for the future, shall come to pass. We have seen his first Coming, according to the Predictions of the Prophets, wherein he came in a low Condition, to instruct and save. We shall also see his second, when he will come on high, in the Glory of his Father, before whose Judgment-Seat all Men of every Nation, and of every Condition, whether Kings or Peasants, _Greeks_, or _Scythians_, shall be compell'd to appear; and not only those, whom at that Coming he shall find alive, but also all those who have died from the Beginning of the World, even until that Time, shall suddenly be raised, and behold his Judge every one in his own Body. The blessed Angels also shall be there as faithful Servants, and the Devils to be judg'd. Then he will, from on high, pronounce that unvoidable Sentence, which will cast the Devil, together with those that have taken his Part, into eternal Punishments, that they may not after that, be able to do Mischief to any. He will translate the Godly, being freed from all Trouble, to a Fellowship with him in his heavenly Kingdom: Although he would have the Day of his coming unknown to all. _Au._ I hear no Error yet. Let us now come to the third Person. _Ba._ As you please. _Au._ Dost thou believe in the holy Spirit? _Ba._ I do believe that it is true God, together with the Father, and the Son. I believe they that wrote us the Books of the Old and New Testament were inspired by it, without whose Help no Man attains Salvation. _Au._ Why is he called a Spirit? _Ba._ Because as our Bodies do live by Breath, so our Minds are quicken'd by the secret Inspiration of the holy Spirit. _Au._ Is it not lawful to call the Father a Spirit? _Ba._ Why not? _Au._ Are not then the Persons confounded? _Ba._ No, not at all, for the Father is called a Spirit, because he is without a Body, which Thing is common to all the Persons, according to their divine Nature: But the third Person is called a Spirit, because he breathes out, and transfuses himself insensibly into our Minds, even as the Air breathes from the Land, or the Rivers. _Au._ Why is the Name of Son given to the second Person? _Ba._ Because of his perfect Likeness of Nature and Will. _Au._ Is the Son more like the Father, than the holy Spirit? _Ba._ Not according to the divine Nature, except that he resembles the Property of the Father the more in this, that the Spirit proceeds from him also. _Au._ What hinders then, but that the holy Spirit may be called Son. _Ba._ Because, as St. _Hilary_ saith, I no where read that he was begotten, neither do I read of his Father: I read of the _Spirit, and that proceeding from_. _Au._ Why is the Father alone called God in the Creed? _Ba._ Because he, as I have said before, is simply the Author of all Things that are, and the Fountain of the whole Deity. _Au._ Speak in plainer Terms. _Ba._ Because nothing can be nam'd which hath not its Original from the Father: For indeed, in this very Thing, that the Son and Holy Spirit is God, they acknowledge that they received it from the Father; therefore the chief Authority, that is to say, the Cause of Beginning, is in the Father alone, because he alone is of none: But yet, in the Creed it may be so taken, that the Name of God may not be proper to one Person, but used in general; because, it is distinguish'd afterwards by the Terms of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, into one God; which Word of Nature comprehends the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; that is to say, the three Persons. _Au._ Dost thou believe in the holy Church? _Ba._ No. _Au._ What say you? Do you not believe in it? _Ba._ I believe the holy Church, which is the Body of Christ; that is to say, a certain Congregation of all Men throughout the whole World, who agree in the Faith of the Gospel, who worship one God the Father, who put their whole Confidence in his Son, who are guided by the same Spirit of him; from whose Fellowship he is cut off that commits a deadly Sin. _Au._ But why do you stick to say, I believe in the holy Church? _Ba._ Because St. _Cyprian_ hath taught me, that we must believe in God alone, in whom we absolutely put all our Confidence. Whereas the Church, properly so called, although it consists of none but good Men; yet it consists of Men, who of good may become bad, who may be deceived, and deceive others. _Au._ What do you think of the Communion of Saints? _Ba._ This Article is not all meddled with by _Cyprian_, when he particularly shews what in such and such Churches is more or less used; for he thus connects them: _For there followeth after this Saying, the holy Church, the Forgiveness of Sins, the Resurrection of this Flesh_. And some are of Opinion, that this Part does not differ from the former; but that it explains and enforces what before was called _the holy Church_; so that the Church is nothing else but the Profession of one God, one Gospel, one Faith, one Hope, the Participation of the same Spirit, and the same Sacraments: To be short, such a Kind of Communion of all good Things, among all godly Men, who have been from the Beginning of the World, even to the End of it, as the Fellowship of the Members of the Body is between one another. So that the good Deeds of one may help another, until they become lively Members of the Body. But out of this Society, even one's own good Works do not further his Salvation, unless he be reconcil'd to the holy Congregation; and therefore it follows, _the Forgiveness of Sins_; because out of the Church there is no Remission of Sins, although a Man should pine himself away with Repentance, and exercise Works of Charity. In the Church, I say, not of Hereticks, but the holy Church; that is to say, gathered by the Spirit of Christ, there is Forgiveness of Sins by Baptism, and after Baptism, by Repentence, and the Keys given to the Church. _Au._ Thus far they are the Words of a Man that is sound in the Faith. Do you believe that there will be a Resurrection of the Flesh? _Ba._ I should believe all the rest to no Purpose, if I did not believe this, which is the Head of all. _Au._ What dost thou mean, when thou say'st the Flesh? _Ba._ An human Body animated with a human Soul. _Au._ Shall every Soul receive its own Body which is left dead? _Ba._ The very same from whence it went out; and therefore, in Cyprian's Creed, it is added, _of this Flesh_. _Au._ How can it be, that the Body which hath been now so often chang'd out of one Thing into another, can rise again the same? _Ba._ He who could create whatsoever he would out of nothing, is it a hard Matter for him to restore to its former Nature that which hath been changed in its Form? I don't dispute anxiously which Way it can be done; it is sufficient to me, that he who hath promised that it shall be so, is so true, that he can't lye, and so powerful, as to be able to bring to pass with a Beck, whatsoever he pleases. _Au._ What need will there be of a Body then? _Ba._ That the whole Man may be glorified with Christ, who, in this World, was wholly afflicted with Christ. _Au._ What means that which he adds, _and Life everlasting_. _Ba._ Lest any one should think that we shall so rise again, as the Frogs revive at the Beginning of the Spring, to die again. For here is a twofold Death of the Body, that is common to all Men, both good and bad; and of the Soul, and the Death of the Soul is Sin. But after the Resurrection, the godly shall have everlasting Life, both of Body and Soul: Nor shall the Body be then any more obnoxious to Diseases, old Age, Hunger, Thirst, Pain, Weariness, Death, or any Inconveniences; but being made spiritual, it shall be mov'd as the Spirit will have it: Nor shall the Soul be any more sollicited with any Vices or Sorrows; but shall for ever enjoy the chiefest Good, which is God himself. On the contrary, eternal Death, both of Body and Soul, shall seize upon the wicked. For their Body shall be made immortal, in order to the enduring everlasting Torments, and their Soul to be continually vexed with the Gripes of their Sins, without any Hope of Pardon. _Au._ Dost thou believe these things from thy very Heart, and unfeignedly? _Ba._ I believe them so certainly, I tell you, that I am not so sure that you talk with me. _Au._ When I was at _Rome_, I did not find all so sound in the Faith. _Ba._ Nay; but if you examine thoroughly, you'll find a great many others in other Places too, which do not so firmly believe these Things. _Au._ Well then, since you agree with us in so many and weighty Points, what hinders that you are not wholly on our Side? _Ba._ I have a mind to hear that of you: For I think that I am orthodox. Although I will not warrant for my Life yet I endeavour all I can, that it may be suitable to my Profession. _Au._ How comes it about then, that there is so great a War between you and the orthodox? _Ba._ Do you enquire into that: But hark you, Doctor, if you are not displeased with this Introduction, take a small Dinner with me; and after Dinner, you may enquire of every Thing at Leisure: I'll give you both Arms to feel my Pulse, and you shall see both Stool and Urine; and after that, if you please, you shall anatomize this whole Breast of mine, that you may make a better Judgment of me. _Au._ But I make it a matter of Scruple to eat with thee. _Ba._ But Physicians use to eat with their Patients, that they might better observe what they love, and wherein they are irregular. _Au._ But I am afraid, lest I should seem to favour Hereticks. _Ba._ Nay, but there is nothing more religious than to favour Hereticks. _Au._ How so? _Ba._ Did not _Paul_ wish to be made an _Anathema_ for the _Jews_, which were worse than Hereticks? Does not he favour him that endeavours that a Man may be made a good Man of a bad Man? _Au._ Yes, he does so. _Ba._ Well then, do you favour me thus, and you need not fear any Thing. _Au._ I never heard a sick Man answer more to the Purpose. Well, come on, let me dine with you then. _Ba._ You shall be entertain'd in a physical Way, as it becomes a Doctor by his Patient, and we will so refresh our Bodies with Food, that the Mind shall be never the less fit for Disputation. _Au._ Well, let it be so, with good Birds (_i.e._ with good Success). _Ba._ Nay, it shall be with bad Fishes, unless you chance to have forgot that it is _Friday._ _Au._ Indeed, that is beside our Creed. _The OLD MENS DIALOGUE._ The ARGUMENT. [Greek: Terontologia], or, [Greek: Ochêma], _shews, as tho' it were in a Looking-glass, what Things are to be avoided in Life, and what Things contribute to the Tranquillity of Life. Old Men that were formerly intimate Acquaintance when Boys, after forty Years Absence, one from the other, happen to meet together, going to_ Antwerp. _There seems to be a very great Inequality in them that are equal in Age._ Polygamus, _he is very old:_ Glycion _has no Signs of Age upon him, tho' he is sixty six; he proposes a Method of keeping off old Age. I. He consults what Sort of Life to chuse, and follows the Advice of a prudent old Man, who persuades him to marry a Wife that was his equal, making his Choice with Judgment, before he falls in Love. 2. He has born a publick Office, but not obnoxious to troublesome Affairs. 3. He transacts Affairs that do not expose him to Envy. 4. He bridles his Tongue. 5. He is not violently fond of, nor averse to any Thing. He moderates his Affections, suffers no Sorrow to abide with him all Night. 6. He abstains from Vices, and renews his Patience every Day. 7. He is not anxiously thoughtful of Death. 8. He does not travel into foreign Countries. 9. He has nothing to do with Doctors. 10. He diverts himself with Study, but does not study himself lean. On the other hand_, Polygamus _has brought old Age upon him, by the Intemperance of his Youth, by Drinking, Whoring, Gaming, running in Debt; he had had eight Wives._ Pampirus, _he becomes a Merchant; but consumes all he has by Gaming; then he becomes a Canon; then a Carthusian; after that a Benedictine; and last of all, turns Soldier._ Eusebius, _he gets a good Benefice and preaches._ EUSEBIUS, PAMPIRUS, POLYGAMUS, GLYCION, HUGUITIO, _and_ HARRY _the Coachman._ _Euseb._ What new Faces do I see here? If I am not mistaken, or do not see clear, I see three old Companions sitting by me; _Pampirus, Polygamus_ and _Glycion;_ they are certainly the very same. _Pa._ What do you mean, with your Glass Eyes, you Wizard? Pray come nearer a little, _Eusebius._ _Po._ Hail, heartily, my wish'd for _Eusebius._ _Gl._ All Health to you, the best of Men. _Eu._ One Blessing upon you all, my dear Friends. What God, or providential Chance has brought us together now, for I believe none of us have seen the one the other, for this forty Years. Why _Mercury_ with his Mace could not have more luckily brought us together into a Circle; but what are you doing here? _Pa._ We are sitting. _Eu._ I see that, but what do you sit for? _Po._ We wait for the _Antwerp_ Waggon. _Eu._ What, are you going to the Fair? _Po._ We are so: but rather Spectators, than Traders, tho' one has one Business, and another has another. _Eu._ Well, and I am going thither myself too. But what hinders you, that you are not going? _Po._ We han't agreed with the Waggoner yet. _Eu._ These Waggoners are a surly Sort of People; but are you willing that we put a Trick upon them? _Po._ With all my Heart, if it can be done fairly. _Eu._ We will pretend that we will go thither a-Foot together. _Po._ They'll sooner believe that a Crab-Fish will fly, than that such heavy Fellows as we will take such a Journey on Foot. _Eu._ Will you follow good wholsome Advice? _Po._ Yes, by all Means. _Gl._ They are a drinking, and the longer they are fuddling, the more Danger we shall be in of being overturned in the Dirt. _Po._ You must come very early, if you find a Waggoner sober. _Gl._ Let us hire the Waggon for us four by ourselves, that we may get to _Antwerp_ the sooner: It is but a little more Charge, not worth minding, and this Expence will be made up by many Advantages; we shall have the more Room, and shall pass the Journey the more pleasantly in mutual Conversation. _Po._ _Glycion_ is much in the Right on't. For good Company in a Journey does the Office of a Coach; and according to the _Greek_ Proverb, we shall have more Liberty of talking, not about a Waggon, but in a Waggon. _Gl._ Well, I have made a Bargain, let us get up. Now I've a Mind to be merry, seeing I have had the good Luck to see my old dear Comrades after so long a Separation. _Eu._ And methinks I seem to grow young again. _Po._ How many Years do you reckon it, since we liv'd together at Paris? _Eu._ I believe it is not less than two and forty Years. _Pa._ Then we seem'd to be all pretty much of an Age. _Eu._ We were so, pretty near the Matter, for if there was any Difference it was very little. _Pa._ But what a great Difference does there seem to be now? For Glycion has nothing of an old Man about him, and Polygamus looks old enough to be his Grandfather. _Eu._ Why truly he does so, but what should be the Reason of it? _Pa._ What? Why either the one loiter'd and stopp'd in his Course, or the other run faster (out-run him). _Eu._ Oh! Time does not stay, how much soever Men may loiter. _Po._ Come, tell us, _Glycion_ truly, how many Years do you number? _Gl._ More than Ducats in my Pocket. _Po._ Well, but how many? _Gl._ Threescore and six. _Eu._ Why thou'lt never be old. _Po._ But by what Arts hast thou kept off old Age? for you have no grey Hairs, nor Wrinkles in your Skin, your Eyes are lively, your Teeth are white and even, you have a fresh Colour, and a plump Body. _Gl._ I'll tell you my Art, upon Condition you'll tell us your Art of coming to be old so soon. _Po._ I agree to the Condition. I'll do it. Then tell us whither you went when you left _Paris._ _Gl._ I went directly into my own Country, and by that Time I had been there almost a Year, I began to bethink myself what Course of Life to chuse; which I thought to be a Matter of great Importance, as to my future Happiness; so I cast my Thoughts about what had been successful to some, and what had been unsuccessful to others. _Po._ I admire you had so much Prudence, when you were as great a Maggot as any in the World, when you were at _Paris._ _Gl._ Then my Age did permit a little Wildness. But, my good Friend, you must know, I did not do all this neither of my own mother-Wit. _Po._ Indeed I stood in Admiration. _Gl._ Before I engaged in any Thing, I applied to a certain Citizen, a Man of Gravity, of the greatest Prudence by long Experience, and of a general Reputation with his fellow Citizens, and in my Opinion, the most happy Man in the World. _Eu._ You did wisely. _Gl._ By this Man's Advice I married a Wife. _Po._ Had she a very good Portion? _Gl._ An indifferent good one, and according to the Proverb, in a competent Proportion to my own: For I had just enough to do my Business, and this Matter succeeded to my Mind. _Po._ What was your Age then? _Gl._ Almost two and twenty. _Po._ O happy Man! _Gl._ But don't mistake the Matter; all this was not owing to Fortune neither. _Po._ Why so? _Gl._ I'll tell you; some love before they chuse, I made my Choice with Judgment first, and then lov'd afterwards, and nevertheless I married this Woman more for the Sake of Posterity than for any carnal Satisfaction. With her I liv'd a very pleasant Life, but not above eight Years. _Po._ Did she leave you no children? _Gl._ Nay, I have four alive, two Sons and two Daughters. _Po._ Do you live as a private Person, or in some publick Office? _Gl._ I have a publick Employ. I might have happen'd to have got into a higher Post, but I chose this because it was creditable enough to secure me from Contempt, and is free from troublesome Attendance: And it is such, that no Body need object against me that I live only for myself, I have also something to spare now and then to assist a Friend. With this I live content, and it is the very Height of my Ambition. And then I have taken Care so to execute my Office, to give more Reputation to my Office than I receiv'd from it; this I account to be more honourable, than to borrow my Dignity from the Splendor of my Office. _Eu._ Without all Controversy. _Gl._ By this Means I am advanced in Years, and the Affections of my fellow Citizens. _Eu._ But that's one of the difficultest Things in the World, when with very good Reason there is this old Saying: _He that has no Enemies has no Friends_; and _Envy is always an Attendant on Felicity_. _Gl._ Envy always is a Concomitant of a pompous Felicity, but a Mediocrity is safe; this was always my Study, not to make any Advantage to myself from the Disadvantages of other People. I embraced as much as I could, that which the _Greeks_ call Freedom from the Encumbrance of Business. I intermeddled with no one's Affairs; but especially I kept myself clear from those that could not be meddled with without gaining the ill Will of a great many. If a Friend wants my Assistance, I so serve him, as thereby not to procure any Enemies to myself. In Case of any Misunderstanding between me and any Persons, I endeavour to soften it by clearing myself of Suspicion, or to set all right again by good Offices, or to let it die without taking Notice of it: I always avoid Contention, but if it shall happen, I had rather lose my Money than my Friend. Upon the Whole, I act the Part of _Mitio_ in the Comedy, I affront no Man, I carry a chearful Countenance to all, I salute and resalute affably, I find no Fault with what any Man purposes to do or does, I don't prefer myself before other People; I let every one enjoy his Opinion; what I would have kept as a Secret, I tell to no Body: I never am curious to pry in the Privacies of other Men. If I happen to come to the Knowledge of any thing, I never blab it. As for absent Persons, I either say nothing at all of them, or speak of them with Kindness and Civility. Great Part of the Quarrels that arise between Men, come from the Intemperance of the Tongue. I never breed Quarrels or heighten them; but where-ever Opportunity happens, I either moderate them, or put an End to them. By these Methods I have hitherto kept clear of Envy, and have maintained the Affections of my fellow Citizens. _Pa._ Did you not find a single Life irksome to you? _Gl._ Nothing happened to me in the whole Course of my Life, more afflicting than the Death of my Wife, and I could have passionately wish'd that we might have grown old together, and might have enjoy'd the Comfort of the common Blessing, our Children: But since Providence saw it meet it should be otherwise, I judged that it was best for us both, and therefore did not think there was Cause for me to afflict myself with Grief, that would do no good, neither to me nor the Deceased. _Pol._ What, had you never an Inclination to marry again, especially the first having been so happy a Match to you? _Gl._ I had an Inclination so to do, but as I married for the Sake of Children, so for the Sake of my Children I did not marry again. _Pol._ But 'tis a miserable Case to lie alone whole Nights without a Bedfellow. _Gl._ Nothing is hard to a willing Mind. And then do but consider the Benefits of a single Life: There are some People in the World, who will be for making the worst of every Thing; such a one _Crates_ seemed to be, or an Epigram under his Name, summing up the Evils of human Life. And the Resolution is this, that it is best not to be born at all. Now _Metrodorus_ pleases me a great Deal better, who picks out what is good in it; this makes Life the pleasanter. And I brought my Mind to that Temper of Indifference never to have a violent Aversion or Fondness for any thing. And by this it comes to pass, that if any good Fortune happens to me, I am not vainly transported, or grow insolent; or if any thing falls out cross, I am not much perplex'd. _Pa._ Truly if you can do this, you are a greater Philosopher than _Thales_ himself. _Gl._ If any Uneasiness in my Mind rises, (as mortal Life produces many of them) I cast it immediately out of my Thoughts, whether it be from the Sense of an Affront offered, or any Thing done unhandsomly. _Pol._ Well, but there are some Provocations that would raise the Anger of the most patient Man alive: As the Saucinesses of Servants frequently are. _Gl._ I suffer nothing to stay long enough in my Mind to make an Impression. If I can cure them I do it, if not, I reason thus with myself, What good will it do me to torment myself about that which will be never the better for it? In short, I let Reason do that for me at first, which after a little While, Time itself would do. And this I be sure take Care of, not to suffer any Vexation, be it never so great, to go to Bed with me. _Eu._ No wonder that you don't grow old, who are of that Temper. _Gl._ Well, and that I mayn't conceal any thing from Friends, in an especial Manner I have kept this Guard upon myself, never to commit any Thing that might be a Reflection either on my own Honour or that of my Children. For there is nothing more troublesome than a guilty Conscience. And if I have committed a Fault I don't go to Bed before I have reconcil'd myself to God. To be at Peace with God is the Fountain of true Tranquillity of Mind, or, as the Greeks call it, [Greek: euthymia]. For they who live thus, Men can do them no great Injury. _Eu._ Have you never any anxious Thoughts upon the Apprehension of Death? _Gl._ No more than I have for the Day of my Birth. I know I must die, and to live in the Fear of it may possibly shorten my Life, but to be sure it would never make it longer. So that I care for nothing else but to live piously and comfortably, and leave the rest to Providence; and a Man can't live happily that does not live piously. _Pa._ But I should grow old with the Tiresomeness of living so long in the same Place, tho' it were _Rome_ itself. _Gl._ The changing of Place has indeed something of Pleasure in it; but then, as for long Travels, tho' perhaps they may add to a Man's Experience, yet they are liable to a great many Dangers. I seem to myself to travel over the whole World in a Map, and can see more in Histories than if I had rambled through Sea and Land for twenty Years together, as _Ulysses_ did. I have a little Country-House about two Miles out of Town, and there sometimes, of a Citizen I become a Country-Man, and having recreated my self there, I return again to the City a new Comer, and salute and am welcom'd as if I had return'd from the new-found Islands. _Eu._ Don't you assist Nature with a little Physick? _Gl._ I never was let Blood, or took Pills nor Potions in my Life yet. If I feel any Disorder coming upon me, I drive it away with spare Diet or the Country Air. _Eu._ Don't you study sometimes? _Gl._ I do. In that is the greatest Pleasure of my Life: But I make a Diversion of it, but not a Toil. I study either for Pleasure or Profit of my Life, but not for Ostentation. After Meat I have a Collation of learned Stories, or else somebody to read to me, and I never sit to my Books above an Hour at a Time: Then I get up and take my Violin, and walk about in my Chamber, and sing to it, or else ruminate upon what I have read; or if I have a good Companion with me, I relate it, and after a While I return to my Book again. _Eu._ But tell me now, upon the Word of an honest Man; Do you feel none of the Infirmities of old Age, which are said to be a great many? _Gl._ My Sleep is not so sound, nor my Memory so good, unless I fix any thing deeply in it. Well, I have now acquitted myself of my Promise. I have laid open to you those magical Arts by which I have kept myself young, and now let _Polygamus_ tell us fairly, how he brought old Age upon him to that Degree. _Po._ Indeed, I will hide nothing from such trusty Companions. _Eu._ You will tell it to those that will not make a Discourse of it. _Po._ You very well know I indulg'd my Appetite when I was at _Paris_. _Eu._ We remember it very well. But we thought that you had left your rakish Manners and your youthful Way of Living at _Paris_. _Po._ Of the many Mistresses I had there I took one Home, who was big with Child. _Eu._ What, into your Father's House? _Po._ Directly thither; but I pretended she was a Friend's Wife, who was to come to her in a little Time. _Gl._ Did your Father believe it? _Po._ He smelt the Matter out in three or four Days time, and then there was a cruel Scolding. However, in this Interim I did not leave off Feasting, Gaming, and other extravagant Diversions. And in short, my Father continuing to rate me, saying he would have no such cackling Gossips under his Roof, and ever and anon threatning to discard me, I march'd off, remov'd to another Place with my Pullet, and she brought me some young Chickens. _Pa._ Where had you Money all the While? _Po._ My Mother gave me some by Stealth, and I ran over Head and Ears in Debt. _Eu._ Had any Body so little Wit as to lend you? _Po._ There are some Persons who will trust no Body more readily than they will a Spendthrift. _Pa._ And what next? _Po._ At last my Father was going about to disinherit me in good earnest. Some Friends interpos'd, and made up the Breach upon this Condition; that I should renounce the _French_ Woman, and marry one of our own Country. _Eu._ Was she your Wife? _Po._ There had past some Words between us in the future Tense, but there had been carnal Copulation in the present Tense. _Eu._ How could you leave her then? _Po._ It came to be known afterwards, that my _French_ Woman had a _French_ Husband that she had elop'd from some Time before. _Eu._ But it seems you have a Wife now. _Po._ None besides this which is my Eighth. _Eu._ The Eighth! Why then you were named _Polygamus_ by Way of Prophecy. Perhaps they all died without Children. _Po._ Nay, there was not one of them but left me a Litter which I have at Home. _Eu._ I had rather have so many Hens at Home, which would lay me Eggs. An't you weary of wifeing? _Po._ I am so weary of it, that if this Eighth should die to Day, I would marry the Ninth to-Morrow. Nay, it vexes me that I must not have two or three, when one Cock has so many Hens. _Eu._ Indeed I don't wonder, Mr. Cock, that you are no fatter, and that you have brought old Age upon you to that Degree; for nothing brings on old Age faster, than excessive and hard Drinking, keeping late Hours, and Whoring, extravagant Love of Women, and immoderate Venery. But who maintains your Family all this While? _Po._ A small Estate came to me by the Death of my Father, and I work hard with my Hands. _Eu._ Have you given over Study then? _Po._ Altogether. I have brought a Noble to Nine Pence, and of a Master of seven Arts, I am become a Workman of but one Art. _Eu._ Poor Man! So many Times you were obliged to be a Mourner, and so many Times a Widower. _Po._ I never liv'd single above ten Days, and the new Wife always put an End to the Mourning for the old one. So, you have in Truth the Epitome of my Life; and I wish _Pampirus_ would give us a Narration of his Life; he bears his Age well enough: For if I am not mistaken, he is two or three Years older than I. _Pa._ Truly I'll tell it ye, if you are at Leisure to hear such a Romance. _Eu._ Nay, it will be a Pleasure to hear it. _Pa._ When I went Home my antient Father began to press me earnestly to enter into some Course of Life, that might make some Addition to what I had; and after long Consultation Merchandizing was what I took to. _Po._ I admire this Way of Life pleas'd you more than any other. _Pa._ I was naturally greedy to know new Things, to see various Countries and Cities, to learn Languages, and the Customs and Manners of Men, and Merchandize seem'd the most apposite to that Purpose. From which a general Knowledge of Things proceeds. _Po._ But a wretched one, which is often purchas'd with Inconveniencies. _Pa._ It is so, therefore my Father gave me a good large Stock, that I might begin to trade upon a good Foundation: And at the same Time I courted a Wife with a good Fortune, but handsome enough to have gone off without a Portion. _Eu._ Did you succeed? _Pa._ No. Before I came Home, I lost all, Stock and Block. _Eu._ Perhaps by Shipwreck. _Pa._ By Shipwreck indeed. For we run upon more dangerous Rocks than those of _Scilly_. _Eu._ In what Sea did you happen to run upon that Rock? Or what is the Name of it? _Pa._ I can't tell what Sea 'tis in, but it is a Rock that is infamous for the destruction of a great many, they call it _Alea_ [Dice, the Devil's Bones] in _Latin_, how you call it in _Greek_ I can't tell. _Eu._ O Fool! _Pa._ Nay, my Father was a greater Fool, to trust a young Fop with such a Sum of Money. _Gl._ And what did you do next? _Pa._ Why nothing at all, but I began to think of hanging myself. _Gl._ Was your Father so implacable then? For such a Loss might be made up again; and an Allowance is always to be made to one that makes the first Essay, and much more it ought to be to one that tries all Things. _Pa._ Tho' what you say may be true, I lost my Wife in the mean Time. For as soon as the Maid's Parents came to understand what they must expect, they would have no more to do with me, and I was over Head and Ears in Love. _Gl._ I pity thee. But what did you propose to yourself after that? _Pa._ To do as it is usual in desperate Cases. My Father had cast me off, my Fortune was consum'd, my Wife was lost, I was every where call'd a Sot, a Spendthrift, a Rake and what not? Then I began to deliberate seriously with myself, whether I should hang myself or no, or whether I should throw myself into a Monastery. _Eu._ You were cruelly put to it! I know which you would chuse, the easier Way of Dying. _Pa._ Nay, sick was I of Life itself; I pitched upon that which seem'd to me the most painful. _Gl._ And yet many People cast themselves into Monasteries, that they may live more comfortably there. _Pa._ Having got together a little Money to bear my Charges, I stole out of my own Country. _Gl._ Whither did you go at last? _Pa._ Into _Ireland_, there I became a Canon Regular of that Order that wear Linnen outwards and Woollen next their Skin. _Gl._ Did you spend your Winter in _Ireland_? _Pa._ No. But by that Time I had been among them two Months I sail'd into _Scotland_. _Gl._ What displeas'd you among them? _Pa._ Nothing, but that I thought their Discipline was not severe enough for the Deserts of one, that once Hanging was too good for. _Gl._ Well, what past in _Scotland_? _Pa._ Then I chang'd my Linnen Habit for a Leathern one, among the Carthusians. _Eu._ These are the Men, that in Strictness of Profession, are dead to the World. _Pa._ It seem'd so to me, when I heard them Singing. _Gl._ What? Do dead Men sing? But how many Months did you spend among the _Scots_? _Pa._ Almost six. _Gl._ A wonderful Constancy. _Eu._ What offended you there? _Pa._ Because it seem'd to me to be a lazy, delicate Sort of Life; and then I found there, many that were not of a very sound Brain, by Reason of their Solitude. I had but a little Brain myself, and I was afraid I should lose it all. _Po._ Whither did you take your next Flight? _Pa._ Into France: There I found some cloath'd all in Black, of the Order of St. Benedict, who intimate by the Colour of their Cloaths, that they are Mourners in this World; and among these, there were some, that for their upper Garment wore Hair-Cloth like a Net. _Gl._ A grievous Mortification of the Flesh. _Pa._ Here I stay'd eleven Months. _Eu._ What was the Matter that you did not stay there for good and all? _Pa._ Because I found there were more Ceremonies than true Piety: And besides, I heard that there were some who were much holier, which _Bernard_ had enjoin'd a more severe Discipline, the black Habit being chang'd into a white one; with these I liv'd ten Months. _Eu._ What disgusted you here? _Pa._ I did not much dislike any Thing, for I found them very good Company; but the _Greek_ Proverb ran in my Mind; [Greek: Dei tas chelônas ê phagein ê mê phagein.] _One must either eat Snails, or eat nothing at all._ Therefore I came to a Resolution, either not to be a Monk, or to be a Monk to Perfection. I had heard there were some of the Order of St. _Bridget_, that were really heavenly Men, I betook myself to these. _Eu._ How many Months did you stay there? _Pa._ Two Days; but not quite that. _Gl._ Did that Kind of Life please you no better than so? _Pa._ They take no Body in, but those that will profess themselves presently; but I was not yet come to that Pitch of Madness, so easily to put my Neck into such a Halter, that I could never get off again. And as often as I heard the Nuns singing, the Thoughts of my Mistress that I had lost, tormented my Mind. _Gl._ Well, and what after this? _Pa._ My Mind was inflamed with the Love of Holiness; nor yet had I met with any Thing that could satisfy it. At last, as I was walking up and down, I fell in among some Cross-Bearers. This Badge pleas'd me at first Sight; but the Variety hindered me from chusing which to take to. Some carried a white Cross, some a red Cross, some a green Cross, some a party-colour'd Cross, some a single Cross, some a double one, some a quadruple, and others some of one Form, and some of another; and I, that I might leave nothing untry'd, I carried some of every Sort. But I found in reality, that there was a great Difference between carrying a Cross on a Gown or a Coat, and carrying it in the Heart. At last, being tired with Enquiry, it came into my Mind, that to arrive at universal Holiness all at once, I would take a Journey to the holy Land, and so would return Home with a Back-Load of Sanctimony. _Po._ And did you go thither? _Pa._ Yes. _Po._ Where did you get Money to bear your Charges? _Pa._ I wonder it never came into your Head, to ask that before now, and not to have enquir'd after that a great While ago: But you know the old Proverb; _a Man of Art will live any where_. _Gl._ What Art do you carry with you? _Pa._ Palmistry. _Gl._ Where did you learn it? _Pa._ What signifies that? _Gl._ Who was your Master? _Pa._ My Belly, the great Master of all Arts: I foretold Things past, present, and to come. _Gl._ And did you know any Thing of the Matter? _Pa._ Nothing at all; but I made bold Guesses, and run no Risque neither, having got my Money first. _Po._ And was so ridiculous an Art sufficient to maintain you? _Pa._ It was, and two Servants too: There is every where such a Number of foolish young Fellows and Wenches. However, when I came to _Jerusalem_, I put myself into the Train of a rich Nobleman, who being seventy Years of Age, said he could never have died in Peace, unless he had first visited _Jerusalem_. _Eu._ What, did he leave a Wife at Home? _Pa._ Yes, and six Children. _Eu._ O impious, pious, old Man! Well, and did you come back holy from thence? _Pa._ Shall I tell you the Truth? Somewhat worse than I went. _Eu._ So, as I hear, your Religion was grown cool. _Pa._ Nay, it grew more hot: So I went back into _Italy_, and enter'd into the Army. _Eu._ What, then, did you look for Religion in the Camp. Than which, what is there that can be more impious? _Pa._ It was a holy War. _Eu._ Perhaps against the _Turks_. _Pa._ Nay, more holy than that, as they indeed gave out at that Time. _Eu._ What was that? _Pa._ Pope _Julius_ the Second made War upon the _French_. And the Experience of many Things that it gives a Man, made me fancy a Soldier's Life. _Eu._ Of many Things indeed; but wicked ones. _Pa._ So I found afterwards: But however, I liv'd harder here, than I did in the Monasteries. _Eu._ And what did you do after this? _Pa._ Now my Mind began to be wavering, whether I should return to my Business of a Merchant, that I had laid aside, or press forward in Pursuit of Religion that fled before me. In the mean Time it came into my Mind, that I might follow both together. _Eu._ What, be a Merchant and a Monk both together? _Pa._ Why not? There is nothing more religious than the Orders of Mendicants, and there is nothing more like to Trading. They fly over Sea and Land, they see many Things, they hear many Things, they enter into the Houses of common People, Noblemen, and Kings. _Eu._ Ay, but they don't Trade for Gain. _Pa._ Very often, with better Success than we do. _Eu._ Which of these Orders did you make Choice of? _Pa._ I try'd them all. _Eu._ Did none of them please you? _Pa._ I lik'd them all well enough, if I might but presently have gone to Trading; but I consider'd in my Mind, I must labour a long Time in the Choir, before I could be qualified for the Trust: So now I began to think how I might get to be made an Abbot: But, I thought with myself, _Kissing goes by Favour_, and it will be a tedious Pursuit: So having spent eight Years after this Manner, hearing of my Father's Death, I return'd Home, and by my Mother's Advice, I marry'd, and betook myself to my old Business of Traffick. _Gl._ Prithee tell me, when you chang'd your Habit so often, and were transform'd, as it were, into another Sort of Creature, how could you behave yourself with a proper Decorum? _Pa._ Why not, as well as those who in the same Comedy act several Parts? _Eu._ Tell us now in good earnest, you that have try'd every Sort of Life, which you most approve of. _Pa. So many Men, so many Minds:_ I like none better than this which I follow. _Eu._ But there are a great many Inconveniences attend it. _Pa._ There are so. But seeing there is no State of Life, that is entirely free from Incommodities, this being my Lot, I make the best on't: But now here is _Eusebius_ still, I hope he will not think much to acquaint his Friends with some Scenes of his Course of Life. _Eu._ Nay, with the whole Play of it, if you please to hear it, for it does not consist of many Acts. _Gl._ It will be a very great Favour. _Eu._ When I return'd to my own Country, I took a Year to deliberate what Way of Living to chuse, and examin'd myself, to what Employment my Inclination led me, and I was fit for. In the mean Time a Prebendary was offered me, as they call it; it was a good fat Benefice, and I accepted it. _Gl._ That Sort of Life has no good Reputation among People. _Eu._ As human Affairs go, I thought it was a Thing well worth the accepting. Do you look upon it a small Happiness to have so many Advantages to fall into a Man's Mouth, as tho' they dropt out of Heaven; handsome Houses well furnish'd, a large Revenue, an honourable Society, and a Church at Hand, to serve God in, when you have a Mind to it? _Pa._ I was scandaliz'd at the Luxury of the Persons, and the Infamy of their Concubines; and because a great many of that Sort of Men have an Aversion to Learning. _Eu._ I don't mind what others do, but what I ought to do myself, and associate myself with the better Sort, if I cannot make them that are bad better. _Po._ And is that the State of Life you have always liv'd in? _Eu._ Always, except four Years, that I liv'd at _Padua_. _Po._ What did you do there? _Eu._ These Years I divided in this Manner; I studied Physick a Year and a half, and the rest of the Time Divinity. _Po._ Why so? _Eu._ That I might the better manage both Soul and Body, and also sometimes be helpful by Way of Advice to my Friends. I preached sometimes according to my Talent. And under these Circumstances, I have led a very quiet Life, being content with a single Benefice, not being ambitiously desirous of any more, and should have refus'd it, if it had been offered me. _Pa._ I wish we could learn how the rest of our old Companions have liv'd, that were our Familiars. _Eu._ I can tell you somewhat of some of them: but I see we are not far from the City; therefore, if you are willing, we will all take up the same Inn, and there we will talk over the rest at Leisure. _Hugh. [a Waggoner.]_ You blinking Fellow, where did you take up this Rubbish? _Harry the Waggoner._ Where are you carrying that Harlottry, you Pimp? _Hugh._ You ought to throw these frigid old Fellows somewhere into a Bed of Nettles, to make them grow warm again. _Harry._ Do you see that you shoot that Herd of yours somewhere into a Pond to cool them, to lay their Concupiscence, for they are too hot. _Hugh._ I am not us'd to overturn my Passengers. _Harry._ No? but I saw you a little While ago, overturn Half a Dozen Carthusians into the Mire, so that tho' they went in white, they came out black, and you stood grinning at it, as if you had done some noble Exploit. _Hugh._ I was in the Right of it, they were all asleep, and added a dead Weight to my Waggon. _Harry._ But these old Gentlemen, by talking merrily all the Way, have made my Waggon go light. I never had a better Fare. _Hugh._ But you don't use to like such Passengers. _Harry._ But these are good old Men. _Hugh._ How do you know that? _Harry._ Because they made me drink humming Ale, three Times by the Way. _Hugh._ Ha, ha, ha, then they are good to you. _The FRANCISCANS,_ [Greek: Ptôchoplousioi], _or RICH BEGGARS._ The ARGUMENT. _The_ Franciscans, _or rich poor Persons, are not admitted into the House of a Country Parson_. Pandocheus _jokes wittily upon them. The Habit is not to be accounted odious. The Life and Death of the_ Franciscans. _Of the foolish Pomp of Habits. The Habits of Monks are not in themselves evil. What Sort of Persons Monks ought to be. The Use of Garments is for Necessity and Decency. What Decency is. Whence arose the Variety of Habits and Garments among the Monks. That there was in old Time no Superstition in the Habits._ CONRADE, _a Bernardine_ Monk, _a_ Parson, _an_ Inn-Keeper _and his_ Wife. _Con._ Hospitality becomes a Pastor. _Pars._ But I am a Pastor of Sheep; I don't love Wolves. _Con._ But perhaps you don't hate a Wench so much. But what Harm have we done you, that you have such an Aversion to us, that you won't so much as admit us under your Roof? We won't put you to the Charge of a Supper. _Pars._ I'll tell ye, because if you spy but a Hen or a Chicken in a Body's House, I should be sure to hear of it to-Morrow in the Pulpit. This is the Gratitude you shew for your being entertain'd. _Con._ We are not all such Blabs. _Pars._ Well, be what you will, I'd scarce put Confidence in St. _Peter_ himself, if he came to me in such a Habit. _Con._ If that be your Resolution, at least tell us where is an Inn. _Pars._ There's a publick Inn here in the Town. _Con._ What Sign has it? _Pars._ Upon a Board that hangs up, you will see a Dog thrusting his Head into a Porridge-Pot: This is acted to the Life in the Kitchen; and a Wolf sits at the Bar. _Con._ That's an unlucky Sign. _Pars._ You may e'en make your best on't. _Ber._ What Sort of a Pastor is this? we might be starv'd for him. _Con._ If he feeds his Sheep no better than he feeds us, they must needs be very lean. _Ber._ In a difficult Case, we had Need of good Counsel: What shall we do? _Con._ We must set a good Face on't. _Ber._ There's little to be gotten by Modesty, in a Case of Necessity. _Con._ Very right, St. _Francis_ will be with us. _Ber._ Let's try our Fortune then. _Con._ We won't stay for our Host's Answer at the Door, but we'll rush directly into the Stove, and we won't easily be gotten out again. _Ber._ O impudent Trick! _Con._ This is better than to lie abroad all Night, and be frozen to Death. In the mean Time, put Bashfulness in your Wallet to Day, and take it out again to-Morrow. _Ber._ Indeed, the Matter requires it. _Innk._ What Sort of Animals do I see here? _Con._ We are the Servants of God, and the Sons of St. _Francis_, good Man. _Innk._ I don't know what Delight God may take in such Servants; but I would not have many of them in my House. _Con._ Why so? _Innk._ Because at Eating and Drinking, you are more than Men; but you have neither Hands nor Feet to work. Ha, ha! You Sons of St. _Francis_, you use to tell us in the Pulpit, that he was a pure Batchelor, and has he got so many Sons? _Con._ We are the Children of the Spirit, not of the Flesh. _Innk._ A very unhappy Father, for your Mind is the worst Part about you; but your Bodies are too lusty, and as to that Part of you, it is better with you, than 'tis for our Interest, who have Wives and Daughters. _Con._ Perhaps you suspect that we are some of those that degenerate from the Institutions of our Founder; we are strict Observers of them. _Innk._ And I'll observe you too, that you don't do me any Damage, for I have a mortal Aversion for this Sort of Cattle. _Con._ Why so, I pray? _Innk._ Because you carry Teeth in your Head, but no Money in your Pocket; and such Sort of Guests are very unwelcome to me. _Con._ But we take Pains for you. _Innk._ Shall I shew you after what Manner you labour for me? _Con._ Do, shew us. _Innk._ Look upon that Picture there, just by you, on your left Hand, there you'll see a Wolf a Preaching, and behind him a Goose, thrusting her Head out of a Cowl: There again, you'll see a Wolf absolving one at Confession; but a Piece of a Sheep, hid under his Gown, hangs out. There you see an Ape in a _Franciscan_'s Habit, he holds forth a Cross in one Hand, and has the other Hand in the sick Man's Purse. _Con._ We don't deny, but sometimes Wolves, Foxes and Apes are cloathed with this Habit, nay we confess oftentimes that Swine, Dogs, Horses, Lions and Basilisks are conceal'd under it; but then the same Garment covers many honest Men. As a Garment makes no Body better, so it makes no Body worse. It is unjust to judge of a Man by his Cloaths; for if so, the Garment that you wear sometimes were to be accounted detestable, because it covers many Thieves, Murderers, Conjurers, and Whoremasters. _Innk._ Well, I'll dispense with your Habit, if you'll but pay your Reckonings. _Con._ We'll pray to God for you. _Innk._ And I'll pray to God for you, and there's one for t'other. _Con._ But there are some Persons that you must not take Money of. _Innk._ How comes it that you make a Conscience of touching any? _Con._ Because it does not consist with our Profession. _Innk._ Nor does it stand with my Profession to entertain Guests for nothing. _Con._ But we are tied up by a Rule not to touch Money. _Innk._ And my Rule commands me quite the contrary. _Con._ What Rule is yours? _Innk._ Read those Verses: _Guests at this Table, when you've eat while you're able. Rise not hence before you have first paid your Score._ _Con._ We'll be no Charge to you. _Innk._ But they that are no Charge to me are no Profit to me neither. _Con._ If you do us any good Office here, God will make it up to you sufficiently. _Innk._ But these Words won't keep my Family. _Con._ We'll hide ourselves in some Corner of the Stove, and won't be troublesome to any Body. _Innk._ My Stove won't hold such Company. _Con._ What, will you thrust us out of Doors then? It may be we shall be devour'd by Wolves to Night. _Innk._ Neither Wolves nor Dogs will prey upon their own Kind. _Con._ If you do so you will be more cruel than the _Turks_. Let us be what we will, we are Men. _Innk._ I have lost my Hearing. _Con._ You indulge your Corps, and lye naked in a warm Bed behind the Stove, and will you thrust us out of Doors to be perish'd with Cold, if the Wolves should not devour us? _Innk._ _Adam_ liv'd so in Paradise. _Con._ He did so, but then he was innocent. _Innk._ And so am I innocent. _Con._ Perhaps so, leaving out the first Syllable. But take Care, if you thrust us out of your Paradise, lest God should not receive you into his. _Innk._ Good Words, I beseech you. _Wife._ Prithee, my Dear, make some Amends for all your ill Deeds by this small Kindness, let them stay in our House to Night: They are good Men, and thou'lt thrive the better for't. _Innk._ Here's a Reconciler for you. I'm afraid you're agreed upon the Matter. I don't very well like to hear this good Character from a Woman; Good Men! _Wife._ Phoo, there's nothing in it. But think with your self how often you have offended God with Dicing, Drinking, Brawling, Quarrelling. At least, make an Atonement for your Sins by this Act of Charity, and don't thrust these Men out of Doors, whom you would wish to be with you when you are upon your Death-Bed. You oftentimes harbour Rattles and Buffoons, and will you thrust these Men out of Doors? _Innk._ What does this Petticoat-Preacher do here? Get you in, and mind your Kitchen. _Wife._ Well, so I will. _Bert._ The Man softens methinks, and he is taking his Shirt, I hope all will be well by and by. _Con._ And the Servants are laying the Cloth. It is happy for us that no Guests come, for we should have been sent packing if they had. _Bert._ It fell out very happily that we brought a Flaggon of Wine from the last Town we were at, and a roasted Leg of Lamb, or else, for what I see here, he would not have given us so much as a Mouthful of Hay. _Con._ Now the Servants are set down, let's take Part of the Table with them, but so that we don't incommode any Body. _Innk._ I believe I may put it to your Score, that I have not a Guest to Day, nor any besides my own Family, and you good-for-nothing ones. _Con._ Well, put it up to our Score, if it has not happened to you often. _Innk._ Oftner than I would have it so. _Con._ Well, don't be uneasy; Christ lives, and he'll never forsake his Servants. _Innk._ I have heard you are call'd evangelical Men; but the Gospel forbids carrying about Satchels and Bread, but I see you have great Sleeves for Wallets, and you don't only carry Bread, but Wine too, and Flesh also, and that of the best Sort. _Con._ Take Part with us, if you please. _Innk._ My Wine is Hog-Wash to it. _Con._ Eat some of the Flesh, there is more than enough for us. _Innk._ O happy Beggars! My Wife has dress'd nothing to Day, but Coleworts and a little rusty Bacon. _Con._ If you please, let us join our Stocks; it is all one to us what we eat. _Innk._ Then why don't you carry with you Coleworts and dead Wine? _Con._ Because the People where we din'd to Day would needs force this upon us. _Innk._ Did your Dinner cost you nothing? _Con._ No. Nay they thanked us, and when we came away gave us these Things to carry along with us. _Innk._ From whence did you come? _Con._ From _Basil._ _Innk._ Whoo! what so far? _Con._ Yes. _Innk._ What Sort of Fellows are you that ramble about thus without Horses, Money, Servants, Arms, or Provisions? _Con._ You see in us some Footsteps of the evangelical Life. _Innk._ It seems to me to be the Life of Vagabonds, that stroll about with Budgets. _Con._ Such Vagabonds the Apostles were, and such was the Lord Jesus himself. _Innk._ Can you tell Fortunes? _Con._ Nothing less. _Innk._ How do you live then? _Con._ By him, who hath promised. _Innk._ Who is he? _Con._ He that said, _Take no Care, but all Things shall be added unto you_. _Innk._ He did so promise, but it was _to them that seek the Kingdom of God._ _Con._ That we do with all our Might. _Innk._ The Apostles were famous for Miracles; they heal'd the Sick, so that it is no Wonder how they liv'd every where, but you can do no such Thing. _Con._ We could, if we were like the Apostles, and if the Matter requir'd a Miracle. But Miracles were only given for a Time for the Conviction of the Unbelieving; there is no Need of any Thing now, but a religious Life. And it is oftentimes a greater Happiness to be sick than to be well, and more happy to die than to live. _Innk._ What do you do then? _Con._ That we can; every Man according to the Talent that God has given him. We comfort, we exhort, we warn, we reprove, and when Opportunity offers, sometimes we preach, if we any where find Pastors that are dumb: And if we find no Opportunity of doing Good, we take Care to do no Body any Harm, either by our Manners or our Words. _Innk._ I wish you would preach for us to Morrow, for it is a Holy-Day. _Con._ For what Saint? _Innk._ To St. _Antony._ _Con._ He was indeed a good Man. But how came he to have a Holiday? _Innk._ I'll tell you. This Town abounds with Swine-Herds, by Reason of a large Wood hard by that produces Plenty of Acorns; and the People have an Opinion that St. _Antony_ takes Charge of the Hogs, and therefore they worship him, for Fear he should grow angry, if they neglect him. _Con._ I wish they would worship him as they ought to do. _Innk._ How's that? _Con._ Whosoever imitates the Saints in their Lives, worships as he ought to do. _Innk._ To-morrow the Town will ring again with Drinking and Dancing, Playing, Scolding and Boxing. _Con._ After this Manner the Heathens once worshipped their _Bacchus_. But I wonder, if this is their Way of worshipping, that St. _Antony_ is not enraged at this Sort of Men that are more stupid than Hogs themselves. What Sort of a Pastor have you? A dumb one, or a wicked one? _Innk._ What he is to other People, I don't know: But he's a very good one to me, for he drinks all Day at my House, and no Body brings more Customers or better, to my great Advantage. And I wonder he is not here now. _Con._ We have found by Experience he is not a very good one for our Turn. _Innk._ What! Did you go to him then? _Con._ We intreated him to let us lodge with him, but he chas'd us away from the Door, as if we had been Wolves, and sent us hither. _Innk._ Ha, ha. Now I understand the Matter, he would not come because he knew you were to be here. _Con._ Is he a dumb one? _Innk._ A dumb one! There's no Body is more noisy in the Stove, and he makes the Church ring again. But I never heard him preach. But no Need of more Words. As far as I understand, he has made you sensible that he is none of the dumb Ones. _Con._ Is he a learned Divine? _Innk._ He says he is a very great Scholar; but what he knows is what he has learned in private Confession, and therefore it is not lawful to let others know what he knows. What need many Words? I'll tell you in short; _like People, like Priest_; and _the Dish_, as we say, _wears its own Cover_. _Con._ It may be he will not give a Man Liberty to preach in his Place. _Innk._ Yes, I'll undertake he will, but upon this Condition, that you don't have any Flirts at him, as it is a common Practice for you to do. _Con._ They have us'd themselves to an ill Custom that do so. If a Pastor offends in any Thing, I admonish him privately, the rest is the Bishop's Business. _Innk._ Such Birds seldom fly hither. Indeed you seem to be good Men yourselves. But, pray, what's the Meaning of this Variety of Habits? For a great many People take you to be ill Men by your Dress. _Con._ Why so? _Innk._ I can't tell, except it be that they find a great many of you to be so. _Con._ And many again take us to be holy Men, because we wear this Habit. They are both in an Error: But they err less that take us to be good Men by our Habit, than they that take us for base Men. _Innk._ Well, so let it be. But what is the Advantage of so many different Dresses? _Con._ What is your Opinion? _Innk._ Why I see no Advantage at all, except in Processions, or War. For in Processions there are carried about various Representations of Saints, of _Jews_, and Heathens, and we know which is which, by the different Habits. And in War the Variety of Dress is good, that every one may know his own Company, and follow his own Colours, so that there may be no Confusion in the Army. _Con._ You say very well: This is a military Garment, one of us follows one Leader, and another another; but we all fight under one General, Christ. But in a Garment there are three Things to be consider'd. _Innk._ What are they? _Con._ Necessity, Use, and Decency. Why do we eat? _Innk._ That we mayn't be starv'd with Hunger. _Con._ And for the very same Reason we take a Garment that we mayn't be starv'd with Cold. _Innk._ I confess it. _Con._ This Garment of mine is better for that than yours. It covers the Head, Neck, and Shoulders, from whence there is the most Danger. Use requires various Sorts of Garments. A short Coat for a Horseman, a long one for one that sits still, a thin one in Summer, a thick one in Winter. There are some at _Rome_, that change their Cloaths three Times a Day; in the Morning they take a Coat lin'd with Fur, about Noon they take a single one, and towards Night one that is a little thicker; but every one is not furnish'd with this Variety; therefore this Garment of ours is contriv'd so, that this one will serve for various Uses. _Innk._ How is that? _Con._ If the North Wind blow, or the Sun shines hot, we put on our Cowl; if the Heat is troublesome, we let it down behind. If we are to sit still, we let down our Garment about our Heels, if we are to walk, we hold or tuck it up. _Innk._ He was no Fool, whosoever he was, that contriv'd it. _Con._ And it is the chief Thing in living happily, for a Man to accustom himself to be content with a few Things: For if once we begin to indulge ourselves with Delicacies and Sensualities, there will be no End; and there is no one Garment could be invented, that could answer so many Purposes. _Innk._ I allow that. _Con._ Now let us consider the Decency of it: Pray tell me honestly, if you should put on your Wife's Cloaths, would not every one say that you acted indecently? _Innk._ They would say I was mad. _Con._ And what would you say, if she should put on your Cloaths? _Innk._ I should not say much perhaps, but I should cudgel her handsomly. _Con._ But then, how does it signify nothing what Garment any one wears? _Innk._ O yes, in this Case it is very material. _Con._ Nor is that strange; for the Laws of the very Pagans inflict a Punishment on either Man or Woman, that shall wear the Cloaths of a different Sex. _Innk._ And they are in the Right for it. _Con._ But, come on. What if an old Man of fourscore should dress himself like a Boy of fifteen; or if a young Man dress himself like an old Man, would not every one say he ought to be bang'd for it? Or if an old Woman should attire herself like a young Girl, and the contrary? _Innk._ No doubt. _Con._ In like Manner, if a Lay-Man should wear a Priest's Habit, and a Priest a Lay-Man's. _Innk._ They would both act unbecomingly. _Con._ What if a private Man should put on the Habit of a Prince, or an inferior Clergy-Man that of a Bishop? Would he act unhandsomely or no? _Innk._ Certainly he would. _Con._ What if a Citizen should dress himself like a Soldier, with a Feather in his Cap, and other Accoutrements of a hectoring Soldier? _Innk._ He would be laugh'd at. _Con._ What if any _English_ Ensign should carry a white Cross in his Colours, a _Swiss_ a red one, a _French_ Man a black one? _Innk._ He would act impudently. _Con._ Why then do you wonder so much at our Habit? _Innk._ I know the Difference between a private Man and a Prince, between a Man and a Woman; but I don't understand the Difference between a Monk and no Monk. _Con._ What Difference is there between a poor Man and a rich Man? _Innk._ Fortune. _Con._ And yet it would be unbecoming a poor Man to imitate a rich Man in his Dress. _Innk._ Very true, as rich Men go now a-Days. _Con._ What Difference is there between a Fool and a wise Man? _Innk._ Something more than there is between a rich Man and a poor Man. _Con._ Are not Fools dress'd up in a different Manner from wise Men? _Innk._ I can't tell how well it becomes you, but your Habit does not differ much from theirs, if it had but Ears and Bells. _Con._ These indeed are wanting, and we are the Fools of this World, if we really are what we pretend to be. _Innk._ What you are I don't know; but this I know that there are a great many Fools that wear Ears and Bells, that have more Wit than those that wear Caps lin'd with Furs, Hoods, and other Ensigns of wise Men; therefore it seems a ridiculous Thing to me to make a Shew of Wisdom by the Dress rather than in Fact. I saw a certain Man, more than a Fool, with a Gown hanging down to his Heels, a Cap like our Doctors, and had the Countenance of a grave Divine; he disputed publickly with a Shew of Gravity, and he was as much made on by great Men, as any of their Fools, and was more a Fool than any of them. _Con._ Well, what would you infer from that? That a Prince who laughs at his Jester should change Coats with him? _Innk._ Perhaps _Decorum_ would require it to be so, if your Proposition be true, that the Mind of a Man is represented by his Habit. _Con._ You press this upon me indeed, but I am still of the Opinion, that there is good Reason for giving Fools distinct Habits. _Innk._ What Reason? _Con._ That no Body might hurt them, if they say or do any Thing that's foolish. _Innk._ But on the contrary, I won't say, that their Dress does rather provoke some People to do them Hurt; insomuch, that oftentimes of Fools they become Mad-Men. Nor do I see any Reason, why a Bull that gores a Man, or a Dog, or a Hog that kills a Child, should be punish'd, and a Fool who commits greater Crimes should be suffered to live under the Protection of his Folly. But I ask you, what is the Reason that you are distinguished from others by your Dress? For if every trifling Cause is sufficient to require a different Habit, then a Baker should wear a different Dress from a Fisherman, and a Shoemaker from a Taylor, an Apothecary from a Vintner, a Coachman from a Mariner. And you, if you are Priests, why do you wear a Habit different from other Priests? If you are Laymen, why do you differ from us? _Con._ In antient Times, Monks were only the purer Sort of the Laity, and there was then only the same Difference between a Monk and a Layman, as between a frugal, honest Man, that maintains his Family by his Industry, and a swaggering Highwayman that lives by robbing. Afterwards the Bishop of _Rome_ bestow'd Honours upon us; and we ourselves gave some Reputation to the Habit, which now is neither simply laick, or sacerdotal; but such as it is, some Cardinals and Popes have not been ashamed to wear it. _Innk._ But as to the _Decorum_ of it, whence comes that? _Con._ Sometimes from the Nature of Things themselves, and sometimes from Custom and the Opinions of Men. Would not all Men think it ridiculous for a Man to wear a Bull's Hide, with the Horns on his Head, and the Tail trailing after him on the Ground? _Innk._ That would be ridiculous enough. _Con._ Again, if any one should wear a Garment that should hide his Face, and his Hands, and shew his privy Members? _Innk._ That would be more ridiculous than the other. _Con._ The very Pagan Writers have taken Notice of them that have wore Cloaths so thin, that it were indecent even for Women themselves to wear such. It is more modest to be naked, as we found you in the Stove, than to wear a transparent Garment. _Innk._ I fancy that the whole of this Matter of Apparel depends upon Custom and the Opinion of People. _Con._ Why so? _Innk._ It is not many Days ago, since some Travellers lodg'd at my House, who said, that they had travelled through divers Countries lately discovered, which are wanting in the antient Maps. They said they came to an Island of a very temperate Air, where they look'd upon it as the greatest Indecency in the World, to cover their Bodies. _Con._ It may be they liv'd like Beasts. _Innk._ Nay, they said they liv'd a Life of great Humanity, they liv'd under a King, they attended him to Work every Morning daily, but not above an Hour in a Day. _Con._ What Work did they do? _Innk._ They pluck'd up a certain Sort of Roots that serves them instead of Bread, and is more pleasant and more wholsome than Bread; and when this was done, they every one went to his Business, what he had a Mind to do. They bring up their Children religiously, they avoid and punish Vices, but none more severely than Adultery. _Con._ What's the Punishment? _Innk._ They forgive the Women, for it is permitted to that Sex. But for Men that are taken in Adultery, this is the Punishment, that all his Life after, he should appear in publick with his privy Parts covered. _Con._ A mighty Punishment indeed! _Innk._ Custom has made it to them the very greatest Punishment that is. _Con._ When I consider the Force of Persuasion, I am almost ready to allow it. For if a Man would expose a Thief or a Murderer to the greatest Ignominy, would it not be a sufficient Punishment to cut off a Piece of the hinder Part of his Cloaths, and sow a Piece of a Wolf's Skin upon his Buttocks, to make him wear a party-colour'd Pair of Stockings, and to cut the fore Part of his Doublet in the Fashion of a Net, leaving his Shoulders and his Breast bare; to shave off one Side of his Beard, and leave the other hanging down, and curl one Part of it, and to put him a Cap on his Head, cut and slash'd, with a huge Plume of Feathers, and so expose him publickly; would not this make him more ridiculous than to put him on a Fool's Cap with long Ears and Bells? And yet Soldiers dress themselves every Day in this Trim, and are well enough pleased with themselves, and find Fools enough, that like the Dress too, though there is nothing more ridiculous. _Innk._ Nay, there are topping Citizens too, who imitate them as much as they can possibly. _Con._ But now if a Man should dress himself up with Birds Feathers like an _Indian_, would not the very Boys, all of them, think he was a mad Man? _Innk._ Stark mad. _Con._ And yet, that which we admire, savours of a greater Madness still: Now as it is true, that nothing is so ridiculous but Custom will bear it out; so it cannot be denied, but that there is a certain _Decorum_ in Garments, which all wise Men always account a _Decorum_; and that there is also an Unbecomingness in Garments, which will to wise Men always seem unbecoming. Who does not laugh, when he sees a Woman dragging a long Train at her Heels, as if her Quality were to be measured by the Length of her Tail? And yet some Cardinals are not asham'd to follow this Fashion in their Gowns: And so prevalent a Thing is Custom, that there is no altering of a Fashion that has once obtain'd. _Innk._ Well, we have had Talk enough about Custom: But tell me now, whether you think it better for Monks to differ from others in Habit, or not to differ? _Con._ I think it to be more agreeable to Christian Simplicity, not to judge of any Man by his Habit, if it be but sober and decent. _Innk._ Why don't you cast away your Cowls then? _Con._ Why did not the Apostles presently eat of all Sorts of Meat? _Innk._ I can't tell. Do you tell me that. _Con._ Because an invincible Custom hinder'd it: For whatsoever is deeply rooted in the Minds of Men, and has been confirm'd by long Use, and is turn'd as it were into Nature, can never be remov'd on a sudden, without endangering the publick Peace; but must be remov'd by Degrees, as a Horse's Tail is pluck'd off by single Hairs. _Innk._ I could bear well enough with it, if the Monks had all but one Habit: But who can bear so many different Habits? _Con._ Custom has brought in this Evil, which brings in every Thing. _Benedict_ did not invent a new Habit, but the same that he wore himself and his Disciples, which was the Habit of a plain, honest Layman: Neither did _Francis_ invent a new Dress; but it was the Dress of poor Country-Fellows. Their Successors have by new Additions turned it into Superstition. Don't we see some old Women at this Day, that keep to the Dress of their Times, which is more different from the Dress now in Fashion, than my Dress is from yours? _Innk._ We do see it. _Con._ Therefore, when you see this Habit, you see only the Reliques of antient Times. _Innk._ Why then, has your Garment no Holiness in it? _Con._ None at all. _Innk._ There are some of you that make their Boasts that these Dresses were divinely directed by the holy Virgin Mother. _Con._ These Stories are but meer Dreams. _Innk._ Some despair of being able to recover from a Fit of Sickness, unless they be wrapp'd up in a Dominican's Habit: Nay, nor won't be buried but in a Franciscan's Habit. _Con._ They that persuade People of those Things, are either Cheats or Fools, and they that believe them are superstitious. God will know a wicked Man as well in a Franciscan's Habit, as in a Soldier's Coat. _Innk._ There is not so much Variety in the Feathers of Birds of the Air, as there is in your Habits. _Con._ What then, is it not a very good Thing to imitate Nature? But it is a better Thing to out-do it. _Innk._ I wish you would out-do it in the Variety of your Beaks too. _Con._ But, come on. I will be an Advocate for Variety, if you will give me Leave. Is not a _Spaniard_ dressed after one Fashion, an _Italian_ after another, a _Frenchman_ after another, a _German_ after another, a _Greek_ after another, a _Turk_ after another, and a _Sarazen_ after another? _Innk._ Yes. _Con._ And then in the same Country, what Variety of Garments is there in Persons of the same Sex, Age and Degree. How different is the Dress of the _Venetian_ from the _Florentine_, and of both from the _Roman_, and this only within _Italy_ alone? _Innk._ I believe it. _Con._ And from hence also came our Variety. _Dominic_ he took his Dress from the honest Ploughmen in that Part of _Spain_ in which he liv'd; and _Benedict_ from the Country-Fellows of that Part of _Italy_ in which he liv'd; and _Francis_ from the Husbandmen of a different Place, and so for the rest. _Innk._ So that for aught I find, you are no holier than we, unless you live holier. _Con._ Nay, we are worse than you, in that; if we live wickedly, we are a greater Stumbling to the Simple. _Innk._ Is there any Hope of us then, who have neither Patron, nor Habit, nor Rule, nor Profession? _Con._ Yes, good Man; see that you hold it fast. Ask your Godfathers what you promis'd in Baptism, what Profession you then made. Do you want a human Rule, who have made a Profession of the Gospel Rule? Or do you want a Man for a Patron, who have Jesus Christ for a Patron? Consider what you owe to your Wife, to your Children, to your Family, and you will find you have a greater Load upon you, than if you had professed the Rule of _Francis_. _Innk._ Do you believe that any Inn-Keepers go to Heaven? _Con._ Why not? _Innk._ There are a great many Things said and done in this House, that are not according to the Gospel. _Con._ What are they? _Innk._ One fuddles, another talks bawdy, another brawls, and another slanders; and last of all, I can't tell whether they keep themselves honest or not. _Con._ You must prevent these Things as much as you can; and if you cannot hinder them, however, do not for Profit's Sake encourage or draw on these Wickednesses. _Innk._ Sometimes I don't deal very honestly as to my Wine. _Con._ Wherein? _Innk._ When I find my Guests grow a little too hot, I put more Water into the Wine. _Con._ That's a smaller Fault than selling of Wine made up with unwholsome Ingredients. _Innk._ But tell me truly, how many Days have you been in this Journey? _Con._ Almost a Month. _Innk._ Who takes Care of you all the While? _Con._ Are not they taken Care enough of, that have a Wife, and Children, and Parents, and Kindred? _Innk._ Oftentimes. _Con._ You have but one Wife, we have an hundred; you have but one Father, we have an hundred; you have but one House, we have an hundred; you have but a few Children, we have an innumerable Company; you have but a few Kindred, we have an infinite Number. _Innk._ How so? _Con._ Because the Kindred of the Spirit extends more largely, than the Kindred of the Flesh: So Christ has promised, and we experience the Truth of what he has promised. _Innk._ In Troth, you have been a good Companion for me; let me die if I don't like this Discourse better than to drink with our Parson. Do us the Honour to preach to the People to-morrow, and if ever you happen to come this Way again, know that here's a Lodging for you. _Con._ But what if others should come? _Innk._ They shall be welcome, if they be but such as you. _Con._ I hope they will be better. _Innk._ But among so many bad ones, how shall I know which are good? _Con._ I'll tell you in a few Words, but in your Ear. _Innk._ Tell me. _Con._--------- _Innk._ I'll remember it, and do it. _The ABBOT and LEARNED WOMAN._ The ARGUMENT. _A certain Abbot paying a Visit to a Lady, finds her reading_ Greek _and_ Latin _Authors. A Dispute arises, whence Pleasantness of Life proceeds:_ viz. _Not from external Enjoyments, but from the Study of Wisdom. An ignorant Abbot will by no Means have his Monks to be learned; nor has he himself so much as a single Book in his Closet. Pious Women in old Times gave their Minds to the Study of the Scriptures; but Monks that hate Learning, and give themselves up to Luxury, Idleness, and Hunting, are provok'd to apply themselves to other Kinds of Studies, more becoming their Profession._ ANTRONIUS, MAGDALIA. _Ant._ What Sort of Houshold-Stuff do I see? _Mag._ Is it not that which is neat? _Ant._ How neat it is, I can't tell, but I'm sure, it is not very becoming, either a Maid or a Matron. _Mag._ Why so? _Ant._ Because here's Books lying about every where. _Mag._ What have you liv'd to this Age, and are both an Abbot and a Courtier, and never saw any Books in a Lady's Apartment? _Ant._ Yes, I have seen Books, but they were _French_; but here I see _Greek_ and _Latin_ ones. _Mag._ Why, are there no other Books but _French_ ones that teach Wisdom? _Ant._ But it becomes Ladies to have something that is diverting, to pass away their leisure Hours. _Mag._ Must none but Ladies be wise, and live pleasantly? _Ant._ You very improperly connect being wise, and living pleasantly together: Women have nothing to do with Wisdom; Pleasure is Ladies Business. _Mag._ Ought not every one to live well? _Ant._ I am of Opinion, they ought so to do. _Mag._ Well, can any Body live a pleasant Life, that does not live a good Life. _Ant._ Nay, rather, how can any Body live a pleasant Life, that does live a good Life? _Mag._ Why then, do you approve of living illy, if it be but pleasantly? _Ant._ I am of the Opinion, that they live a good Life, that live a pleasant Life. _Mag._ Well, but from whence does that Pleasure proceed? From outward Things, or from the Mind? _Ant._ From outward Things. _Mag._ O subtle Abbot, but thick-skull'd Philosopher! Pray tell me in what you suppose a pleasant Life to consist? _Ant._ Why, in Sleeping, and Feasting, and Liberty of doing what you please, in Wealth, and in Honours. _Mag._ But suppose to all these Things God should add Wisdom, should you live pleasantly then? _Ant._ What is it that you call by the Name of Wisdom? _Mag._ This is Wisdom, to know that a Man is only happy by the Goods of the Mind. That Wealth, Honour, and Descent, neither make a Man happier or better. _Ant._ If that be Wisdom, fare it well for me. _Mag._ Suppose now that I take more Pleasure in reading a good Author, than you do in Hunting, Drinking, or Gaming; won't you think I live pleasantly? _Ant._ I would not live that Sort of Life. _Mag._ I don't enquire what you take most Delight in; but what is it that ought to be most delighted in? _Ant._ I would not have my Monks mind Books much. _Mag._ But my Husband approves very well of it. But what Reason have you, why you would not have your Monks bookish? _Ant._ Because I find they are not so obedient; they answer again out of the Decrees and Decretals of _Peter_ and _Paul._ _Mag._ Why then do you command them the contrary to what _Peter_ and _Paul_ did? _Ant._ I can't tell what they teach; but I can't endure a Monk that answers again: Nor would I have any of my Monks wiser than I am myself. _Mag._ You might prevent that well enough, if you did but lay yourself out, to get as much Wisdom as you can. _Ant._ I han't Leisure. _Mag._ Why so? _Ant._ Because I han't Time. _Mag._ What, not at Leisure to be wise? _Ant._ No. _Mag._ Pray what hinders you? _Ant._ Long Prayers, the Affairs of my Houshold, Hunting, looking after my Horses, attending at Court. _Mag._ Well, and do you think these Things are better than Wisdom? _Ant._ Custom has made it so. _Mag._ Well, but now answer me this one Thing: Suppose God should grant you this Power, to be able to turn yourself and your Monks into any Sort of Animal that you had a Mind: Would you turn them into Hogs, and yourself into a Horse? _Ant._ No, by no Means. _Mag._ By doing so you might prevent any of them from being wiser than yourself? _Ant._ It is not much Matter to me what Sort of Animals my Monks are, if I am but a Man myself. _Mag._ Well, and do you look upon him to be a Man that neither has Wisdom, nor desires to have it? _Ant._ I am wise enough for myself. _Mag._ And so are Hogs wise enough for themselves. _Ant._ You seem to be a Sophistress, you argue so smartly. _Mag._ I won't tell you what you seem to me to be. But why does this Houshold-Stuff displease you? _Ant._ Because a Spinning-Wheel is a Woman's Weapon. _Mag._ Is it not a Woman's Business to mind the Affairs of her Family, and to instruct her Children? _Ant._ Yes, it is. _Mag._ And do you think so weighty an Office can be executed without Wisdom? _Ant._ I believe not. _Mag._ This Wisdom I learn from Books. _Ant._ I have threescore and two Monks in my Cloister, and you will not see one Book in my Chamber. _Mag._ The Monks are finely look'd after all this While. _Ant._ I could dispense with Books; but I can't bear _Latin_ Books. _Mag._ Why so? _Ant._ Because that Tongue is not fit for a Woman. _Mag._ I want to know the Reason. _Ant._ Because it contributes nothing towards the Defence of their Chastity. _Mag._ Why then do _French_ Books that are stuff'd with the most trifling Novels, contribute to Chastity? _Ant._ But there is another Reason. _Mag._ Let it be what it will, tell me it plainly. _Ant._ They are more secure from the Priests, if they don't understand _Latin_. _Mag._ Nay, there's the least Danger from that Quarter according to your Way of Working; because you take all the Pains you can not to know any Thing of _Latin_. _Ant._ The common People are of my Mind, because it is such a rare unusual Thing for a Woman to understand _Latin._ _Mag._ What do you tell me of the common People for, who are the worst Examples in the World that can be follow'd. What have I to do with Custom, that is the Mistress of all evil Practices? We ought to accustom ourselves to the best Things: And by that Means, that which was uncustomary would become habitual, and that which was unpleasant would become pleasant; and that which seemed unbecoming would look graceful. _Ant._ I hear you. _Mag._ Is it becoming a _German_ Woman to learn to speak _French_. _Ant._ Yes it is. _Mag._ Why is it? _Ant._ Because then she will be able to converse with those that speak _French_. _Mag._ And why then is it unbecoming in me to learn _Latin_, that I may be able daily to have Conversation with so many eloquent, learned and wise Authors, and faithful Counsellors? _Ant._ Books destroy Women's Brains, who have little enough of themselves. _Mag._ What Quantity of Brains you have left I cannot tell: And as for myself, let me have never so little, I had rather spend them in Study, than in Prayers mumbled over without the Heart going along with them, or sitting whole Nights in quaffing off Bumpers. _Ant._ Bookishness makes Folks mad. _Mag._ And does not the Rattle of your Pot-Companions, your Banterers, and Drolls, make you mad? _Ant._ No, they pass the Time away. _Mag._ How can it be then, that such pleasant Companions should make me mad? _Ant._ That's the common Saying. _Mag._ But I by Experience find quite the contrary. How many more do we see grow mad by hard drinking, unseasonable feasting, and sitting up all Night tippling, which destroys the Constitution and Senses, and has made People mad? _Ant._ By my Faith, I would not have a learned Wife. _Mag._ But I bless myself, that I have gotten a Husband that is not like yourself. Learning both endears him to me, and me to him. _Ant._ Learning costs a great Deal of Pains to get, and after all we must die. _Mag._ Notable Sir, pray tell me, suppose you were to die to-Morrow, had you rather die a Fool or a wise Man? _Ant._ Why, a wise Man, if I could come at it without taking Pains. _Mag._ But there is nothing to be attained in this Life without Pains; and yet, let us get what we will, and what Pains soever we are at to attain it, we must leave it behind us: Why then should we think much to be at some Pains for the most precious Thing of all, the Fruit of which will bear us Company unto another Life. _Ant._ I have often heard it said, that a wise Woman is twice a Fool. _Mag._ That indeed has been often said; but it was by Fools. A Woman that is truly wise does not think herself so: But on the contrary, one that knows nothing, thinks her self to be wise, and that is being twice a Fool. _Ant._ I can't well tell how it is, that as Panniers don't become an Ox, so neither does Learning become a Woman. _Mag._ But, I suppose, you can't deny but Panniers will look better upon an Ox, than a Mitre upon an Ass or a Sow. What think you of the Virgin _Mary_? _Ant._ Very highly. _Mag._ Was not she bookish? _Ant._ Yes; but not as to such Books as these. _Mag._ What Books did she read? _Ant._ The canonical Hours. _Mag._ For the Use of whom? _Ant._ Of the Order of _Benedictines_. _Mag._ Indeed? What did _Paula_ and _Eustochium_ do? Did not they converse with the holy Scriptures? _Ant._ Ay, but this is a rare Thing now. _Mag._ So was a blockheaded Abbot in old Time; but now nothing is more common. In old Times Princes and Emperors were as eminent for Learning as for their Governments: And after all, it is not so great a Rarity as you think it. There are both in _Spain_ and _Italy_ not a few Women, that are able to vye with the Men, and there are the _Morites_ in _England_, and the _Bilibald-duks_ and _Blaureticks_ in _Germany_. So that unless you take Care of yourselves it will come to that Pass, that we shall be Divinity-Professors in the Schools, and preach in the Churches, and take Possession of your Mitres. _Ant._ God forbid. _Mag._ Nay it is your Business to forbid it. For if you hold on as you have begun, even Geese themselves will preach before they'll endure you a Parcel of dumb Teachers. You see the World is turn'd up-Side down, and you must either lay aside your Dress, or perform your Part. _Ant._ How came I to fall into this Woman's Company? If you'll come to see me, I'll treat you more pleasantly. _Mag._ After what Manner? _Ant._ Why, we'll dance, and drink heartily, and hunt and play, and laugh. _Mag._ I can hardly forbear laughing now. _The EPITHALAMIUM of PETRUS ÆGIDIUS._ The ARGUMENT. _The Muses and Graces are brought in, as singing the Epithalamium of_ Peter Ægidius. Alipius _spies the nine Muses, and the three Graces coming out of a Grove, which_ Balbinus _can't see: They take their Way to_ Antwerp, _to the Wedding of_ Ægidius, _to whom they wish all joy, that nothing of Difference or Uneasiness may ever arise between 'em. How those Marriages prove that are made, the Graces not favouring 'em. Congratulatory Verses._ ALIPIUS, BALBINUS, MUSÆ. _Al._ Good God! What strange glorious Sight do I see here? _Ba._ Either you see what is not to be seen, or I can't see that which is to be seen. _Al._ Nay, I'll assure you, 'tis a wonderful charming Sight. _Ba._ Why do you plague me at this Rate? Tell me, where 'tis you see it. _Al._ Upon the left Hand there in the Grove, under the Side of the Hill. _Ba._ I see the Hill, but I can see nothing else. _Al._ No! don't you see a Company of pretty Maids there? _Ba._ What do you mean, to make a Fool of me at this Rate? I can't see a bit of a Maid any where. _Al._ Hush, they're just now coming out of the Grove. Oh admirable! How neat they are! How charmingly they look! 'Tis a heavenly Sight. _Ba._ What! Are you possess'd? _Al._ Oh, I know who they are; they're the nine Muses and the three Graces, I wonder what they're a-doing. I never in all my Life saw 'em more charmingly dress'd, nor in a gayer Humour; they have every one of 'em got Crowns of Laurel upon their Heads, and their Instruments of Musick in their Hands. And how lovingly the Graces go Side by Side! How becomingly they look in their loose Dress, with their Garments flowing and trailing after 'em. _Ba._ I never heard any Body talk more like a mad Man in all my Days, than you do. _Al._ You never saw a happier Man in all your Life-Time. _Ba._ Pray what's the Matter, that you can see and I can't? _Al._ Because you have never drank of the Muses Fountain; and no Body can see 'em but they that have. _Ba._ I have drank plentifully out of _Scotus's_ Fountain. _Al._ But that is not the Fountain of the Muses, but a Lake of Frogs. _Ba._ But can't you do something to make me see this Sight, as well as you? _Al._ I could if I had a Laurel-Branch here, for Water out of a clear Spring, sprinkled upon one with a Laurel Bough, makes the Eyes capable of such Sights as these. _Ba._ Why, see here is a Laurel and a Fountain too. _Al._ Is there? That's clever, I vow. _Ba._ But prithee, sprinkle me with it. _Al._ Now look, do you see now? _Ba._ As much as I did before. Sprinkle me again. _Al._ Well, now do you see? _Ba._ Just as much; sprinkle me plentifully. _Al._ I believe you can't but see now. _Ba._ Now I can scarce see you. _Al._ Ah poor Man, how total a Darkness has seized your Eyes! This Art would open even the Eyes of an old Coachman: But however, don't plague yourself about it, perhaps 'tis better for you not to see it, lest you should come off as ill by seeing the Muses, as _Actæon_ did by seeing _Diana_: For you'd perhaps be in Danger of being turn'd either into a Hedgehog, or a wild Boar, a Swine, a Camel, a Frog, or a Jackdaw. But however, if you can't see, I'll make you hear 'em, if you don't make a Noise; they are just a-coming this Way. Let's meet 'em. Hail, most welcome Goddesses. _Mu._ And you heartily, Lover of the Muses. _Al._ What makes you pull me so? _Ba._ You an't as good as your Word. _Al._ Why don't you hear 'em? _Ba._ I hear somewhat, but I don't know what it is. _Al._ Well, I'll speak _Latin_ to 'em then. Whither are you going so fine and so brisk? Are you going to _Louvain_ to see the University? _Mu._ No, we assure you, we won't go thither. _Al._ Why not? _Mu._ What Place is for us, where so many Hogs are grunting, Camels and Asses braying, Jackdaws cawing, and Magpies chattering? _Al._ But for all that, there are some there that are your Admirers. _Mu._ We know that, and therefore we'll go thither a few Years hence. The successive Period of Ages has not yet brought on that Time; for there will be one, that will build us a pleasant House there, or a Temple rather, such a one, as there scarce is a finer or more sacred any where else. _Al._ Mayn't a Body know who it will be, that shall do so much Honour to our Country? _Mu._ You may know it, that are one of our Priests. There's no doubt, but you have heard the Name of the _Buslidians_, famous all the World over. _Al._ You have mention'd a noble Family truly, born to grace the Palaces of the greatest Princes in the Universe. For who does not revere the great _Francis Buslidius_, the Bishop of the Church of _Bezancon_, who has approv'd himself more than a single _Nestor_, to _Philip_ the Son of _Maximilian_ the Great, the Father of _Charles_, who will also be a greater Man than his Father? _Mu._ O how happy had we been, if the Fates had not envy'd the Earth the Happiness of so great a Man, What a Patron was he to all liberal Studies! How candid a Favourer of Ingenuity! But he has left two brothers, _Giles_ a Man of admirable Judgment and Wisdom, and _Jerome_. _Al._ We know very well that _Jerome_ is singularly well accomplish'd with all Manner of Literature, and adorn'd with every Kind of Virtue. _Mu._ But the Destinies won't suffer him to be long-liv'd neither, though no Man in the World better deserves to be immortaliz'd. _Al._ How do you know that? _Mu._ We had it from _Apollo_. _Al._ How envious are the Destinies, to take from us all desirable Things so hastily! _Mu._ We must not talk of that at this Time; but this _Jerome_, dying with great Applause, will leave his whole Estate for the building of a College at _Louvain_, in which most learned Men shall profess and teach publickly, and gratis, the three Languages. These Things will bring a great Ornament to Learning, and Glory to _Charles_ himself: Then we'll reside at _Louvain_, with all our Hearts. _Al._ But whither are you going now? _Mu._ To _Antwerp_. _Al._ What, the Muses and Graces going to a Fair? _Mu._ No, we assure you, we are not going to a Fair; but to a Wedding. _Al._ What have Virgins to do at Weddings? _Mu._ 'Tis no indecent Thing at all, for Virgins to be at such a Wedding as this is. _Al._ Pray what Sort of a Marriage is it? _Mu._ A holy, undefiled, and chaste Marriage, such a one as _Pallas_ herself need not be asham'd to be at: Nay, more than that, we believe she will be at it. _Al._ Mayn't a Body know the Bride and Bridegroom's Name? _Mu._ We believe you must needs know that most courteous and accomplish'd Youth in all Kinds of polite Learning, _Peter Ægidius_. _Al._ You have named an Angel, not a Man. _Mu._ The pretty Maid _Cornelia_, a fit Match for _Apollo_ himself, is going to be married to _Ægidius_. _Al._ Indeed he has been a great Admirer of you, even from his Infancy. _Mu._ We are going to sing him an Epithalamium. _Al._ What, and will the Graces dance too? _Mu._ They will not only dance, but they will also unite those two true Lovers, with the indissoluble Ties of mutual Affection, that no Difference or Jarring shall ever happen between 'em. She shall never hear any Thing from him, but my Life; nor he from her, but my Soul: Nay: and even old Age itself, shall be so far from diminishing that, that it shall increase the Pleasure. _Al._ I should admire at it, if those that live so sweetly, could ever be able to grow old. _Mu._ You say very right, for it is rather a Maturity, than an old Age. _Al._ But I have known a great many, to whom these kind Words have been chang'd into the quite contrary, in less than three Months Time; and instead of pleasant Jests at Table, Dishes and Trenchers have flown about. The Husband, instead of my dear Soul, has been call'd Blockhead, Toss-Pot, Swill-Tub; and the Wife, Sow, Fool, dirty Drab. _Mu._ You say very true; but these Marriages were made when the Graces were out of Humour: But in this Marriage, a Sweetness of Temper will always maintain a mutual Affection. _Al._ Indeed you speak of such a happy Marriage as is very seldom seen. _Mu._ An uncommon Felicity is due to such uncommon Virtues. _Al._ But what! Will the Matrimony be without _Juno_ and _Venus_? _Mu._ Indeed _Juno_ won't be there, she's a scolding Goddess, and is but seldom in a good Humour with her own _Jove_. Nor indeed, that earthly drunken _Venus_; but another heavenly one, which makes a Union of Minds. _Al._ Then the Marriage you speak of, is like to be a barren one. _Mu._ No, by no Means, but rather like to be the most happily fruitful. _Al._ What, does that heavenly _Venus_ produce any Thing but Souls then? _Mu._ Yes, she gives Bodies to the Souls; but such Bodies, as shall be exactly conformable to 'em, just as though you should put a choice Ointment into a curious Box of Pearl. _Al._ Where is she then? _Mu._ Look, she is coming towards you, a pretty Way off. _Al._ Oh! I see her now. O good God, how bright she is! How majestical and beautiful she appears! The t'other _Venus_ compar'd with this, is a homely one. _Mu._ Do you see what modest _Cupids_ there are; they are no blind ones, such as that _Venus_ has, that makes Mankind mad? But these are sharp little Rogues, and they don't carry furious Torches, but most gentle Fires; they have no leaden-pointed Darts, to make the belov'd hate the Lover, and torment poor Wretches with the Want of a reciprocal Affection. _Al._ In Truth, they're as like their Mother as can be. Oh, that's a blessed House, and dearly belov'd by the Gods! But may not a Body hear the Marriage-Song that you design to present 'em with? _Mu._ Nay, we were just a-going to ask you to hear it. CLIO. Peter _hath married fair_ Cornelia, _Propitious Heaven! bless the Wedding-Day._ MELPOMENE. _Concord of_ Turtle-Doves _between them be, And of the_ Jack-daw _the Vivacity_. THALIA. _From_ Gracchus _may he win the Prize, And for_ Cornelia's _Life, his own despise._ EUTERPE. _May she in Love exceed_ Admetus' _Wife, Who laid her own down, for her Husband's Life._ TERPSICHORE. _May he love her with stronger Flame, But much more happy Fate, Than_ Plaucius, _who did disdain To out-live his deceas'd Mate._ ERATO. _May she love him with no less Flame, But with much better Fate; Than_ Porcia _chaste, her_ Brutus _did, Whom brave Men celebrate._ CALLIOPE. _For Constancy, I wish the Bridegroom may Be equal to the famous_ Nasica. URANIA. _The Bride in Chastity may she Superior to_ Paterculana _be._ POLYHYMNIA. _May their Offspring like them be, Their Honour equal their Estate; Always from ranc'rous Envy free, Deserved Glory on them wait._ _Al._ I should very much envy _Peter Ægidius_ so much Happiness, but that he is a Man of such Candour, that he himself envies no Body. _Mu._ It is now high Time for us to prosecute our Journey. _Al._ Have you any Service to command me at _Louvain_? _Mu._ That thou wouldst recommend us to all our sincere loving Friends; but especially to our antient Admirers. _John Paludus, Jodocus Gaverius, Martin Dorpius_, and _John Borsalus._ _Al._ Well, I'll be sure to take Care to do your Message. What shall I say to the rest? _Mu._ I'll tell you in your Ear. _Al._ Well, 'tis a Matter that won't cost very much; it shall certainly be done out of Hand. _The EXORCISM or APPARITION._ The ARGUMENT. _This Colloquy detects the Artifices of Impostors, who impose upon the credulous and simple, framing Stories of Apparitions of Daemons and Ghosts, and divine Voices._ Polus _is the Author of a Rumour, that an Apparition of a certain Soul was heard in his Grounds, howling after a lamentable Manner: At another Place he pretends to see a Dragon in the Air, in the middle of the Day, and persuades other Persons that they saw it too; and he prevails upon_ Faunus, _a Parish-Priest of a neighbouring Town, to make Trial of the Truth of the Matters, who consents to do it, and prepares Exorcisms._ Polus _gets upon a black Horse, throws Fire about, and with divers Tricks deceives credulous_ Faunus, _and other Men of none of the deepest Penetration._ THOMAS _and_ ANSELM. _Tho._ What good News have you had, that you laugh to yourself thus, as if you had found a Treasure? _Ans._ Nay, you are not far from the Matter. _Tho._ But won't you impart it to your Companion, what good Thing soever it is? _Ans._ Yes, I will, for I have been wishing a good While, for somebody to communicate my Merriment to. _Tho._ Come on then, let's have it. _Ans._ I was just now told the pleasantest Story, which you'd swear was a Sham, if I did not know the Place, the Persons, and whole Matter, as well as you know me. _Tho._ I'm with Child to hear it. _Ans._ Do you know _Polus, Faunus_'s Son-in-Law? _Tho._ Perfectly well. _Ans._ He's both the Contriver and Actor of this Play. _Tho._ I am apt enough to believe that; for he can Act any Part to the Life. _Ans._ He can so: I suppose too, you know that he has a Farm not far from _London_. _Tho._ Phoo, very well; he and I have drank together many a Time there. _Ans._ Then you know there is a Way between two straight Rows of Trees. _Tho._ Upon the left Hand, about two Flight Shot from the House? _Ans._ You have it. On one Side of the Way there is a dry Ditch, overgrown with Thorns and Brambles; and then there's a Way that leads into an open Field from a little Bridge. _Tho._ I remember it. _Ans._ There went a Report for a long Time among the Country-People, of a Spirit that walk'd near that Bridge, and of hideous Howlings that were every now and then heard there: They concluded it was the Soul of somebody that was miserably tormented. _Tho._ Who was it that raised this Report? _Ans._ Who but _Polus_, that made this the Prologue to his Comedy. _Tho._ What did he mean by inventing such a Flam? _Ans._ I know nothing; but that it is the Humour of the Man, he takes Delight to make himself Sport, by playing upon the Simplicity of People, by such Fictions as these. I'll tell you what he did lately of the same Kind. We were a good many of us riding to _Richmond_, and some of the Company were such that you would say were Men of Judgment. It was a wonderful clear Day, and not so much as a Cloud to be seen there. _Polus_ looking wistfully up into the Air, signed his Face and Breast with the Sign of the Cross, and having compos'd his Countenance to an Air of Amazement, says to himself, O immortal God, what do I see! They that rode next to him asking him what it was that he saw, he fell again to signing himself with a greater Cross. May the most merciful God, says he, deliver me from this Prodigy. They having urg'd him, desiring to know what was the Matter, he fixing his Eyes up to Heaven, and pointing with his Finger to a certain Quarter of it, don't you see, says he, that monstrous Dragon arm'd with fiery Horns, and its Tail turn'd up in a Circle? And they denying they saw it, he bid them look earnestly, every now and then pointing to the Place: At last one of them, that he might not seem to be bad-sighted, affirmed that he saw it. And in Imitation of him, first one, and then another, for they were asham'd that they could not see what was so plain to be seen: And in short, in three Days Time, the Rumour of this portentous Apparition had spread all over _England_. And it is wonderful to think how popular Fame had amplified the Story, and some pretended seriously to expound to what this Portent did predict, and he that was the Contriver of the Fiction, took a mighty Pleasure in the Folly of these People. _Tho._ I know the Humour of the Man well enough. But to the Story of the Apparition. _Ans._ In the mean Time, one _Faunus_ a Priest (of those which in _Latin_ they call _Regulars_, but that is not enough, unless they add the same in _Greek_ too, who was Parson of a neighbouring Parish, this Man thought himself wiser than is common, especially in holy Matters) came very opportunely to pay a Visit to _Polus_. _Tho._ I understand the Matter: There is one found out to be an Actor in this Play. _Ans._ At Supper a Discourse was raised of the Report of this Apparition, and when _Polus_ perceiv'd that _Faunus_ had not only heard of the Report, but believ'd it, he began to intreat the Man, that as he was a holy and a learned Person, he would afford some Relief to a poor Soul that was in such dreadful Torment: And, says he, if you are in any Doubt as to the Truth of it, examine into the Matter, and do but walk near that Bridge about ten a-Clock, and you shall hear miserable Cries; take who you will for a Companion along with you, and so you will hear both more safely and better. _Tho._ Well, what then? _Ans._ After Supper was over, _Polus_, as his Custom was, goes a Hunting or Fowling. And when it grew duskish, the Darkness having taken away all Opportunity of making any certain Judgment of any Thing, _Faunus_ walks about, and at last hears miserable Howlings. _Polus_ having hid himself in a Bramble Hedge hard by, had very artfully made these Howlings, by speaking through an earthen Pot; the Voice coming through the Hollow of it, gave it a most mournful Sound. _Tho._ This Story, as far as I see, out-does _Menander's Phasma_. _Ans._ You'll say more, if you shall hear it out. _Faunus_ goes Home, being impatient to tell what he had heard. _Polus_ taking a shorter Way, had got Home before him. _Faunus_ up and tells _Polus_ all that past, and added something of his own to it, to make the Matter more wonderful. _Tho._ Could _Polus_ keep his Countenance in the mean Time? _Ans._ He keep his Countenance! He has his Countenance in his Hand, you would have said that a serious Affair was transacted. In the End _Faunus_, upon the pressing Importunity of _Polus_, undertakes the Business of Exorcism, and slept not one Wink all that Night, in contriving by what Means he might go about the Matter with Safety, for he was wretchedly afraid. In the first Place he got together the most powerful Exorcisms that he could get, and added some new ones to them, as the Bowels of the Virgin _Mary_, and the Bones of St. _Winifred_. After that, he makes Choice of a Place in the plain Field, near the Bramble Bushes, from whence the Voice came. He draws a very large Circle with a great many Crosses in it, and a Variety of Characters. And all this was perform'd in a set Form of Words; there was also there a great Vessel full of holy Water, and about his Neck he had a holy Stole (as they call'd it) upon which hung the Beginning of the Gospel of _John_. He had in his Pocket a little Piece of Wax, which the Bishop of _Rome_ used to consecrate once a Year, which is commonly call'd _Agnus Dei_. With these Arms in Times past, they were wont to defend themselves against evil Spirits, before the Cowl of St. _Francis_ was found to be so formidable. All these Things were provided, lest if it should be an evil Spirit it should fall foul upon the Exorcist: nor did he for all this, dare to trust himself in the Circle alone, but he determined to take some other Priest along with him. Upon this _Polus_ being afraid, that if he took some sharper Fellow than himself along with him, the whole Plot might come to be discover'd, he got a Parish-Priest there-about, whom he acquainted before-hand with the whole Design; and indeed it was necessary for the carrying on the Adventure, and he was a Man fit for such a Purpose. The Day following, all Things being prepared and in good Order, about ten a-Clock _Faunus_ and the Parish-Priest enter the Circle. _Polus_ had got thither before them, and made a miserable Howling out of the Hedge; Faunus begins his Exorcism, and _Polus_ steals away in the Dark to the next Village, and brings from thence another Person, for the Play could not be acted without a great many of them. _Tho._ Well, what do they do? _Ans._ They mount themselves upon black Horses, and privately carry Fire along with them; when they come pretty near to the Circle, they shew the Fire to affright _Faunus_ out of the Circle. _Tho._ What a Deal of Pains did this _Polus_ take to put a Cheat upon People? _Ans._ His Fancy lies that Way. But this Matter had like to have been mischievous to them. _Tho._ How so? _Ans._ For the Horses were so startled at the sudden flashing of the Fire, that they had like to have thrown their Riders. Here's an End of the first Act of this Comedy. When they were returned and entered into Discourse, _Polus_, as though he had known nothing of the Matter, enquires what was done. _Faunus_ tells him, that two hideous Caco-dæmons appear'd to him on black Horses, their Eyes sparkling with Fire, and breathing Fire out of their Nostrils, making an Attempt to break into the Circle, but that they were driven away with a Vengeance, by the Power and Efficacy of his Words. This Encounter having put Courage into _Faunus_, the next Day he goes into his Circle again with great Solemnity, and after he had provok'd the Spirit a long Time with the Vehemence of his Words, _Polus_ and his Companion appear again at a pretty Distance, with their black Horses, with a most outragious Noise, making a Feint, as if they would break into the Circle. _Tho._ Had they no Fire then? _Ans._ No, none at all; for that had lik'd to have fallen out very unluckily to them. But hear another Device: They drew a long Rope over the Ground, and then hurrying from one Place to another, as though they were beat off by the Exorcisms of _Faunus_, they threw down both the Priest and holy Water-Pot all together. _Tho._ This Reward the Parish-Priest had for playing his Part? _Ans._ Yes, he had; and for all that, he had rather suffer this than quit the Design. After this Encounter, when they came to talk over the Matter again, _Faunus_ tells a mighty Story to _Polus_, what great Danger he had been in, and how couragiously he had driven both the evil Spirits away with his Charms, and now he had arriv'd at a firm Persuasion, that there was no Dæmon, let him be ever so mischievous or impudent, that could possibly break into this Circle. _Tho._ This _Faunus_ was not far from being a Fool. _Ans._ You have heard nothing yet. The Comedy being thus far advanc'd, _Polus_'s Son-in-Law comes in very good Time, for he had married _Polus's_ eldest Daughter; he's a wonderful merry Droll, you know. _Tho._ Know him! Ay, I know him, that he has no Aversion for such Tricks as these. _Ans._ No Aversion, do you say, nay he would leave the most urgent Affair in the World, if such a Comedy were either to be seen or acted. His Father-in-Law tells him the whole Story, and gives him his Part, that was, to act the Ghost. He puts on a Dress, and wraps himself up in a Shrowd, and carrying a live Coal in a Shell, it appear'd through his Shrowd as if something were burning. About Night he goes to the Place where this Play was acted, there were heard most doleful Moans. _Faunus_ lets fly all his Exorcisms. At Length the Ghost appears a good Way off in the Bushes, every now and then shewing the Fire, and making a rueful Groaning. While _Faunus_ was adjuring the Ghost to declare who he was, _Polus_ of a sudden leaps out of the Thicket, dress'd like a Devil, and making a Roaring, answers him, you have nothing to do with this Soul, it is mine; and every now and then runs to the very Edge of the Circle, as if he would set upon the Exorcist, and then retired back again, as if he was beaten back by the Words of the Exorcism, and the Power of the holy Water, which he threw upon him in great Abundance. At last when this guardian Devil was chased away, _Faunus_ enters into a Dialogue with the Soul. After he had been interrogated and abjured, he answers, that he was the Soul of a Christian Man, and being asked his Name, he answered _Faunus_. _Faunus_! replies the other, that's my Name. So then they being Name-Sakes, he laid the Matter more to Heart, that _Faunus_ might deliver _Faunus_. _Faunus_ asking a Multitude of Questions, lest a long Discourse should discover the Fraud, the Ghost retires, saying it was not permitted to stay to talk any longer, because its Time was come, that it must go whither its Devil pleased to carry it; but yet promised to come again the next Day, at what Hour it could be permitted. They meet together again at _Polus's_ House, who was the Master of the Show. There the Exorcist relates what was done, and tho' he added some Lies to the Story, yet he believed them to be true himself, he was so heartily affected with the Matter in Hand. At last it appeared manifestly, that it was the Soul of a Christian who was vexed with the dreadful Torments of an unmerciful Devil: Now all the Endeavours are bent this Way. There happened a ridiculous Passage in the next Exorcism. _Tho._ Prithee what was that? _Ans._ When _Faunus_ had called up the Ghost, _Polus_, that acted the Devil, leap'd directly at him, as if he would, without any more to do, break into the Circle; and _Faunus_ he resisted stoutly with his Exorcisms, and had thrown a power of holy Water, the Devil at last cries out, that he did not value all this of a Rush; you have had to do with a Wench, and you are my own yourself. And tho' _Polus_ said so in Jest, it seemed that he had spoken Truth: For the Exorcist being touched with this Word, presently retreated to the very Centre of the Circle, and whispered something in the Priest's Ear. _Polus_ seeing that, retires, that he might not hear what it was not fit for him to hear. _Tho._ In Truth, _Polus_ was a very modest, religious Devil. _Ans._ He was so, otherwise he might have been blamed for not observing a _Decorum_, but yet he heard the Priest's Voice appointing him Satisfaction. _Tho._ What was that? _Ans._ That he should say the glorious 78th Psalm, three Times over, by which he conjectured he had had to do with her three Times that Night. _Tho._ He was an irregular _Regular_. _Ans._ They are but Men, and this is but human Frailty. _Tho._ Well, proceed: what was done after this? _Ans._ Now _Faunus_ more couragiously advances to the very Edge of the Circle, and challenges the Devil of his own Accord; but the Devil's Heart failed him, and he fled back. You have deceived me, says he, if I had been wise I had not given you that Caution: Many are of Opinion, that what you have once confess'd is immediately struck out of the Devil's Memory, that he can never be able to twit you in the Teeth for it. _Tho._ What a ridiculous Conceit do you tell me of? _Ans._ But to draw towards a Conclusion of the Matter: This Dialogue with the Ghost held for some Days; at last it came to this Issue: The Exorcist asking the Soul, If there was any Way by which it might possibly be delivered from its Torments, it answered, it might, if the Money that it had left behind, being gotten by Cheating, should be restored. Then, says _Faunus_, What if it were put into the Hands of good People, to be disposed of to pious Uses? The Spirit reply'd, That might do. The Exorcist was rejoic'd at this; he enquires particularly, What Sum there was of it? The Spirit reply'd, That it was a vast Sum, and might prove very good and commodious: it told the Place too where the Treasure was hid, but it was a long Way off: And it order'd what Uses it should be put to. _Tho._ What were they? _Ans._ That three Persons were to undertake a Pilgrimage; one to the Threshold of St. _Peter_; another to salute St. _James_ at _Compostella;_ and the third should kiss _Jesus'_s Comb at _Tryers_; and after that, a vast Number of Services and Masses should be performed in several great Monasteries; and as to the Overplus, he should dispose of it as he pleas'd. Now _Faunus'_s Mind was fixed upon the Treasure; he had, in a Manner, swallowed it in his Mind. _Tho._ That's a common Disease; but more peculiarly thrown in the Priests Dish, upon all Occasions. _Ans._ After nothing had been omitted that related to the Affair of the Money, the Exorcist being put upon it by _Polus_, began to put Questions to the Spirit, about several Arts, as Alchymy and Magick. To these Things the Spirit gave Answers, putting off the Resolution of these Questions for the present, promising it would make larger Discoveries as soon as ever, by his Assistance, it should get out of the Clutches of its Keeper, the Devil; and, if you please, you may let this be the third Act of this Play. As to the fourth Act, _Faunus_ began, in good Earnest, everywhere to talk high, and to talk of nothing else in all Companies and at the Table, and to promise glorious Things to Monasteries; and talk'd of nothing that was low and mean. He goes to the Place, and finds the Tokens, but did not dare to dig for the Treasure, because the Spirit had thrown this Caution in the Way, that it would be extremely dangerous to touch the Treasure, before the Masses had been performed. By this Time, a great many of the wiser Sort had smelt out the Plot, while _Faunus_ at the same Time was every where proclaiming his Folly; tho' he was privately cautioned by his Friends, and especially his Abbot, that he who had hitherto had the Reputation of a prudent Man, should not give the World a Specimen of his being quite contrary. But the Imagination of the Thing had so entirely possess'd his Mind, that all that could be said of him, had no Influence upon him, to make him doubt of the Matter; and he dreamt of nothing but Spectres and Devils: The very Habit of his Mind was got into his Face, that he was so pale, and meagre and dejected, that you would say he was rather a Sprite than a Man: And in short, he was not far from being stark mad, and would have been so, had it not been timely prevented. _Tho._ Well, let this be the last Act of the Play. _Ans._ Well, you shall have it. _Polus_ and his Son-in-Law, hammer'd out this Piece betwixt them: They counterfeited an Epistle written in a strange antique Character, and not upon common Paper, but such as Gold-Beaters put their Leaf-Gold in, a reddish Paper, you know. The Form of the Epistle was this: Faunus, _long a Captive, but now free. To_ Faunus, _his gracious Deliverer sends eternal Health. There is no Need, my dear_ Faunus, _that thou shouldest macerate thyself any longer in this Affair. God has respected the pious Intention of thy Mind; and by the Merit of it, has delivered me from Torments, and I now live happily among the Angels. Thou hast a Place provided for thee with St. Austin, which is next to the Choir of the Apostles: When thou earnest to us, I will give thee publick Thanks. In the mean Time, see that thou live merrily._ _From the_ Imperial Heaven, _the Ides of_ September, _Anno_ 1498. _Under the Seal of my own Ring._ This Epistle was laid privately under the Altar where _Faunus_ was to perform divine Service: This being done, there was one appointed to advertise him of it, as if he had found it by Chance. And now he carries the Letter about him, and shews it as a very sacred Thing; and believes nothing more firmly, than that it was brought from Heaven by an Angel. _Tho._ This is not delivering the Man from his Madness, but changing the Sort of it. _Ans._ Why truly, so it is, only he is now more pleasantly mad than before. _Tho._ I never was wont to give much Credit to Stories of Apparitions in common; but for the Time to come, I shall give much less: For I believe that many Things that have been printed and published, as true Relations, were only by Artifice and Imposture, Impositions upon credulous Persons, and such as _Faunus._ _Ans._ And I also believe that a great many of them are of the same Kind. _The ALCHYMIST._ The ARGUMENT. _This Colloquy shews the Dotage of an old Man, otherwise a very prudent Person, upon this Art; being trick'd by a Priest, under Pretence of a two-Fold Method in this Art, the_ long Way _and the_ short Way. _By the long Way he puts an egregious Cheat upon old_ Balbinus: _The Alchymist lays the Fault upon his Coals and Glasses. Presents of Gold are sent to the Virgin_ Mary, _that she would assist them in their Undertakings. Some Courtiers having come to the Knowledge that_ Balbinus _practis'd this unlawful Art, are brib'd. At last the Alchymist is discharg'd, having Money given him to bear his Charges._ PHILECOUS, LALUS. _Phi._ What News is here, that _Lalus_ laughs to himself so that he e'en giggles again, every now and then signing himself with the Sign of the Cross? I'll interrupt his Felicity. God bless you heartily, my very good Friend _Lalus_; you seem to me to be very happy. _La._ But I shall be much happier, if I make you a Partaker of my merry Conceitedness. _Phi._ Prithee, then, make me happy as soon as you can. _La._ Do you know _Balbinus_? _Phi._ What, that learned old Gentleman that has such a very good Character in the World? _La._ It is as you say; but no Man is wise at all Times, or is without his blind Side. This Man, among his many good Qualifications, has some Foibles: He has been a long Time bewitch'd with the Art call'd _Alchymy_. _Phi._ Believe me, that you call only Foible, is a dangerous Disease. _La._ However that is, notwithstanding he had been so often bitten by this Sort of People, yet he has lately suffer'd himself to be impos'd upon again. _Phi._ In what Manner? _La._ A certain Priest went to him, saluted him with great Respect, and accosted him in this Manner: Most learned _Balbinus_, perhaps you will wonder that I, being a Stranger to you, should thus interrupt you, who, I know, are always earnestly engag'd in the most sacred Studies. _Balbinus_ gave him a Nod, as was his Custom; for he is wonderfully sparing of his Words. _Phi._ That's an Argument of Prudence. _La._ But the other, as the wiser of the two, proceeds. You will forgive this my Importunity, when you shall know the Cause of my coming to you. Tell me then, says _Balbinus_, but in as few Words as you can. I will, says he, as briefly as I am able. You know, most learned of Men, that the Fates of Mortals are various; and I can't tell among which I should class myself, whether among the happy or the miserable; for when I contemplate my Fate on one Part, I account myself most happy, but if on the other Part, I am one of the most miserable. _Balbinus_ pressing him to contract his Speech into a narrow Compass; I will have done immediately, most learned _Balbinus_, says he, and it will be the more easy for me to do it, to a Man who understands the whole Affair so well, that no Man understands it better. _Phi._ You are rather drawing an Orator than an Alchymist. _La._ You shall hear the Alchymist by and by. This Happiness, says he, I have had from a Child, to have learn'd that most desirable Art, I mean Alchymy, the very Marrow of universal Philosophy. At the very Mention of the Name Alchymy, _Balbinus_ rais'd himself a little, that is to say, in Gesture only, and fetching a deep Sigh, bid him go forward. Then he proceeds: But miserable Man that I am, said he, by not falling into the right Way! _Balbinus_ asking him what Ways those were he spoke of; Good Sir, says he, you know (for what is there, most learned Sir, that you are ignorant of?) that there are two Ways in this Art, one which is _call'd the Longation, and the other which is call'd the Curtation_. But by my bad Fate, I have fallen upon _Longation. Balbinus_ asking him, what was the Difference of the Ways; it would be impudent in me, says he, to mention this to a Man, to whom all Things are so well known, that Nobody knows them better; therefore I humbly address myself to you, that you would take Pity on me, and vouchsafe to communicate to me that most happy Way of _Curtation_. And by how much the better you understand this Art, by so much the less Labour you will be able to impart it to me: Do not conceal so great a Gift from your poor Brother that is ready to die with Grief. And as you assist me in this, so may _Jesus Christ_ ever enrich you with more sublime Endowments. He thus making no End of his Solemnity of Obtestations, _Balbinus_ was oblig'd to confess, that he was entirely ignorant of what he meant by _Longation_ and _Curtation_, and bids him explain the Meaning of those Words. Then he began; Altho' Sir, says he, I know I speak to a Person that is better skill'd than myself, yet since you command me I will do it: Those that have spent their whole Life in this divine Art, change the Species of Things two Ways, the one is shorter, but more hazardous, the other is longer, but safer. I account myself very unhappy, that I have laboured in that Way that does not suit my Genius, nor could I yet find out any Body who would shew me the other Way that I am so passionately desirous of; but at last God has put it into my Mind to apply myself to you, a Man of as much Piety as Learning; your Learning qualifies you to answer my Request with Ease, and your Piety will dispose you to help a Christian Brother, whose Life is in your Hands. To make the Matter short, when this crafty Fellow, with such Expressions as these, had clear'd himself from all Suspicion of a Design, and had gain'd Credit, that he understood one Way perfectly well, _Balbinus_'s Mind began to have an Itch to be meddling. And at last, when he could hold no longer, Away with your Methods, says he, of _Curtation_, the Name of which I never heard before, I am so far from understanding it. Tell me sincerely, Do you throughly understand Longation? Phoo! says he, perfectly well; but I don't love the Tediousness of it. Then _Balbinus_ asked him, how much Time it wou'd take up. Too much, says he; almost a whole Year; but in the mean Time it is the safest Way. Never trouble yourself about that, says _Balbinus_, although it should take up two Years, if you can but depend upon your Art. To shorten the Story: They came to an Agreement, that the Business should be set on foot privately in _Balbinus_'s, House, upon this Condition, that he should find Art, and _Balbinus_ Money; and the Profit should be divided between them, although the Imposter modestly offered that _Balbinus_ should have the whole Gain. They both took an Oath of Secrecy, after the Manner of those that are initiated into mysterious Secrets; and presently Money is paid down for the Artist to buy Pots, Glasses, Coals, and other Necessaries for furnishing the Laboratory: This Money our Alchymist lavishes away on Whores, Gaming, and Drinking. _Phi._ This is one Way, however, of changing the Species of Things. _La. Balbinus_ pressing him to fall upon the Business; he replies, Don't you very well know, that _what's well begun is half done?_ It is a great Matter to have the Materials well prepar'd. At last he begins to set up the Furnace; and here there was Occasion for more Gold, as a Bait to catch more: For as a Fish is not caught without a Bait, so Alchymists must cast Gold in, before they can fetch Gold out. In the mean Time, _Balbinus_ was busy in his Accounts; for he reckoned thus, if one Ounce made fifteen, what would be the Product of two thousand; for that was the Sum that he determined to spend. When the Alchymist had spent this Money and two Months Time, pretending to be wonderfully busy about the Bellows and the Coals, Balbinus enquired of him, whether the Business went forward? At first he made no Answer; but at last he urging the Question, he made him Answer, As all great Works do; the greatest Difficulty of which is, in entring upon them: He pretended he had made a Mistake in buying the Coals, for he had bought Oaken ones, when they should have been Beechen or Fir ones. There was a hundred Crowns gone; and he did not spare to go to Gaming again briskly. Upon giving him new Cash, he gets new Coals, and then the Business is begun again with more Resolution than before; just as Soldiers do, when they have happened to meet with a Disaster, they repair it by Bravery. When the Laboratory had been kept hot for some Months, and the golden Fruit was expected, and there was not a Grain of Gold in the Vessel (for the Chymist had spent all that too) another Pretence was found out, That the Glasses they used, were not rightly tempered: For, as every Block will not make a Mercury, so Gold will not be made in any Kind of Glass. And by how much more Money had been spent, by so much the lother he was to give it over. _Phi._ Just as it is with Gamesters, as if it were not better to lose some than all. _La._ Very true. The Chymist swore he was never so cheated since he was born before; but now having found out his Mistake, he could proceed with all the Security in the World, and fetch up that Loss with great Interest. The Glasses being changed, the Laboratory is furnished the third Time: Then the Operator told him, the Operation would go on more successfully, if he sent a Present of Crowns to the Virgin Mary, that you know is worshipped at _Paris_; for it was an holy Act: And in Order to have it carried on successfully, it needed the Favour of the Saints. _Balbinus_ liked this Advice wonderfully well, being a very pious Man that never let a Day pass, but he performed some Act of Devotion or other. The Operator undertakes the religious Pilgrimage; but spends this devoted Money in a Bawdy-House in the next Town: Then he goes back, and tells _Balbinus_ that he had great Hope that all would succeed according to their Mind, the Virgin _Mary_ seem'd so to favour their Endeavours. When he had laboured a long Time, and not one Crumb of Gold appearing, _Balbinus_ reasoning the Matter with him, he answered, that nothing like this had ever happened all his Days to him, tho' he had so many Times had Experience of his Method; nor could he so much as imagine what should be the Reason of this Failing. After they had beat their Brains a long Time about the Matter, _Balbinus_ bethought himself, whether he had any Day miss'd going to Chapel, or saying the _Horary Prayers_, for nothing would succeed, if these were omitted. Says the Imposter you have hit it. Wretch that I am, I have been guilty of that once or twice by Forgetfulness, and lately rising from Table, after a long Dinner, I had forgot to say the Salutation of the Virgin. Why then, says _Balbinus_, it is no Wonder, that a Thing of this Moment succeeds no better. The Trickster undertakes to perform twelve Services for two that he had omitted, and to repay ten Salutations for that one. When Money every now and then fail'd this extravagant Operator, and he could not find out any Pretence to ask for more, he at last bethought himself of this Project. He comes Home like one frighted out of his Wits, and in a very mournful Tone cries out, O _Balbinus_ I am utterly undone, undone; I am in Danger of my Life. _Balbinus_ was astonished, and was impatient to know what was the Matter. The Court, says he, have gotten an Inkling of what we have been about, and I expect nothing else but to be carried to Gaol immediately. _Balbinus_, at the hearing of this, turn'd pale as Ashes; for you know it is capital with us, for any Man to practice _Alchymy_ without a License from the Prince: He goes on: Not, says he, that I am afraid of Death myself, I wish that were the worst that would happen, I fear something more cruel. _Balbinus_ asking him what that was, he reply'd, I shall be carried away into some Castle, and there be forc'd to work all my Days, for those I have no Mind to serve. Is there any Death so bad as such a Life? The Matter was then debated, _Balbinus_ being a Man that very well understood the Art of Rhetorick, casts his Thoughts every Way, if this Mischief could be prevented any Way. Can't you deny the Crime, says he? By no Means, says the other; the Matter is known among the Courtiers, and they have such Proof of it that it can't be evaded, and there is no defending of the Fact; for the Law is point-blank against it. Many Things having been propos'd, but coming to no conclusion, that seem'd feasible; says the Alchymist, who wanted present Money, O _Balbinus_ we apply ourselves to slow Counsels, when the Matter requires a present Remedy. It will not be long before they will be here that will apprehend me, and carry me away into Tribulation. And last of all, seeing _Balbinus_ at a Stand, says the Alchymist, I am as much at a Loss as you, nor do I see any Way left, but to die like a Man, unless you shall approve what I am going to propose, which is more profitable than honourable; but Necessity is a hard Chapter. You know these Sort of Men are hungry after Money, and so may be the more easily brib'd to Secrecy. Although it is a hard Case to give these Rascals Money to throw away; but yet, as the Case now stands, I see no better Way. _Balbinus_ was of the same Opinion, and he lays down thirty Guineas to bribe them to hush up the Matter. _Phi. Balbinus_ was wonderful liberal, as you tell the Story. _La._ Nay, in an honest Cause, you would sooner have gotten his Teeth out of his Head than Money. Well, then the Alchymist was provided for, who was in no Danger, but that of wanting Money for his Wench. _Phi._ I admire _Balbinus_ could not smoak the Roguery all this While. _La._ This is the only Thing that he's soft in, he's as sharp as a Needle in any Thing else. Now the Furnace is set to work again with new Money; but first, a short Prayer is made to the Virgin Mary to prosper their Undertakings. By this Time there had been a whole Year spent, first one Obstacle being pretended, and then another, so that all the Expence and Labour was lost. In the mean Time there fell out one most ridiculous Chance. _Phi._ What was that? _La._ The Alchymist had a criminal Correspondence with a certain Courtier's Lady: The Husband beginning to be jealous, watch'd him narrowly, and in the Conclusion, having Intelligence that the Priest was in the Bed-Chamber, he comes Home before he was look'd for, knocks at the Door. _Phi._ What did he design to do to him? _La._ What! Why nothing very good, either kill him or geld him. When the Husband being very pressing to come, threatned he would break open the Door, if his Wife did not open it, they were in bodily Fear within, and cast about for some present Resolution; and Circumstances admitting no better, he pull'd off his Coat, and threw himself out of a narrow Window, but not without both Danger and Mischief, and so got away. Such Stories as these you know are soon spread, and it came to _Balbinus_'s Ear, and the Chymist guess'd it would be so. _Phi._ There was no getting off of this Business. _La._ Yes, he got off better here, than he did out at the Window. Hear the Man's Invention: _Balbinus_ said not a Word to him about the Matter, but it might be read in his Countenance, that he was no Stranger to the Talk of the Town. The Chymist knew _Balbinus_ to be a Man of Piety, and in some Points, I was going to say, superstitious, and such Persons are very ready to forgive one that falls under his Crime, let it be never so great; therefore, he on Purpose begins a Talk about the Success of their Business, complaining, that it had not succeeded as it us'd to do, and as he would have it; and he-wondered greatly, what should be the Reason of it: Upon this Discourse, _Balbinus_, who seemed otherwise to have been bent upon Silence, taking an Occasion, was a little moved: It is no hard Matter, says he, to guess what the Obstacle is. Sins are the Obstacles that hinder our Success, for pure Works should be done by pure Persons. At this Word, the Projector fell down on his Knees, and beating his Breast with a very mournful Tone, and dejected Countenance, says, O _Balbinus_, what you have said is very true, it is Sin, it is Sin that has been the Hinderance; but my Sins, not yours; for I am not asham'd to confess my Uncleanness before you, as I would before my most holy Father Confessor: The Frailty of my Flesh overcame me, and Satan drew me into his Snares; and O miserable Wretch that I am! Of a Priest, I am become an Adulterer; and yet, the Offering that you sent to the Virgin Mother, is not wholly lost neither, for I had perish'd inevitably, if she had not helped me; for the Husband broke open the Door upon me, and the Window was too little for me to get out at; and in this Pinch of Danger, I bethought myself of the blessed Virgin, and I fell upon my Knees, and besought her, that if the Gift was acceptable to her, she would assist me, and in a Minute I went to the Window, (for Necessity forced me so to do) and found it large enough for me to get out at. _Phi._ Well, and did _Balbinus_ believe all this? _La._ Believe it, yes, and pardon'd him too, and admonish'd him very religiously, not to be ungrateful to the blessed Virgin: Nay, there was more Money laid down, upon his giving his Promise, that he would for the future carry on the Process with Purity. _Phi._ Well, what was the End of all this? _La._ The Story is very long; but I'll cut it short. When he had play'd upon _Balbinus_ long enough with these Inventions, and wheedled him out of a considerable Sum of Money, a certain Gentleman happen'd to come there, that had known the Knave from a Child: He easily imagining that he was acting the same Part with _Balbinus_, that he had been acting every where, admonishes _Balbinus_ privately, and acquainted him what Sort of a Fellow he harbour'd, advising him to get rid of him as soon as possible, unless he had a Mind to have him sometime or other, to rifle his Coffers, and then run away. _Phi._ Well, what did _Balbinus_ do then? Sure, he took Care to have him sent to Gaol? _La._ To Gaol? Nay, he gave him Money to bear his Charges, and conjur'd him by all that was sacred, not to speak a Word of what had happened between them. And in my Opinion, it was his Wisdom so to do, rather than to be the common Laughing-stock, and Table-Talk, and run the Risk of the Confiscation of his Goods besides; for the Imposter was in no Danger; he knew no more of the Matter than an Ass, and cheating is a small Fault in these Sort of Cattle. If he had charg'd him with Theft, his Ordination would have say'd him from the Gallows, and no Body would have been at the Charge of maintaining such a Fellow in Prison. _Phi._ I should pity _Balbinus_; but that he took Pleasure in being gull'd. _La._ I must now make haste to the Hall; at another Time I'll tell you Stories more ridiculous than this. _Phi._ When you shall be at Leisure, I shall be glad to hear them, and I'll give you Story for Story. _The HORSE-CHEAT._ The ARGUMENT. _The_ Horse-Cheat _lays open the cheating Tricks of those that sell or let out Horses to hire; and shews how those Cheats themselves are sometimes cheated._ AULUS, PHÆDRUS. Good God! What a grave Countenance our _Phaedrus_ has put on, gaping ever and anon into the Air. I'll attack him. _Phaedrus_, what News to Day? _Ph._ Why do you ask me that Question, _Aulus_? _Aul._ Because, of a _Phaedrus_, you seem to have become a _Cato_, there is so much Sourness in your Countenance. _Ph._ That's no Wonder, my Friend, I am just come from Confession. _Aul._ Nay, then my Wonder's over; but tell me upon your honest Word, did you confess all? _Ph._ All that I could remember, but one. _Aul._ And why did you reserve that one? _Ph._ Because I can't be out of Love with it. _Aul._ It must needs be some pleasant Sin. _Ph._ I can't tell whether it is a Sin or no; but if you are at Leisure, you shall hear what it is. _Aul._ I would be glad to hear it, with all my Heart. _Ph._ You know what cheating Tricks are play'd by our _Jockeys_, who sell and let out Horses. _Aul._ Yes, I know more of them than I wish I did, having been cheated by them more than once. _Ph._ I had Occasion lately to go a pretty long Journey, and I was in great Haste; I went to one that you would have said was none of the worst of 'em, and there was some small Matter of Friendship between us. I told him I had an urgent Business to do, and had Occasion for a strong able Gelding; desiring, that if he would ever be my Friend in any Thing, he would be so now. He promised me, that he would use me as kindly as if I were his own dear Brother. _Aul._ It may be he would have cheated his Brother. _Ph._ He leads me into the Stable, and bids me chuse which I would out of them all. At last I pitch'd upon one that I lik'd better than the rest. He commends my Judgment, protesting that a great many Persons had had a Mind to that Horse; but he resolved to keep him rather for a singular Friend, than sell him to a Stranger. I agreed with him as to the Price, paid him down his Money, got upon the Horse's Back. Upon the first setting out, my Steed falls a prancing; you would have said he was a Horse of Mettle; he was plump, and in good Case: But, by that Time I had rid him an Hour and a half, I perceiv'd he was downright tir'd, nor could I by spurring him, get him any further. I had heard that such Jades had been kept for Cheats, that you would take by their Looks to be very good Horses; but were worth nothing for Service. I says to myself presently, I am caught. But when I come Home again, I will shew him Trick for Trick. _Aul._ But what did you do in this Case, being a Horseman without a Horse? _Ph._ I did what I was oblig'd to do. I turn'd into the next Village, and there I set my Horse up privately, with an Acquaintance, and hired another, and prosecuted my Journey; and when I came back, I return'd my hired Horse, and finding my own in very good Case, and thoroughly rested, I mounted his Back, and rid back to the Horse-Courser, desiring him to set him up for a few Days, till I called for him again. He ask'd me how well he carry'd me; I swore by all that was good, that I never bestrid a better Nag in my Life, that he flew rather than walk'd, nor ever tir'd the least in the World in all so long a Journey, nor was a Hair the leaner for it. I having made him believe that these Things were true, he thought with himself, he had been mistaken in this Horse; and therefore, before I went away, he ask'd me if I would sell the Horse. I refus'd at first; because if I should have Occasion to go such another Journey, I should not easily get the Fellow of him; but however, I valued nothing so much, but I would sell it, if I could have a good Price for it, altho' any Body had a Mind to buy myself. _Aul._ This was fighting a Man with his own Weapons. _Ph._ In short, he would not let me go away, before I had set a Price upon him. I rated him at a great Deal more than he cost me. Being gone, I got an Acquaintance to act for me, and gave him Instructions how to behave himself: He goes to the House, and calls for the Horse-Courser, telling him, that he had Occasion for a very good, and a very hardy Nag. The Horse-Courser shews him a great many Horses, still commending the worst most of all; but says not a Word of that Horse he had sold me, verily believing he was such as I had represented him. My Friend presently ask'd whether that was not to be sold; for I had given him a Description of the Horse, and the Place where he stood. The Horse-Courser at first made no Answer, but commended the rest very highly. The Gentleman lik'd the other Horses pretty well; but always treated about that very Horse: At last thinks the Horse-Courser with himself, I have certainly been out in my Judgment as to this Horse, if this Stranger could presently pick this Horse out of so many. He insisting upon it, He may be sold, says he; but it may be, you'll be frighted at the Price. The Price, says he, is a Case of no great Importance, if the Goodness of the Thing be answerable: Tell me the Price. He told him something more than I had set him at to him, getting the Overplus to himself. At last the Price was agreed on, and a good large Earnest was given, a Ducat of Gold to bind the Bargain. The Purchaser gives the Hostler a Groat, orders him to give his Horse some Corn, and he would come by and by, and fetch him. As soon as ever I heard the Bargain was made so firmly, that it could not be undone again, I go immediately, booted and spurr'd to the Horse-Courser, and being out of Breath, calls for my Horse. He comes and asks what I wanted: Says I, get my Horse ready presently, for I must be gone this Moment, upon an extraordinary Affair: But, says he, you bid me keep the Horse a few Days: That's true, said I, but this Business has happened unexpectedly, and it is the King's Business, and it will admit of no Delay. Says he, take your Choice, which you will of all my Horses; you cannot have your own. I ask'd him, why so? Because, says he, he is sold. Then I pretended to be in a great Passion; God forbid, says I; as this Journey has happen'd, I would not sell him, if any Man would offer me four Times his Price. I fell to wrangling, and cry out, I am ruin'd: At Length he grew a little warm too: What Occasion is there for all this Contention: You set a Price upon your Horse, and I have sold him; if I pay you your Money, you have nothing more to do to me; we have Laws in this City, and you can't compel me to produce the Horse. When I had clamoured a good While, that he would either produce the Horse, or the Man that bought him: He at last pays me down the Money in a Passion. I had bought him for fifteen Guineas, I set him to him at twenty six, and he had valued him at thirty two, and so computed with himself he had better make that Profit of him, than restore the Horse. I go away, as if I was vex'd in my Mind, and scarcely pacified, tho' the Money was paid me: He desires me not to take it amiss, he would make me Amends some other Way: So I bit the Biter: He has a Horse not worth a Groat; he expected that he that had given him the Earnest, should come and pay him the Money; but no Body came, nor ever will come. _Aul._ But in the mean Time, did he never expostulate the Matter with you? _Ph._ With what Face or Colour could he do that? I have met him over and over since, and he complain'd of the Unfairness of the Buyer: But I often reason'd the Matter with him, and told him, he deserv'd to be so serv'd, who by his hasty Sale of him, had depriv'd me of my Horse. This was a Fraud so well plac'd, in my Opinion, that I could not find in my Heart to confess it as a Fault. _Aul._ If I had done such a Thing, I should have been so far from confessing it as a Fault, that I should have requir'd a Statue for it. _Ph._ I can't tell whether you speak as you think or no; but you set me agog however, to be paying more of these Fellows in their own Coin. _The BEGGARS DIALOGUE._ The ARGUMENT. _The Beggars Dialogue paints out the cheating, crafty Tricks of Beggars, who make a Shew of being full of Sores, and make a Profession of Palmistry, and other Arts by which they impose upon many Persons. Nothing is more like Kingship, than the Life of a Beggar._ IRIDES, MISOPONUS. _Ir._ What new Sort of Bird is this I see flying here? I know the Face, but the Cloaths don't suit it. If I'm not quite mistaken, this is _Misoponus_. I'll venture to speak to him, as ragged as I am. God save you, _Misoponus_. _Mis._ Hold your Tongue, I say. _Ir._ What's the Matter, mayn't a Body salute you? _Mis._ Not by that Name. _Ir._ Why, what has happen'd to you? Are you not the same Man that you was? What, have you changed your Name with your Cloaths? _Mis._ No, but I have taken up my old Name again. _Ir._ Who was you then? _Mis._ _Apitius_. _Ir._ Never be asham'd of your old Acquaintance, if any Thing of a better Fortune has happen'd to you. It is not long since you belong'd to our Order. _Mis._ Prithee, come hither, and I'll tell you the whole Story. I am not asham'd of your Order; but I am asham'd of the Order that I was first of myself. _Ir._ What Order do you mean? That of the _Franciscans_? _Mis._ No, by no Means, my good Friend; but the Order of the Spendthrifts. _Ir._ In Truth, you have a great many Companions of that Order. _Mis._ I had a good Fortune, I spent lavishly, and when I began to be in Want, no Body knew _Apitius_. I ran away for Shame, and betook myself to your College: I lik'd that better than digging. _Ir._ Very wisely done; but how comes your Body to be in so good Case of late? For as to your Change of Cloaths, I don't so much wonder at that. _Mis._ Why so? _Ir._ Because the Goddess _Laverna_ makes many rich on a sudden. _Mis._ What! do you think I got an Estate by Thieving then? _Ir._ Nay, perhaps more idly, by Rapine. _Mis._ No, I swear by your Goddess _Penia_, neither by Thieving, nor by Rapine. But first I'll satisfy you as to the State of my Body, which seems to you to be the most admirable. _Ir._ For when you were with us, you were all over full of Sores. _Mis._ But I have since made Use of a very friendly Physician. _Ir._ Who? _Mis._ No other Person but myself, unless you think any Body is more friendly to me, than I am to myself. _Ir._ But I never knew you understood Physick before. _Mis._ Why all that Dress was nothing but a Cheat I had daub'd on with Paints, Frankincense, Brimstone, Rosin, Birdlime, and Clouts dipp'd in Blood; and what I put on, when I pleas'd I took off again. _Ir._ O Impostor! Nothing appear'd more miserable than you were. You might have acted the Part of Job in a Tragedy. _Mis._ My Necessity made me do it, though Fortune sometimes is apt to change the Skin too. _Ir._ Well then, tell me of your Fortune. Have you found a Treasure? _Mis._ No; but I have found out a Way of getting Money that's a little better than yours. _Ir._ What could you get Money out of, that had no Stock? _Mis._ _An Artist will live any where._ _Ir._ I understand you now, you mean the Art of picking Pockets. _Mis._ Not so hard upon me, I pray; I mean the Art of Chymistry. _Ir._ Why 'tis scarce above a Fortnight, since you went away from us, and have you in that Time learn'd an Art, that others can hardly learn in many Years? _Mis._ But I have got a shorter Way. _Ir._ Prithee, what Way? _Mis._ When I had gotten almost four Guineas by your Art, I happened, as good Luck would have it, to fall into the Company of an old Companion of mine, who had manag'd his Matters in the World no better than I had done. We went to drink together; he began, as the common Custom is, to tell of his Adventures. I made a Bargain with him to pay his Reckoning, upon Condition that he should faithfully teach me his Art. He taught it me very honestly, and now 'tis my Livelihood. _Ir._ Mayn't a Body learn it? _Mis._ I'll teach it you for nothing, for old Acquaintance Sake. You know, that there are every where a great many that are very fond of this Art. _Ir._ I have heard so, and I believe it is true. _Mis._ I take all Opportunities of insinuating myself into their Acquaintance, and talk big of my Art, and where-ever I find an hungry Sea-Cob, I throw him out a Bait. _Ir._ How do you do that? _Mis._ I caution him by all Means, not rashly to trust Men of that Profession, for that they are most of them Cheats, that by their _hocus pocus_ Tricks, pick the Pockets of those that are not cautious. _Ir._ That Prologue is not fit for your Business. _Mis._ Nay, I add this further, that I would not have them believe me myself, unless they saw the Matter plainly with their own Eyes, and felt it with their Hands. _Ir._ You speak of a wonderful Confidence you have in your Art. _Mis._ I bid them be present all the While the Metamorphosis is under the Operation, and to look on very attentively, and that they may have the less Reason to doubt, to perform the whole Operation with their own Hands, while I stand at a Distance, and don't so much as put my Finger to it. I put them to refine the melted Matter themselves, or carry it to the Refiners to be done; I tell them beforehand, how much Silver or Gold it will afford: And in the last Place, I bid them carry the melted Mass to several Goldsmiths, to have it try'd by the Touchstone. They find the exact Weight that I told them; they find it to be the finest Gold or Silver, it is all one to me which it is, except that the Experiment in Silver is the less chargeable to me. _Ir._ But has your Art no Cheat in it? _Mis._ It is a mere Cheat all over. _Ir._ I can't see where the Cheat lies. _Mis._ I'll make you see it presently. I first make a Bargain for my Reward, but I won't be paid before I have given a Proof of the Thing itself: I give them a little Powder, as though the whole Business was effected by the Virtue of that; but I never tell them how to make it, except they purchase it at a very great Price. And I make them take an Oath, that for six Months they shall not discover the Secret to any Body living. _Ir._ But I han't heard the Cheat yet. _Mis._ The whole Mystery lies in one Coal, that I have prepared for this Purpose. I make a Coal hollow, and into it I pour melted Silver, to the Quantity I tell them before-Hand will be produc'd. And after the Powder is put in, I set the Pot in such a Manner, that it is cover'd all over, above, beneath, and Sides, with Coals, and I persuade them, that the Art consists in that; among those Coals that are laid at Top, I put in one that has the Silver or Gold in it, that being melted by the Heat of the Fire, falls down among the other Metal, which melts, as suppose Tin or Brass, and upon the Separation, it is found and taken out. _Ir._ A ready Way; but, how do you manage the Fallacy, when another does it all with his own Hands? _Mis._ When he has done every Thing, according to my Direction, before the Crucible is stirr'd, I come and look about, to see if nothing has been omitted, and then I say, that there seems to want a Coal or two at the Top, and pretending to take one out of the Coal-Heap, I privately lay on one of my own, or have laid it there ready before-Hand, which I can take, and no Body know any Thing of the Matter. _Ir._ But when they try to do this without you, and it does not succeed, what Excuse have you to make? _Mis._ I'm safe enough when I have got my Money. I pretend one Thing or other, either that the Crucible was crack'd, or the Coals naught, or the Fire not well tempered. And in the last Place, one Part of the Mystery of my Profession is, never to stay long in the same Place. _Ir._ And is there so much Profit in this Art as to maintain you? _Mis._ Yes, and nobly too: And I would have you, for the future, if you are wise, leave off that wretched Trade of Begging, and follow ours. _Ir._ Nay, I should rather chuse to bring you back to our Trade. _Mis._ What, that I should voluntarily return again to that I have escap'd from, and forsake that which I have found profitable? _Ir._ This Profession of ours has this Property in it, that it grows pleasant by Custom. And thence it is, that tho' many have fallen off from the Order of St. _Francis_ or St. _Benedict_, did you ever know any that had been long in our Order, quit it? For you could scarce taste the Sweetness of Beggary in so few Months as you follow'd it. _Mis._ That little Taste I had of it taught me, that it was the most wretched Life in Nature. _Ir._ Why does no Body quit it then? _Mis._ Perhaps, because they are naturally wretched. _Ir._ I would not change this Wretchedness, for the Fortune of a King. For there is nothing more like a King, than the Life of a Beggar. _Mis._ What strange Story do I hear? Is nothing more like Snow than a Coal? _Ir._ Wherein consists the greatest Happiness of Kings? _Mis._ Because in that they can do what they please. _Ir._ As for that Liberty, than which nothing is sweeter, we have more of it than any King upon Earth; and I don't doubt, but there are many Kings that envy us Beggars. Let there be War or Peace we live secure, we are not press'd for Soldiers, nor put upon Parish-Offices, nor taxed. When the People are loaded with Taxes, there's no Scrutiny into our Way of Living. If we commit any Thing that is illegal, who will sue a Beggar? If we beat a Man, he will be asham'd to fight with a Beggar? Kings can't live at Ease neither in War or in Peace, and the greater they are, the greater are their Fears. The common People are afraid to offend us, out of a certain Sort of Reverence, as being consecrated to God. _Mis._ But then, how nasty are ye in your Rags and Kennels? _Ir._ What do they signify to real Happiness. Those Things you speak of are out of a Man. We owe our Happiness to these Rags. _Mis._ But I am afraid a good Part of your Happiness will fail you in a short Time. _Ir._ How so? _Mis._ Because I have heard a Talk in the Cities, that there will be a Law, that Mendicants shan't be allow'd to stroll about at their Pleasure, but every City shall maintain its own Poor; and that they that are able shall be made to work. _Ir._ What Reason have they for this? _Mis._ Because they find great Rogueries committed under Pretence of Begging, and that there are great Inconveniencies arise to the Publick from your Order. _Ir._ Ay, I have heard these Stones Time after Time, and they'll bring it about when the Devil's blind. _Mis._ Perhaps sooner than you'd have it. _The FABULOUS FEAST._ The ARGUMENT. _The fabulous Feast contains various Stories and pleasant Tales._ Maccus _puts a Trick upon a Shoe-maker. A Fruiterer is put upon about her Figs. A very clever Cheat of a Priest, in relation to Money._ Lewis _the Eleventh, King of_ France, _eats some of a Country-Man's Turnips, and gives him 1000 Crowns for an extraordinary large one that he made a Present of to him. A certain Man takes a Louse off of the King's Garment, and the King gives him 40 Crowns for it. The Courtiers are trick'd. One asks for an Office, or some publick Employment. To deny a Kindness presently, is to bestow a Benefit._ Maximilian _was very merciful to his Debtors. An old Priest Cheats an Usurer._ Anthony _salutes one upon letting a Fart, saying the Backside was the cleanest Part of the Body._ POLYMYTHUS, GELASINUS, EUTRAPELUS, ASTÆUS, PHILYTHLUS, PHILOGELOS, EUGLOTTUS, LEROCHARES, ADOLESCHES, LEVINUS. _Pol._ As it is unfitting for a well order'd City to be without Laws and without a Governor; so neither ought a Feast to be without Orders and a President. _Ge._ If I may speak for the rest, I like it very well. _Po._ Soho, Sirrah! bring hither the Dice, the Matter shall be determin'd by their Votes; he shall be our President that _Jupiter_ shall favour. O brave! _Eutrapelus_ has it, the fittest Man that could be chosen, if we had every individual Man of us thrown. There is an usual Proverb, that has more Truth in't than good Latin, _Novus Rex nova Lex, New Lords new Laws_. Therefore, King, make thou Laws. _Eut._ That this may be a merry and happy Banquet, in the first Place I command, that no Man tell a Story but what is a ridiculous one. He that shall have no Story to tell, shall pay a Groat, to be spent in Wine; and Stories invented extempore shall be allow'd as legitimate, provided Regard be had to Probability and Decency. If no Body shall want a Story, let those two that tell, the one the pleasantest, and the other the dullest, pay for Wine. Let the Master of the Feast be at no Charge for Wine, but only for the Provisions of the Feast. If any Difference about this Matter shall happen, let _Gelasinus_ be Judge. If you agree to these Conditions, let 'em be ratified. He that won't observe the Orders, let him be gone, but with Liberty to come again to a Collation the next Day. _Ge._ We give our Votes for the Passing the Bill our King has brought in. But who must tell the first Story? _Eut._ Who should, but the Master of the Feast? _As._ But, Mr. King, may I have the liberty to speak three Words? _Eut._ What, do you take the Feast to be an unlucky one? _As._ The Lawyers deny that to be Law that is not just. _Eut._ I grant it. _As._ Your Law makes the best and worst Stories equal. _Eut._ Where Diversion is the Thing aim'd at, there he deserves as much Commendation who tells the worst, as he that tells the best Story, because it affords as much Merriment; as amongst Songsters none are admir'd but they that sing very well, or they that sing very ill. Do not more laugh to hear the Cuckoo than to hear the Nightingal? In this Case Mediocrity is not Praise-worthy. _As._ But pray, why must they be punish'd, that carry off the Prize? _Eut._ Lest their too great Felicity should expose them to Envy, if they should carry away the Prize, and go Shot-free too. _As._ By _Bacchus, Minos_ himself never made a juster Law. _Phily._ Do you make no Order as to the Method of Drinking? _Eut._ Having consider'd the Matter, I will follow the Example of _Agesilaus_ King of the _Lacedæmonians_. _Phily._ What did he do? _Eut._ Upon a certain Time, he being by Lot chosen Master of the Feast, when the Marshal of the Hall ask'd him, how much Wine he should set before every Man; If, says he, you have a great Deal of Wine, let every Man have as much as he calls for, but if you're scarce of Wine, give every Man equally alike. _Phily._ What did the _Lacedæmonian_ mean by that? _Eut._ He did this, that it might neither be a drunken Feast, nor a querulous one. _Phily._ Why so? _Eut._ Because some like to drink plentifully, and some sparingly, and some drink no Wine at all; such an one _Romulus_ is said to have been. For if no Body has any Wine but what he asks for, in the first Place no Body is compell'd to drink, and there is no Want to them that love to drink more plentifully. And so it comes to pass that no Body is melancholy at the Table. And again, if of a less quantity of Wine every one has an equal Portion, they that drink moderately have enough; nor can any Body complain in an Equality, and they that would have drank more largely, are contentedly temperate. _Eut._ If you like it, this is the Example I would imitate, for I would have this Feast to be a fabulous, but not a drunken one. _Phily._ But what did _Romulus_ drink then? _Eut._ The same that Dogs drink. _Phily._ Was not that unbeseeming a King? _Eut._ No more than it is unseemly for a King to draw the same Air that Dogs do, unless there is this Difference, that a King does not drink the very same Water that a Dog drank, but a Dog draws in the very same Air that the King breath'd out; and on the contrary, the King draws in the very same Air that the Dog breath'd out. It would have been much more to _Alexander_'s, Glory, if he had drank with the Dogs. For there is nothing worse for a King, who has the Care of so many thousand Persons, than Drunkenness. But the Apothegm that _Romulus_ very wittily made Use of, shews plainly that he was no Wine-Drinker. For when a certain Person, taking Notice of his abstaining from Wine, said to him, that Wine would be very cheap, if all Men drank as he did; nay, says he, in my Opinion it would be very dear, if all Men drank it as I drink; for I drink as much as I please. _Ge._ I wish our _John Botzemus_, the Canon of _Constance_, was here; he'd look like another _Romulus_ to us: For he is as abstemious, as he is reported to have been; but nevertheless, he is a good-humoured, facetious Companion. _Po._ But come on, if you can, I won't say _drink and blow_, which _Plautus_ says is a hard Matter to do, but if you can eat and hear at one and the same Time, which is a very easy Matter, I'll begin the Exercise of telling Stories, and auspiciously. If the Story be not a pleasant one, remember 'tis a _Dutch_ one. I suppose some of you have heard of the Name of _Maccus_? _Ge._ Yes, he has not been dead long. _Po._ He coming once to the City of _Leiden_, and being a Stranger there, had a Mind to make himself taken Notice of for an arch Trick (for that was his Humour); he goes into a Shoemaker's Shop, and salutes him. The Shoemaker, desirous to sell his Ware, asks him what he would buy: _Maccus_ setting his Eyes upon a Pair of Boots that hung up there, the Shoemaker ask'd him if he'd buy any Boots; _Maccus_ assenting to it, he looks out a Pair that would fit him, and when he had found 'em brings 'em out very readily, and, as the usual Way is, draws 'em on. _Maccus_ being very well fitted with a Pair of Boots, How well, says he, would a Pair of double soal'd Shoes agree with these Boots? The Shoemaker asks him, if he would have a Pair of Shoes too. He assents, a Pair is look'd out presently and put on. _Maccus_ commends the Boots, commends the Shoes. The Shoemaker glad in his Mind to hear him talk so, seconds him as he commended 'em, hoping to get a better Price, since the Customer lik'd his Goods so well. And by this Time they were grown a little familiar; then says _Maccus_, Tell me upon your Word, whether it never was your Hap, when you had fitted a Man with Boots and Shoes, as you have me, to have him go away without paying for 'em? No, never in all my Life, says he. But, says _Maccus_, if such a Thing should happen to you, what would you do in the Case? Why, quoth the Shoemaker, I'd run after him. Then says _Maccus_, but are you in Jest or in Earnest? In Earnest, says the other, and I'd do it in Earnest too. Says _Maccus_, I'll try whether you will or no. See I run for the Shoes, and you're to follow me, and out he runs in a Minute; the Shoemaker follows him immediately as fast as ever he could run, crying out, Stop Thief, stop Thief; this Noise brings the People out of their Houses: _Maccus_ laughing, hinders them from laying Hold of him by this Device, Don't stop me, says he, we are running a Race for a Wager of a Pot of Ale; and so they all stood still and look'd on, thinking the Shoemaker had craftily made that Out-cry that he might have the Opportunity to get before him. At last the Shoemaker, being tir'd with running, gives out, and goes sweating, puffing and blowing Home again: So _Maccus_ got the Prize. _Ge._ _Maccus_ indeed escap'd the Shoemaker, but did not escape the Thief. _Po._ Why so? _Ge._ Because he carried the Thief along with him. _Po._ Perhaps he might not have Money at that Time, but paid for 'em afterwards. _Ge._ He might have indicted him for a Robbery. _Po._ That was attempted afterwards, but now the Magistrates knew _Maccus_. _Ge._ What did _Maccus_ say for himself? _Po._ Do you ask what he said for himself, in so good a Cause as this? The Plaintiff was in more Danger than the Defendant. _Ge._ How so? _Po._ Because he arrested him in an Action of Defamation, and prosecuted him upon the Statute of _Rheims_ which says, that he that charges a Man with what he can't prove, shall suffer the Penalty, which the Defendant was to suffer if he had been convicted. He deny'd that he had meddled with another Man's Goods without his Leave, but that he put 'em upon him, and that there was no Mention made of any Thing of a Price; but that he challeng'd the Shoemaker to run for a Wager, and that he accepted the Challenge, and that he had no Reason to complain because he had out-run him. _Ge._ This Action was pretty much like that of the Shadow of the Ass. Well, but what then? _Po._ When they had had laughing enough at the Matter, one of the Judges invites _Maccus_ to Supper, and paid the Shoemaker his Money. Just such another Thing happen'd at _Daventerv_, when I was a Boy. It was at a Time when 'tis the Fishmonger's Fair, and the Butchers Time to be starv'd. A certain Man stood at a Fruiterer's Stall, or Oporopolist's, if you'd have it in _Greek_. The Woman was a very fat Woman, and he star'd very hard upon the Ware she had to sell. She, according as the Custom is, invites him to have what he had a Mind to; and perceiving he set his Eyes upon some Figs, Would you please to have Figs, says she? they are very fine ones. He gives her a Nod. She asks him how many Pound, Would you have five Pound says she? He nods again; she turns him five Pound into his Apron. While she is laying by her Scales, he walks off, not in any great haste, but very gravely. When she comes out to take her Money, her Chap was gone; she follows him, making more Noise than Haste after him. He, taking no Notice, goes on; at last a great many getting together at the Woman's Out-cry, he stands still, pleads his Cause in the midst of the Multitude: there was very good Sport, he denies that he bought any Figs of her, but that she gave 'em him freely; if she had a Mind to have a Trial for it, he would put in an Appearance. _Ge._ Well, I'll tell you a Story not much unlike yours, nor perhaps not much inferior to it, saving it has not so celebrated an Author as _Maccus_. _Pythagoras_ divided the Market into three Sorts of Persons, those that went thither to sell, those that went thither to buy; both these Sorts were a careful Sort of People, and therefore unhappy: others came to see what was there to be sold, and what was done; these only were the happy People, because being free from Care, they took their Pleasure freely. And this he said was the Manner that a Philosopher convers'd in this World, as they do in a Market. But there is a fourth Kind of Persons that walk about in our Markets, who neither buy nor sell, nor are idle Spectators of what others do, but lie upon the Catch to steal what they can. And of this last Sort there are some that are wonderful dextrous. You would swear they were born under a lucky Planet. Our Entertainer gave us a Tale with an Epilogue, I'll give you one with a Prologue to it. Now you shall hear what happen'd lately at _Antwerp_. An old Priest had receiv'd there a pretty handsome Sum of Money, but it was in Silver. A Sharper has his Eye upon him; he goes to the Priest, who had put his Money in a large Bag in his Cassock, where it boug'd out; he salutes him very civilly, and tells him that he had Orders to buy a Surplice, which is the chief Vestment us'd in performing Divine Service, for the Priest of his Parish; he intreats him to lend him a little Assistance in this Matter, and to go with him to those that sell such Attire, that he might fit one according to his Size, because he was much about the same Stature with the Parson of his Parish. This being but a small Kindness, the old Priest promises to do it very readily. They go to a certain Shop, a Surplice is shew'd 'em, the old Priest puts it on, the Seller says, it fits him as exactly as if made for him; the Sharper viewing the old Priest before and behind, likes the Surplice very well, but only found Fault that it was too short before. The Seller, lest he should lose his Customer, says, that was not the Fault of the Surplice, but that the Bag of Money that stuck out, made it look shorter there. To be short, the old Priest lays his Bag down; then they view it over again, and while the old Priest stands with his Back towards it, the Sharper catches it up, and runs away as fast as he could: The Priest runs after him in the Surplice as he was, and the Shop-Keeper after the Priest; the old Priest cries out, Stop Thief; the Salesman cries out, Stop the Priest; the Sharper cries out, Stop the mad Priest; and they took him to be mad, when they saw him run in the open Street in such a Dress: so one hindring the other, the Sharper gets clear off. _Eut._ Hanging is too good for such a Rogue. _Ge._ It is so, if he be not hang'd already. _Eut._ I would not have him hang'd only, but all those that encourage such monstrous Rogues to the Damage of the State. _Ge._ They don't encourage 'em for nothing; there's a fellow Feeling between 'em from the lowest to the highest. _Eut._ Well, but let us return to our Stories again. _Ast._ It comes to your Turn now, if it be meet to oblige a King to keep his Turn. _Eut._ I won't need to be forc'd to keep my Turn, I'll keep it voluntarily; I should be a Tyrant and not a King, if I refus'd to comply with those Laws I prescribe to others. _Ast._ But some Folks say, that a Prince is above the Law. _Eut._ That saying is not altogether false, if by Prince you mean that great Prince who was call'd _Cæsar_; and then, if by being above the Law, you mean, that whereas others do in some Measure keep the Laws by Constraint, he of his own Inclination more exactly observes them. For a good Prince is that to the Body Politick, which the Mind is to the Body Natural. What Need was there to have said a good Prince, when a bad Prince is no Prince? As an unclean Spirit that possesses the human Body, is not the Soul of that Body. But to return to my Story; and I think that as I am King, it becomes me to tell a kingly Story. _Lewis_ King of _France_ the Eleventh of that Name, when his Affairs were disturb'd at Home, took a Journey to _Burgundy_; and there upon the Occasion of a Hunting, contracted a Familiarity with one _Conon_, a Country Farmer, but a plain downright honest Man; and Kings delight in the Conversation of such Men. The King, when he went a hunting, us'd often to go to his House; and as great Princes do sometimes delight themselves with mean Matters, he us'd to be mightily pleas'd in eating of his Turnips. Not long after, _Lewis_ having settled his Affairs, obtain'd the Government of the _French_ Nation; _Conon_'s Wife puts him upon remembring the King of his old Entertainment at their House, bids him go to him, and make him a Present of some rare Turnips. _Conon_ at first would not hear of it, saying he should lose his Labour, for that Princes took no Notice of such small Matters; but his Wife over-persuaded him. _Conon_ picks out a Parcel of choice Turnips, and gets ready for his Journey; but growing hungry by the Way, eats 'em all up but one very large one. When _Conon_ had got Admission into the Hall that the King was to pass thro', the King knew him presently, and sent for him; and he with a great Deal of Chearfulness offers his Present, and the King with as much Readiness of Mind receives it, commanding one that stood near him to lay it up very carefully among his greatest Rarities. He commands _Conon_ to dine with him, and after Dinner thanks him; and _Conon_ being desirous to go back into his own Country, the King orders him 1000 Crowns for his Turnip. When the Report of this Thing, as it is common, was spread abroad thro' the King's Houshold-Servants, one of the Courtiers presents the King with a very fine Horse; the King knowing that it was his Liberality to _Conon_ that had put him upon this, he hoping to make a great Advantage by it, he accepted it with a great Deal of Pleasure, and calling a Council of his Nobles, began to debate, with what Present he should make a Recompence for so fine and valuable a Horse. In the mean Time the Giver of the Horse began to be flushed with Expectation, thinking thus with himself; If he made such a Recompence for a poor Turnip offer'd him by a Country Farmer, how much more magnificently will he requite the Present of so fine a Horse by a Courtier? When one answer'd one Thing, and another another to the King that was consulting about it, as a Matter of great Moment, and the designing Courtier had been for a long Time kept in Fools Paradise; At Length, says the King, it's just now come into my Mind what Return to make him, and calling one of his Noblemen to him, whispers him in the Ear, bids him go fetch him what he found in his Bedchamber (telling him the Place where it lay) choicely wrap'd up in Silk; the Turnip is brought, and the King with his own Hand gives it the Courtier, wrap'd up as it was, saying that he thought he had richly requited the Present of the Horse by so choice a Rarity, as had cost him 1000 Crowns. The Courtier going away, and taking off the Covering, did not find a _Coal instead of a Treasure_, according to the old Proverb, but a dry Turnip: and so the Biter was bitten, and soundly laugh'd at by every Body into the Bargain. _As._ But, Mr. King, if you'll please to permit me, who am but a Peasant, to speak of regal Matters, I'll tell you something that comes into my Mind, by hearing your Story, concerning the same _Lewis_. For as one Link of a Chain draws on another, so one Story draws on another. A certain Servant seeing a Louse crawling upon the King's Coat, falling upon his Knees and lifting up his Hand, gives Notice, that he had a Mind to do some Sort of Service; _Lewis_ offering himself to him, he takes off the Louse, and threw it away privately; the King asks him what it was; he seem'd ashamed to tell him, but the King urging him, he confess'd it was a Louse: That's a very good Sign, says he, for it shews me to be a Man, because this Sort of Vermin particularly haunts Mankind, especially while they are young; and order'd him a Present of 40 Crowns for his good Service. Some Time after, another Person (who had seen how well he came off that had perform'd so small a Service) not considering that there is a great Difference between doing a Thing sincerely, and doing it craftily, approached the King with the like Gesture; and he offering himself to him, he made a Shew of taking something off his Garment, which he presently threw away. But when the King was urgent upon him, seeming unwilling to tell what it was, mimicking Abundance of Modesty, he at last told him it was a Flea; the King perceiving the Fraud, says to him, What do you make a Dog of me? and orders him to be taken away, and instead of 40 Crowns orders him 40 Stripes. _Phily._ I hear it's no good jesting with Kings; for as Lions will sometimes stand still to be stroaked, are Lions again when they please, and kill their Play-Fellow; just so Princes play with Men. But I'll tell you a Story not much unlike yours: not to go off from _Lewis_, who us'd to take a Pleasure in tricking Tricksters. He had receiv'd a Present of ten thousand Crowns from some Place, and as often as the Courtiers know the King has gotten any fresh Money, all the Officers are presently upon the Hunt to catch some Part of it; this _Lewis_ knew very well, this Money being pour'd out upon a Table, he, to raise all their Expectations, thus bespeaks them; What say you, am not I a very rich King? Where shall I bestow all this Money? It was presented to me, and I think it is meet I should make Presents of it again. Where are all my Friends, to whom I am indebted for their good Services? Now let 'em come before this Money's gone. At that Word a great many came running; every Body hop'd to get some of it. The King taking Notice of one that look'd very wishfully upon it, and as if he would devour it with his Eyes, turning to him, says, Well, Friend, what have you to say? He inform'd the King, that he had for a long Time very faithfully kept the King's Hawks, and been at a great Expence thereby. One told him one Thing, another another, every one setting out his Service to the best Advantage, and ever and anon lying into the Bargain. The King heard 'em all very patiently, and approv'd of what they said. This Consultation held a long Time, that he might teaze them the more, by keeping them betwixt Hope and Despair. Among the rest stood the Great Chancellor, for the King had order'd him to be sent for too; he, being wiser than the rest, says never a Word of his own good Services, but was only a Spectator of the Comedy. At Length the King turning toward him, says, Well, what says my Chancellor to the Matter? He is the only Man that asks nothing, and says never a Word of his good Services. I, says the Chancellor, have receiv'd more already from your royal Bounty, than I have deserved. I am so far from craving more, that I am not desirous of any Thing so much, as to behave myself worthy of the royal Bounty I have receiv'd. Then, says the King, you are the only Man of 'em all that does not want Money. Says the Chancellor, I must thank your Bounty that I don't. Then he turns to the others, and says, I am the most magnificent Prince in the World, that have such a wealthy Chancellor. This more inflam'd all their Expectations, that the Money would be distributed among them, since he desired none of it. When the King had play'd upon 'em after this Manner a pretty While, he made the Chancellor take it all up, and carry it Home; then turning to the rest, who now look'd a little dull upon it, says he, You must stay till the next Opportunity. _Philog._ Perhaps that I'm going to tell you, will not seem so entertaining. However, I entreat you that you would not be suspicious, that I use any Deceit or Collusion, or think that I have a Design to desire to be excus'd. One came to the same _Lewis_, with a Petition that he would bestow upon him an Office that happen'd to be vacant in the Town where he liv'd. The King hearing the Petition read, answers immediately, you shall not have it; by that Means putting him out of any future Expectation; the Petitioner immediately returns the King Thanks, and goes his Way. The King observing the Man's Countenance, perceiv'd he was no Blockhead, and thinking perhaps he might have misunderstood what he said, bids him be call'd back again. He came back; then says the King; Did you understand what I said to you? I did understand you, quoth he: Why, what did I say? That I should not have it, said he. What did you thank me for then? Why, says he, I have some Business to do at Home, and therefore it would have been a Trouble to me to have here danc'd Attendance after a doubtful Hope; now, I look upon it a Benefit that you have denied me the Office quickly, and so I count myself to have gain'd whatsoever I should have lost by Attendance upon it, and gone without it at last. By this Answer, the King seeing the Man to be no Blockhead, having ask'd him a few Questions, says he, You shall have what you ask'd for, that you may thank me twice, and turning to his Officers; Let, says he, Letters patent be made out for this Man without Delay, that he may not be detain'd here to his Detriment. _Eugl._ I could tell you a Story of _Lewis_, but I had rather tell one of our _Maximilian_, who as he was far from hiding his Money in the Ground, so he was very generous to those that had spent their Estates, if they were nobly descended. He being minded to assist a young Gentleman, that had fallen under these Circumstances, sent him on an Embassy to demand an hundred thousand Florins of a certain City, but I know not upon what Account. But this was the Condition of it, that if he by his Dexterity could make any more of it, it should be his own. The Embassador extorted fifty thousand from 'em, and gave _Caesar_ thirty of 'em. _Caesar_ being glad to receive more than he expected, dismisses the Man without asking any Questions. In the mean Time the Treasurer and Receivers smelt the Matter, that he had receiv'd more than he had paid in; they importune _Caesar_ to send for him; he being sent for, comes immediately: Says _Maximilian_, I hear you have receiv'd fifty thousand. He confess'd it. But you have paid in but thirty thousand. He confess'd that too. Says he, You must give an Account of it. He promis'd he would do it, and went away. But again he doing nothing in it, the Officers pressing the Matter, he was call'd again; then says _Caesar_ to him, A little While ago, you were order'd to make up the Account. Says he, I remember it, and am ready to do it. _Caesar_, imagining that he had not settled it, let him go again; but he thus eluding the Matter, the Officers insisted more pressingly upon it, crying out, it was a great Affront to play upon _Caesar_ at this Rate. They persuaded the King to send for him, and make him balance the Account before them. _Caesar_ agrees to it, he is sent for, comes immediately, and does not refuse to do any Thing. Then says _Caesar_, Did not you promise to balance the Account? Yes, said he. Well, says he, you must do it here; here are some to take your Account; it must be put off no longer. The Officers sat by, with Books ready for the Purpose. The young Man being come to this Pinch, replies very smartly; Most invincible _Caesar_, I don't refuse to give an Account, but am not very well skilled in these Sort of Accounts, never having given any; but these that sit here are very ready at such Accounts. If I do but once see how they make up such Accounts, I can very easily imitate them. I entreat you to command them but to shew me an Example, and they shall see I am very docible. _Caesar_ perceived what he meant, but they, upon whom it was spoken did not, and smiling, answered him, you say true, and what you demand is nothing but what is reasonable: And so dismissed the young Man. For he intimated that they used to bring in such Accounts to _Caesar_ as he had, that is, to keep a good Part of the Money to themselves. _Le._ Now 'tis Time that our Story-telling should pass, as they say, from better to worse, from Kings to _Anthony_, a Priest of _Louvain_, who was much in Favour with _Philip_ surnamed _the Good_: there are a great many Things told of this Man, both merrily said, and wittily done, but most of them are something slovenly. For he used to season many of his Jokes with a Sort of Perfume that has not a handsome Sound, but a worse Scent. I'll pick out one of the cleanest of 'em. He had given an Invitation to one or two merry Fellows that he had met with by Chance as he went along; and when he comes Home, he finds a cold Kitchen; nor had he any Money in his Pocket, which was no new Thing with him; here was but little Time for Consultation. Away he goes, and says nothing, but going into the Kitchen of a certain Usurer (that was an intimate Acquaintance, by Reason of frequent Dealings with him) when the Maid was gone out of the Way, he makes off with one of the Brass Pots, with the Meat ready boiled, under his Coat, carries it Home, gives it his Cook-Maid, and bids her pour out the Meat and Broth into another Earthen Pot, and rub the Usurer's Brass one till it was bright. Having done this, he sends his Boy to the Pawn-Broker to borrow two Groats upon it, but charges him to take a Note, that should be a Testimonial, that such a Pot had been sent him. The Pawn-Broker not knowing the Pot being scour'd so bright, takes the Pawn, gives him a Note, and lays him down the Money, and with that Money the Boy buys Wine, and so he provided an Entertainment for him. By and by, when the Pawn-Broker's Dinner was going to be taken up, the Pot was missing. He scolds at the Cook-Maid; she being put hardly to it, affirmed no Body had been in the Kitchen all that Day but _Anthony_. It seem'd an ill Thing to suspect a Priest. But however at last they went to him, search'd the House for the Pot, but no Pot was found. But in short, they charg'd him Home with the Pot, because he was the only Person who had been in the Kitchen till the Pot was missing. He confess'd that he had borrow'd a Pot, but that he had sent it Home again to him from whom he had it. But they denying it stiffly, and high Words arising, _Anthony_ calling some Witnesses, Look you, quoth he, how dangerous a Thing it is to have to do with Men now-a-Days, without a Note under their Hands: I should have been in Danger of being indicted for Felony, if I had not had the Pawn-Broker's own Hand to shew. And with that he produces the Note of his Hand. They perceiv'd the Trick, and it made good Sport all the Country over, that the Pawn-Broker had lent Money upon his own Porridge-Pot. Men are commonly very well pleas'd with such Tricks, when they are put upon such as they have no good Opinion of, especially such as use to impose upon other Persons. _Adol._ In Truth, by mentioning the Name of _Anthony_, you have laid open an Ocean of merry Stories; but I'll tell but one, and a short one too, that was told me very lately. A certain Company of jolly Fellows, who are for a short Life, and a merry one, as they call it, were making merry together; among the rest there was one _Anthony_, and another Person, a noted Fellow for an arch Trick, a second _Anthony_. And as 'tis the Custom of Philosophers, when they meet together to propound some Questions or other about the Things of Nature, so in this Company a Question was propos'd; Which was the most honourable Part of a Man? One said the Eyes, another said the Heart, another said the Brain, and others said other Parts; and every one alleg'd some Reason for his Assertion. _Anthony_ was bid to speak his Mind, and he gave his Opinion that the Mouth was the most honourable, and gave some Reason for't, I can't tell what. Upon that the other Person, that he might thwart _Anthony_, made Answer that that was the most honourable Part that we sit upon; and when every one cry'd out, that was absurd, he back'd it with this Reason, that he was commonly accounted the most honourable that was first seated, and that this Honour was commonly done to the Part that he spoke of. They applauded his Opinion, and laughed heartily at it. The Man was mightily pleas'd with his Wit, and _Anthony_ seem'd to have the worst on't. _Anthony_ turn'd the Matter off very well, saying that he had given the prime Honour to the Mouth for no other Reason, but because he knew that the other Man would name some other Part, if it were but out of Envy to thwart him: A few Days after, when they were both invited again to an Entertainment, _Anthony_ going in, finds his Antagonist, talking with some other Persons, while Supper was getting ready, and turning his Arse towards him, lets a great Fart full in his Face. He being in a violent Passion, says to him, Out, you saucy Fellow, where was you drag'd up? _At Hogs Norton_? Then says _Anthony_, What, are you angry? If I had saluted you with my Mouth, you would have answer'd me again; but now I salute you with the most honourable Part of the Body, in your own Opinion, you call me saucy Fellow. And so _Anthony_ regain'd the Reputation he had lost. We have every one told our Tale. Now, Mr. Judge, it is your Business to pass Sentence. _Ge._ Well, I'll do that, but not before every Man has taken off his Glass, and I'll lead the Way. But _talk of the Devil and he'll appear_. _Po._ _Levinus Panagathus_ brings no bad Luck along with him. _Lev._ Well, pray what Diversion has there been among this merry Company? _Po._ What should we do but tell merry Stories till you come? _Lev._ Well then, I'm come to conclude the Meeting. I desire you all to come to Morrow to eat a Theological Dinner with me. _Ge._ You tell us of a melancholy Entertainment indeed. _Lev._ That will appear. If you don't confess that it has been more entertaining than your fabulous one, I'll be content to be amerc'd a Supper; there is nothing more diverting than to treat of Trifles in a serious Manner. _The LYING-IN WOMAN._ The ARGUMENT. _A Lying-in Woman had rather have a Boy than a Girl. Custom is a grievous Tyrant. A Woman argues that she is as good as her Husband. The Dignity of 'em both are compared. The Tongue is a Woman's best Weapon. The Mother herself ought to be the Nurse. She is not the Mother that bears the Child, but she that nurses it. The very Beasts themselves suckle their own Young. The Nurse's Milk corrupts oftentimes both the Genius and natural Constitution of the Infant. The Souls of some Persons inhabit Bodies ill organized._ Cato _judges it the principal Part of Felicity, to dwell happily. She is scarce half a Mother that refuses to bring up what she has brought forth. A Mother is so called from [Greek: mê têrein]. And in short, besides the Knowledge of a great many Things in Nature, here are many that occur in Morality._ EUTRAPELUS, FABULLA. _Eu._ Honest _Fabulla_, I am glad to see you; I wish you well. _Fa._ I wish you well heartily, Eutrapelus. But what's the Matter more than ordinary, that you that come so seldom to see me, are come now? None of our Family has seen you this three Years. _Eu._ I'll tell you, as I chanced to go by the Door, I saw the Knocker (called a Crow) tied up in a white Cloth, I wondered what was the Matter. _Fa._ What! are you such a Stranger in this Country, as not to know that that's a Token of a lying-in Woman in that House? _Eu._ Why, pray is it not a strange Sight to see a white Crow? But without jesting, I did know very well what was the Matter; but I could not dream, that you that are scarce sixteen, should learn so early the difficult Art of getting Children, which some can scarce attain before they are thirty. _Fa._ As you are _Eutrapelus_ by Name, so you are by Nature. _Eu._ And so are you too. For _Fabulla_ never wants a Fable. And while I was in a Quandary, _Polygamus_ came by just in the Nick of Time. _Fa._ What he that lately buried his tenth Wife? _Eu._ The very same, but I believe you don't know that he goes a courting as hotly as if he had lived all his Days a Batchelor. I ask'd him what was the Matter; he told me that in this House the Body of a Woman had been dissever'd. For what great Crime, says I? says he, If what is commonly reported be true, the Mistress of this House attempted to circumcise her Husband, and with that he went away laughing. _Fa._ He's a mere Wag. _Eu._ I presently ran in a-Doors to congratulate your safe Delivery. _Fa._ Congratulate my safe Delivery if you will, _Eutrapelus_, you may congratulate my happy Delivery, when you shall see him that I have brought forth give a Proof of himself to be an honest Man. _Eu._ Indeed, my _Fabulla_ you talk very piously and rationally. _Fa._ Nay, I am no Body's _Fabulla_ but _Petronius's._ _Eu._ Indeed you bear Children for _Petronius_ alone, but you don't live for him alone, I believe. But however, I congratulate you upon this, that you have got a Boy. _Fa._ But why do you think it better to have a Boy than a Girl? _Eu._ Nay, but rather you _Petronius's Fabulla_ (for now I am afraid to call you mine) ought to tell me what Reason you Women have to wish for Boys rather than Girls? _Fa._ I don't know what other People's Minds are; at this Time I am glad I have a Boy, because so it pleased God. If it had pleased him best I should have had a Girl, it would have pleased me best too. _Eu._ Do you think God has nothing else to do but be a Midwife to Women in Labour? _Fa._ Pray, _Eutrapelus_, what should he do else, but preserve by Propagation, what he has founded by Creation? Eu, What should he do else good Dame? If he were not God, he'd never be able to do what he has to do. _Christiernus_ King of _Denmark_, a religious Favourer of the Gospel, is in Exile. _Francis_, King of _France_, is a Sojourner in _Spain._ I can't tell how well he may bear it, but I am sure he is a Man that deserves better Fortune. _Charles_ labours with might and main to inlarge the Territories of his Monarchy. And _Ferdinand_ is mightily taken up about his Affairs in _Germany._ And the Courtiers every where are almost Famished with Hunger after Money. The very Farmers raise dangerous Commotions, nor are deterred from their Attempts by so many Slaughters of Men, that have been made already. The People are for setting up an Anarchy, and the Church goes to Ruin with dangerous Factions. Christ's seamless Coat is rent asunder on all Sides. God's Vineyard is spoiled by more Boars than one. The Authority of the Clergy with their Tythes, the Dignity of Divines, the Majesty of Monks is in Danger: Confession nods, Vows stagger, the Pope's Constitutions go to decay, the Eucharist is call'd in Question, and Antichrist is expected every Day, and the whole World seems to be in Travail to bring forth I know not what Mischief. In the mean Time the _Turks_ over-run all where-e'er they come, and are ready to invade us and lay all waste, if they succeed in what they are about; and do you ask what God has else to do? I think he should rather see to secure his own Kingdom in Time. _Fa._ Perhaps that which Men make the greatest Account of, seems to God of no Moment. But however, if you will, let us let God alone in this Discourse of ours. What is your Reason to think it is happier to bear a Boy than a Girl? It is the Part of a pious Person to think that best which God, who without Controversy is the best Judge, has given. _Eu._ And if God should give you but a Cup made of Crystal, would you not give him Thanks for it? _Fa._ Yes, I would. _Eu._ But what if he should give you one of common Glass, would you give him the like Thanks? But I'm afraid instead of comforting you, by this Discourse, I should make you uneasy. _Fa._ Nay, a _Fabulla_ can be in no Danger of being hurt by a Fable. I have lain in now almost a Month, and I am strong enough for a Match at Wrestling. _Eu._ Why don't you get out of your Bed then? _Fa._ The King has forbid me. _Eu._ What King? _Fa._ Nay a Tyrant rather. _Eu._ What Tyrant prithee? _Fa._ I'll tell you in one Syllable. Custom (_Mos_). _Eu._ Alas! How many Things does that Tyrant exact beyond the Bounds of Equity? But let us go on to talk of our Crystal and our common Glass. _Fa._ I believe you judge, that a Male is naturally more excellent and strong than a Female. _Eu._ I believe they are. _Fa._ That is Mens Opinion. But are Men any Thing longer-liv'd than Women? Are they free from Distempers? _Eu._ No, but in the general they are stronger. _Fa._ But then they themselves are excell'd by Camels in Strength. _Eu._ But besides, the Male was created first. _Fa._ So was _Adam_ before _Christ_. Artists use to be most exquisite in their later Performances. _Eu._ But God put the Woman under Subjection to the Man. _Fa._ It does not follow of Consequence, that he is the better because he commands, he subjects her as a Wife, and not purely as a Woman; and besides that he so puts the Wife under Subjection, that tho' they have each of them Power over the other, he will have the Woman to be obedient to the Man, not as to the more excellent, but to the more fierce Person. Tell me, _Eutrapelus_, which is the weaker Person, he that yields to another, or he that is yielded to? _Eu._ I'll grant you that, if you will explain to me, what Paul meant when he wrote to the _Corinthians_, that _Christ was the Head of the Man, and Man the Head of the Woman;_ and again, when he said, that _a Man was the Image and Glory of God, and a Woman the Glory of the Man._ _Fa._ Well! I'll resolve you that, if you answer me this Question, Whether or no, it is given to Men alone, to be the Members of Christ? _Eu._ God forbid, that is given to all Men and Women too by Faith. _Fa._ How comes it about then, that when there is but one Head, it should not be common to all the Members? And besides that, since God made Man in his own Image, whether did he express this Image in the Shape of his Body, or the Endowments of his Mind? _Eu._ In the Endowments of his Mind. _Fa._ Well, and I pray what have Men in these more excellent than we have? In both Sexes, there are many Drunkennesses, Brawls, Fightings, Murders, Wars, Rapines, and Adulteries. _Eu._ But we Men alone fight for our Country. _Fa._ And you Men often desert from your Colours, and run away like Cowards; and it is not always for the Sake of your Country, that you leave your Wives and Children, but for the Sake of a little nasty Pay; and, worse than Fencers at the Bear-Garden, you deliver up your Bodies to a slavish Necessity of being killed, or yourselves killing others. And now after all your Boasting of your warlike Prowess, there is none of you all, but if you had once experienced what it is to bring a Child into the World, would rather be placed ten Times in the Front of a Battle, than undergo once what we must so often. An Army does not always fight, and when it does, the whole Army is not always engaged. Such as you are set in the main Body, others are kept for Bodies of Reserve, and some are safely posted in the Rear; and lastly, many save themselves by surrendring, and some by running away. We are obliged to encounter Death, Hand to Hand. _Eu._ I have heard these Stories before now; but the Question is, Whether they are true or not? _Fa._ Too true. _Eu._ Well then, _Fabulla_, would you have me persuade your Husband never to touch you more? For if so, you'll be secure from that Danger. _Fa._ In Truth, there is nothing in the World I am more desirious of, if you were able to effect it. _Eu._ If I do persuade him to it, what shall I have for my Pains? _Fa._ I'll present you with half a Score dry'd Neats-Tongues. _Eu._ I had rather have them than the Tongues of ten Nightingales. Well, I don't dislike the Condition, but we won't make the Bargain obligatory, before we have agreed on the Articles. _Fa._ And if you please, you may add any other Article. _Eu._ That shall be according as you are in the Mind after your Month is up. _Fa._ But why not according as I am in the Mind now? _Eu._ Why, I'll tell you, because I am afraid you will not be in the same Mind then; and so you would have double Wages to pay, and I double Work to do, of persuading and dissuading him. _Fa._ Well, let it be as you will then. But come on, shew me why the Man is better than the Woman. _Eu._ I perceive you have a Mind to engage with me in Discourse, but I think it more adviseable to yield to you at this Time. At another Time I'll attack you when I have furnished myself with Arguments; but not without a Second neither. For where the Tongue is the Weapon that decides the Quarrel; seven Men are scarce able to Deal with one Woman. _Fa._ Indeed the Tongue is a Woman's Weapon; but you Men are not without it neither. _Eu._ Perhaps so, but where is your little Boy? _Fa._ In the next Room. _Eu._ What is he doing there, cooking the Pot? _Fa._ You Trifler, he's with his Nurse. _Eu._ What Nurse do you talk of? Has he any Nurse but his Mother? _Fa._ Why not? It is the Fashion. _Eu._ You quote the worst Author in the World, _Fabulla_, the Fashion; 'tis the Fashion to do amiss, to game, to whore, to cheat, to be drunk, and to play the Rake. _Fa._ My Friends would have it so; they were of Opinion I ought to favour myself, being young. _Eu._ But if Nature gives Strength to conceive, it doubtless gives Strength to give Suck too. _Fa._ That may be. _Eu._ Prithee tell me, don't you think Mother is a very pretty Name? _Fa._ Yes, I do. _Eu._ And if such a Thing were possible, would you endure it, that another Woman should be call'd the Mother of your Child? _Fa._ By no Means. _Eu._ Why then do you voluntarily make another Woman more than half the Mother of what you have brought into the World? _Fa._ O fy! _Eutrapelus_, I don't divide my Son in two, I am intirely his Mother, and no Body in the World else. _Eu._ Nay, _Fabulla_, in this Case Nature herself blames you to your Face. Why is the Earth call'd the Mother of all Things? Is it because she produces only? Nay, much rather, because she nourishes those Things she produces: that which is produced by Water, is fed by Water. There is not a living Creature or a Plant that grows on the Face of the Earth, that the Earth does not feed with its own Moisture. Nor is there any living Creature that does not feed its own Offspring. Owls, Lions, and Vipers, feed their own Young, and does Womankind make her Offspring Offcasts? Pray, what can be more cruel than they are, that turn their Offspring out of Doors for Laziness, not to supply them with Food? _Fa._ That you talk of is abominable. _Eu._ But Womankind don't abominate it. Is it not a Sort of turning out of Doors, to commit a tender little Infant, yet reaking of the Mother, breathing the very Air of the Mother, imploring the Mother's Aid and Help with its Voice, which they say will affect even a brute Creature, to a Woman perhaps that is neither wholsome in Body, nor honest, who has more Regard to a little Wages, than to your Child? _Fa._ But they have made Choice of a wholsome, sound Woman. _Eu._ Of this the Doctors are better Judges than yourself. But put the Case, she is as healthful as yourself, and more too; do you think there is no Difference between your little tender Infant's sucking its natural and familiar Milk, and being cherish'd with Warmth it has been accustomed to, and its being forc'd to accustom itself to those of a Stranger? Wheat being sown in a strange Soil, degenerates into Oats or small Wheat. A Vine being transplanted into another Hill, changes its Nature. A Plant when it is pluck'd from its Parent Earth, withers, and as it were dies away, and does in a Manner the same when it is transplanted from its Native Earth. _Fa._ Nay, but they say, Plants that have been transplanted and grafted, lose their wild Nature, and produce better Fruit. _Eu._ But not as soon as ever they peep out of the Ground, good Madam. There will come a Time, by the Grace of God, when you will send away your young Son from you out of Doors, to be accomplish'd with Learning and undergo harsh Discipline, and which indeed is rather the Province of the Father than of the Mother. But now its tender Age calls for Indulgence. And besides, whereas the Food, according as it is, contributes much to the Health and Strength of the Body, so more especially it is essential to take Care, with what Milk that little, tender, soft Body be season'd. For _Horace's_ Saying takes Place here. _Quo semel est imbuta recens servabit odorem Testa diu. What is bred in the Bone, will never out of the Flesh._ _Fa._ I don't so much concern myself as to his Body, so his Mind be but as I would have it. _Eu._ That indeed is piously spoken, but not philosophically. _Fa._ Why not? _Eu._ Why do you when you shred Herbs, complain your Knife is blunt, and order it to be whetted? Why do you reject a blunt pointed Needle, when that does not deprive you of your Art? _Fa._ Art is not wanting, but an unfit Instrument hinders the exerting it. _Eu._ Why do they that have much Occasion to use their Eyes, avoid Darnel and Onions? _Fa._ Because they hurt the Sight. _Eu._ Is it not the Mind that sees? _Fa._ It is, for those that are dead see nothing. But what can a Carpenter do with an Ax whose Edge is spoiled? _Eu._ Then you do acknowledge the Body is the Organ of the Mind? _Fa._ That's plain. _Eu._ And you grant that in a vitiated Body the Mind either cannot act at all, or if it does, it is with Inconvenience? _Fa._ Very likely. _Eu._ Well, I find I have an intelligent Person to deal with; suppose the Soul of a Man was to pass into the Body of a Cock, would it make the same Sound it does now? _Fa._ No to be sure. _Eu._ What would hinder? _Fa._ Because it would want Lips, Teeth, and a Tongue, like to that of a Man. It has neither the Epiglottis, nor the three Cartilages, that are moved by three Muscles, to which Nerves are joined that come from the Brain; nor has it Jaws and Teeth like a Man's. _Eu._ What if it should go into the Body of a Swine? _Fa._ Then it would grunt like a Swine. _Eu._ What if it should pass into the Body of a Camel? _Fa._ It would make a Noise like a Camel. _Eu._ What if it should pass into the Body of an Ass, as it happened to _Apuleius_? _Fa._ Then I think it would bray as an Ass does. _Eu._ Indeed he is a Proof of this, who when he had a Mind to call after _Caesar_, having contracted his Lips as much as he possibly could, scarce pronounced O, but could by no Means pronounce _Caesar._ The same Person, when having heard a Story, and that he might not forget it, would have written it, reprehended himself for his foolish Thought, when he beheld his solid Hoofs. _Fa._ And he had Cause enough. _Eu._ Then it follows that the Soul does not see well thro' purblind Eyes. The Ears hear not clearly when stopped with Filth. The Brain smells not so well when oppressed with Phlegm. And a Member feels not so much when it is benumbed. The Tongue tastes less, when vitiated with ill Humours. _Fa._ These Things can't be denied. _Eu._ And for no other Cause, but because the Organ is vitiated. _Fa._ I believe the same. _Eu._ Nor will you deny, I suppose, that sometimes it is vitiated by Food and Drink. _Fa._ I'll grant that too, but what signifies that to the Goodness of the Mind? _Eu._ As much as Darnel does to a clear Eye-Sight. _Fa._ Because it vitiates the Organ. _Eu._ Well answer'd. But solve me this Difficulty: Why is it that one understands quicker than another, and has a better Memory; why is one more prone to Anger than another; or is more moderate in his Resentment? _Fa._ It proceeds from the Disposition of the Mind. _Eu._ That won't do. Whence comes it that one who was formerly of a very ready Wit, and a retentive Memory, becomes afterwards stupid and forgetful, either by a Blow or a Fall, by Sickness or old Age? _Fa._ Now you seem to play the Sophister with me. _Eu._ Then do you play the Sophistress with me. _Fa._ I suppose you would infer, that as the Mind sees and hears by the Eyes and Ears, so by some Organs it also understands, remembers, loves, hates, is provoked and appeas'd? _Eu._ Right. _Fa._ But pray what are those Organs, and where are they situated? _Eu._ As to the Eyes, you see where they are. _Fa._ I know well enough where the Ears, and the Nose, and the Palate are; and that the Body is all over sensible of the Touch, unless when some Member is seized with a Numbness. _Eu._ When a Foot is cut off, yet the Mind understands. _Fa._ It does so, and when a Hand is cut off too. _Eu._ A Person that receives a violent Blow on the Temples, or hinder-Part of his Head, falls down like one that is dead, and is unsensible. _Fa._ I have sometimes seen that myself. _Eu._ Hence it is to be collected, that the Organs of the Will, Understanding, and Memory, are placed within the Skull, being not so crass as the Eyes and Ears, and yet are material, in as much as the most subtile Spirits that we have in the Body are corporeal. _Fa._ And can they be vitiated with Meat and Drink too? _Eu._ Yes. _Fa._ The Brain is a great Way off from the Stomach. _Eu._ And so is the Funnel of a Chimney from the Fire-Hearth, yet if you sit upon it you'll feel the Smoke. _Fa._ I shan't try that Experiment. _Eu._ Well, if you won't believe me, ask the Storks. And so it is of Moment what Spirits, and what Vapours ascend from the Stomach to the Brain, and the Organs of the Mind. For if these are crude or cold they stay in the Stomach. _Fa._ Pshaw! You're describing to me an Alembick, in which we distil Simple-Waters. _Eu._ You don't guess much amiss. For the Liver, to which the Gall adheres, is the Fire-Place; the Stomach, the Pan; the Scull, the Top of the Still; and if you please, you may call the Nose the Pipe of it. And from this Flux or Reflux of Humours, almost all Manner of Diseases proceed, according as a different Humour falls down after a different Manner, sometimes into the Eyes, sometimes into the Stomach, sometimes into the Shoulders, and sometimes into the Neck, and elsewhere. And that you may understand me the better, why have those that guzzle a great Deal of Wine bad Memories? Why are those that feed upon light Food, not of so heavy a Disposition? Why does Coriander help the Memory? Why does Hellebore purge the Memory? Why does a great Expletion cause an Epilepsy, which at once brings a Stupor upon all the Senses, as in a profound Sleep? In the last Place, as violent Thirst or Want weaken the Strength of Wit or Memory in Boys, so Food eaten immoderately makes Boys dull-headed, if we believe _Aristotle_; in that the Fire of the Mind is extinguish'd by the heaping on too much Matter. _Fa._ Why then, is the Mind corporeal, so as to be affected with corporeal Things? _Eu._ Indeed the Nature itself of the rational Soul is not corrupted; but the Power and Action of it are impeded by the Organs being vitiated, as the Art of an Artist will stand him in no Stead, if he has not Instruments. _Fa._ Of what Bulk, and in what Form is the Mind? _Eu._ You ask a ridiculous Question, what Bulk and Form the Mind is of, when you have allow'd it to be incorporeal. _Fa._ I mean the Body that is felt. _Eu._ Nay, those Bodies that are not to be felt are the most perfect Bodies, as God and the Angels. _Fa._ I have heard that God and Angels are Spirits, but we feel the Spirit. _Eu._ The Holy Scriptures condescend to those low Expressions, because of the Dullness of Men, to signify a Mind pure from all Commerce of sensible Things. _Fa._ Then what is the Difference between an Angel and a Mind? _Eu._ The same that is between a Snail and a Cockle, or, if you like the Comparison better, a Tortoise. _Fa._ Then the Body is rather the Habitation of the Mind than the Instrument of it. _Eu._ There is no Absurdity in calling an adjunct Instrument an Habitation. Philosophers are divided in their Opinions about this. Some call the Body the Garment of the Soul, some the House, some the Instrument, and some the Harmony; call it by which of these you will, it will follow that the Actions of the Mind are impeded by the Affections of the Body. In the first Place, if the Body is to the Mind that which a Garment is to the Body, the Garment of _Hercules_ informs us how much a Garment contributes to the Health of the Body, not to take any Notice of Colours of Hairs or of Skins. But as to that Question, whether one and the same Soul is capable of wearing out many Bodies, it shall be left to _Pythagoras_. _Fa._ If, according to _Pythagoras_, we could make Use of Change of Bodies, as we do of Apparel, it would be convenient to take a fat Body, and of a thick Texture, in Winter Time, and a thinner and lighter Body in Summer Time. _Eu._ But I am of the Opinion, that if we wore out our Body at last as we do our Cloaths; it would not be convenient; for so having worn out many Bodies, the Soul itself would grow old and die. _Fa._ It would not truly. _Eu._ As the Sort of Garment that is worn hath an Influence on the Health and Agility of the Body, so it is of great Moment what Body the Soul wears. _Fa._ If indeed the Body is the Garment of the Soul, I see a great many that are dress'd after a very different Manner. _Eu._ Right, and yet some Part of this Matter is in our own Power, how conveniently our Souls shall be cloathed. _Fa._ Come, have done with the Garment, and say something concerning the Habitation. _Eu._ But, _Fabulla_, that what I say to you mayn't be thought a Fiction, the _Lord Jesus_ calls his Body a _Temple_, and the Apostle _Peter_ calls his a _Tabernacle_. And there have been some that have call'd the Body the Sepulchre of the Soul, supposing it was call'd [Greek: sôma], as tho' it were [Greek: sêma]. Some call it the Prison of the Mind, and some the Fortress or fortify'd Castle. The Minds of Persons that are pure in every Part, dwell in the Temple. They whose Minds are not taken up with the Love of corporeal Things, dwell in a Tent, and are ready to come forth as soon as the Commander calls. The Soul of those that are wholly blinded with Vice and Filthiness, so that they never breathe after the Air of Gospel Liberty, lies in a Sepulchre. But they that wrestle hard with their Vices, and can't yet be able to do what they would do, their Soul dwells in a Prison, whence they frequently cry out to the Deliverer of all, _Bring my Soul out of Prison, that I may praise thy Name, O Lord._ They who fight strenuously with Satan, watching and guarding against his Snares, who goes about as _a roaring Lion, seeking whom he may devour;_ their Soul is as it were in a Garison, out of which they must not go without the General's Leave. _Fa._ If the Body be the Habitation or House of the Soul, I see a great many whose Mind is very illy seated. _Eu._ It is so, that is to say, in Houses where it rains in, that are dark, exposed to all Winds, that are smoaky, damp, decay'd, and ruinous, and such as are filthy and infected: and yet _Cato_ accounts it the principal Happiness of a Man, to dwell handsomly. _Fa._ It were tolerable, if there was any passing out of one House into another. _Eu._ There's no going out before the Landlord calls out. But tho' we can't go out, yet we may by our Art and Care make the Habitation of our Mind commodious; as in a House the Windows are changed, the Floor taken up, the Walls are either plaistered or wainscotted, and the Situation may be purified with Fire or Perfume. But this is a very hard Matter, in an old Body that is near its Ruin. But it is of great Advantage to the Body of a Child, to take the Care of it that ought to be taken presently after its Birth. _Fa._ You would have Mothers and Nurses to be Doctors. _Eu._ So indeed I would, as to the Choice and moderate Use of Meat, Drink, Motion, Sleep, Baths, Unctions, Frictions, and Cloathings. How many are there, think you, who are expos'd to grievous Diseases and Vices, as Epilepsies, Leanness, Weakness, Deafness, broken Backs, crooked Limbs, a weak Brain, disturbed Minds, and for no other Reason than that their Nurses have not taken a due Care of them? _Fa._ I wonder you are not rather a _Franciscan_ than a Painter, who preach so finely. _Eu._ When you are a Nun of the Order of St. _Clare_, then I'll be a _Franciscan_, and preach to you. _Fa._ In Truth, I would fain know what the Soul is, about which we hear so much, and talk of so often, and no Body has seen. _Eu._ Nay, every Body sees it that has Eyes. _Fa._ I see Souls painted in the Shape of little Infants, but why do they put Wings to them as they do to Angels? _Eu._ Why, because, if we can give any Credit to the Fables of _Socrates_, their Wings were broken by their falling from Heaven. _Fa._ How then are they said to fly up to Heaven? _Eu._ Because Faith and Charity make their Wings grow again. He that was weary of this House of his Body, begg'd for these Wings, when he cry'd out, _Who will give me the Wings of a Dove, that I may fly away, and be at rest_. Nor has the Soul any other Wings, being incorporeal, nor any Form that can be beheld by the Eyes of the Body. But those Things that are perceiv'd by the Mind, are more certain. Do you believe the Being of God? _Fa._ Yes, I do. _Eu._ But nothing is more invisible than God. _Fa._ He is seen in the Works of Creation. _Eu._ In like Manner the Soul is seen in Action. If you would know how it acts in a living Body, consider a dead Body. When you see a Man Feel, See, Hear, Move, Understand, Remember and Reason, you see the Soul to be in him with more Certainty than you see this Tankard; for one Sense may be deceiv'd, but so many Proofs of the Senses cannot deceive you. _Fa._ Well then, if you can't shew me the Soul, paint it out to me, just as you would the King, whom I never did see. _Eu._ I have _Aristotle_'s Definition ready for you. _Fa._ What is it? for they say he was a very good Decypherer of every Thing. _Eu. The Soul is the Act of an Organical, Physical Body, having Life_ in Potentia. _Fa._ Why does he rather call it an _Act_ than a _Journey_ or _Way?_ _Eu._ Here's no Regard either to Coachmen or Horsemen, but a bare Definition of the Soul. And he calls the Form _Act_, the Nature of which is to _act_, when it is the Property of Matter to _suffer_. For all natural Motion of the Body proceeds from the Soul. And the Motion of the Body is various. _Fa._ I take that in; but why does he add _of an Organical_? _Eu._ Because the Soul does nothing but by the Help of Organs, that is, by the Instruments of the Body. _Fa._ Why does he say _Physical_? _Eu._ Because _Dædalus_ made such a Body to no Purpose; and therefore he adds, _having Life_ in Potentia. Form does not act upon every Thing; but upon a Body that is capable. _Fa._ What if an Angel should pass into the Body of a Man? _Eu._ He would act indeed, but not by the natural Organs, nor would he give Life to the Body if the Soul was absent from it. _Fa._ Have I had all the Account that is to be given of the Soul? _Eu._ You have _Aristotle_'s Account of it. _Fa._ Indeed I have heard he was a very famous Philosopher, and I am afraid that the College of Sages would prefer a Bill of Heresy against me, if I should say any Thing against him; but else all that he has said concerning the Soul of a Man, is as applicable to the Soul of an Ass or an Ox. _Eu._ Nay, that's true, or to a Beetle or a Snail. _Fa._ What Difference then is there between the Soul of an Ox, and that of a Man? _Eu._ They that say the Soul is nothing else but the Harmony of the Qualities of the Body, would confess that there was no great Difference; and that this Harmony being interrupted, the Souls of both of them do perish. The Soul of a Man and an Ox is not distinguished; but that of an Ox has less Knowledge than the Soul of a Man. And there are some Men to be seen that have less Understanding than an Ox. _Fa._ In Truth, they have the Mind of an Ox. _Eu._ This indeed concerns you, that according to the Quality of your Guittar, your Musick will be the sweeter. _Fa._ I own it. _Eu._ Nor is it of small Moment of what Wood, and in what Shape your Guittar is made. _Fa._ Very true. _Eu._ Nor are Fiddle-Strings made of the Guts of every Animal. _Fa._ So I have heard. _Eu._ They grow slack or tight by the Moisture and Driness of the circumambient Air, and will sometimes break. _Fa._ I have seen that more than once. _Eu._ On this Account you may do uncommon Service to your little Infant, that his Mind may have an Instrument well tempered, and not vitiated, nor relaxed by Sloth, nor squeaking with Wrath, nor hoarse with intemperate drinking. For Education and Diet oftentimes impress us with these Affections. _Fa._ I'll take your Counsel; but I want to hear how you can defend _Aristotle_. _Eu._ He indeed in general describes the Soul, Animal, Vegetative, and Sensitive. The Soul gives Life, but every Thing that has Life is not an Animal. For Trees live, grow old, and die; but they have no Sense; tho' some attribute to them a stupid Sort of Sense. In Things that adhere one to another, there is no Sense to be perceived, but it is found in a Sponge by those that pull it off. Hewers discover a Sense in Timber-Trees, if we may believe them: For they say, that if you strike the Trunk of a Tree that you design to hew down, with the Palm of your Hand, as Wood-Mongers use to do, it will be harder to cut that Tree down because it has contracted itself with Fear. But that which has Life and Feeling is an Animal. But nothing hinders that which does not feel, from being a Vegetable, as Mushrooms, Beets, and Coleworts. _Fa._ If they have a Sort of Life, a Sort of Sense, and Motion in their growing, what hinders but that they may be honoured with the Title of Animals? _Eu._ Why the Antients did not think fit to call them so, and we must not deviate from their Ordinances, nor does it signify much as to what we are upon. _Fa._ But I can't bear the Thoughts on't, that the Soul of a Beetle and of a Man should be the same. _Eu._ Good Madam, it is not the same, saving in some Respects; your Soul animates, vegetates, and renders your Body sensible; the Soul of the Beetle animates his Body: For that some Things act one Way, and some another, that the Soul of a Man acts differently from the Soul of a Beetle, partly proceeds from the Matter; a Beetle neither sings nor speaks, because it wants Organs fit for these Actions. _Fa._ Why then you say, that if the Soul of a Beetle should pass into the Body of a Man, it would act as the human Soul does. _Eu._ Nay, I say not, if it were an angelical Soul: And there is no Difference between an Angel and a human Soul, but that the Soul of a Man was formed to act a human Body compos'd of natural Organs; and as the Soul of a Beetle will move nothing but the Body of a Beetle, an Angel was not made to animate a Body, but to be capable to understand without bodily Organs. _Fa._ Can the Soul do the same Thing? _Eu._ It can indeed, when it is separated from the Body. _Fa._ Is it not at its own Disposal, while it is in the Body? _Eu._ No indeed, except something happen beside the common Course of Nature. _Fa._ In Truth, instead of one Soul you have given me a great many; an animal, a vegetative, a sensitive, an intelligent, a remembring, a willing, an angry, and desiring: One was enough for me. _Eu._ There are different Actions of the same Soul, and these have different Names. _Fa._ I don't well understand you. _Eu._ Well then, I'll make you understand me: You are a Wife in the Bed-Chamber, in your Work-Shop a Weaver of Hangings, in your Warehouse a Seller of them, in your Kitchen a Cook, among your Servants a Mistress, and among your Children a Mother; and yet you are all these in the same House. _Fa._ You philosophize very bluntly. Is then the Soul so in the Body as I am in my House? _Eu._ It is. _Fa._ But while I am weaving in my Work-Shop, I am not cooking in my Kitchen. _Eu._ Nor are you all Soul, but a Soul carrying about a Body, and the Body can't be in many Places at the same Time; but the Soul being a simple Form, is so in the whole Body, tho' it does not act the same in all Parts of the Body, nor after the same Manner, how differently affected soever they are: For it understands and remembers in the Brain, it is angry in the Heart, it lusts in the Liver, it hears with the Ears, sees with the Eyes, smells with the Nose, it tastes in the Palate and Tongue, and feels in all Parts of the Body which are adjoined to any nervous Part: But it does not feel in the Hair, nor the Ends of the Nails; neither do the Lungs feel of themselves, nor the Liver, nor perhaps the Milt neither. _Fa._ So that in certain Parts of the Body it only animates and vegetates. _Eu._ It should seem so. _Fa._ If one and the same Soul does all these Things in one and the same Man, it follows of Consequence, that the _Foetus_ in the Womb of the Mother, both feels and understands, as soon as it begins to grow; which is a Sign of Life, unless a Man in his Formation has more Souls than one, and afterwards the rest giving Place, one acts all. So that at first a Man is a Plant, then an Animal, and lastly a Man. _Eu._ Perhaps _Aristotle_ would not think what you say absurd: I think it is more probable, that the rational Soul is infus'd with the Life, and that like a little Fire that is buried as it were under too great a Quantity of green Wood, it cannot exert its Power. _Fa._ Why then is the Soul bound to the Body that it acts and moves? _Eu._ No otherwise than a Tortoise is bound or tied to the Shell that he carries about. _Fa._ He does move it indeed; but so at the same Time that he moves himself too, as a Pilot steers a Ship, turning it which Way he will, and is at the same Time mov'd with it. _Eu._ Ay, and as a Squirrel turns his Wheel-Cage about, and is himself carried about with it. _Fa._ And so the Soul affects the Body, and is affected by the Body. _Eu._ Yes indeed, as to its Operations. _Fa._ Why then, as to the Nature of it, the Soul of a Fool is equal to the Soul of _Solomon_. _Eu._ There's no Absurdity in that. _Fa._ And so the Angels are equal, in as much as they are without Matter, which, you say, is that which makes the Inequality. _Eu._ We have had Philosophy enough: Let Divines puzzle themselves about these Things; let us discourse of those Matters that were first mentioned. If you would be a compleat Mother, take Care of the Body of your little Infant, so that after the little Fire of the Mind has disengaged itself from the Vapours, it may have sound and fit Organs to make Use of. As often as you hear your Child crying, think this with yourself, he calls for this from me. When you look upon your Breasts, those two little Fountains, turgid, and of their own Accord streaming out a milky Juice, remember Nature puts you in Mind of your Duty: Or else, when your Infant shall begin to speak, and with his pretty Stammering shall call you _Mammy_, How can you hear it without blushing? when you have refus'd to let him have it, and turn'd him off to a hireling Nipple, as if you had committed him to a Goat or a Sheep. When he is able to speak, what if, instead of calling you Mother, he should call you Half-Mother? I suppose you would whip him: Altho' indeed she is scarce Half a Mother that refuses to feed what she has brought into the World. The nourishing of the tender Babe is the best Part of Geniture: For he is not only fed by the Milk, but with the Fragrancy of the Body of the Mother. He requires the same natural, familiar, accustomed Moisture, that he drew in when in her Body, and by which he received his Coalition. And I am of that Opinion, that the Genius of Children are vitiated by the Nature of the Milk they suck, as the Juices of the Earth change the Nature of those Plants and Fruits that it feeds. Do you think there is no Foundation in Reason for this Saying, _He suck'd in this ill Humour with the Nurse's Milk?_ Nor do I think the Greeks spoke without Reason, when they said _like Nurses_, when they would intimate that any one was starved at Nurse: For they put a little of what they chew into the Child's Mouth, but the greatest Part goes down their own Throats. And indeed she can hardly properly be said to bear a Child, that throws it away as soon as she has brought it forth; that is to miscarry, and the _Greek_ Etymology of [Greek: Mêtêr] from [Greek: mê têrein], _i.e._ from not looking after, seems very well to suit such Mothers. For it is a Sort of turning a little Infant out of Doors, to put it to a hireling Nurse, while it is yet warm from the Mother. _Fa._ I would come over to your Opinion, unless such a Woman were chosen, against whom there is nothing to be objected. _Eu._ Suppose it were of no Moment what Milk the little Infant suck'd, what Spittle it swallow'd with its chew'd Victuals; and you had such a Nurse, that I question whether there is such an one to be found; do you think there is any one in the World will go through all the Fatigue of Nursing as the Mother herself; the Bewrayings, the Sitting up a Nights, the Crying, the Sickness, and the diligent Care in looking after it, which can scarce be enough. If there can be one that loves like the Mother, then she will take Care like a Mother. And besides, this will be the Effect of it, that your Son won't love you so heartily, that native Affection being as it were divided between two Mothers; nor will you have the same Affection for your Son: So that when he is grown up, he will neither be so obedient to you, nor will you have the same Regard for him, perhaps perceiving in him the Disposition of his Nurse. The principal Step to Advancement in Learning, is the mutual Love between the Teacher and Scholar: So that if he does not lose any Thing of the Fragrancy of his native good Temper, you will with the greater Ease be able to instil into him the Precepts of a good Life. And a Mother can do much in this Matter, in that she has pliable Matter to work upon, that is easy to be carried any Way. _Fa._ I find it is not so easy a Thing to be a Mother, as it is generally looked upon to be. _Eu._ If you can't depend upon what I say, St. _Paul_, speaking very plainly of Women, says, _She shall be saved in Childbearing._ _Fa._ Are all the Women saved that bear Children? _Eu._ No, he adds, _if she continue in the Faith_. You have not performed the Duty of a Mother before you have first formed the little tender Body of your Son, and after that his Mind, equally soft, by a good Education. _Fa._ But it is not in the Power of the Mother that the Children should persevere in Piety. _Eu._ Perhaps it may not be; but a careful Admonition is of that Moment, that _Paul_ accounts it imputable to Mothers, if the Children degenerate from Piety. But in the last Place, if you do what is in your Power, God will add his Assistance to your Diligence. _Fa._ Indeed _Eutrapelus_, your Discourse has persuaded me, if you can but persuade my Parents and my Husband. _Eu._ Well, I'll take that upon me, if you will but lend your helping Hand. _Fa._ I promise you I will. _Eu._ But mayn't a Body see this little Boy? _Fa._ Yes, that you may and welcome. Do you hear, _Syrisca_, bid the Nurse bring the Child. _Eu._ 'Tis a very pretty Boy. It is a common Saying, there ought to be Grains of Allowance given to the first Essay: But you upon the first Trial have shewn the very highest Pitch of Art. _Fa._ Why, it is not a Piece of carved Work, that so much Art should be required. _Eu._ That's true; but it is a Piece of cast Work. Well, let that be how it will, it is well performed. I wish you could make as good Figures in the Hangings that you weave. _Fa._ But you on the Contrary paint better than you beget. _Eu._ It so seems meet to Nature, to act equally by all. How solicitous is Nature, that nothing should be lost! It has represented two Persons in one; here's the Nose and Eyes of the Father, the Forehead and Chin of the Mother Can you find in your Heart to entrust this dear Pledge to the Fidelity of a Stranger? I think those to be doubly cruel that can find in their Hearts so to do; because in doing so, they do not only do this to the Hazard of the Child; but also of themselves too; because in the Child, the spoiling of the Milk oftentimes brings dangerous Diseases, and so it comes about, that while Care is taken to preserve the Shape of one Body, the Lives of two Bodies are not regarded; and while they provide against old Age coming on too early, they throw themselves into a too early Death. What's the Boy's Name? _Fa. Cornelius_. _Eu._ That's the Name of his Grand-Father by the Father's Side. I wish he may imitate him in his unblemished Life and good Manners. _Fa._ We will do our Endeavour what in us lies. But, hark ye, _Eutrapelus_, here is one Thing I would earnestly entreat of you. _Eu._ I am entirely at your Service; command what you will, I will undertake it. _Fa._ Well then, I won't discharge you till you have finished the good Service that you have begun. _Eu._ What's that? _Fa._ First of all, to give me Instructions how I may manage my Infant, as to his Health, and when he is grown up, how I may form his Mind with pious Principles. _Eu._ That I will readily do another Time, according to my Ability; but that must be at our next Conversation: I will now go and prevail upon your Husband and Parents. _Fa._ I wish you may succeed. END OF VOL. I.