LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVL3SITYOF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 SAN DIEGO 
 
 1
 
 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES.
 
 THE WHOLE 
 
 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES 
 
 DESIDEKIUS ERASMUS, 
 
 OF ROTTERDAM. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN 
 
 BY NATHAN BAILEY, 
 
 Author of "The Universal Etymological English Dictionary.' 
 
 LONDON: HAMILTON, ADAMS, & CO. 
 GLASGOW: THOMAS D. MORISON. 
 
 1877.
 
 EDITORIAL NOTE. 
 
 PUBLISHED in 1733, and the performance of an eminent philologist, 
 this Translation of the famous Familiar Colloquies still remains the only 
 one which embraces the whole work, although small portions have 
 been rendered into English by various writers both of the present and 
 preceding centuries. The present Edition is printed almost exactly 
 as it came from the Translator, and thus necessarily the phraseology 
 bears in various respects features of another period than the present, 
 but this drawback may be compensated for to some extent in the 
 closeness of the rendering. 
 
 Regarding the book itself, it is unnecessary here to make any 
 comment. Its very great popularity everywhere that the Latin 
 language has been spoken or read, is sufficient evidence of the great 
 interest attaching to the work. Either as descriptive of manners and 
 opinions of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, or as a guide to 
 the student of Colloquial Latin, there are few works that may be 
 compared with it.
 
 PBEFACE. 
 
 MALICIOUS detraction, attended with the Furies, does at this day so 
 rage throughout the whole world, that it is unsafe to publish any book 
 except it be defended by a guard. Although what, indeed, can be secure 
 enough from the sting of a false accuser, who, like the adder at the voice 
 of the charmer, stops his ear from hearing any one clearing himself, 
 though it be ever so justly ? The first part of this work, which is mine 
 and not mine, was published by reason of the rashness of a certain 
 man ; which, when I perceived it was received by the students with 
 great applause, I made use of the affection of the common people for 
 the furtherance of studies. And so physicians themselves do not 
 always administer the most wholesome things to their patients, but 
 permit them to take some things because they have a very strong 
 desire for them., So, in like manner, I thought meet to allure tender 
 youth with enticements of this sort, who are more easily attracted with 
 those things that are pleasant than those that are serious or the most 
 exact. Therefore I have again corrected that which was published, 
 and besides have added such things as may conduce to the forming of 
 good manners, as it were insinuating into the minds of young persons, 
 whom Aristotle accounted not to be fit auditors of moral philosophy 
 viz., such as is delivered in serious precepts. And if any one shall 
 cry out that it is an unseemly thing for an old man to sport himself 
 thus childishly, I care not how childishly it be, so it be but pi-ofitably. 
 And if the ancient teachers of children are commended who allured 
 them with wafers, that they might be willing to learn their first rudi- 
 ments, I think it ought not to be charged as a fault upon me, that by 
 the like regard I allure youths either to the elegancy of the Latin 
 tongue or to piety. And besides, it is a good part of prudence to 
 know the foolish affections of the common people and their absurd 
 opinions. I judge it to be much better to instruct those out of this 
 little book, than by experience, the mistress of fools. The rules of 
 grammar are crabbed things to many persons. Aristotle's Moral 
 Philosophy is not fit for children. Scotus's Divinity is less fit, nor is 
 it, indeed, of any great use to men to procure them understanding. 
 And it is a matter of great moment early to disseminate a taste of the 
 best things into the tender minds of children; and I cannot tell that 
 anything is learned with better success than what is learned by play- 
 ing; and this is in truth a very harmless sort of fraud to trick a 
 person into his own profit. Physicians are commended for cheating 
 their patients after this manner; and yet if I had done nothing else 
 in this matter but trifled, they might seem to have borne with me, 
 because besides the elegancy of the language, I have inserted some 
 things that may prepare the mind for religion. They accuse me 
 falsely; and as though the principles of the Christian religion were 
 here seriously set down, they examine every syllable exactly. How
 
 viii PREFACE. 
 
 unjustly they do this will appear more evidently when I shall have 
 shewn the great profitableness of some Colloquies : to emit so many 
 sentences intermixed with jests; so many pleasant stories, and the 
 natures of so many things worthy to be taken notice of. 
 
 In the Colloquy concerning Visiting of Holy Places, the super- 
 stitious and immoderate affection of some is restrained, who think it to be 
 the chiefest piety to have visited Jerusalem ; and thither do old bishops 
 run over so great tracts of land and sea, leaving their charge, which 
 they should rather have taken care of. .Thither also do princes run, 
 leaving their families and their dominions. Thither do husbands run, 
 leaving their wives and children at home, whose manners and chastity 
 it were necessary to have been guai'ded by them. Thither do young 
 men and women run, with the hazard of their manners and integrity. 
 And some go the second time, ay, do nothing else all their life-long ; 
 and in the meantime the pretence of religion is made the excuse for 
 their superstition, inconstancy, folly, and rashness ; and he that deserts 
 his family contrary to the doctrine of St. Paul bears away the bell for 
 sanctimony, and thinks himself completely religious. Paul (1 Tim. v. 
 8) boldly says, " But if any provide not for his own, and especially 
 those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than 
 an infidel." And yet Paul in this place seems to speak of widows that 
 neglect their children and grandchildren, and that under pretence of 
 religion, while they give themselves up to the service of the church. 
 What would he say of husbands who leave their tender children and 
 young wives, and that in a poor condition, to take a journey to Jeru- 
 salem ] I will produce but one example out of many, and not so long 
 ago but that the grandchildren are still living, whom the great damage 
 they sustained does not suffer to forget what was done. 
 
 A certain great man took a resolution to pay a visit to Jerusalem be- 
 fore he died, with a religious intent, indeed, but not well advised. Having 
 set in order the affairs of his possessions, he committed the care and 
 custody of his lady, who was big with child, of his towns and castles, 
 to an archbishop as to a father. As soon as the news arrived that the 
 man was dead in his pilgrimage, the archbishop, instead of acting the 
 part of a father, played the robber, seized all the dead man's possessions, 
 and besieged a strong, well-defended castle, into which the lady, great 
 with child, had fled ; and having taken it by storm, lest any one should 
 survive who might revenge the heinous fact, the lady great with child, 
 together with her infant, was run through and died. Would it not 
 have been a pious deed to have dissuaded this man from so dangerous 
 and unnecessary a journey ? How many examples of this kind there 
 are to be found, I leave others to judge. In the meantime, to say 
 nothing of the chai'ges, which, though I grant they be not entirely lost, 
 yet there is no wise man but will confess that they might have been 
 laid out to far better purpose. But then, as to the religion of making 
 such visits, St. Jerome commends Hilarion in that, though he was a 
 native of Palestine and dwelt in Palestine, yet he never went to see 
 Jerusalem, though it was so near, but once, lest he might seem to 
 despise holy places. If Hilarion was deservedly commended because, 
 being so near, he forbore going to visit Jei-usalem, lest he should seem 
 to shut up God in a narrow compass, and went thither but once, and 
 that by reason of the nearness of the place, lest he might give offence
 
 PREFACE. \K 
 
 to any, what shall we say of those who go to Jerusalem through so 
 many dangers, and at so great expense, out of England and Scotland, 
 and especially leaving their nearest and dearest relations at home, of 
 whom, according to the doctrine of the apostle, they ought to have a 
 continual care ? St. Jerome proclaims aloud, that it is no great matter 
 to have been at Jerusalem, but it is a great thing to have lived well, 
 And yet it is probable that in Jerome's time there were more evident 
 footsteps of ancient monuments to be seen than now. As to the dis- 
 pute concerning vows, I leave that to others. This Colloquy only 
 treats that none should rashly take such vows upon them. That this 
 is true, these words of mine plainly shew : Especially I having a wife 
 at home, as yet in the flower of her age, children, and a family which 
 depended upon me, and were maintained by my daily labour ; and 
 other words that follow. Therefore I will say nothing of vows that 
 are made, only this, that if I were pope I would not unwillingly dis- 
 charge those that had bound themselves from them. In undertaking 
 them, as I grant that it is possible for some one to go to Jerusalem with 
 an advantage to piety, so I should make no scruple from many circum- 
 stances of things to advise that they would lay out the expenses, time^ 
 and pains to other purposes, which would more immediately conduce 
 to true piety. I judge these to be pious things, and for that reason, 
 considering either the inconstancy, or ignorance, or superstition of 
 many, I have thought it proper to give youth warning of that thing ; 
 and I do not see whom this admonition ought to offend, unless perhaps 
 such persons to whom gain is preferable to godliness. Nor do I there 
 condemn the pope's indulgences or pardons, but that most vain triner 
 who put all his hope in men's pardons, without the least thought of 
 amending his life. If any one shall seriously consider with me how 
 great a destruction of piety arises among men, partly by their vices, 
 who prostitute the pope's indulgences, and partly by the fault of them 
 who take them otherwise than they ought to do, he will confess that it 
 is worth the while to admonish young men of this matter. But some 
 may say, by this means the commissioners lose their gain. Hear me, 
 O honest man ! if they are good men they will rejoice that the simple 
 are thus admonished j but if they are such as prefer gain before godli- 
 ness, fare them well. 
 
 In the Colloquy concerning Hunting after Benefices, I blame those 
 who frequently run to Rome and hunt after benefices, oftentimes with 
 the corrupting their manners and loss of their money; and for that 
 reason I carry on my discourse, that a priest should delight himself in 
 reading good authors instead of a concubine. 
 
 In the Soldier's Confession I tax the villanies of soldiers and their 
 wicked confessions, that young men may detest such manners. 
 
 In the Schoolmaster's Admonitions I teach a boy shamefacedness 
 and manners becoming his age. 
 
 In the Youth's Piety, do I not furnish a childish mind with godly 
 precepts for the study of piety ] As for that which some have snarled 
 at concerning confession, it is a mere calumny, to which I have answered 
 long ago. I teach that confession is to be performed just as it was 
 ordained for xis by Christ ; but whether it be so done I have neither a 
 mind to disprove nor affirm, because I am not thoroughly satisfied of it 
 myself, nor am I able to prove it to others. And whereas I advise to
 
 x ^ PREFACE. 
 
 deliberate about choosing a kind of life, and to make clioice of a priest 
 to whom you may commit your secrets, I judged it to be necessary for 
 young men ; nor do I see any reason why I should repent of it. But 
 if so, there will be fewer monks and priests. It may be so ; but then, 
 perhaps, they will be better, and whosoever is a monk indeed will 
 prove it so. And besides, they who endeavour to make men be of 
 their own persuasion, either for the sake of their own gain or supersti- 
 tion, do very well deserve to be defamed by the writings of all men, 
 that they may be brought to repentance. 
 
 In the Profane Banquet, I condemn not the ordinances of the 
 church concerning fasts and choice of meats ; but I point out the 
 superstition of some men, who lay more stress on these things than 
 they ought to do, and neglect those things that are more conducive 
 to piety. And I condemn the cruelty of them who require strictly 
 these things of those persons from whom the meaning of the church 
 does not exact them ; and also the preposterous holiness of those per- 
 sons who condemn their neighbour for such things. Here, if any one 
 shall consider how great a mischief among men accrues hence to godli- 
 ness, he will confess that scarce any other admonition is more neces- 
 sary. But in another place I shall give a fuller answer to this 
 matter. 
 
 In the Religious Banquet, although I make them all laymen, and 
 all married men, yet I sufficiently shew what sort of feast that of all 
 Christians ought to be. With which pattern, if some monks and 
 priests compare their feasts, they will perceive how far short they fall 
 of that perfection in which they ought to exceed laymen. 
 
 In the Canonization, I show what honour is due to men of excel- 
 lency, who have well deserved by their studies of the liberal arts. 
 
 They are foolish who think that the Colloquy between the Maid 
 and her Sweetheart is lascivious, whereas nothing can be imagined more 
 chaste, if wedlock be an honest thing, and it be honest to be a wooer. 
 And I could wish that all wooers w-ere such as I suppose one in this 
 Colloquy to be, and that marriages were contracted with no other dis- 
 courses. What can you do with those of a sour disposition, and averse 
 to all pleasant discourse, who think all that is friendly and merry is 
 unchaste ? This young maid refuses to give her sweetheart a 
 kiss at his departure, that she may preserve her virginity for him 
 entire. But what do not maids now-a-days grant to their sweethearts ? 
 Besides, they do not perceive how many philosophical sayings are inter- 
 mixed with jests concerning marriages so hastily made up } concerning 
 the choice of bodies, but much more of minds ; concerning the firmness 
 of matrimony ; concerning not contracting marriages without the con- 
 sent of parents, and of keeping them chastely ; of the religious educa- 
 tion of children : and in the last place, the young maid prays, that 
 Christ by his favour would make their marriage happy. Is it not fit 
 that young men and maids should know those things ? And persons 
 who think that this lesson is hurtful to children, by reason of the wan- 
 tonness of it, suffer Plautus and the jests of Poggius to be read to 
 them. Oh excellent judgment ! 
 
 In the Virgin that is Averse to Marriage, I abhor those that by 
 their allurements draw young men and maids into monasteries, con- 
 trary to the minds of their parents : making a handle either of their
 
 PREFACE. xi 
 
 simplicity or superstition, persuading them there is no hope of salvation 
 out of a monastery. I should not have given this counsel, if the world 
 were not full of such fishermen, and a great many excellent wits were 
 not unhappily smothered and buried alive by these fellows, which 
 otherwise, if they had judiciously taken upon them a course of life 
 suitable to their inclinations, might have been choice vessels of the 
 Lord. But if at any time I shall be constrained to speak my mind 
 upon this subject, I will both so paint out these kidnappers, and the 
 heinousness of the evil itself, that every one shall own that I have not 
 given this advice without a cause ; although I have done it civilly too, 
 lest I should give occasion of offence to ill men. 
 
 In the next Colloquy, I do not bring in a virgin that has changed 
 her course of life after she has professed herself, but before she has 
 completely entered upon the profession she returns to her parents, who 
 are very loving to her. 
 
 In the Colloquy blaming Marriage, how many philosophical sayings 
 are there relating to concealing the faults of husbands ; relating to the 
 hearty good-will of married persons, not to be broken off; relating to 
 the making up breaches, and reforming the manners of husbands ; of 
 the pliable manner of wives towards their husbands 1 What else do 
 Plutarch, Aristotle, and Xenophon teach ? but that here the persons 
 add a kind of life to the discourse. 
 
 In the Colloquy of the Soldier and Carthusian, I at once do lively 
 describe both the madness of young men who run into the army, and 
 the life of a pious Carthusian, which, without delight in his studies, 
 cannot but be melancholy and unpleasant. 
 
 In the Colloquy concerning Untruthfulness, I set forth the dis- 
 positions of some persons who are born to lying, than which kind 
 of persons there is nothing more abominable : I wish they were more 
 rare. 
 
 In the Colloquy of the Young Man and the Harlot, do I not make 
 baudy-houses chaste ? And what could be imagined more effectual, 
 either to implant the care of chastity in the minds of young men, or to 
 reclaim young maids who are set to sale for gain, from a course of life 
 that is as wretched as it is beastly ? There is one word only that has 
 offended some persons, because the immodest girl, soothing the young 
 man, calls him her cocky ; whereas this is a very common expression 
 among us with honest matrons. He that cannot away with this, 
 instead of my cocky, let him read my delight, or anything else that 
 he pleases. 
 
 In the Poetical Banquet, I shew whai kind of feasts students 
 ought to keep, viz., a frugal, but a jocose and merry one, seasoned 
 with learned stories, without contentions, backbiting, and obscene 
 discourse. 
 
 In the Inquiry concerning Faith, I s$t forth the sum of the 
 Catholic religion, and that too something more lively and clearly than 
 it is taught by some divines of great fame ; among which I reckon 
 Gerson, whom, in the meantime, I mention by name for honour's sake. 
 And besides, I bring in the person of a Lutheran, that there may be a 
 more easy agreement betwixt them, in that they agree in the chief 
 articles of the orthodox religion, although I have not added the remaiu- 
 iug part of the inquiry, because of the malice of the times.
 
 xii PREFACE. 
 
 In the Old Men's Discourse, how many things are there that are 
 shewn as it were in a looking-glass, which either should be avoided in 
 life, or may render it comfortable. It is better for young persons to 
 learn these things by pleasant colloquies than by experience. Socrates 
 brought philosophy down even from heaven to earth, and I have made 
 it a diversion, broxight it into familiar conversation, and to the 
 table ; for even the divertisements of Christians ought to savour of 
 philosophy. 
 
 In the Rich Beggars, how many things are there by which country 
 parsons that are ignorant and illiterate, and no way deserving the name 
 of pastors, may be enabled to amend their lives? and besides, to take 
 away the glorying in garments, and to restrain the madness of those 
 who hate a monk's attire, as if a garment were evil of itself 1 And by 
 the way there is a pattern set down what sort of persons those monks 
 ought to be, who walk to and fro through the villages, for there are not 
 many such as I here describe. 
 
 In the Learned Woman, I refresh the memory of the old example 
 of Paula, Eustochius, and Marcella, who added the study of learning to 
 the integrity of manners. And I incite monks and abbots, who are 
 haters of sacred studies, and give themselves up to luxury, idleness, 
 hunting, and gaming, to other kind of studies more becoming them, by 
 the example of a young married woman. 
 
 In the Apparition I detect the wiles of impostors, who are wont 
 to impose upon well-meaning credulous people, by feigning apparitions 
 of devils, and souls, and voices from heaven. And what a great deal 
 of mischief have these juggling tricks done to Christian piety ? And 
 because an ignorant and simple age is in an especial manner liable 
 to be imposed upon by these deceptions, I thought it proper to set 
 forth the manner of the imposture to the life by a facetious example. 
 Pope Celestine himself was imposed upon by such tricks, and a young 
 man of Berne deluded by monks ; and even at this very day, many 
 are thus imposed upon by devised oracles. 
 
 Nor are the least part of human miseries owing to Alchemy, by 
 which even learned and wise men are imposed upon, it being so pleas- 
 ing a disease, if once any one be seized with it. To this magic is also 
 akin, being the same in name, but flattering them with the surname of 
 natural. I charge horse-coursers with the same cheating tricks, and in 
 the Beggars' Dialogue ; and again in the Fabulous Feast. If boys 
 should, from these Colloquies, learn nothing else but to speak Latin, of 
 how much greater commendations are my labours worthy, who by that 
 way of play and divertisement effect that, than theirs who enforced 
 upon youth the Mammothrepti, Brachylogi, Catholicontse, and the 
 methods of signifying. 
 
 In the Lying-in Woman, besides the knowledge of natural things, 
 there are a great many good morals concerning the care of mothers 
 towards their children first, while they are infants, and again after 
 they are grown up. 
 
 In the Religious Pilgrimage, I reprehend those who have tumul- 
 tuously cast all images out of churches, and also those that are mad 
 upon going on pilgrimage under pretence of religion, from whence also 
 now-a-days societies are formed. They who have been at Jerusalem 
 arrogate to themselves the title of knights, and call themselves brothers,
 
 PREFACE. xiii 
 
 and on Palm-Sunday devoutly perform a ridiculous action, and drag 
 an ass by a rope, making themselves at most as mere asses as the 
 wooden ass they drag along. They also that have gone on pilgrimage 
 to Compostella have imitated them in this. Let these practices be 
 allowed, let them be allowed to gratify the humours of men ; but it is 
 an insufferable thing that they should make it a part of piety. Those 
 persons also are remarked upon who shew uncertain relics for certain 
 ones, and attribute more to them than ought to be, and basely make a 
 gain of them. 
 
 In the Ichthyophagia, or Fish-eating, I treat of human constittitions 
 which some wholly reject, deviating much from right reason : and on 
 the other hand, some in a manner prefer them before divine laws : and 
 some again abuse institutions both human and divine to gain and 
 tyranny. I therefore endeavour to temper both parties to moderation, 
 by inquiring from whence human constitutions have had their original, 
 and by what steps they have advanced till this time ; on what persons, 
 and how far they are obligatory ; to what ends they are useful, how far 
 they differ from divine ; shewing by the way the preposterous judg- 
 ments of men of which the world is now full, and from whence this up- 
 roar in the world proceeded. And I have treated of these things more 
 at large for this reason, that I might give occasion to the learned to 
 write more accurately of them ; for those that have written of them 
 hitherto have not given satisfaction to the curious. It was not so much 
 to the purpose to write against whoring, drunkenness, and adultery, be- 
 cause none are deceived by these things ; but true piety is endangered 
 by the other, which either are not perceived or do allure by a deceitful 
 show of sanctity. 
 
 In the Funeral, inasmuch as death commonly tries the hope of a 
 Christian, I have represented a different kind of death in two private 
 persons, as it were by a lively image, representing the different departure 
 of those that put their trust in fictions and of those who have placed 
 the hope of their salvation in the Lord's mercy ; by the way reproving 
 the foolish ambition of rich men, who extend their pride and luxury 
 even beyond their death, which death at least ought to take away; also 
 reprehending the error of those who abuse the folly of those men to 
 their own profit, when it is their business in an especial manner to 
 correct it. For who is he that shall presume to admonish with freedom 
 men of power and wealth, if monks, who profess themselves dead to the 
 world, soothe their vices ? If there are not any such as I have described, 
 yet I have produced an example that ought to be avoided ; but if more 
 accursed things than I have set forth are reported to be commonly 
 practised, then those that are just ought to acknowledge my civility, 
 and amend that in which they are to blame ; and if they are blameless 
 themselves, let them either reform or restrain those who do offend. I 
 have reviled no order, unless he shall be accounted to defame all 
 Christendom that by way of admonition shall say anything against the 
 corrupt manners of Christians. Those that are so concerned for the 
 honour of the order, ought to be hindered from finding fault with me, 
 especially by those who by their actions do openly disgrace the order. 
 And since they own, cherish, and defend such as are brother-companions, 
 with what face can they pretend that the honour of the order is lessened 
 by one that faithfully admonishes? although what reason is there
 
 xiv PREFACE. 
 
 which dictates that this or that fraternity should be so respected, that 
 the common profit of Christians should be neglected ? 
 
 In the Colloquy of the Difference of Names and Things, I find fault 
 with the preposterous judgment of some. 
 
 In the Unequal Feast, I shew what is agreeable to civility. 
 
 In Charon I shew my abhorrence of war among Christians. 
 
 In the Assembly of Grammarians I deride the study of a certain 
 Carthusian, very learned in his own opinion, who, whereas it was his 
 custom foolishly to i^ail against the Greek tongue, hath now put a Greek 
 title to his book ; but ridiculously calling them AnticomaritaB, whom hi 
 should have called Antemarians, or Antidicomarians. 
 
 In the Cyclops I reprove such as have the gospel in their mouth, 
 when nothing like the gospel appears in their lives. 
 
 In the Unequal Marriage I set forth the folly of people in common, 
 when in matching their daughters they have regard to the wealth, but 
 disregard the pox of the bridegroom, which is worse than any leprosy. 
 And that now-a-days is so common a practice that nobody wonders at 
 it, although nothing can be more cruel against their children. 
 
 In the False Knight I describe a sort of men who, under the 
 cloak of nobility, think they may do anything, which is a very great 
 plague to Germany. 
 
 In the Parliament of Women I was about to reprehend some of 
 the vices of women, but civilly, that nobody might expect anything 
 like what is in Juvenal. But while I was about this, the knight with- 
 out a horse presented itself, according to the old saying, Talk of the 
 devil and he appears. The rest are in a manner all composed for 
 diversion, and that not dishonest, which is not to defame the orders, 
 but to instruct them. Wherefore it would be more to the advantage 
 of all the orders, both privately and publicly, if they all would lay 
 aside the rage of reviling, and would with candour of mind embrace 
 whatsoever is offered with an honest intention for the public good. 
 One has one gift and another has another ; some are taken with one 
 thing and some with another, and there are a thousand ways by which 
 men are attracted to piety. The study of Juvencus is commended, 
 who published the History of the Sacred Gospels in Verse. And Arator 
 is not without his praises, who did the same by the Acts of the Apostles. 
 Hilary blew the trumpet against heretics, Augustine argues sharply, 
 Jerome argues by way of dialogue, Prudentius maintains the combat 
 in a various kind of verse x Thomas an,d Scotus fight with the auxili- 
 aries of logic and philosophy. Their studies have the same tendency, 
 but the method of each is different. That diversity is not to be blamed 
 that tends to the same end. Peter the Spaniard is read to boys, that 
 they may be the better prepared to read Aristotle ; for he hath set 
 them a good step forwards that hath given them a relish. But this 
 book, if it be first read by youth, will introduce them to many useful 
 parts of science to poetry, rhetoric, physics, and ethics ; and lastly, to 
 those things that appertain to Christian piety. I have taken upon me 
 to sustain the person of a fool, in blazoning my own meiit ; but I have 
 been induced to it partly by the malice of some who reproach every- 
 thing, and partly for the advantage of Christian youth, the benefit of 
 whom all ought with their utmost endeavour to further. 
 
 Though matters stand thus, and are manifestly so to all persons of
 
 PREFACE. xv 
 
 understanding, yet there is a stupid generation of men whom the 
 French call deputati ; and for this reason, as I suppose, because they 
 are but diminutively polite who speak thus of my Colloquies, They are 
 a work to be shunned, especially by monks, whom they term the 
 religious, and by young men, because the fasts and abstinences of the 
 church are therein set light by, and the intercession of the blessed 
 Virgin Mary drolled upon ; and that virginity is not comparable to a 
 marriage state, and because all are dissuaded from entering upon religion, 
 and because in it the hard and difficult questions of divinity are pro- 
 pounded to weak grammarians, contrary to the, orders sworn to by the 
 masters of arts. Candid reader, you are not unacquainted with the 
 Athenian eloquence. I shall first give an answer to the last of these 
 objections. As to what the masters of art propound to their pupils I 
 know not. The matters treated of in my Colloquies concerning the 
 creed, the mass, fasting, vows, and confession, contain no'thing of 
 theological difficulty ; but they are of that kind that every one ought 
 to be acquainted with. And besides, seeing the Epistles of St. Paul 
 are read to boys, what danger is there in giving them a taste of 
 theological disputations 1 And further, whereas they know that 
 the intricate questions of greatest difficulty (I do not say of vain 
 subtlety) concerning the divine persons are very early propounded 
 to young students in sophistry, why are they not willing that boys 
 should learn that which concerns common life 1 And now, if this be 
 their opinion, it is no matter what is said in the person of such or such 
 a one ; then they must suppose that there are many things in the 
 writings of the evangelists, and of the apostles, which, according to this 
 rule, are downright blasphemy. In many places I approve of fasting, 
 and nowhere condemn it. He that shall assert the contrary, I will 
 declare him to be an impudent liar. But, say they, in the Childish 
 Piety there are these words [I have nothing to do with fasting]. Suppose 
 these words were spoken in the person of a soldier, or a drunkard, does 
 Erasmus of necessity condemn fasting ? I think not. Now they are 
 spoken by a youth not yet arrived at that age from which the law 
 requires the observation of fasts ; and yet that youth prepares himself 
 for fasting rightly ; for he proceeds thus, But yet, if I find occasion, I 
 dine and sup sparingly, that I may be more lively for spirit\ial exer- 
 cises on holy-days. And how I condemn abstinency, these words in 
 the Profane Feast declare ; 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 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 pampered 
 horse, that it may be more ready-to hearken to the spirit. We some- 
 times chastise the immoderate \ise of pleasant things by the pain of 
 abstinence. And a little after he gives a reason why the church has 
 forbidden the eating of certain meats. To the question, To whom does 
 the injunction do good 1 says he, To all ; for poor folks may eat cockles 
 or frogs, or 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 their living deliciously, they ought to impute that 
 to their gluttony, and not blame the constitution of the church. And 
 again I speak thus, I know doctors do very much find fault with the
 
 xvi PREFACE. 
 
 eating of fish ; but our ancestors thought otherwise, and it is our duty 
 to obey them. And presently, in the same place, I teach, But the 
 offence of the weak ought to be avoided. 
 
 It is as false that the favour of the blessed Virgin and other saints 
 are drolled upon in my Colloquies, but I deride those who beg those 
 things of the saints which they dare not ask of a good man; or pray to 
 certain saints with this notion, as if this or that saint either could or 
 would eooner grant this or that thing than another saint or Christ 
 himself would do. Yea, and in the Child's Piety the lad speaks thus, 
 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. And afterwards he mentions by name 
 what saint he salutes daily. And is it any strange thing that a suitor 
 to a young maid should commend a married life, and says, That chaste 
 wedlock does not come far short of virginity 1 Especially when St. 
 Austin himself prefers the polygamy of the patriarchs before our 
 single life. 
 
 As to what they object concerning the entering into a religious 
 life, my words declare how plainly vain it is in the virgin hating 
 marriage; for the maid speaks thus, Are you then in the main against 
 the institution of a monastic life ? The young man answers, No, by no 
 means; but as I will not persuade anybody against it, that is already 
 engaged 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. This is the conclusion of 
 that Colloquy, however they had disputed before. Pray, does this 
 dissuade from entering upon a religious life? The entering into it is not 
 condemned, but the unadvised rashness of it. Therefore, they malici- 
 ously wrest my words in order to reproach me. But, at the same time, 
 they do not animadvert how many things young students thence learn 
 that oppugn the opinions of the Lutherans. 
 
 In the Childish Piety the way of hearing the mass well and profit- 
 ably is taught, and the true and effectual way of confession is shewn. 
 Young students are there instructed that those things that are used by 
 Christians, though they are not found in the scriptures, must never- 
 theless be observed, lest we give occasion of offence to any person. 
 
 In the Profane Feast they are instructed that they ought rather to 
 obey the institutions of popes than the prescriptions of physicians, 
 only they are given to understand that in case of necessity the force of 
 a human law ceases, and the intention of the lawgiver. There a 
 certain person approves of liberality towards the colleges of monks, if 
 men give for real use, and not to support luxury, and especially if given 
 to those that observe the discipline of religion. 
 
 In the Colloquy concerning Eating of Fish, this is said concerning 
 human institutions, Well, let them fight that love fighting; I think 
 we ought with reverence to receive the laws of our superiors, and reli- 
 giously observe them as coming from God ; nor is it either safe or 
 religkms either to conceive in mind or sow among others any sinister 
 suspicion concerning them; and if there is any superstition in them 
 that does not compel us to impiety, it is better to bear it than sedi- 
 tiously to resist.
 
 PREFACE. xvii 
 
 Young students may learn many such things out of my Colloquies, 
 against which these men make such a murmuring. But, say they, it 
 does not become a divine to jest; but let them grant me to do this, at 
 least among boys, which they themselves take the liberty to do among 
 men in their Vesperice, as they call them, a foolish thing by a foolish 
 name. 
 
 As for those foolish calumnies that some Spaniards have cast upon 
 me, I have shewn that they are mere dreams of men that are neither 
 sober nor well understanding the Latin tongue; nor has that less of 
 learning in it, where one has said that it is an heretical expression that 
 in the creed the Father is called simply the Author of all things ; for 
 he, being deceived by his ignorance of the Latin tongue, thinks that 
 author signifies nothing else but creator or framer. But if he shall 
 consult those that are well skilled in the Latin tongue, if he shall read 
 Hilary and other ancient authors, he will find that authority is taken 
 for that which the schoolmen call the most perfect cause of the 
 beginning, and therefore they attribute it peculiarly to the Father, and 
 by the name of Author often mean the Father, when they compare the 
 persons among themselves. Whether the Father can rightly be called 
 the cause of the Son does not concern me, seeing I have never used the 
 word Son; unless that this is most true, that we cannot speak of God 
 but in improper words, nor are the Fountain, or Beginning, or Original 
 more proper words than the Cause. 
 
 Now, reader, consider with me what sort of persons sometimes 
 they are, who by their notions bring men to the stake. There is 
 nothing more base than to find fault with that thou dost not under- 
 stand. But that vice of vilifying everything, what does it produce but 
 bitterness and discord 1 Therefore let us candidly interpret other 
 men's works, and not esteem our own as oracles, nor look upon the 
 judgments of those men as oracles who do not understand what they 
 read. Where there is hatred in judging, judgment is blind. May that 
 Spirit which is the Pacifier of all, who uses his instruments various 
 ways, make us all agree and consent in sound doctrine, and holy 
 manners, that we may all come to the fellowship of the new Jerusalem 
 that knows no discords. Amen. 
 
 In the Year 1526, at Basil.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Forms of Salutation, . . . . . 21 
 
 Inquiry, . .... 24 
 
 Family Discourse, ...... 29 
 
 Rash Vows, ... k ... 34 
 
 Benefice-Hunting, ...... 36 
 
 The Soldier's Confession, ..... 38 
 
 The Commands of a Master, ; . 41 
 The Schoolmaster's Admonitions, -. . . .43 
 
 Various Amusements, .-..,. 44 
 
 The Youth's Piety, ...... 48 
 
 Hunting and Fishing, ..... 55 
 
 School Exercises and Play, ..... 56 
 
 The Profane Banquet, ..... 65 
 
 The Religious Banquet, ..... 82 
 
 The Canonization of John Reuclin, . . . . 108 
 
 The Lover and Maiden, ..... 112 
 
 The Virgin averse to Matrimony, . . . .119 
 
 The Penitent Virgin, ...... 125 
 
 The Uneasy Wife, . . . . . .127 
 
 The Soldier and the Carthusian, ... 136 
 
 f 
 
 On Speaking Untruthfully, ..... 140 
 
 The Shipwreck, ...... 143 
 
 Diversoria; or, the Inns, , . . 149 
 The Young Man and the Harlot, . . 4 .153 
 
 The Poetical Banquet, . 156 
 
 Concerning Faith, ...... 168 
 
 The Old Men's Dialogue, ..... 175 
 
 The Franciscans; or, Rich Beggars, . . . 184 
 
 The Abbot and the Learned Woman, . . . 193 
 
 The Epithalamium of Peter .ZEgidius, . . . 196 
 
 The Apparition, ...... 200 
 
 The Alchemist, ...... 206 
 
 The Horse-Cheat, . .211
 
 xx CONTENTS. 
 
 PA 62 
 
 The Beggars' Dialogue, ..... 213 
 
 The Fabulous Banquet, . . . . .216 
 
 The Lying-in Woman, ..... 226 
 
 The Religious Pilgrimage, ..... 238 
 
 Ichthyophagia ; or, Fish-eating, .... 258. 
 
 The Funeral, . . . . . . 290 
 
 The Echo, . . . . . . ' . 302 
 
 The Unequal Banquet, , . . . .303 
 
 Things and Words, ...... 306 
 
 Charon, ....... 310 
 
 The Assembly of Grammarians, , 318 
 
 The Unequal Marriage, , . . . . 316 
 
 The Imposture, ...... 323 
 
 Cyclops; or, the Gospel Carrier, .... 324 
 
 The Impertinents ; or, Cross-Purposes, . . . 328 
 
 The False Knight, ...... 329 
 
 The Game of Cockal, . . . . .334 
 
 The Assembly or Parliament of Women, . . . 340 
 
 Concerning Early Rising, ..... 344 
 
 The Sober Banquet, ...... 348 
 
 The Notable Art, ...... 351 
 
 The Sermon, ....... 353 
 
 The Lover of Glory, . . . . . .364 
 
 The Rich Miser, ...... 371 
 
 The Seraphic Funeral, ..... 378 
 
 Concerning Friendship, ..... 388 
 
 Concerning Certain Problems, .... 396 
 
 The Epicurean, ...... 401 
 
 The Conflict between Thalia and Barbarism, . , 411
 
 FAMILIAB COLLOQUIES. 
 
 FORMS OF SALUTATION. 
 
 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 vai'iance, 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 hiccup, 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 
 Avind 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, though 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 ancient man 
 by the name of father or venerable sir, than by the surname of age ; 
 although in ancient times they used to make \ise of Jj ytpov as an 
 honourable title. God save you, lieutenant ; God save you, captain ; 
 but not, God save you, hosier or shoemaker. 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 sweetheart, 
 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 you. Ans. Oh ! good sir, I wish you the same. Sal. God 
 bless you, most accomplished 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 Mecsenas. Ans. God save 
 
 A
 
 22 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 my singular patron. God save you, most approved 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 boya Sal. God save you, merry companion. 
 God bless yoii, destroyer of wine. Ans. God bless you, glutton and 
 unmerciful devourer of cakes. Sal. God bless you heartily, presi- 
 dent 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. A ns. God save you for ever 
 and ever. Sal. God save you more than a thousand tim'es. Ans. In 
 truth, I had rather be well once for all. Sat. 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 will not be so 1 In truth, I had 
 rather be sick, than to enjoy the health that you want. 
 
 God bless yo\ir holiness, your greatness, your highness, your 
 majesty, your beatitude, your high mightiness, are salutations rather 
 used by the vulgar, than approved 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, borrowed from the Jews, but yet not 
 to be rejected. And of the like kind is, A happy life to you. Hail, 
 master. Ans. In truth I had rather have than crave. XaTpe. Ans. 
 Remember you are at Basel, and not at Athens; how do you then dare 
 to speak Latin when you are not at Rome 1 
 
 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 enlarged 
 abdomen may assuage happily. Heaven grant that this burden 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 public, 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 undertaking. Christ give prosperity
 
 FORMS OF SALUTATION. 23 
 
 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 jom-ney 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 performed, we may in a shoi-t 
 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 meantime 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 ai-t one-half of my life. I wish 
 you a safe return. 
 
 1 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 may not wish well to me gratis. I wish 
 you a glorious day to-day. May this sunrising be a happy one to 
 you. Ans* I wish you the same. May this be a happy and a pros- 
 perous morning to both of us. 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 mo, 
 
 FAREWELL AT PARTING. Fare ye all well. Farewell. Take care 
 of your health. Take a great care of your health. I bid you goodbye. 
 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 anything with me 1 Have you anything else to say 
 to me 1 ? Ans* Nothing but to wish you well. Take care to preserve 
 your health. Take care of your health. Look well to your health. 
 See that at next meeting we see you merry and hearty. I charge you 
 make much of yourself. See that you have a sound mind in a healthful 
 body. Take care you be universally well both in body and mind. 
 Ans. I will promise you I will do my endeavour. Sal. Fare you 
 well also ; and I again wish you prosperous health. 
 
 SALUTING BY ANOTHER. Sal. Remember my hearty love to Fro- 
 benius. Be sure to remember my love to little Erasmus. Remember 
 me to Gertrude's mother with all imaginable respect ; tell them I wish 
 them 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 that I 
 wish them all heartily well. Have you any recommendations to send by
 
 24 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 me to your friends? Am. Much health to them all, but especially to 
 my father. Are there any persons to whom you wotild command me 
 any service? To all that ask how I do. The health you have brought 
 from my Mends to me, carry back again with mtich interest. Carry 
 my hearty service to all them that have sent their service to me. 
 Pray do so mnch as be my representative in saluting my friends. I 
 would have written to iny son-in-law, but you will serve me instead of 
 a letter to him. 
 
 Soho, soho, whither are you going so fast? Ans. Straight to 
 Lou vain. 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? Ans. 
 That you recommend me to Goclenius, Rutgerus, John Campensis, and 
 all the society of trilinguists. Ans. If you put nothing into my snap- 
 sack 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 com- 
 panion both going and coming back. 
 
 HOW WE OUGHT TO CONGRATULATE ONE THAT IS RETURNED FROM A 
 
 JOURNEY. SaL 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 con- 
 gratulate 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 welcome home if I had not found you well ; but now 
 I think myself safe, in that I see you safe and in good health. 
 
 x 
 
 FORMS OF INQUIRY. 
 
 George, Livinus. 
 
 A FORM OF ASKING QUESTIONS AT THE FIRST MEETING. Ge. 
 Out of what hen-crop 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 person may see thro\igh you, and as dry as a 
 kecks. Whence came you from ? Liv. From Montaeute College. 
 Ge. Then sure you are come laden with letters for us. Liv. Not so, 
 but with lice come 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 will not believe. At Paris a 
 bete is wise, and an oak preaches. Ge. What is that you tell me ? 
 Liv. That which you hear. Ge. What is it I hear ? Liv. That 
 which I tell you. Ge. Oh monstrous ! sure mushrooms and stones 
 imist 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 hearsay, but what T 
 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 of it. 
 
 INQUIRING CONCERNING HEALTH. Ge. Are you well? Liv. Look
 
 FORMS OF INQUIRY, 23 
 
 m my face. Ge. Why do you not rather bid me cast your water? 
 Do you take me for a doctor? I do not ask you if you are in health, 
 for your face bespeaks you so to be 5 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 is not well indeed that is sick in that part. Liv. 
 This is my case, I am 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 1 Are your circumstances as you would have them 1 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 anything. 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 vei-y 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. Liv. Indeed I am very 
 well if you are so. Ge. Well, but have you met with no trouble all 
 this while? Liv. None but the want of your good company. Ge. 
 Well, but how do you do though ? Liv. 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 biill-like too. 
 
 ON 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 cannot 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. Why truly not well, ill, very ill, in an unhappy, 
 unprospei'ous, 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 cheer, 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 I 
 What sort of disease is it 1 What distemper is it that afflicts you ? 
 What distemper are you troubled with ? Li. I cannot tell, and in that 
 my condition is the more dangerous. Ge. That is 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 will con- 
 sider it. But they all agree in this, that I am in a sad condition.
 
 26 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 G . How long have you been taken with this illness ? How long 
 have yon been ill of this distemper ? How long has this illness seized 
 you ? Li. About twenty days more or less, almost a month. It is 
 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 do not 
 grow upon you. Li. It has grown too much upon me already. Ge. 
 Is it a dropsy 1 Li. They say it is not. Ge. Is it a dysentery ? 
 Li. I think not. Ge. Is it a fever ? Li. I believe it is a kind of a 
 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 1 Every 
 day, nay, every hour, indeed. Ge. Oh wonderful ! It is a sad afflic- 
 tion. 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 1 Li. I mean I could 
 get no victuals. I believe it came by a cold. I fancy I got the dis- 
 temper 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 have not contracted this distemper 
 by long and late studying, by hard drinking, or immoderate use of 
 venery ? Why don't you send for a doctor 1 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 choose one that you can 
 confide in. Li. If I must die, I had rather die once for all, than to be 
 tormented with so many slops. Ge. Well, then, be your own doctor. 
 If you cannot trust to a doctor, pray God be your physician. There 
 have been some that have recovered their health by putting on a 
 Dominican or a Franciscan friar's cowl. Li. And perhaps it had been 
 the same thing if they had put on a whoremaster's cloak. These things 
 have no effect upon those that have no faith in them. Ge. Why, then, 
 believe that you may recover. Some have been cured 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 cannot tell whether it 
 would be a blessing or not. Ge. Why, is it not a blessing to be freed 
 from a distemper? Li. Sometimes it is better to die. I ask nothing 
 of Him, but only that He would 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. 
 
 INQUIRING OF A PERSON UPON nis RETURN. Ge. Have you had 
 a good and prosperous journey ? Li. Pretty good ; but that there is 
 such robbing everywhere. 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 horseback ? 
 Li. Part of the way on foot, part in a coach, part on horseback, and 
 part by sea. Ge. How go matters in France? Li. All is in coin- 
 fusion, there is nothing but war talked of. What mischiefs they may 
 bring upon their enemies I know not; but this I am sure of, the French 
 themselves are afflicted with inexpressible calamities.
 
 FORMS OF INQUIRY. 27 
 
 Ge. Whence come all these tumultuary wars 1 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 them ! 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 would have them 
 set in the front of the battle. Li. Ay, ay, but they take care to keep 
 out of harm's way. 
 
 Ge. But let us leave these public affairs to Providence. How go 
 your own matters? Li. Very well, happily, indifferently well, 
 tolerably, Ge. How goes it with your own business 1 ? As you 
 would have it. Li. Nay, better than I could have wished for, better 
 than I deserve, beyond what I could have hoped for. Ge. Are all 
 things according to your mind ? Is all well ? Has everything suc- 
 ceeded 1 Li. It cannot be worse. It is impossible it should be worse 
 than it is. Ge. What, then, have you not got what you sought for ? 
 Have you not caught the game you hunted ? Li. Hunt ! ay, I did 
 liunt 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 cartloads, and whole shiploads of 
 Lope ; but nothing else. Ge. Has he sent you nothing yet? Li. He 
 promised me largely, but he has never sent me a farthing. Ge. Then 
 you must live in hopes. Li. Ay, but that will not 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 burden, and the danger too. Ge. You 
 was not robbed of anything by the way, I hope ? Li. Robbed ! 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 1 Li. Straight home, to see how 
 all do there, whom I have not seen this long time. Ge. I wish you 
 may find all well at home. Li. I pray God I may. Has anything 
 new happened at our house since I went away? Ge. Nothing, but 
 only you will find your family bigger than it was ; for your Catula has 
 brought you a little Catulus since you have been gone. Your hen has 
 laid you an egg. Li. That is good news ; I like your news, and I will 
 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. Do not 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 will 
 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.
 
 28 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Then I will make this bargain with you ; that if she has a boy, you 
 shall let me be the godfather. Ge. Well I will 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 some- 
 what oldish since you went away. What makes you look so pale, so 
 lean, so wrinkled 1 ? Cy. As is my fortune, so is the habit of my body. 
 Ma. Has it been but bad then? Cy. She is never 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 aboard. Ma. Where? Cy. Upon the 
 English coast. Ma. It is well you escaped with your life ; it is better 
 to lose your money than that ; the loss of one's 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 repaired ; 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 1 Cy. I can- 
 not tell, unless it was my destiny. So it pleased God. As the devil 
 would have it. Ma. Now you see that learning and virtue are the 
 safest riches ; for as they cannot be taken from a man, so neither are 
 they burdensome to him that carries them. Cy. Indeed you philo- 
 sophise very well ; but in the meantime I am in perplexity. 
 
 ' 'Claudius, Balbus. 
 
 'Cl. 1 am glad to see you come well 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 do not spare even scholars. Cl. It is well you are 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 Dutchman you are become a Frenchman. 
 Ba. Why, was I a capon when I went away? Cl. Your dress she\vs 
 that you are turned from a Dutchman into a Frenchman. Ba. I had 
 rather suffer this metamorphosis, than to be turned into a hen. 
 But as a cowl does not make a monk, so neither does a garment a 
 Frenchman. 
 
 Cl. Have you learned to speak French 1 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 will make 
 false quantities. Ba. The quality is enough for me.
 
 FAMILY DISCOURSE. 29 
 
 Cl. Is Paris cleai* of the plague ? Ba. Not quite, but it is not 
 continual 5 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 everything but wicked soldiers. Good men are wonder- 
 fully 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 will not give place to the eagle. Every one thinks himself an 
 Hercules in war. CL I will not detain you any longer ; at some other 
 time we will divert ourselves more largely, when we can both spare 
 time. At present I have a little business that calls me to another 
 place. 
 
 FA MIL Y DISCO URSE. 
 
 Peter, Midas, a Boy, Jodocus. 
 
 Pe. Soho, soho, boy! does nobody come to the door? Mi. I 
 think this fellow will beat the door down, Sure he must needs be 
 some intimate acquaintance or other. Oh, old friend Peter, what hast 
 brought? Pe. Myself. Mi. In truth then you have brought that 
 which is not much worth. Pe. But I am 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 1 Mi. I cannot tell, but I will 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 ! don't 
 I hear you speak 1 ? 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 are in the right of it, you have 
 sei-ved me in my own kind. Jo. As I sleep not for everybody, so I 
 am not at home to everybody, but for time to come shall always be at 
 home to you. 
 
 Pe. Methinks you live the life of a snail. Jo. Why so 1 ? Pe. 
 Because you keep always at home and never stir abroad, just like a 
 lame cobbler 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 anybody to walk out; see how charmingly pleasant 
 it is. Jo. If you have a mind to walk I will not 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 
 its. Pe. So we will; but tell me who you would 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 is no dumb man, I 
 will assure you; what he wants in hearing he will make up in talking. 
 Pe. If you will, we will get Nsevius 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 will
 
 30 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 shew you a place where you shall neither want the shade of a grove, 
 nor the pleasant verdure of meadows, nor the purling streams of foun- 
 tains ; you will 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 immod- 
 erate 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 die in my study. Pe. I 
 approve well enough of studying hard, but not to study myself to 
 death. Has this walk pleased you ? Jo. It has been a charmingly 
 pleasant one. 
 
 Giles, Leonard. 
 
 Gi. Where is our Leonard going? Le. I was coming to you. 
 Gi. That you do but seldom. Le. Why so 1 Gi. Because you have 
 not been to see me this twelve months. Le. I had rather ei-r on that 
 hand to be wanted, than to be tiresome. Gi. I am never tired with 
 the company of a good friend ; nay, the oftener you come the more 
 welcome you are. Le. But, by the way, how goes matters at your 
 house 1 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 1 
 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 is with child 
 again. Le. That is 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. Xo, 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 is no need of that, for she has sweethearts 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 
 cannot tell which to choose. But my daughter will not hear of marry- 
 ing. Le. How say you ! If I am not mistaken, she has been mar- 
 riageable 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 is above two-and-twenty, she is in her 
 7iiueteenth year, she is 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 chastely with a husband 1 Gi. I 
 don't think so. Le. How came that whimsey into her head ? Gi. I 
 cannot tell, but there is 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 inveigle or draw her away. Gi. I know these kidnappers well 
 enough, and I drive this kind of cattle 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 1 Gi. No; I will prevent it if possible. I will try 
 every method to alter her mind ; but if she persists in it, I will 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 thoroughly, lest she
 
 FAMILY DISCOURSE. 31 
 
 should afterwards repent it v.hen it is too late. Gl. I will do my 
 utmost endeavours. 
 
 Le. What employment do your sons follow 1 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 entered into holy orders. Le. I wish 
 them all well. 
 
 Mopsus, Dromo. 
 
 Mo. How is it ? What are you doing, Dromo 1 Dr. I am sitting 
 still. Mo. I see that ; but how do matters go with you 1 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 employed in some 
 matters of consequence ? Dr. No, really, entirely at leisure ; I just 
 began to be tired of being alone, and was wishing for a merry com- 
 panion. Mo. It may be I hinder, interrupt, disturb you, being about 
 some business 1 ? Dr. No; you divert me, being tired with being idle. 
 Mo. Pray, pardon me if 1 have interrupted you unseasonably. Dr. 
 Nay, you come 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 1 Dr. Nay, rather it is according 
 to the old proverb, Talk of the devil and he will 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 7 Mo. 
 My left, from which I guess there was no good said of me. Dr. Nay, 
 I will assure you there was nothing but good said. Mo. Then, the 
 old proverb is not true. But what good news have you 1 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 1 Mo. A pretty girl, that I am to marry in a 
 day or two ; and I entreat 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 choose a beauty 
 for one ! Can you fancy that black-a-top, snub-nosed, sparrow-mouthed, 
 paunch-bellied 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 will please me. 
 
 Syrus, Geta. 
 
 Sy. I wish you much happiness. Ge. And I wish you double 
 what yoxi wish me. Sy. What are yoxi 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 1 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
 
 32 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 yoxir 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 yoxi use to do. You make 
 a game of me. You joke upon me. You satirise 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 laughed at by you. You 
 make yourself merry with me. You make a mere 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. 
 
 Ge. Why don't you come to see me ? What is the matter you 
 have not come to see me all this while? What is the matter you visit 
 me so seldom 1 What has happened to you that you never have come 
 to me for so long time 1 Why are you so seldom a visitor 1 ? What is 
 the meaning that you never come near one for so long time 1 What 
 has hindered you that you have come to see me no oftener ? What 
 has prevented you that you have never let me have the opportunity of 
 seeing you for this long time ? 
 
 Sy. I could not by reason of business. 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 plunged in would not permit me to pay my respects 
 to you. I have been so busy I could not come. I have been harassed 
 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 will 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 
 encumbrances that have deprived us of your company. I cannot tell 
 what to wish for bad enough to those aflhirs that have envied us the
 
 FAMILY DISCOURSE. 33 
 
 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. 
 
 James, Sapidus. 
 
 COMMANDING AND PROMISING. Ja. I pray you take a special 
 care of this matter. I earnestly entreat 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 will dispatch this 
 affair for you, and that very shortly too. I cannot 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 my own affair. Though, 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 will do it for you. Do you be 
 easy, I will 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 what- 
 soever is to be expected from a real friend, and one that heartily 
 wishes you well. I will not bring you into a fool's paradise. I will 
 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 ex- 
 pected. Fortune has favoured 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 outdone 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 obtained more than I 
 could presume to wish for. This journey has been performed, 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 enterprised 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 obliged 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 obliged to you. My Sapidus. I do, and it 
 is my duty to love you heartily for your kindness to me. Inasmuch 
 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 obliged me very much by that kind- 
 ness of yours. It is a great obligation upon me that you have managed 
 my concern with fidelity. 
 
 Of all your kindnesses, which are indeed a great many, you have 
 shewed me, none has obliged me more than this. I cannot possibly 
 make you a return according to your merit. Too much ceremony
 
 34 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 between you and I is unnecessary, but that which is in niy power I 
 will do. I will be thankful as long as I live. I confess myself highly 
 obliged 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 attached 
 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 engaged 
 in duty to his master as you have engaged 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 obliged to you upon many accounts, but 
 upon none more than upon this. Thanks are due for common kind- 
 ness, but this is beyond the power of thanks to retaliate. 
 
 THE ANSWEK. 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 bestowed 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 uncom- 
 mon kindnesses I have so often received from you. Indeed, I merit no 
 pi-aise, 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 }~our own as anything 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 though I did not owe you much greater. He serves him- 
 self that serves his friend. He that serves a friend does not give 
 away his service, but pxits 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. 
 
 RASH VOWS. 
 
 Arnoldus, Cornelius. 
 
 Ar. O Cornelius, well met heartily; you have been lost this 
 hundred years. Co. What, my old companion Arnoldus, the man I 
 longed to see most of any man in the world ? God save you. Ar. We 
 all gave thee over for lost. But, prithee, where hast thou been rambling 
 all this while? Co. In the other world. Ar. Why, truly a person 
 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 1 ? Co. What wind blows 
 a great many other folks thither? Ar. Why, folly, or else I am mis- 
 taken. Co. However, I am not the only fool in the. world. Ar. What 
 did you hunt after there 1 Co. Why, misery. Ar. You might have 
 found that nearer home. But did you meet with anything 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 them counterfeits, and mere contrivances to bubble the 
 simple and credulous. I don't think they know precisely the place 
 that Jerusalem anciently stood in.
 
 RASH rOWS. 35 
 
 A r.' "What did you see, then 1 Co. A great deal of barbarity 
 everywhere. 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 ashamed neither, I have so many companions of 
 my folly to keep me in countenance; and as for repentance, it is 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 corne. Ar. What, 
 because you will 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 a little 
 advance money, list themselves for soldiers in the army, which is the 
 nursery of all impiety. Ar. But it is an ungentlenian-like thing to 
 take delight in telling lies. Co. But it is a little more like a gentle- 
 man 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 
 frenzy, 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 monitor 
 in time. Co. What, man ! have you been infected with this disease 
 too? Ar. Yes, I have been at Rome and Compostella. Co. Good 
 Grod ! how I am pleased, 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. 
 I'rithee, tell me what it was. Ar. I am ashamed to tell it. Co. 
 You need not be ashamed 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 \yine 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 promised to go with them, till at last it was 
 concluded upon to go all together ; and I, that I might not seem a
 
 36 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 determined that we should all, 
 God willing, set out the next day for both places. Co. A grave decree 
 fitter to be written in wine than engraved 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 in- 
 violable. Co. A new religion ! But did you all come safe back 1 
 Ar. All but three, one died by the way, and gave us in charge to give 
 his humble service to Peter and James ; another died at Rome, who 
 bid 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 no\v. 
 Co. Was he so good a man, then ? Ar. The veriest droll in nature. 
 Co. Why do you think he is in heaven, then 1 Ar. Because he had 
 a whole satchelful of large indulgences. 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 is true, but he was well fortified 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 ; but by the way, let me advise you to have a care what you 
 say, for now there are a great many spies abroad. I don't speak 
 slightingly of indulgences themselves, but I laugh at the folly of my 
 fuddling companion, who though 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 will set a time for a small collation, and 
 invite some of our comrades ; there we will bell lies, who can lie fastest, 
 and divert one another with lies till we have our bellies full. Ar. 
 Come on, a match. 
 
 BENEFICE-HUNTING. 
 
 Pampliagus, Codes. 
 
 Pam. Either my sight fails me, or this is my old pot-companion 
 Codes. Co. No, no, your eyes don't deceive you at all, you see a 
 companion that is yours heartily. Pa. Nobody ever thought to have 
 seen you again, you have been gone so many years, and nobody knew 
 what was become of you. But whence come you from ? Prithee, tell me. 
 Co. From the Antipodes. Pa. Nay, but I believe you are come from 
 the Fortunate Islands. Co. I am glad you know your old companion, I 
 was afraid I should come home as Ulysses did. Pa. Why, pray 1 
 After what manner did he come home 1 Co. His own wife did not 
 know him ; only his dog, being grown very old, acknowledged his 
 master, by wagging his tail. Pa. How many years was he from 
 home ? Co. Twenty. Pa. You have been absent more than twenty 
 years, and yet I knew your face again. But who tells that story of 
 Ulysses 1 Co. Homer. Pa. He 1 They say he is the father of all
 
 BENEFICE-HUNTING. 37 
 
 fabulous stories. It may be his wife had gotten herself a gallant in 
 the meantime, and therefore did not know her own Ulysses. Co. 
 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. 
 Pa. How came he to be known at last ? Co. By a little wart that he 
 had upon one of his toes. His nurse, who was now a veiy old woman, 
 took notice of that as she was washing his feet. 
 
 Pa. A curious old hag. Well, then, do you wonder that I know 
 you that has so remarkable a nose 1 Co. I am not at all sorry for 
 this nose. Pa. No, nor have you any occasion to be sorry for having 
 a thing that is fit for so many uses. Co. For what uses 1 Pa. First 
 of all, it will serve instead of an extinguisher to put out candles. Co. 
 Go on. Pa. Again, if you want to draw anything out of a deep pit, 
 it will serve instead of an elephant's trunk. Co. Oh wonderful ! Pa. 
 If your hands be employed it will serve instead of a pin. Co. Is it 
 good for anything else 1 Pa. If you have no bellows it will serve to 
 blow the fire. Co. This is very pretty ; have you any more of it ? 
 Pa. If the light offends you when you are writing, it will serve for an 
 umbrella. Co. Ha, ha, ha ! Have you anything more to say 1 Pa. 
 In a sea fight it will serve for a grappling-hook. Co. What will it 
 serve for in a land fight ? Pa. Instead of a shield. Co. And what 
 else ? Pa. It will serve for a wedge to cleave wood withal. Co. 
 Well said. Pa. 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. 
 
 Co. I am a happy fellow indeed, I did not know I carried about 
 me a piece of household-stuff that would serve for so many uses. But 
 in the meantime, in what corner of the earth have you hid yourself 
 all this while? Pa. In Rome. Co. But is it possible that in so 
 public a place nobody should know you were alive ? Pa. Good men 
 are nowhere in the world so much incognito as there, so that in the 
 brightest day you shall scarce see one in a thronged market. Co. 
 Well, but then you are come home laden with benefices. Pa. In- 
 deed 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 is 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 1 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 1 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 lived happily unless God had given him an Eve. 
 
 B
 
 38 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Pa. He will never need to want an Eve that has gotten a good 
 benefice. Co. But that pleasure cannot really be called 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 will part with 
 nothing ; and especially he will not trust me again, when he comes 
 to understand I have spent what I had to no purpose. Co. That 
 is the chance of the dice. Pa. But he don't like those dice. Co. 
 If he shall absolutely deny you, I will shew you where you may have- 
 as much as you please. Pa. You tell me good news indeed; come 
 shew it me, my heai't leaps for joy. Co. It is -here hard by. Pa. 
 Why, have you gotten a treasure? Co. If Y had I would have it 
 for myself, not for you. Pa. If I could but get together one hun- 
 dred ducats I should be in hopes again. Co. I will 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 Budsei; there you may find a great many ten thou- 
 sands, whether you would have it gold or silver. Pa. Go and be 
 hanged with your banter ; I will 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 am not 
 to be compared 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 a far 
 easier matter to tease me than it is to please me; the matter is of too 
 great a consequence to be made a jest of; 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 will 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 anybody 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 cannot tell that, for I have seen some that 
 have played the same game over and over again ; if once this infection 
 seizes a person he seldom gets rid of it. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S CONFESSION. 
 
 Ilanno, Thrasymachus. 
 
 Hanno. How comes it about that you who went away a Mercury, 
 come back a Vulcan? Thr. What do you talk to me of your. 
 Mercuries and your Vulcans for 1 Ha. Because you seemed to be
 
 THE SOLDIER'S CONFESSION. 39 
 
 ready to fly when you went away, but you are come limping home. 
 Thr. I am come back like a soldier then. Ha. You a soldier, that 
 would outrun 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 1 Thr. Empty pockets. Ha. Then you were 
 the lighter for travelling. Thr. But I was heavy laden with sin. 
 Ha. That is heavy luggage indeed, if the apostle 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 battle as to a banquet ? 
 Thr. In truth, I can think no other but they are possessed ; for if the 
 devil were not in them they would never anticipate their fate. Ha. So 
 one would think ; for if you would put them upon any honest business, 
 they will scarce stir a foot in it for any money. But tell me, how went 
 the battle ? who got the better of it 1 Thr. There was such a halloo- 
 ing, 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 the other did, as though they had been nothing but lookers on 
 all the time, and had been everywhere at the same time 1 Thr. It is 
 my opinion that they lie confoundedly. I can tell you what was done 
 in my own tent, but as to what was done in the battle, I know nothing 
 at all of that. Ha. Don't you know how you came to be lame neither 1 
 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 anybody 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 have 
 not hit the nail on the head. Ha. Go, get you home and tell your wife 
 of your exploits. Thr. She will read me a juniper-lecture for coming 
 home in such a pickle. Ha. But what restitution will you make for 
 what you have stolen 1 Thr. That is made already. Ha. To whom 1 
 Thr. Why, to whores, sutlers, and gamesters. Ha. That is like a 
 soldier for all the world; it is but just that what is 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 1 Thr. There is nothing 
 sacred in hostility; there we neither spare private houses nor churches. 
 Ha. How will you make satisfaction 1 ? 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 1 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
 
 40 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 that every man must live by his trade. Ha. A very honourable trade 
 indeed, to bxirn 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 1 
 
 Ha, But were you never thoughtful what should become of your 
 soul if you happened to be killed in the battle 1 Thr. Not very 
 much ; I was very well satisfied in my mind, having once for all com- 
 mended 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; it 
 was after supper. Ha. And by that time I suppose the trees seemed 
 to walk too ? Thr. How this man guesses everything ! But St. 
 Christopher was the saint I most depended on, whose picture I had 
 always in my eye. Ha. What, in your tent 1 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 jest- 
 ing, I do not see how you can expect to be forgiven all these villanies, 
 unless you go to Eome. Thr. Yes, I can ; I know a shorter way than 
 that. Ha. What way is that ? Thr. I will go to the Dominicans, and 
 there I can do my business with the commissaries for a trifle. Ha. 
 What, for sacrilege 1 ? Thr. Ay; if I had robbed 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 
 is over, you will go straight away to. the communion, like a good 
 Christian, will you not ? Thr. Why should I not 1 For after I have 
 once discharged the Jakes of my sins into his cowl, and unburdened 
 myself of my luggage, let him look to it that absolved 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 absolved. 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 in 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 cannot tell how good it is, but I am sure it 
 is not very pleasant.
 
 THE COMMANDS OF A MASTER. 41 
 
 THE COMMANDS OF A MASTER. 
 
 Rabanus, Syrus. 
 
 CALLING UP THE SLEEPER. Ra. Soho, soho, rascal, I am hoarse 
 a bawling to you, and you lie snoring still ; you will sleep for ever I 
 think in my conscience ; either get up presently or I will rouse you 
 with a good cudgel. When will you have slept out your yesterday's 
 debauch ? Are you not ashamed, you sleepy sot, to lie a-bed till this 
 time of day ? Good servants rise as soon as it is day, and take care 
 to get everything in order before their master rises. How loth this 
 drone is to leave his warm nest ! He is a whole hour 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 1 
 
 Ra. Make the fire burn, brush my cap and cloak, clean my shoes 
 and galoshes, 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 1 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 sliviug about, you drone ? You are a 
 year a lighting a candle. Sy. I can't find a spark of fire. Ra. It is 
 so you raked 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 is that you say, you slowback? Sy. Nothing at all, sir. Ra. 
 No, sirrah, did I not hear you mutter ? Sy. I was saying my prayers. 
 Ra. I believe so, but it was the Lord's Prayer backwards then. Pray, 
 what was that you were chattering about imperiousness 1 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 everything in its place ; let the house be set to rights from top to 
 bottom, rub the chamber-pot, put these foul things oxit of sight, 
 perhaps I may have some gentry come to pay me a visit ; if I find 
 anything out of order I will thrash 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 do not dine at home, therefore come to me a 
 little before ten o'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
 
 42 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 chapped fellow, yoxi 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 plumcakes, must you 1 ? If you cannot eat dry bread, take 
 a leek to eat with it, or an onion, if you like that better. 
 
 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 will save you as much labour as I can ; you shall dispatch several 
 businesses in one errand ; count them upon your fingers, that you 
 may not forget any of them : first of all step to the salesman, and bring 
 iny watered camblet doublet, if it be done ; then go and inquire for 
 Cornelius the waggoner (he is commonly at the sign of the Roebuck, 
 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 1 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 inquire 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 to 1 You have not 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 1 Sy. I hear more than I like to hear. Ra. But take you care 
 you remember them all. Sy. I shall scarce be able to remember half 
 of them. Ra. What, do you stand loitei'ing here, you idle knave 1 
 You might have been back before now. Sy. What one person in the 
 world can do all these 1 Truly I must wait upon him out, and attend 
 upon him home ; I am his swabber, his chamberlain, his footman, his 
 clerk, his butler, his bookkeeper, 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. 
 
 RIDING. Ra. Bring me my boots, I am to ride out. Sy. Here 
 they are, sir. Ra. You have looked after them bravely ; they 
 are all over mouldy with lying by ; I believe they have not been 
 cleaned nor greased these twelve months ; 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 noth- 
 ing is wanting or broken, or ready to break, that nothing may be a 
 hindrance to us when we are upon our journey. Run to the saddler's 
 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 them 
 down, or comb them in a year 1 Sy. I am sure I do it every day. 
 Ra. That may be seen ; I believe they have not had a bit of victuals
 
 THE SCHOOLMASTERS ADMONITIONS. 43 
 
 for three days together. Sy. Indeed they have, sir. Ra. You say 
 BO, 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 them. Ra. How comes it about then 
 that they do not look as well as you do ? Sy. Because I do not eat 
 hay. Ra. You have this to do still j make ready my portmanteau 
 quickly. Sy. It shall be done. 
 
 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S ADMONITIONS. 
 
 Schoolmaster 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 straight, 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 fixed upon the person who speaks to you; your feet set 
 close one by the other; your hands without action: don't stand titter 
 totter, first standing upon one foot, and then upon another, nor play- 
 ing with your fingers, biting your lip, scratching your head, or picking 
 your ears. Let your clothes be put on tight and neat, that your whole 
 dress, air, motion and habit, may bespeak a modest and bashful tem- 
 per. Bo. What if I shall try, sir ? Ma. Do so. Bo. Is this right? 
 Ma. Not quite. Bo. Must I do so ? Ma. That is pretty well. 
 Bo. Must I stand so 1 
 
 Ma. Ay, that is very well, remember that posture; don't be a 
 prittle prattle, nor prate apace, nor be minding anything 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. Al- 
 most 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 1 Bo. 
 Yes, with your leave, sir. 
 
 Ma. Now you should have made a bow; that is very well, re- 
 member 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 cheerfully, but always so as to remember what be- 
 comes your age. Serve yourself last; and if any nice bit be offered 
 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 anybody
 
 44 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 drinks to yovi merrily, thank him, and drink moderately. If you do not 
 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 
 anything that is obscene be said, don't laugh at it, but keep your 
 countenance, as though you did not understand it; do not reflect on 
 anybody, nor take place of anybody, nor boast of anything of your 
 own, nor undervalue anything of another person's. Be courteous to 
 your companions that are your inferiors; traduce nobody; do not be a 
 blab with your tongue, and by this means you will get a good char- 
 acter, and gain friends without envy. If the entertainment shall be 
 long, desire to be excused, bid much good may it do the guests, and 
 withdraw from the table. See that you remember these things. Bo, 
 I will do my endeavour, sir. Is there anything else you would have 
 me do ? Ma. Now go to your books. Bo. Yes, sir. 
 
 VARIOUS AMUSEMENTS. 
 
 Nicholas, Jerome, Codes, the Master. 
 
 Nio. I have had a great mind a good while, and this fine weather 
 is a great invitation, to go to play. Hi. These indeed invite you, 
 but the master don't. Nic. We must get some spokesman that may 
 extort a holiday from him. Hi. You did very well to say extort, 
 for you may sooner wrest Hercules' club out of his hands than get 
 a play-day from him; but time was when nobody loved 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 anybody, but as sparing and backward at this as anybody in the 
 world.. Hi. 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. Hi. There is nobody fitter for this business than 
 Codes. Nic. Nobody in the world, he has a good bold face of his 
 own, and tongue enough; and besides, he knows his humour too. 
 Hi. Go, Codes, you will highly oblige us all. Coc. Well, I will try; 
 but if I do not succeed, do not lay the fault on your spokesman. 
 Hi. 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 will go; 
 may Mercury send me good luck of my ei-rand. 
 
 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 it is 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 is to your purpose 1 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 
 anything has been wanting in times past, we will labour to make it 
 up by future diligence. Ma. Oh rare makers up ! Who will be sure- 
 ties for the performing this promise ? Coc. I will venture my head
 
 rAPJOUS AMUSEMENTS. 45 
 
 upon it. Ma. Nay, rather venture your tail. I know there is but 
 little dependence upon your word; but, however, I will try this time 
 what credit may be given to you; if you deceive me now, you shall 
 never obtain anything from me again. Let them 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 sunset. Coc. We 
 will, sir. 
 
 I have gotten leave, but with much ado. Jer. 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 en- 
 gaged for you all, and if ye do, I will never be your spokesman again. 
 Jer. "We will take care. But what play do you like best 1 Coc. We 
 will talk of that when we come into the fields. 
 
 Nicholas find Jerome. 
 
 PLAYING AT BALL. Nic. No play is better to exercise all parts of 
 the body than stoolball; but that is fitter for winter than summer. 
 Jer. There is no time of the year with us but what is fit to play in. 
 Nic. We shall sweat less if we play at tennis. Jer. Let us let nets 
 alone to fishermen; it is prettier to catch it in our hands. Nic. 
 Well, come on, I don't much matter; but how much shall we play 
 for 1 ? Jer. For a fill-up, and then we shall not lose much money. 
 Nic. But I had rather spare my corpus than my money. Jer. And 
 I value my corpus 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 is won shall be 
 spent among all the company alike. 
 
 Nic. Well, I like the proposal; come, done, let us choose hands; 
 but we are all so equally matched that it is no great matter who 
 and who is 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 us toss up. O boys, very well indeed, I have got the 
 partners I would have. Nic. And we like our partners A r ery well. 
 Jer. Come on, now for it, 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 will war- 
 rant ye I will hit it if it comes near me. Jer. Go on and prosper, 
 throw up the ball upon the house. He that throws and does 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 will not be cheated : and truly 
 you throw nastily. As you toss it, I will give it you again; I will 
 give you a Roland 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 
 brickbat, or with your hat, if you will. Jer. I would rather do it 
 with yours. Nic. Take the ball again. Jer. Throw it ; score it up.
 
 46 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Nic. We have two good wide goals. Jer. Pretty wide, but they are 
 not out of reach. Nic. They may be reached if nobody hinders it. 
 Jer. Oh 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 shall not 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 1 ? Nic. We have gotten this game. Jer. 
 You are a little too hasty ; you reckon your chickens before they are 
 hatched. I have seen those lose the game that have had so many for 
 love. War and play is a mere lottery. We have got thirty, now we are 
 equal again. Nic. This is the game stroke. Oh brave ! we have got 
 the better of you. Jer. Well, but you shall not have it long ; did I 
 not say so ? We are equally fortunate ; fortune inclines first to one 
 side, and then to the other, as if she could not tell which to give the 
 victory to. Nic. Fortune, be but on our side, and we will help thee 
 to a husband. Oh rare ! she has answered our desire, we have got 
 this game, set it up, that we may not forget. Jer. It is almost night, 
 and we have played 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. Jer. But who must pay for the balls ? Nic. All alike, 
 every one his part ; for there is so little won, we cannot take anything 
 from that. 
 
 A dolphus, Bernardus, the Arbitrators. 
 
 BOWL PLAYING. 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 will answer you, if you have a mind to that 
 sport. Now you will 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. A dol. 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. Ber. What if he that beats shall have a piece of his ear 
 cut off. Nay, rather let one of his stones be cut out. It is a mean 
 thing to play for money ; yoxi are a German, and I a Frenchman : we 
 will both play for the honour of his country. If I shall beat you, 
 you shall cry out thrice, Let France flourish ; if I shall be beat (which 
 I hope I shall not), I will in the same words celebrate your Germany. 
 Adol. Well, a match. 
 
 Ber. 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 is all one to me. Ber. Bowl away. Adol. Heyday, 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 sti-ong 
 bowl indeed, but I am best. Adol. If it had not been for that mis-
 
 VARIOUS AMUSEMENTS. 47 
 
 chievous bit of a bi-ickbat.. there that lay in my way, I had beat you 
 off. Ber. Stand fair. Adol. I will not cheat : I intend to beat you 
 by art, and not to cheat you, since we contend for the prize of honour : 
 rub, rub : a great cast in troth. Adol. Nay, do not laugh before you 
 have won. Ber. We are equal yet-. This is who shall. He that 
 hits the Jack is up. Adol. I have beat you, sing. Ber. Stay, 
 you should have said how many you would make up, for rny hand is 
 not come in yet. Adol. Judgment, gentlemen. Arb. Three. Ber. 
 Very well. 
 
 Adol. Well, what do you say now ] Are you beat or no ? Ber. 
 You have had better luck than I, but yet I will not vail to you, as to 
 strength and art ; I will 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. Adol. Now, cock, crow. Ber. I am hoarse. 
 Adol. That is no new thing to cocks; but if you cannot crow like an 
 old cock, crow like a cockeril. Ber. Let Germany flourish thrice. 
 Adol. You ought to have said so thrice. Ber. 1 am dry ; let us 
 drink somewhere, I will make an end of the song there. Adol. I will 
 not stand upon that, if the company likes it. Arb. That will be the 
 best, the cock will crow clearer when his throat is gargled. 
 
 Gasper, Erasmus. 
 
 THE PLAY OF STRIKING A BALL THROUGH AN IRON KING. 
 Gas. Come, let us begin, Marcolphus shall come in in the loser's 
 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 
 are upon your own ground. Gas. Indeed I am better acquainted 
 with the ground than I am with my books ; but that is 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 is 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 matched as can be ; yours is a better ball than mine. 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 four 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 will give you a remove. 
 Gas. If you do that I will 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 
 will try. Well, what say you now, friend 1 Are you beaten away ? 
 (Have I not struck you away 1 ?) 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 hun- 
 dred times. Er. I will lay you, if you will, that I do it once in three 
 times. But come, pay me what I have won. Gas. What is that ? 
 Er. Why, a distich. Gas. Well, I will pay it now. Er. And an
 
 48 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 extempore one too. Why do you bite your nails 1 Gas. I Lave it. 
 Er. Recite it out. Gas. As loud as you will. 
 
 Young standers-by, clap ye the conqueror brave, 
 Who me has beat is the more learned knave. 
 
 Have you not a distich now ? Er. I have, and I will give you as 
 good as you bring. 
 
 Vincent, Laurence. 
 
 LEAPING. Yi. Have you a mind to jump with me 1 ? Lau. That 
 play is not good presently after dinner. Yi. Why so 1 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 1 Yi. 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 hare played 
 enough at this, then we will try other sorts. Lau. I AVI 11 play at 
 any sort where there is no danger of breaking one's legs ; I have no 
 mind to make work for the surgeon. Yi. What if we should play at 
 hopping? Lau. That the ghosts play ; I am not for that. Yi. It is 
 the cleverest way to leap with a pole. Lau. Running is a more 
 noble exercise ; for ^Eneas in Virgil proposed this exercise. Yi. 
 Very true, and he also proposed the fighting with whirly-bats too, and 
 I do not like that sport. Lau. Mark the course, let this be the 
 starting-place, and yonder oak the goal. Yi. I wish ^Eneas was here, 
 that he might propose what should be the conqueror's prize. Lau. 
 Glory is a reward sufficient for victory. Yi. 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, it is done, provided you will go before playing upon a pipe. 
 
 Lau. It is very hot. Vi. That is not strange when it is mid- 
 summer. 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 
 times this was looked upon to be one of the most noble exercises. Yi. 
 Nay, and a very useful one too. Lau. For what? Vi. If men are 
 forced to fly in battle, 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 praiseworthy sometimes to run away nimbly as it is to fight 
 stoutly. Vi. I cannot swim at all, and it is dangerous to converse 
 with an unaccustomed element. Lau. You ought to learn then, for 
 nobody was born an artist. Yi. 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 cannot 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 YOUTH'S PIETY. 
 
 Erasmus, Gasper. 
 
 Er. Whence came you from? Out of some alehouse? Ga. No, 
 indeed. Er. "What, from a bowling-green? Ga. No, nor from
 
 THE YOUTH'S PIETY. 49 
 
 thence neither. Er. What, from the tavern, then? Ga. No. Er. 
 Well, since I cannot 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 would 
 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 learned 
 to greater advantage than what we learn in our youngest years. 
 
 Er. What is that which is called religion 1 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 will 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 ; 2nd, Th'at we take the greatest care to keep ourselves blame- 
 less that is, that we do no injury to any one ; 3rd, That we exercise 
 charity, i.e., to deserve well of all persons (as much as in us lies); 4th, 
 That we practise patience, i.e., to bear patiently injuries that are offered 
 us when we cannot 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 incautiously 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 yoxi 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 o'clock, or some- 
 times 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 enliven my soul, that I 
 may not 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
 
 50 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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, Salv.ta 
 libenter, to good purpose ; was it not enough to have saluted Christ in 
 the morning, without saluting Him again presently 1 Are you not 
 afraid lest you should be troublesome by your over officiousness i 
 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 asked of 
 him. Er. What is it you ask of Him 1 for I perceive your saluta- 
 tions 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, taiight 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 1 Ga. 
 Of the apostles, St. Paul ; of the martyrs, St. Cyprian ; of the doctors, 
 Jerome; of the virgins, St. Agnes. Er. How came these to be yours 
 more than the rest? Was it by choice or by chance 1 ? Ga. They fell 
 to me by lot. Er. But you only salute them, I suppose ; do you beg 
 anything 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 will not empty itself; but time is always 
 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
 
 THE YOUTH'S PIETY. 51 
 
 my companions with some lawful recreation till the time comes to go 
 to school again. Er. Do you salute Jesus again 1 Ga. Yes, if I 
 have an opportunity ; but if it so happen that I have not an oppor- 
 tunity, or it be not seasonable, as I pass by the church I salute Him 
 mentally ; and then 1 do what is to be done at school with all ruy 
 might ; and when I go home again I do what I did before dinner. 
 After supper I divert myself with some pleasant stories ; and after- 
 wards 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 1 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 commend 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 1 Ga. I don't lie upon my face or my back, but 
 first leaning upon my right side, I fold my arms across, 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 accustomed 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 then ] Do you refrain from the altar 1 Ga. Not by my 
 bodily presence, but I withdraw myself, as to my mind, and standing 
 as it were afar off, as though 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 anybody 
 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 is 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 be liberality 
 to our neighbour, but putting interest to God ; just as though 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 anything truer than the Gospel ? Er. That is 
 unreasonable ; but there are some who cannot believe themselves to be
 
 52 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Christians unless they hear mass, as they call it, every day. Ga. 
 Indeed I don't condemn the practice 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 unfor- 
 tunate to them that they have not began 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 rends, 
 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 meantime 1 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 will 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 myself, 
 " 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 everything. But if 
 I happen to meet with a dumb priest, such as there are many in 
 Germany, or that I cannot 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 t 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 woiild 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 wandering. Er. Have 
 you any particular psalms for this purpose ? Ga. I have ; but I have 
 not so tied myself up to them but that I can omit them if any medita- 
 tion comes into my mind that is more refreshing than the recitation of 
 those psalms. 
 
 Er. What do you do as to fasting 1 Ga. I have nothing to do 
 with fastiug; for so Jerome has taught me, that health is not to be 
 impaired by fasting until the body is arrived at its full strength. I
 
 THE YOUTH'S PIETY. 53 
 
 am not quite seventeen 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 began, I will go through with my inquiries. 
 How do you find yourself affected towards sermons 1 Ga. Very well. 
 I go to them as devoutly as if I was going to a holy assembly ; and 
 yet I pick and choose 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 nobody preaches, I pass this time in reading the scrip- 
 tures. I read the gospel or epistle, with Chrysostom's or Jerome's 
 interpretation, or any other 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 1 
 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 1 Ga. To Christ. Er. And do you 
 think that is sufficient 1 Ga. It would be enough for me, if it were 
 enough for the rulers of the church, and received custom. Er. Who 
 do you call the rulers of the church 1 Ga. The popes, bishops, and 
 apostles. Er. And do you put Christ into this number 1 Ga. He 
 is, without controversy, the chief head of them all. Er. And was He 
 the author of this confession in use 1 Ga. He is, indeed, the author 
 of all good ; but whether He appointed confession as it is now used 
 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 nobody 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 thoroughly purged from the 
 bottom of my heart, and some tranquillity and cheerfulness 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 satisfied 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 everything that 
 is done contrary to human constitutions, unless a wicked contemp- 
 tuousness shall go along with it ; nay, I scarce believe any crime to be 
 capital that has not malice joined with it that is, a perverse will. 
 
 Er. I commend you, that you are so religious, and yet not super- 
 stitious. Here, I think, the old proverb takes place, Nee omnia, nee 
 passim, nee quibuslibet, that a person should neither speak all, nor 
 everywhere, nor to all persons. Ga. I choose me a priest that I can 
 trust with the secrets of my heart. Er. That is 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 inquire of the person confessing those things that it were 
 
 c
 
 54 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 better if they were concealed ; and there are some unlearned and 
 foolish fellows who, for the sake of filthy gain, lend their ear, but apply 
 not their mind, who cannot 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 myself. Ga. And I, 
 too, much ; therefore, I choose me one that is learaed, grave, of 
 approved integrity, and one that keeps his tongite 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 anything that I cannot 
 safely trust a priest with. Er. That is 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 conversa- 
 tion I may be bettered. 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 choose 
 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 admoni- 
 tion, 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 1 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 cannot extricate 
 myself before I know myself very well. Er. When will that be ? 
 Ga. Perhaps never. But before the twenty-eighth year of one's age 
 nothing should be resolved on. Er. Why so ? Ga. Because I hear 
 everywhere so many priests, monks, and married men lamenting that 
 they hurried themselves rashly into servitude. Er. You are very 
 cautious not to be caught. Ga. In the meantime 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 cannot do that, I am resolved 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 anything 
 that is not modest, I pass that by, as Ulysses passed by the syrens, 
 stopping his ears. 
 
 Er. To what kind of study do you chiefly addict yourself? To 
 physic, the common or civil law, or to divinity ? For languages, the 
 sciences and philosophy, are all conducive to any profession whatso-
 
 HUNTING AND FISHING. 55 
 
 ever. 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 choose 
 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 professoi*s of it, and 
 the bitter contentions that are among them, displease me. Er. He 
 will not be very apt to fall that goes so warily along. Many in these 
 days are frightened from divinity, because they are afraid they should 
 not be found in the Catholic 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 further. 
 I leave the rest to be disputed and defined by the clergy, if they please ; 
 and if anything 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 happened 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 will not 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 tied 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 sweethearts of the same mistress, 
 when they are both sick of the same love. Er. But without jesting, 
 I will 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 meantime I will not stay for 
 you ; but I will every day endeavour to out-go myself, and do you 
 endeavour to out-go me, if you can. 
 
 HUNTING AND FISHING. 
 
 Paul, Thomas, Vincent, Laurence, Bartholus. 
 
 Pa. Every one to his mind. I love hunting. Th. And so do I 
 too ; but where are the dogs 1 the hunting poles ? and the hunting nets ? 
 Pa. Farewell boars, bears, bucks, and foxes, we will lay snares for 
 rabbits. VI. But I will set gins for locusts and crickets. La. But 
 I will catch frogs. Ba. I will hunt butterflies. La. It is difficult to 
 follow flying creatures. Ba. It is difficult, but it is fine sport ; unless 
 you think it finer sport to hunt after earthworms, 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 earthworms enough 
 everywhere to be had. Ba. So there is, if they would but creep out 
 of the ground to you. La. But I will make a great many thousands 
 jump out presently. Ba. How ? By witchcraft ? La. You shall 
 see the art. Fill this bucket with water, break these green peels of
 
 se FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Walnuts to pieces and put into it : wet tlie 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 caught by such a vulgar bait. La. I 
 knpw a certain sort of an insect that I used to catch such with. Ba. 
 See if you can impose upon the fishes so ; I will make work with the 
 frogs. La. How, with a net ? Ba. No. with a bow. La. That is 
 a new way of fishing ! Ba. But it is a pleasant one ; you will say so 
 when you see it. 
 
 Vi. What if we two should play at holding up our fingers ? Ba. 
 That is 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 will 
 play at what you will. Pa. And I will be conformable. 
 
 SCHOOL EXERCISES AND PLAY. 
 
 Sylvius, John. 
 
 Sy. What makes you run so, John 1 Jo. What makes a hare run 
 before the dogs, as they use to say 1 Sy. What proverb is this ? Jo. 
 Because unless I am there in time, before the bill is called over, I am 
 sure to be whipped. 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 1 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 cannot 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 will not be in the school. 
 Jo. Who has he appointed in his place 1 Sy. Cornelius. Jo. That 
 squint-eyed fellow ! Woe to our backsides, he is a greater whipmaster 
 than Busby himself. Sy. You say very true, and for that reason I 
 have often wished he had a palsy in his arm. Jo. It is not pious to 
 wish ill to one's 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 re- 
 peating and the other looking on the book. Jo. That is well thought 
 of. 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 1 Sy. I confess so ; but 
 we are not in danger of our heads, but of our tails. 
 
 Cornelius, Andrew. 
 WRITING. Co. You write finely, but your paper sinks. Your paper
 
 SCHOOL EXERCISES AND PLAY. 57 
 
 is damp, and the ink sinks through it. An. Pray make me a pen of this. 
 Co. I have not a penknife. An. Here is one for you. Co. Out on 
 it, how blunt it is ! An. Take the hone. Co. Do you love to write 
 with a hard-nibbed pen or a soft 1 An. Make it fit for your own hand. 
 Co. I used to write with a soft nib. An. Pray write me out the 
 alphabet. Co. Greek or Latin ? An. Write me the Latin first ; I 
 will 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 somebody to give me some. Co. It is better to 
 have of one's own than to borrow. A n. What is a scholar without pen 
 and ink 1 Co. The same that a soldier is without shield or sword. 
 An. I wish my fingers were so nimble, I cannot 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. 
 
 Peter, Christian. 
 
 A FORM OF GIVING THANKS. Pe. You have obliged 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 me with packets of letters. 
 I thank you heartily. Thanks that you have now and then provoked 
 me with letters. You have obliged me very much that you have 
 honoured 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 presump- 
 tion, who dared presume to trouble a man of so much business, and so 
 much learning with my unlearned letter. 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 cartload of them. I bring you whole bushels of tales. I bring 
 you as many lies as a good ship will cany. Pe. Then unlade yourself 
 as fast as you can, for fear you should sink, being so over-freighted. 
 Ch. I have nothing but what is the chat of barbers' shops, coaches, and 
 boats. 
 
 HAVE NOT YOU RECEIVED ANY LETTERS THE FORM. Pe. Have
 
 68 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 you had no letters? Have you had any letters out of your own 
 country ? Have no letters been brought to you 1 Have you received 
 any letters 1 Have you had any letters ? Have you received any 
 letters from your friends 1 Are there no letters come from France 1 
 
 THE ANSWER. Ch. I have received no letters. I have not had so 
 much as a letter. I have not had the least bit of a letter. Nobody 
 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 believed. 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 yon. 
 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. 
 
 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 mackerel 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 are 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 proved 
 yourself to be a man. You have shewed 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. 
 
 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 ont 
 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 long till 
 I enjoyed my friends' company. Ch. You have acted very piously. 
 You are very good humoured to think of those matters. We have all 
 a strange affection for the country that hath bred us and brought us 
 forth.
 
 SCHOOL EXERCISES AND PLAY. 59 
 
 As Ovid says : 
 
 Nescio qua natale sohim dulcedine cunctos 
 
 Ducit, et immemores non sinit esse sui. 
 
 " Pray tell me bow 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 everything, as 
 much as Epimenides, the prince of sleepers, when he first waked out of 
 his sleep. Ch. What story is that? what fable is that 1 ? Pe. I will 
 tell you, if yoxi are at leisure. Ch. There is nothing more pleasant. 
 Pe. Then order me a chair and a cushion. Ch. That is very well 
 thought on, for you will tell lies the better sitting at ease. Pe. His- 
 torians tell us a story of one Epimeuides, 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 FOBM. Ch. What a story you tell ? It 
 is incredible. What you say is not very likely. You tell me a fiction. 
 I don't think it is true. You tell me a monstrous story. Are you not 
 ashamed to be guilty of so wicked a lie ? This is a fable fit to be put 
 among Lucian's legends. Pe. Nay, I tell you what is related by 
 aiithors of credit, unless you think Aulus Gellius is not an author of 
 approved credit. Ch. Nay, whatsoever he has written are oracles to 
 me. Pe. Do you think that a divine dreamed so many years 1 for it 
 is storied that he was a divine. Ch. I am with child to hear. 
 
 THE ANSWER. Pe. Whatisit more than what Scotusand the school- 
 men did afterwards 1 Bu t Epim enides, h e came off pretty well, he cam e 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 lie. 
 Pe. Epimeuides, waking out of his sleep, goes out of his cave and looks 
 about him, and sees all things changed 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 inquires ; he stays there a little while, 
 but knows nobody, nor did anybody know him. The men were 
 dressed after another fashion than what they were before, they had 
 not the same countenances, their speech was altered, 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 Jiow 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-in- 
 law's, with my kinsman. They are called affines, kinsmen, who are 
 allied 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.
 
 60 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Socrus, My wife's mother. 
 
 Nurus, My son's wife. 
 
 Levir, A husband's brother. Levir is called 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 Phrcedria, and Europa the pellex of Juno. 
 
 INVITING TO A FEAST : DINE WITH ME TO-MORROW. Pe. I give 
 you thanks, 1 commend you, I invite you to supper against to-morrow, 
 1 entreat your company at supper to-morrow. I desire you would 
 come to dinner with me to-morrow. I would have your company at 
 dinner to-morrow. 
 
 I FEAR I CANNOT COME. Ch. I fear I cannot. I am afraid I cannot. 
 I will come if I can, but I am afraid I cannot. 
 
 WHY ? Pe. Why cannot you ? How so 1 Why so ? Wherefore ? 
 For what reason ? For what cause ? What hinders you that you cannot ? 
 
 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 anywhere 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 asked 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 ever so much 
 mind, I cannot ; 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 CANNOT PROMISE. Ch. I cannot promise. I cannot positively 
 promise you. I cannot 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 prefixed, pre- 
 scribed, appointed, set; but set a certain day. I would have you tell 
 me the day. 
 
 I WOULD NOT HAVE YOU KNOW BEFOREHAND. Ch. Indeed I don't 
 
 use to set a day for my friends. I am used to set a day for those I 
 am at law with. I would not have you know beforehand. I will
 
 SCHOOL EXERCISES AND PLAY. 61 
 
 take you at unawares. I will come unexpectedly. I will catch you 
 when you don't think on me. 1 shall take you when you don't think 
 on me. I will come unlocked for. I will come upon you before you 
 are aware. I will come an uninvited and unexpected guest. 
 
 I WOULD KNOW BEFOREHAND. Pe. I would know two days before- 
 hand. I would know two days before. Give me notice two days 
 before you come. Make me acquainted two days before. Ch. If you 
 will have me, I will make a sybaritical appointment, that you may 
 have time enough to provide aforehand. Pe. What appointment is 
 that 1 Ch. The Sybarites invited their guests against the next year, 
 that they might both have time to be prepared. Pe. Away with the 
 Sybarites and their troublesome entertainments; I invite an old crony, 
 and not a courtier. 
 
 You DESIRE TO YOUR OWN DETRIMENT. Ch. Indeed it 'is to 
 your detriment. Indeed it is to your own harm. To your own 
 loss. You wish for it. You pray for that to your own ill-con- 
 venience. Pe. Why so, wherefore? Ch. I will come provided. I 
 will come prepared. I will set upon you accoutred. I will come 
 furnished with a sharp stomach ; do you take care that you have 
 enough to satisfy a vulture. I will 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 will come, 
 but I will not come alone. Pe. You shall be the more welcome for 
 that; but who will you bring with you ? Ch. My umbra. Pe. You 
 cannot do otherwise if you come in the day-time. Ch. Ay, but I will 
 bring one umbra or two that have got teeth, that you shall not 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 called 
 umbrse, 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. 
 
 Ij 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 suppei*, 
 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 con- 
 sideration, 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 will do it. I know the French ambition, you 
 will not sup with me but you will 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 will talk more largely and 
 more freely to-morrow. But we will divert ourselves to-morrow more
 
 62 FAMILIAE COLLOQUIES. 
 
 plentifully. In the meantime take care of your health. In the mean- 
 time take care to keep yourself in good health. Farewell till then. 
 
 WHITHER ARE YOU GOING 1 THE FORM. Ch. Where are you 
 a going now ? Whither are you going so fast ? Where are you 
 going in such great haste 1 Whither go you? What is your way 1 
 
 I GO HOME THE FORM. Pe. I go home. I return home. I go 
 home. I return home. I go 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 assist- 
 ance. Pe. What need of Mercury's assistance 1 Ch. Because you 
 have to do with a man of words. Pe. Then it were nioi-e proper to 
 wish the assistance of the goddess Memoria. Ch. Why so? Pe. 
 Because you will 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 J Pe. This 
 way, to the left hand. This way, that way, through the market. 
 Ch. Then I will bear you company as far as the next turning. Pe. 
 I will not let you go about. You shall not put yourself to so much 
 trouble upon 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 will not be troublesome. Pe. Nobody is a more 
 pleasant companion. But I will not suffer you to go on my left hand. 
 I will not let you walk on my left hand. Here I bid God be with 
 you. I shall not bear you company any longer. You shall not 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 to have me recom- 
 mended 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 com- 
 niendo to barbarians. See that you do not 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 com- 
 mand me to imitate you. Since you would have it so, I will 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 entreat you not to think much 
 to teach me how I must use these sentences, in mord, in causd, in 
 culpd; you used to be studious of elegancy. Wherefore come on, I 
 entreat you teach me ; explain it to me, I will love you dearly. 
 
 IN CULPA, IN CAUSA, IN MORA. 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 Culpd. 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
 
 SCHOOL EXERCISES AND PLAY. 63 
 
 no proficiency, not your master nor your father. You are all in fault. 
 You are both in fault. You are both to be blamed. Ye are both to 
 be accused. Ye are both in fault. You have gotten this distemper 
 by your own ill management. In like manner they are said to be in 
 fitio, to whom the fault is to be imputed ; and in crimine, they who 
 are to be blamed ; and in damno esse, who are loafers. This sort of 
 phrase is not to be inverted commonly. Damnum in illo est. Vitium 
 in illo est. 
 
 In Causa. 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 1 What 
 cause was there 1 I was not the cause. The postman 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 this cause. 
 
 In Mora. -I will not hinder you. What has hindered you? 
 You have hindered us. You are always a hindrance. What hindered 
 you 1 Who has hindered you 1 You have what you asked 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. 
 
 Christian, A ustin. 
 
 AT MEETING. 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 loved 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 
 angry with you. But I am a little provoked at you. I have some- 
 thing to be angry with you for. 
 
 FOR WHAT CAUSE THE FORM. Au. I pray what is it? Why 
 so ? But why, I beseech you 1 What crime have 1 committed 1 
 What have I done 1 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. Demeremer eum is said of him that we have attached 
 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 \is 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 will come to supper with 
 me to-night. I will 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 will come with all my heart. 
 Indeed I will do it willingly. Indeed I would do that with all readi- 
 ness in the world. I shall not do that unwillingly. I will not want 
 much courting to that. There is nothing in the world that I would
 
 64 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 do with more readiness. I will do it witli 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 is reasonable. Oh, ridiculous ! Do you think 
 I would refuse when offered me, that which I should have asked 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 will not deceive you. But hark 
 you, see that you provide nothing but what you do daily : I would 
 have no holiday made upon my account. You know that I am a 
 guest, that am no great trencher man, but a very merry man. Ch. I 
 will be sure to take care. I will entertain you with scholars' commons, 
 if not with slenderer fare. Au. Nay, if you would please me, let it be 
 with Diogenes's fare. Ch. You may depend upon it, I will treat you 
 with a Platonic 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 entertained enjoy 
 perhaps a little pleasure that day, but the next are troubled with the 
 headache and sickness at the stomach. He that supped with Plato 
 had one pleasure from the easy preparation and philosopher's stories ; 
 and another the next day, that his head did not ache, and that his 
 stomach was not sick, and so had a good dinner of the same of last 
 night's supper. Au. I like it very well, let it be as you have said. 
 Ck. 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 metim, quicquid dolet, exue linien. 
 " Lay all that troubles down before my door before you come into it." 
 
 Au. What, would you have me bring no learning along with me 1 
 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 bywords, 
 your banters, your pleasantries, your pretty sayings, and all your 
 ridiculosities along with you. Au. I will do as you bid me ; put on 
 all my best looks. We will be merry fellows. We will laugh our 
 bellies full. We will make much of ourselves. We will feast jovially. 
 We will play the Epicureans. We will set a good face on it, 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-in-law's. Ch. What do you do there? 
 Why thither? What do you with him? Au. I hear there is dis- 
 turbance 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 do not 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 anything else to say to me ? Ch. I will send my boy to call
 
 THE PROFANE BANQUET. 65 
 
 you. Au. When you please. I shall be at home. Farewell. Ch. 
 I wish you well. See that you be here by five o'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 BANQUET. 
 
 Austin, Christian, a Boy. 
 
 Au. O my Christian, God bless you. It is very well that you are 
 come. I am glad you are come. I congratulate myself that you are 
 come. I believe it has not struck five yet. Bo. Yes, it is a good while 
 past five. It is not far from six. It is almost six. You will 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 is all this great 
 preparation for ? What means all this provision ? What, do you 
 think I am a wolf ? Do you take me for a wolf 1 Do you think I am 
 a vulture ? Ch. Not a vulture, nor yet do I think you a grasshopper, 
 to live upon dew. Here is nothing of extravagancy ; I always loved 
 neatness, and abhor slovenliness. I am for being neither luxurious nor 
 niggardly. We had better leave than lack. If I dressed but one dish 
 of pease, and the soot should chance to fall in the pot and spoil it, what 
 should we have to eat then ? Nor does everybody love one thing ; 
 therefore I love a moderate variety. Au. Are you not 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 slender- 
 ness 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 \is have done with these matters, and wash, and sit down 
 to supper. Soho, boy, bring a little water and a basin ; 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. Oh, ridiculous ! It is not he th^at 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 1 
 Let us leave these trifling ceremonies to women, they are quite kicked 
 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 will not place anybody; let every one take what place he 
 likes best. He that loves to sit by the fire will sit best here. He 
 that cannot 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 will take my supper standing, or walking 
 about, which I like best. Why don't you sit down, supper will be 
 spoiled.
 
 66 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Au. Now let us enjoy ourselves, and eat heartily. Now let ns 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 1 Au. The Stoics are a certain melancholy, rigid, parsimonious 
 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 1 Au. 
 I recommend Zeno's rules ; but I follow Epicurus' 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 
 outlive the Asots in luxury. 
 
 Ch. Dromo, come hither. Do your office, say grace. &o. " 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 will be Hercules, and slay this beast. 
 Which had you rather have, a wing or a leg ? Ch. Which you will, 
 I don't mind which. Au. In this sort of fowls the wing is looked 
 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 will 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 anybody to help me. Ch. You do 
 very well. 
 
 An. Do you carve for a wolf ? Have you invited a vulture 1 Ch. 
 You fast. You do not eat. Au. I eat more than anybody. Ch. 
 Nay, rather, you lie more than anybody. Pray be as free as if you 
 were at your own house, Au. I take myself to be there, I do so. I 
 am resolved 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 it is, so the taste be pleasing. I do 
 not much mind how the wine pleases the eye, so it do but please the 
 palate. I am not much moved 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 do not desire to please my eyes, if I 
 can but please my taste. If it do but please the palate, I do not regard 
 the colour, if it be well relished. 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. Oh, ridiculous ! What signifies 
 fame to drink 1 Ch. As much as many that have a good palate 
 mightily approve of Louvian .wine when they believe it to be Berne 
 wine. Au. It may be they had spoiled their palate by much drinking.
 
 TEE PROFANE BANQUET. 67 
 
 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. 
 
 An. 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 wholesome. 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 anybody 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 are as 
 rich as Lucullus. 
 
 Ch. Soho, boy, where are you a loitering 1 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 1 ? Give every one a 
 full glass. 
 
 Ch. What is the matter that you are not merry 1 What makes 
 you sit so melancholy ? What is the matter with you, that you are not 
 cheerful ? You are either troubled at something, or you are 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 saved ; 
 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 is 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 quern 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 con- 
 cerning wine, since we have happened 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 the 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 learned at Paris, that you may save your 
 wine by that means. Ah, go your way ; I see you are a sophist; you 
 have made a good proficiency in that school. Ch, Well, I take all 
 your jokes; I will return the like to you when opportunity shall offer. 
 But to the matter in hand. A u. I will go on, but I will drink first, for 
 it is absurd to dispute about a tippling question with a dry throat. 
 Here is 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 am ready, at your service. I will 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 cheerfulness to them. 
 And for this reason, it adds a sort of youthful ness even to old men, in.
 
 68 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 that it makes them more cheerful, and of a better complexion. The 
 same thing Horace in many places, and particularly testifies in these 
 verses, 
 
 Adrnare cum veni, generosum et lene require, 
 Quod curas abigat, quod cum spe divite manet. 
 In venas, arimumque meum, quod verba ministret, 
 Quod me Lucanse juvenem cornmendet amicse. 
 
 For that they have assigned the poets to this deity, I believe by it they 
 designed 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 answered to your satisfac- 
 tion? Ch. I never heard anything 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 veiy 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 will not be 
 easily brought to wear the collar. He is well enough for me. Like 
 master like man. 
 
 IF I KNEW WHAT YOU LIKED I WOULD HELP YOU. Au. I WOllld 
 
 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 liked best. 
 If I knew the disposition of your palate, I would be your carver. In- 
 deed niy palate is like my judgment. Ch. You have a very nice palate ; 
 nobody has a nicer palate than you have. I don't think you come 
 behind him of whose exquisite skill the satirist 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 iip in the Catiau 
 school. For what is more delicate or nice than your palate? Ch. 
 If I understood oratory so well as I do cookery, I would 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 lingua, but both of 
 them must give place to cookery. 1 never very well liked those Stoics, 
 who, referring all things to their (I cannot 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 Stoics 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 oi-dinary man, change my 
 philosophy for Diogenes's; and I believe your Catius would refuse to
 
 THE PROFANE BANQUET. 69 
 
 do it too. The philosophers of our time are wiser who are content to 
 dispute like Stoics, but in living outdo 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 philosophise very well. Your humble 
 servant, Mr. Philosopher, not of the Stoic school, but the kitchen. 
 
 Ch. What is the matter with yoxi, 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 yourself 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-humoured. Dispute 
 about that matter to-morrow ; pray be good-humoured to-day. We 
 will talk about the charge to-morrow J 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 wholesome. 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 moat 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 unwholesome? In this I am not 
 of the Frenchman'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 hog's 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 wonder from whence it comes 
 to pass that there is such a great diversity in men's palates, for if I may 
 make use of this verse of Horace, 
 
 Tres mihi convivse prop& dissentire videntur, 
 Poscentes vario multum diversa palato. 
 
 Er. Although, as the comedian says, So many men, so many 
 minds, and every man has his own way; yet nobody can make me 
 believe there is more variety in men's 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 cannot bear so much as the 
 smell of butter and cheese. Some loathe flesh, one will not eat roast 
 meat, and another will not eat boiled. There are many that prefer 
 water before wine. And more than this, which you will 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. 
 
 D
 
 70 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 lie. Er. Well, I will do it, so that you lie modestly. Ch. As 
 if anything could be more impudent than your lie. Er. What would 
 your confidence say, if I should shew you the man? Ch. He must 
 needs be a starveling fellow, a mere shadow. Er. You would 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 dried fish instead of bread; and some that the roots of herbs serve 
 for the same use that bread does us. Ch. I believe you, lie 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 cannot forbear making use of that expression of the satirist, 
 Tune immensa cavi spirant mendacia folles. Thou poetisest. You play 
 the part of a poet. I am loathe to give you the lie. Er. I am the 
 greatest liar 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 he will sleep so aound, that you can 
 scarce wake him by wounding him ; nay, to make you wonder the more, 
 I will add what Theophrastus writes, that, during that time, if the 
 flesh of the bear be boiled, 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 often- 
 times 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 fre- 
 quently 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 used to do ; 
 and therefore I will not 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 nobody 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.
 
 THE PROFANE BANQUET. 71 
 
 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 1 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 with- 
 out the use of the male as with it. And many persons assert the samr, 
 and especially your skilful hunters. Ch. You say right ; but if yoxi 
 please, let us try these rabbits, 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 them mightily, and I am not very nice. I don't know 
 what is the matter, but this goose don't please me ; I never saw anything 
 drier in all my life, it is drier 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 it is 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 lived in that age. Au. And 
 this hen was either half-starved, or else was in love, or was jealous; for 
 this sort of creatures are much troubled with that distemper. This 
 capon fattened much better; see what cares will do. If we were to 
 geld our Theodoricus, he would grow fat much the sooner. Th. I am 
 not a cock. Au. I confess you are not Gallus Cymbelles, nor a dung- 
 hill 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 yoxi shall be (Edipus. 
 
 Ch. Austin, tell me truly, have you had no conversation with 
 Frenchmen, 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 
 looked 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, &c. Au. I had rather have 
 a turnip than any of them. You are liberal and bountiful, Christian. 
 Ch. Nobody 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 trouble-
 
 12 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 some custom? Ch. Who ordered you to eat aloes, wormwood, anci 
 scammony in physic? 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 swine's flesh, if I might fill 
 my belly with capons and partridges. Ch. In a great many circum- 
 stances 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 pampered 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 pleased 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 ./Esops and Apitius's that have 
 looked upon fish as the greatest delicacy. Au. How then do dainties 
 agree with punishment 1 Ch. Everybody have not 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 cannot 
 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 cannot eat flesh many times when otherwise they might, 
 nor cannot 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 lakes, is the same thing as to 
 command a famine or rather a bulimia. And if we believe Homer, it is 
 the rniserablest death in the world to be starved to death. Ch. So 
 it seemed 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 
 anybody to die. Ch. The popes do not prohibit the eating of flesh 
 with that design, to kill men, but that they may be moderately afflicted 
 if they have transgressed ; 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 cannot be prescribed, a kind of food may. A u. 
 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 choose a lively horse that was a little wanton, or a diseased horse, 
 who would often stumble and throw his rider? Ch. What do you
 
 THE PROFANE BANQUET. 73 
 
 mean by that] Au. Because fish eating, by its corrupt humours, 
 renders the body liable to a great many diseases, that it cannot subserve 
 the spirit as it should do. Ch. To what diseases ? Au. Gouts, fevers, 
 lepi'osies, 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, 
 inasmuch as the. mind acts by the material organs of the body, which 
 are affected with good or bad humours, the instruments being vitiated, 
 it cannot exert its power as it would. Ch. I know doctors do very 
 much find fault with the eating of fish, but our ancestors thought other- 
 wise, 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 nobody mind his awn 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 1 Au. Be- 
 cause I don't like fishes. Ch. What, then, will not you abstain from 
 flesh ? A u. I do abstain, but grumblingly, and to my great detri- 
 ment too. Ch. Charity suffers all things. Au. It is true; but 
 then the same requires but little. If it suffers, all things, why will 
 not it suffer us to eat those mea.ts the gospel has given us a liberty 
 to eat? Why do those persons, from whom Christ has so often re- 
 quired the love of Himself, suffer so many bodies of men to be 
 endangered 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 qf 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 1 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 prescribed then? Au. I can tell well 
 enough, if I might be allowed 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 meantime take care that these things be not entered down 
 in the Sorbonne 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 Sorbonne. Ch. Why may not that be called Sorbonne where 
 we sup plentifully ! Au. Well, let us sup then, and not dispute, 
 lest the Sorbonne be called after us from sorbis, and not from sorbendo^
 
 74 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Christian, Guests, Midas, Erasmus, the Soy, 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 humoured, 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 seasoned with mirth, laughter, jokes, and witticisms, none of 
 which have been wanting in our entertainment. But here is some- 
 thing 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 giiides 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 some- 
 thing 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 
 apropos added the tenth guest. Ch. You have spoken very much 
 like a poet. If I had a laurel here 1 would crown you with it, and 
 you should be poet laureate. Au. If I were crowned 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 1 Gu. Ay, that we will with all our hearts. Ch. Then 
 let every one diink off his cup round as I do. Here is to you first, 
 Midas. Mi. I thank you heartily. T pledge you heartily ; for which 
 the vulgar says prsestolor. Indeed I will not refuse. I will not refuse 
 anything 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 woi*d. Ch. Why does the cup stand still ? Why does it nob 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 
 Eiake 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 honoured me with your company ; but I am sorry you 
 are called away before the comedy is ended. Er. Have I anything 
 more to do but to bid you farewell and be merry ? Ch. Farewell ; we
 
 THE PROFANE BANQUET. 75 
 
 cannot 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 sat still a good while. 
 Does anybody please to have anything else ? Gu. Nothing at all. 
 We have ate very plentifully. Ch. Then take away these things, 
 and set on the dessert. 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 damascenes, 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. They are French entertainments, who 
 love tliat sort of splendour most that costs least ; but that is not my 
 humour. 
 
 Ch. But hark you, Austin, do you think to come off so ? "What, 
 won't you pledge me when I drink to you 1 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 discharged 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 yoiir 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, 1 will drink what is 
 left. But what business have you with me 1 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 varied, Indignum auditu ? 
 
 IT is NOT WORTH HEARING. 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 unworthy 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 heai'd. It is too silly to be heard. It 
 is not worth while to tell it. Ch. How many ways may this sentence 
 be turned, Mayno mihi constat 1 
 
 THE RATIO OF VARYING THIS SENTENCE. Magno mihi constat. 
 Au. By these words, impendo, insumo, impertio, constat. 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 expense, 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
 
 76 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 is the meaning, Austin, that you put sometimes an ablative and some- 
 times a genitive case to the verb constat ? Au. You have stated a 
 very useful and very copious question. But that I may not be trouble- 
 some 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 will attempt it with Grammatical assistance. 
 
 " You know that verbs of buying and selling, and some others, 
 are of a like signification, to which these genitives are put alone, with- 
 out 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, mercor ; 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 
 preter tense is venivi, or venii, the supine venum ; hence comes venalis ; 
 and from that, i.e., vendo, comes vendibilis ; mereo, for inservio and sti- 
 pendiumfacio, i.e., to serve under (as a soldier). Comparo, that is, to 
 buy, or commit. Computo, I change, 1 exchange with. Cambire is 
 wholly barbarous in this sense. (Estimo, to tax. Indico, for I estimate, 
 rate. Liceor, liceris ; licitor, licitaris, to cheapen, to bid. Destrabor, 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. Fcenero, I put to interest. 
 Fceneror, I take at interest (to usury). Paciscor, pactus sum, pango, 
 pepigi, i.e., I make a bargain." Ch. Give an example. 
 
 SELLING AND BUYING THE FORMS. Au. How much do you 
 let that field for by the year 1 We will answer. For twenty French 
 pounds (franc). Whoo ! you let it too dear. Nay, I have let it for 
 more before now. But I would not give so much for it. If you hire 
 it for less I will be hanged. Nay, your neighbour Chremes offered me a 
 field, and asks for it How much ? Just as much as you ask for yours. 
 But it is much better. That is a lie. 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 will not buy anything ? Whatso- 
 ever you shall let it me for shall be paid you very honestly. 
 
 ANOTHER EXAMPLE. How much do you sell that conger-eel for ? 
 Syra. For fivepence. That is too much, you nasty jade. Nay, it is 
 too little ; nobody 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 will sell it for a 
 hundred times as much if I can, but I cannot 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 ? What price do you put upon yourself ? Ten shillings. 
 Whoo, so much ? Oh, 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 are not now worth so much as a fish by a great deal. Go
 
 THE PROFANE BANQUET. 77 
 
 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 will 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 fore- 
 head won't let you be sold for much. He that won't give so much, 
 for me shall not 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 1 Ten 
 thousand pounds. Whoo ! what, so much ? There were those that bid 
 a great deal more ; very few that offered 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, cestimo, pendo, which signify (in a manner) the same thing, like- 
 wise fio, and they are for the most part joined with these genitives, 
 multi, magni ; parvi, pluris, plurimi ; minoris, minimi, maximi ; tanti, 
 quanti ; flocci,pili ; nihili, nauci, hujus, and any other like them." Ch. 
 Give examples. 
 
 VALUING THE FORM. Au. Do you know how much I have 
 always valued 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. 1 value 
 gold less than you think for. I don't value your threats a rush. I 
 make a very little account of your promises. I don't value you a 
 hair. If wisdom were but valued at so great a rate as money, nobody 
 woxild want gold. With us gold without wisdom is esteemed to be of 
 more worth than wisdom without gold. I esteem you at a greater rate, 
 because yoii are learned. You will be the less esteemed on here because 
 you don't know how to lie. 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 esteemed by 
 all men : so much as you have, so much you shall be accounted of 
 everywhere. 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 any- 
 thing 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 slipper. But the French often 
 sup for a halfpenny. What price does Faustus teach for? A very 
 small matter. But for more than Delius. For how much then ? For 
 nineteen guineas. I will not learn to lie at so dear a rate. Phsedra 
 in Terence lost both his substance and himself. But I would not love
 
 78 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 at that rate. Some persons pay a great price for sleeping. Demos- 
 thenes 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 is 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 OP ACCUSING. Au. Scipio is accused of courting the popxi- 
 lace. Thou who art the most impudent, accusest me of impudence. 
 Lepidus is accused of bribery. You are accused of a capital crime. 
 If you shall silily 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 
 mannei'S. 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 better 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 
 satisfied 1 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 choose to have 
 it omitted. Ch. Let it be as you say. Let us return thanks to 
 divine bounty, and afterwards we will take a little walk. Mi. You 
 say very well, for nothing can be more pleasant, wholesome, 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. In both. Pe. " 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 king- 
 dom that nectar of immortality which thou hast promised and pre- 
 pared for those that truly love thee, through Jesus Christ, Amen. 
 Ch. Say in Greek too, that the rest may not understand what thou 
 sayest. 
 
 My most welcome guests, I give you thanks that you have 
 honoured my little entertainment with your company. I entreat 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 will not want flowers, if the place we 
 walk in don't afford any. Had you rather take a turn in our garden,
 
 THE PROFANE BANQUET. 79 
 
 in a poetical manner, or walk out abroad by the river-side. Au. 
 Indeed, yoiir gardens are very pleasant, but keep that pleasure for 
 morning walks. When the sun is towards setting rivers afford wonder- 
 ful pleasant prospects. Ch. Austin, do you walk foremost, as a poet 
 should do, and 1 will walk by your side. Au. O good God, what a 
 jolly company we have, what a retinue have I ! Christian, I cannot 
 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 would have me speak of 
 chiefly 1 Ch. I used formerly to admire many things in Pollio's 
 Orations ; but chiefly this, that he used 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 of it, 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 will 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 them. Au. I am ready to do it. 
 
 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 resolved 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 designed .to 
 shew his beggary by way of ostentation. And those affectators of 
 variety seem equally ridiculous, who, when they have spoken bar- 
 barously 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 solecisms. Therefore, in the first place, as I have 
 said, the thing is to be expressed 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 borrowed 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 changed 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
 
 80 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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: Literce tiioe magnopere me delectdrunt, your 
 letters have delighted me very much. Literce Epistle, little epistles, 
 writings, sheets, letters. Magnopere After a wonderful manner, won- 
 derfully, 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. 
 Delectdrunt They have affected, recreated, exhilarated with pleasure, 
 have been a pleasure, have delighted, have bathed me with pleasure ; 
 have been very sweet, very pleasant, &o. 
 
 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 cheered me. Au. Turn the active into a passive, 
 then it will look with another face. As, It cannot be said how much I 
 have been cheered by thy writings. 
 
 ALSO BY OTHER YERBS EFFECTING THE SAME THING. 1 have re- 
 
 ceived an incredible pleasure from thy writings. I have received 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 cannot 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 AFFICIO. 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 NOUN 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 passed 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's sake, especially if we 
 speak of ourselves, also for amplification's sake. For we use rightly 
 and elegantly not ungrateful, for very grateful; not vulgarly, for 
 singularly. 1. For modesty's sake. I have by your letters gained 
 some reputation of learning. I have always made it my business not
 
 THE PROFANE BANQUET. 81 
 
 lo have the last place in the glory of learning. 2. The examples of 
 amplification are mentioned 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 anything as in thy most loving letters. "After 
 this manner all the before-mentioned sentences may be varied by an 
 interrogation." What in life could be more pleasant than thy letters] 
 What has happened to me more sweet than thy letter 1 ? What has 
 ever delighted me like your last letter 1 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 expressed by the noun incredibile, and then again 
 by the adverb incredibiliter, we will change the sentence in some 
 words." I cannot 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 rejoiced 
 at your letter. " And so ad infinitum; again, after another manner. 
 For hitherto we have varied the sentences by negations and interro- 
 gations, 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 anything ever was more desired and more pleasant than 
 thy letter. As God shall judge me, nothing in my whole life ever 
 happened 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 translation, 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 
 mere delight. Your letters are a mere 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 cana 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 letters have excelled even liquorish 
 locusts, and Attic honey, 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 induced to believe that Hero 
 received 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 ^Emilius, for the taking of 
 Perseus, ever triumphed more magnificently than I did when the 
 postman 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 borrowed from natural philosophy, the nature
 
 82 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 re- 
 member 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 remem- 
 ber 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, &c. 
 
 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. Gh. 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 will 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 vied 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 BANQUET. 
 
 Eusebius, Timothy, Theophilus, Chrysoglottus, Aranius. 
 
 Eu. I wonder that anybody can delight to live in smoky cities, 
 when everything 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 them, there is something 
 else in which they take more. For it is 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 us leave the blind beggar and his gain we are philo- 
 sophers. 
 
 Ti. So was Socrates a philosopher, and yet he preferred a town 
 life before a country one; because he being desirous of knowledge had 
 there the opportunity of improving it. In the country, it is true, 
 there are woods, gardens, fountains, and brooks, that entertain the 
 sight; but they are all mute, and therefore teach a man nothing. I know
 
 THE RELIGIOUS BANQUET. 83 
 
 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 1 And how 
 many excellent things did Socrates in his retirement both teach his 
 Phsedrus and learn from him? If a man could have such pleasant 
 company, I confess, no life in the world could be pleasanter than a 
 countiy life. 
 
 Eu. Have you a mind to make trial 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 are to 
 expect only a garden treat, of such cheer 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 will 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 will 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 is cheapei*, but more savoury. Ti. What is 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 o'clock, before it 
 grows too hot. Eu. I will give orders accordingly. 
 
 Serv. Sir, the gentlemen are come. Eu. Yoti are welcome, 
 gentlemen, that you are come according to your words; but you are 
 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 unman- 
 nerly 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 is 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 besides this? For truly this is a wonderful neat one, and 
 with a pleasing aspect salutes a man at his entering 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 at 
 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 it is more suitable to a
 
 84 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Christian too. Eu. Nor is my porter dumb, for lie speaks to you in 
 three languages. Ti. What does he say 1 Eu. Read it yourself. 
 TL It is too far off for my eyes. Eu. Here is a reading-glass that 
 will make you another Lynceus. Ti. I see the Latin, Si vis ad vitam 
 ingredi, serva mandata (Matt. xix. 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 of it. I will refer that 
 to Theophilus, who is never without Greek in his mouth. Th. 
 Mcravoqaorc icj tiriaptyaTt Upa^ewv TW TOITW, " Repent and be con- 
 verted" (Acts iii. 19). Ch. I will take the Hebrew upon myself, p-^j-p 
 ")n21DSD TTnJT' " -A- n( l the just shall live by faithfulness." Does he 
 seem to be an unmannerly porter, who at first dash bids us turn from 
 our iniquities and apply ourselves 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 side that he 
 directs us to, it is a very fine one. Upon the altar there is 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." '701 etjut TO A0a i^ TO a/xlya. In Hebrew, ^ ^j^ 
 D^p "Ob C2T72 bs mrmST' " 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 ; 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 good- 
 ness 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, draw- 
 ing us of Himself to Himself. 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 it is 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 whole- 
 some 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 walled in, it is 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
 
 THE RELIGIOUS BANQUET. 85 
 
 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 will say when you have seen it all. As the several plants 
 are, as it were, formed into several troops, so every troop has its 
 standard to itself, with a peculiar motto, as this marjoram's is, Abstine, 
 stis, 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 foun- 
 tain, 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 everywhere 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 1 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 glazing. Ti. But 
 whei*e does this delicious rivulet discharge itself at last 1 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 is 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 
 ai*e, then, hard-hearted when we pollute the fountain of divine truth; 
 that is much more pleasant than this, and was given us for the refresh- 
 ing and purging our minds from our hists 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 everything 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 everything 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 1 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 anything 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, it is 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 
 

 
 86 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 painter, and in both the goodness of God, who gives all things for ottr 
 use, in everything 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. TL 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 
 outlive us; and, besides, whereas we are the worse for age, they are 
 the better for it. Ti. That is 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 will walk them over, if you please, and take a nearer view of them. 
 See how green it is under foot, and you have the beauty of painted 
 flowers in the very checkers of the pavement. This wood that you 
 see painted xipon 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 expressed 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 quadrupeds. Ti. 
 The variety indeed is wonderful, and everything is in action, either 
 doing or saying something. There is an owl sits peeping through the 
 leaves; what says she? Eu. She speaks Greek. She says, 2w$pov 
 H TTCKTIV nrrrjjut, she commands us to act advisedly ; I do not fly to all, 
 becaxise 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 chameleon. Ti. 
 Is this the chameleon 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. 
 Eu. This chameleon 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 may not 
 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 is the mean- 
 ing 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.
 
 THE RELIGIOUS BANQUET. >7 
 
 But the colour in the picture seems not to be natural. Eu. Why so ? 
 Ti. It seerus too pale, methinks, for those in Italy are blacker. Eu. 
 Don't you know the herb it has fallen upon 1 Ti. Not very well. 
 Eu. That is 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 stupefied, 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 wolf's-bane. But do scorpions speak here 1 Eu. Yes, they do, 
 and speak Greek too. Ti. What does he say 1 Eu. Evpe Stoc TOV 
 aAtrpov, " 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 called upon to imitate by 
 Solomon and Virgil. Here are Indian ants, that carry gold and hoard 
 it up. Ti. Oh, good God ! how is it possible for a man to be weary 
 of this entertainment 1 Eu. And yet at some other time you shall 
 see I will give you your bellyful 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 caught by an 
 oyster. Fi. What does he say, apov alps/j.ai, the taker taken. 
 Ti. The painter has made the water wonderfully transparent. Eu. 
 If he had not done so we should have wanted other eyes. Just by 
 there is 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 1 
 Eu. You shall see what the backside affords us by and by. 
 
 Here is an indifferent large garden parted. The one a kitchen 
 garden, that is my wife's and the family's; the other is a physic 
 garden, containing the choicest medical herbs. At the left hand there 
 is an open meadow, that is only a green plot enclosed with a quickset 
 hedge. There, sometimes, I take the air, and divert myself with good 
 company. Upon the right hand there is 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. Oh, wonderful ! the 
 king himself has not such a seat. Eu. At the end of the upper walk 
 there is an aviary, which I will shew you after dinner, and there you 
 will see various forms and hear various tongues, and their humours
 
 88 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 are as various. Among some of them there is an agreeableness and 
 mutual love, and among others an irreconcileable aversion. And then 
 they are so tame and familiar that when I am at supper they will 
 come flying in at the window to me, even to the table, and take the 
 meat o\\t of my hands. If at any time I am upon the drawbridge you 
 see there, talking, perhaps, with a friend, they will some of them sit 
 hearkening, others of them will perch upon my shoulders or arms, 
 without any sort of fear, for they find that nobody hurts them. At 
 the further end of the orchard I have my bees, which is a sight worth 
 seeing. But I must not shew you any more now, that I may have 
 something to entertain you with by and by. I will shew you the rest 
 after dinner. 
 
 Ser. Sir, my mistress and maid say that the dinner will be spoiled. 
 Eu. Bid her have a little patience, and we will come presently. My 
 friends, let us wash, that we may come to the table with clean hands 
 as well as hearts, &c. The very pagans used 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 anything 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 whole- 
 somer 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 blessed or 
 gave thanks to His Father before He broke bread, and that He con- 
 cluded with giving of thanks. And if you please, I will 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 hast 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. Sophro- 
 nius, keep you close to your principal. Theophilus and Eulalius, 
 do you take the right side of the table; Chrysoglottus and Theodi- 
 dactus they shall have the left. Euranius and Nephalius must make 
 a shift with what is left. I will 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 ; if I may rule within my 
 own jurisdiction, I will 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 1 Eu. I would 
 have Him in every morsel and drop that we eat and drink; but
 
 THE RELIGIOUS BANQUET. 89 
 
 I 
 
 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 men- 
 tioned 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 whithersoever 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. 1-3. 
 
 Eu. Hold there, that is enough ; for it is better to take down a 
 little with an appetite than to devour more than a man can digest. 
 Ti. It is better, I must confess, in more cases than this. Pliny would 
 have one never have Tully's " Offices " out of one's 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 looked upon it as 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 
 do not know how far it may be lawful for us laymen to descant upon 
 these matters. Ti. Indeed I see no hurt in it, 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 promised 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 them 
 among us nine guests. Ti. 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;
 
 90 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 forbade that Nebuchadnezzar 
 should be resisted, because He had determined 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 jvidgment 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 some- 
 times 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 even 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 cannot 
 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 1 If I were a bachelor in 
 divinity, I should value myself upon this interpretation. Eu. I 
 cannot 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, it is my turn 
 to hear your opinion. 
 
 Ti. The compliment you passed upon my grey hairs gives me 
 some kind of title to speak next to the text, which will bear yet a 
 more mysterious meaning. Au. 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 governed. Nor is he to 
 be judged 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
 
 THE RELIGIOUS BANQUET. 91 
 
 own Master lie 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 His 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 5 let them be taken away, and some- 
 thing 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. 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 will 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 anything ? Eu. I undertake that for all the com- 
 pany; such shadows as you give as much light as our eyes will well 
 bear. Soph. The same thing seems to be meant here that St. 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 public administrations of the government, accord- 
 ing 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 
 shoxild we censure any man in those cases, but leave him to be judged 
 by Him that weigh eth 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 bachelor, and not of the number of saints who have made 
 themselves eunuchs, but was made so for the sake of the kingdom of 
 God, 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 
 boiled meats. This is a very good soup, 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 deceived, I tell you that we have a course of roast 
 coming, and after that some small dessert, 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
 
 92 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 philosophise. And besides that, there would be danger lest we should 
 be served 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 overtm-ned the table. Ti. I believe you 
 have nothing of that to be afraid of. She is one of the best-humoured 
 women in the world. Eu. She is such a one, indeed, that I shoxild be 
 loathe 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." 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 will 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 explained, 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 puffed 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) asked them why their Master sat at the table of publicans and 
 sinners 1 from whose conversation those Jews that would be accounted 
 the more holy abstained 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 answered 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 explained the matter by the com- 
 paring of texts, which is the best way of expounding Scripture. But 
 1 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 prophet Isaiah. There were certain legal obliga- 
 tions among the Jews which were rather significations of holiness than 
 of the essence of it of this sort are holydays, Sabbatisms, fasts, and 
 sacrifices ; and there were certain other obligations of perpetual force, 
 being good in their own nature, and not merely 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,
 
 THE RELIGIOUS BANQUET. 93 
 
 envy, and other iniquities, they thought they merited heaven, because 
 that upon holydays 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 sacrifice, 
 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 chaiitable 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 holydays. These things, as they 
 \re 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 offered of shewing charity to our neighbour. It is a point 
 of obedience to rest upon holydays. 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 
 reconciled 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 pre- 
 posterous 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 esteemed it presumption in me to 
 have said these things if you had not commanded it, and I had rather 
 learn of others things more ajyropos. 
 
 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 souls' companions ? I had rather call 
 them so than instruments, habitations, or sepulchres. Ti. This is 
 certainly to be plentifully refreshed when the whole man is refreshed. 
 Eu. I see you are very backward to help yourselves ; therefore, if you 
 please, I will 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 supplied 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.
 
 94 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 headache by over drink- 
 ing, to lay it upon the wine, when they have brought it upon them- 
 selves by their excess. Soph. Mine speaks Greek. 'Ev oiv<$ ar)0da, 
 in wine there is 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 concealed in the heart. So. 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. 
 
 So. What book is that, Eulalius, you take out of your pocket? 
 It seems to be a very neat one, it is all over gilded. Eu. 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 xipon 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 sixth 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 
 Stoics) 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 di-unk; how then are all 
 things lawful ? But if Paul speaks of some particular things only 
 which he would have to be lawful, I cannot guess by the tenor of the 
 place what those particular things are. From that which follows it 
 may be gathered that he there speaks of the choice of meats. For 
 some abstain from things offered to idols, and others from meats 
 forbidden by Moses' law. In the eighth chapter he treats of things 
 offered to idols, and in the tenth 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. Whatso- 
 ever 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 tenth 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 saved." Where in that he saith to the Gentiles, he seems to 
 have respect to things offered 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 not ? The liberty of the Gospel makes all 
 things lawful ; but charity has always a regard to my neighbour's good,
 
 THE RELIGIOUS BANQUET. 95 
 
 and therefore often abstains from things lawful, rather choosing to 
 condescend to what is for another's advantage than to make xise 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 solved 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 offered 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 anything, unless charity toward his neigh- 
 bour 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 cannot 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 offend- 
 ing, 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 ninth 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 preached the 
 gospel. But he forbore this, although he might have done it as a 
 thing expedient among the Corinthians, whom he reproved 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 anybody 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
 
 96 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 forborne, 
 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, although St. Paul in that 
 epistle (proposing to handle many things at once)J 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 he 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 ancients, nay, even by the heathens, nay, 
 by the poets themselves, so chastely, 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 cannot read Tully " On 
 Old Age," " On Friendship," his " Offices," or his " Tusculan Ques- 
 tions," 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, economics, and ethics, good God ! how cold they 
 are in comparison of these 1 ? 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 inclined to cavil and con- 
 tention; 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 on 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 them 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
 
 THE RELIGIOUS BANQUET. 97 
 
 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 lived, because I have 
 lived so that I am satisfied I have not lived 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. Oh ! 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 them ; 
 though indeed I am apt to think that Cato, if he did not speak these 
 very words, yet that in his familiar conversation he used words of the 
 very same import. For, indeed, M. Tully was not a man of that im- 
 pudence, to draw Cato otherwise than he was. Besides, that such an 
 unlikeness in a dialogue would have been a great indecorum, which 
 is the thing chiefly to be aimed at 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 will 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 mis- 
 fortunes. 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. 
 
 Lu. It is a thing well worthy of our admiration, and what I my- 
 self have observed in some pei'sons. But that in Cato that pleases me 
 the most is his declaration, " Neither am I sorry that I have lived." 
 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 
 scraped great estates together by hook or by crook, when they are 
 upon their deathbeds, and about to leave them, then to think they 
 have not lived in vain. But Cato therefore thought that he had not 
 lived in vain upon the conscience of his having discharged all the parts
 
 98 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 forced 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 garri- 
 son; 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 placed 
 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 implied 
 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 called a warfare, and at other times a race. 
 
 Eu. 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 btktav, a house, 
 in another oiKrjTripiov, a mansion, and moreover (besides that) he calls 
 the body aKrjvog, a tabernacle. " For we also," says he, " who are in 
 the tabernacle groan, being burdened." 
 
 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 1 And when 
 we hear these excellent words of Cato, " Oh, that glorious day," do we not 
 seem to hear St. Paul himself saying, " I desire to be dissolved, and to 
 be with Christ ?" How happy are they that wait for death with such a 
 frame of mind ! But as for Cato's speech, although 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 approved or not in the sight 
 of God I cannot tell ; but this I am certain of, that I have most affec- 
 tionately 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 pro- 
 pensity 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. 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 un- 
 willingly have I seen many Christians die 1 Some put their trust in 
 things not to be confided in; others breathe out their souls in despera-
 
 THE RELIGIOUS BANQUET. 99 
 
 tion, 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, die almost in despair. 
 
 Ch. It is no wonder to find them die so, who have spent their 
 time in philosophising about ceremonies all their lives. Neph. What 
 do you mean by ceremonies ? Ch> I will tell you, but with protesta- 
 tion over and over beforehand, that I do not 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 do not yet clearly understand 
 what it is you aim at. 
 
 Ch. I will be'plainer then. If you look into Christians in com- 
 mon, don't you find they live as if the whole sum of religion consisted 
 in ceremonies'? With how much pomp are the ancient rites of the 
 church set forth in baptism 1 The infant waits without the church 
 door, the exorcism is performed, the catechising is performed, vows are 
 made, Satan is abjured with all his pomps and pleasures; then the 
 child is anointed, signed, seasoned with salt, dipped, a charge given 
 to its 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, receive the sacrament, is accus- 
 tomed to rest iipon 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 conse- 
 crated, his habit is changed, 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 deathbed; and then there 
 follows more ceremonies confession upon confession, more unction 
 still, the eucharists are administered ; tapers, the cross, holy water are 
 brought in ; indulgences are procured, if they are to be had for love or 
 money ; orders are given for a magnificent funeral ; and then comes 
 another solemn contract when the man is in the agony of death, there 
 is 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 those 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 meantime here 
 is nobody eats. I told you before that you must expect nothing after 
 the second course, and that a country one too, lest anybody should 
 look for pheasants, moor-hens, and fine kickshaws. Here, boy ! take
 
 100 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 anything. Ti. There is so 
 great a variety, it does a man good to look upon it. Eu. That you 
 may not altogether despise my thriftiness, this dish would have cheered 
 up the heart of old Hylarion, 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 leaped at it, when he lodged at Simon the tanner's. 
 Eu. Yes, and Paul too, I believe, when by reason of poverty he sat 
 up at nights to make tents. Ti. How much do we owe to the good- 
 ness 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 iis 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 pleased 
 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 refreshed by 
 our liberality, may give Him thanks for putting it into our hearts, and 
 recommend us to Him in their prayers ; and, very well remembered, 
 come hither, boy, bid my wife send Gudula some of the roast meat 
 that is left : it is 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. 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 excused from being 
 guilty of a mortal sin, who at a prodigious expense either build or 
 beautify monasteries or churches, when in the meantime 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 
 bedecked 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 applied to charitable uses, than to be reserved 
 for princes, that shall one time or other make a booty of them. The 
 holy man, I am confident, would have been better pleased to have his- 
 tomb adorned with leaves and flowers. 
 
 When I was in Lombardy, I saw a cloister of the Carthusians,
 
 THE RELIGIOUS BANQUET. 101 
 
 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 altai'S, pillars, 
 and tombs, are all marble. To what purpose was it to be at such a 
 vast expense upon a marble temple for a few solitary monks to sing 
 in? And it is more burden to them than use too, for they are per- 
 petually 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 iises, 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 remark- 
 able than ordinary, though 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 will be for having their corpse laid even in 
 the very altai's themselves. But, perhaps, some will say, would you 
 have their munificence discouraged 1 ? 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- 
 skulled 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 bestowed 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 placed that is bestowed 
 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 
 suffered 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 failed 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 owa 
 
 p
 
 102 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 houses. Ti. You don't love vast expenses 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 expense, and am the more frugal in expense 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 many 
 good people who deserve better that are now in extreme want ; and 
 on the other hand, many of those pampered 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 1 ? 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, will not overcharge your stomachs. 
 Ti. What is it 1 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. There- 
 fore, I say unto yon, 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 1 " 
 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, though the 
 persons are changed. 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 mean- 
 ing. Would it not be otherwise absurd to say, " Either Peter shall 
 overcome me, and I will yield; or I will yield, and Peter shall over- 
 come me?" Ti. A pretty sophism, as I am 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 am with child to 
 have it out : I cannot tell what to make of it, 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 im- 
 modest 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 changed 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 choose which you will, it must be opposed to that which is
 
 T&E RELIGIOUS BANQUET. 103 
 
 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 is the 
 thing changed, 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 solved 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 resolved 
 several ways. First of all, this text had a particular respect to those 
 times. The apostles being dispersed far and wide for the preaching of 
 the gospel, all solicitous care for a maintenance was to be thrown 
 aside, it being to be supplied 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 commonj 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 anything 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 solicitous for your life, what you shall eat 1 ?" The 
 body is clothed, but the soul does not eat. Ti. By anima is meant 
 life, which cannot 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 forced 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 solicitousness 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
 
 104 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 us A ife will not deny us food, and He that has given us bodies will 
 by some means or other give us clothes 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 cheerfully serve 
 God alone, who will never forsake His children? 
 
 But all this while here is nobody 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 satisfied 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 will conclude with what 
 I began 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 ashamed 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 will 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 honoiir is due to Him, and especially in these 
 three respects. We call Him Lord, because He hath redeemed us by 
 His holy blood from the tyranny of the devil, and hath taken us to 
 Himself. Secondly, we style 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 bestowed 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 
 f >r our Lord, rather than the devil to be a tyrant over us ; that we 
 hive 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 choose for himself, they are all of a price that 
 is to say, of no value. You will not find Heliogabalus's lottery, a 
 hundred horses for one, and as many flies for another. Here are four 
 little books, two dials, a lamp, and a pencase. 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 choose ; but do
 
 RELIGIOUS BANQUET. 105 
 
 you disti'ibute them according to your own mind, and they will coine 
 the welcoiner where they fall. 
 
 Eu. This little book contains Solomon's Proverbs in parchment; 
 it taaches wisdom, and it is gilded, because gold is a symbol of wisdom,, 
 Tiiis shall be given to our gray-headed Timothy ; that according to the 
 doctrine of the Gospel, to him that has wisdom wisdom shall be given 
 aud 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 will not let a 
 moment of that precious thing be lost. It came out of the farthest 
 part of Dalmatia, and that is all the commendation I shall give it. 
 j$02)h. You indeed admonish a sluggard to be diligent. Eu. You 
 have in this little book the Gospel written on vellum ; it deserved 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. Theo. I will do my endeavour, that 
 you may not think your present ill bestowed. 
 
 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. Eul. 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 pencase, 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. 
 Theod. I would you could as well have supplied 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 
 skilled in the Greek j 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 panegyrics. 
 
 Eu. I give you double thanks, gentlemen first, for taking these 
 small matters in so good part ; and secondly, for the comfort I have 
 received by your learned and pious discourses. What effect my 
 entertainment may have upon you I know not ; but this I am sure of, 
 you will 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 is 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
 
 106 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 shxitters on the outside 
 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 intermixed, and it is no ill painting neither. 
 Here is our Saviour celebrating His last supper with His elect disciples. 
 Here is Herod keeping his birthday with a bloody banquet. Here is 
 Dives, mentioned 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 received into Abraham's bosom. 
 
 Ti. We do not very well know this story. Eu. It is Cleopatra 
 contending with Antony which should be most luxurious she has 
 drunk down the first pearl, and now reaches forth her hand for the 
 other. Here is the battle of the Centaurs; and here Alexander the 
 Great thrusts his lance 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 furnished with very 
 many books, but those I have are very good ones. Ti. This place 
 carries a sort of divinity in it, everything 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 described 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 out- 
 stretched 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 it is 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 is 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 is 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
 
 THE RELIGIOUS BANQUET. 107 
 
 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. Nobody that has 
 learned to live by himself. Upon the upper boi'der (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 Caesars, 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 banqueting- 
 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 1 Or do they 
 fear this the less because they do not see it I 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, bxit 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 will tell you. I have a friend in one town lies 
 dangerously ill; the physician fears his life, but I am afraid of his soxil. 
 For I don't think he is so well prepared for his end as a Christian 
 should be. I will 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 not ill men either, 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 will 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 1 Eu. Not till I, 
 have tried everything; therefore I cannot set a time. In the mean- 
 time, be as free with anything of mine as though it were your own, and 
 enjoy yourselves, Ti. God be with you forward and backward.
 
 108 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 THE CANONIZATION OF JOHN REUCLIN. 
 
 Pompilius, Brassicanus. 
 
 Po. Where have you been with your spatterlashes 1 Br. At 
 Tupinga. Po. Is there no news there 1 Br. I cannot but admire 
 that the world should run so strangely a gadding after news. I heard 
 a camel preach at Louvain, that we should have nothing to do with 
 anything 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 youl 
 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 con- 
 sequence 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 us have the news, be it what it will. 
 
 Br. The famous triple-tongued phoenix of learning, John Reuclin, 
 is departed this life. Po. For certain 1 ? 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 cannot die 
 otherwise who has lived as he did. Br. Yon would say so, indeed, if 
 you knew what I know. Po. What is 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 iny honest word, I will 
 keep counsel. Br. That honest word has often deceived me ; but, 
 however, I will 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 everybody's 
 opinion but his own. Po. That you mention is the greatest argu- 
 ment in the world of true piety. Br. If I should tell you his name 
 you would 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 is nobody within hearing? Po. But, 
 
 however, for fashion's sake. Br. It is 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 will give you the naked truth of the 
 story. My friend Reuclin was sick, indeed very dangerously; but yet 
 there were 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,
 
 THE CANONIZATION OF JOHN EEUCLIN. 109 
 
 that he might ease my mind of my trouble by his discourse. For when 
 my friend was sick, I was sick too, for I loved him as my own father. 
 Po. Phoo ! thei'e is nobody but loved 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 1 For 
 but two days ago the doctors gave but little hopes of him. Then, says he, 
 he is so well recovered 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 matins, 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, 
 
 Meth ought, 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, seemed neither to grow 
 nor to be green, but looked 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 passed 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 looked back, and 
 bid me keep off. You must not come yet, says he, but five years hence 
 you shall follow me. In the meantime 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 clothes 
 on, was he alone, or had he company ? He had, says he, but one gar- 
 ment, 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 1 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 seemed 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 vul- 
 tures, having combs upon their heads, with crooked beaks and gorbellies. 
 If there had been but three of them, one would have taken them for 
 harpies. Po. And what did these devils attempt to do 1 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 hindered them 1 
 Br. Turning upon them, and making the sign of the cross with his 
 hand at them, he said, Begone, ye cursed fiends, to a place that is 
 fitter for you. You have work enough to do among mortals, your 
 madness has no power over me, that am now listed in the roll of im- 
 mortality. 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 seemed oil of sweet 
 marjoram or ointment of spikenard to it. He swore he had rather
 
 110 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 go to hell than snuff up such a perfume again. Po* A curse tipon 
 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 Eeuclin. 
 
 Then said I, Tell me in what habit or form St Jerome appeared ; 
 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 HO 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 Eeuclin. 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 imitation, I suppose, of the three tongues that 
 he professed. Br. Without doubt : for he said that upon the very 
 borders of the garments were the characters of these three languages 
 inscribed in their different colours. 
 
 Po. Had Jerome no company with him I Br. No company, do 
 yoii say? The whole field swarmed with myriads of angels, that filled 
 the air as thick as those little corpuscles they call atoms fly in the 
 sunbeams, pardon the meanness of the comparison. If they had not 
 been as transparent as glass, there would have been no heaven noy 
 earth to have been seen. Po. Oh, brave, I am glad with all my heart 
 for Eeuclin's sake ; but what followed? 
 
 Br. Jerome, says he, for honour's sake giving Eeuclin the right 
 hand, and embracing him, conducts him into the meadow, and up a 
 hill that was in the middle of it, where they kissed and embraced one 
 another again. In. the meantime, the heavens opened over their heads 
 to a prodigious wideness, and there appeared a glory so unutterable as 
 made everything else that passed for wonderful before to look mean 
 and sordid. Po. Cannot 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 another's 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 followed a wonderful fragrant smell. When 
 he waked out of his dream, if you will call it a dream, he was just 
 like a madman. He would not believe he was in his cell ; he called 
 for his bridge and his meadow; he could not speak or think of anything 
 else but them. The seniors of the convent, when they found the 
 story to be no fable, for it is certain that Keuclin died at the very
 
 THE CANONIZATION OF JOHN REUCLIN. Ill 
 
 instant that the holy man had the 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 Fran- 
 ciscan had seen nothing at all of this, and in gold letters too, I will 
 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 will 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 would have him in diamonds. 
 Br. He shall stand in my library the very next to St. Jerome. Po. 
 And I will 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 
 have not you some scruple upon your mind, inasmuch as he is not yet 
 canonised by the authority of the bishop of Rome'? Br. Why, pray, 
 who canonised (for that is the word) St. Jerome? who canonised 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 1 Po. You say 
 true; that is 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 virtue, and by his good works consecrated his name 
 to immortality. He is now in heaven, out of the reach of misfortunes, 
 convei-sing with St. Jerome himself. Po. But he suffered a great 
 deal though 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 suffered many iinworthy 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 meantime 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 will do 
 it 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 us hear it. 
 
 Br. ."O God, that art the lover of mankind, that hast by thy chosen 
 servant, John Reuclin, renewed to mankind the gift of tongues, by 
 which thy Holy Spirit from above did formerly furnish the apostles 
 for their preaching the gospel ; grant that all people may everywhere, 
 in all languages, preach the glory of thy Son Jesus Christ, to the coa-
 
 112 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 founding 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. 
 
 THE LOVER AND MAIDEN. 
 
 Pamphilus and Mary. 
 
 Pa. Good morrow, madam cruel, hard heart, inflexible. Ma. 
 Good morrow to you, Mr. Pamphilus, as often, and as much, and by 
 what names you please. But you seem to have forgotten my name, it 
 is 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 is the great slaughter of men that I have made ? where is 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 with my misery. Ma. If you cannot 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 looking in already. 
 Ma. What looking-glass do you mean 1 Pa. Your eyes. 
 
 Ma. You banterer ! that is like you. But how do you prove 
 yourself to be dead 1 Do dead folks eat 1 Pa. Yes, they do ; 
 but things that have no relish, as I do 1 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 
 are in pretty good case for all that. And do dead folks talk too 1 
 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 clothes, and sleep? 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 killed me too. Ma. God forbid, 
 Pamphilus; but let us hear your arguments, however. Pa. In the
 
 THE LOVER AND MAIDEN. 113 
 
 first place, I think you will grant me this, that death is only a separa- 
 tion 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 
 murderer. Ma. I grant that too. Pa. I suppose you will grant that 
 which has been allowed 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 cannot 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. It is 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 1 ? 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 1 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 is no hurt in it. Pa. A cruel 
 maid, that I could not be angry with if she killed me outright. Ma. 
 You are very good humoured; but why do not 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 her's. 
 
 Ma. But may I play the sophist with you now ? Pa. The sophist- 
 ress. 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 anywhere, how is that 
 called a dead body which it animates ? Pa. Indeed, you argue very 
 cunningly, bub you shall not catch me there. That soul, which after 
 some sort governs the body of the lover, is but improperly called 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 killed ? Pa. Yes. Ma. And how comes it aboxit, 
 then, that when he that loves acts, and she that is loved suffers, she 
 that is loved should be said to kill, when he that loves rather kills 
 himself? Pa. Nay, on the contrary, it is he that loves that suffers, 
 and she is loved that acts. Ma. You will never prove that by all 
 your grammar. Pa. Well, I will 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 loved, but in not loving again. He is 
 guilty of killing that can save and does not save. Ma. What if a
 
 1H FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 1 
 Pa. But the young man, meaning myself, loves one whom he ought to 
 love, and by right and good reason, and yet am murdered. If murder 
 be a light matter, I could indict you for witchcraft too. Ma. God 
 forbid ; do you make a Circe of me 1 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 do 
 not 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. Oh, pretty dead creature ! but when must I come to your 
 funeral ? Pa. Sooner than you think for, if you do not 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 is easier than that ? Nay, what 
 is more just? You can no other way in the world get clear of 
 the crime of murder. 
 
 Ma. In what court must I be tried ? In the court of chancery ? 
 Pa. No, in the court of Yenus. Ma. They say she is a very merciful 
 goddess. Pa. Nay, the most severe in the world. Ma. Has she 
 any thunderbolts 1 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 do not go to sea. Pa. But she has a son. 
 Ma. Yoiith 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 cannot wish to be done to one I wish so well to. God 
 forbid I should. Ma. Tell me what it is, for I am not afraid to hear 
 it. Pa. Well, I will 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 
 do not 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 is a most horrid punishment 
 indeed. I had rather die a thousand deaths than be so bitterly in love 
 with an ugly man, and one that would not 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 name- 
 sate. 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 surname. 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
 
 THE WVER AND MAIDEN. 115 
 
 father his life too, for all he was a man of a strong constitution. Ma. 
 May not a person know her mother's name? Pa. Yes, Sophrona, 
 everybody knows her name. What do you mean by that question ? 
 Do you think I invent a lie 1 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 cannot bear the thoughts of 
 it ; his name was Pamphilus as well as mine. He tried 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 it is impossible to relate it. M a. 
 Such a pretty maid to fall in love with such an ugly fellow 1 Pa. Ay, 
 with a long-visaged, scald-headed, bald-pated, hollow-eyed, snub-nosed, 
 wide-mouthed, rotton-toothed, stuttering, scabby-bearded, humpbacked, 
 gorbellied, bandy-legged 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 dared 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 drubbed 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 slight- 
 ing the young gentleman. Ma. I should rather choose to be thunder- 
 struck than tied to endure such a husband. 
 
 Pa. Then do not 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 has not imposed upon you, for they say he is blind. Pa. 
 But that love has eyes in his head that proceeds from judgment ; you 
 do not appear so amiable only because I love you, but you are really 
 so, and therefore I love you. Ma. But perhaps you do not know me 
 thoroughly. When once a shoe is on, then you will know where it 
 pinches. Pa. I will 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 appeared luckily ? Pa. She flies for fools. Ma. 
 Did you see a pair of pigeons on your right hand 1 Pa. Nothing of 
 all this ; but have for some years been satisfied of the honesty of your 
 father and mother, and in the first place, that is 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 is 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
 
 116 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 them- 
 selves that may not agree with others. How acceptable my temper 
 may be to yours I do not 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, \inless 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 
 woxild 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 spoiled my beauty. Pa. No more, my 
 dear, shall I myself be always so young and lusty. I do not 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 1 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 yon had a fine orchard, would you 
 rather choose 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, laden with ripe grapes of a curious purple colour 1 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 wither- 
 ing in the hand 1 Pa. 1 look upon that the happier rose that dies in 
 a man's hand, there delighting the sight and smell, than that which 
 withers away iipon 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 looked pale and languid, and just as if they 
 were dropping into the groxind ; 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 is 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 do not make a barren match, as I hope we shall not, 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
 
 THE LOVER AND MAIDEN. 117 
 
 chastely with her. The union of minds will be more than that of 
 bodies. We will get subjects for the king and servants for Christ, 
 and where will the unchastity of this matrimony be 1 And who can. 
 tell but we may live together like Joseph and Mary] And in the 
 meantime we will learn to be virgins, we do not arrive at perfection 
 all at once. Ma, What do you talk of? Is virginity to be violated 
 that it may be leai'ned ? 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 cannot debauch. Pa. 
 Which is the most laudable for chastity, he that castrates himself, or 
 he that, having his members entire, forbears venery 1 Ma. The latter, 
 in my opinion: I should call the former a madman. Ma. Do not 
 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] Ma. 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 admonished or dissuaded by soft language to forbear ; 
 but if he insists upon it, he ought not to be refused. 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 great burden. I will be your king, and you shall be my queen, and 
 we will govern the family according to our pleasure : and do you think 
 that a bondage ] Ma. Marriage is called a haltei'. 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 is the reason of that ] Because it is bound by its own. 
 consent. 
 
 Ma. But we have neither of us got much 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 will 
 increase it abroad by my industry. Ma. But children bring a great 
 many cares along with them. Pa. And they bring a great many 
 comforts too, and oftentimes repay their parents' tenderness with much 
 interest. Ma. It is a grievous thing to bury one's children. Pa. 
 Why, you have none now, have you ] What need is there of troubling 
 ourselves with that we do not know will be or not ] Pray, tell me, 
 had you rather not be born at all or to be born mortal ] Ma. Why, 
 indeed, I had rather be born mortal than not to be born at all. Pa. 
 And so that destituteness is the most miserable that never has had 
 children, nor ever will have; as those are happier that have lived than 
 those that have not, nor -ever will. Ma. Who are they that never 
 have been nor ever shall be born 1 ? Pa. Although he that refuses to 
 bear the chance of fortune, which all are equally liable to, whether we 
 be kings or commoners, must cro out of the world ; vet, whatsoever 
 
 O / O ' " ' 
 
 G
 
 118 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 shall happen, you shall bear but half of it, I will take the greatest half 
 upon myself; and if anything happen of felicity, the pleasure will be 
 double; if any infelicity, society will take away one-half of the uneasi- 
 ness of it : and as for nie, if it should be my fate, it would be a pleasure 
 to me to die in your embrace. 
 
 Ma. Men can bear the misfortunes that happen according to the 
 common course of nature better than women; but I see what a great, 
 deal of grief children bring to some parents by their manners, more 
 than following them to the grave. Pa. To prevent that lies pretty 
 much in our own power. Ma. How so? Pa. Because as to dispo- 
 sition good parents commonly have good children, for doves do not 
 bring kites. Therefore we will do our endeavour to be good ourselves, 
 and then take care to instruct our children in religion and piety from 
 the very cradle. It is of great moment what is first infused into them ; 
 and besides, we will take care that at home they may have good 
 examples of life to imitate. Ma. That you talk of is very hard to 
 be done. Pa. It is hard, because it is good, and for the same reason 
 you are hard to be got ; but then we will endeavour the more indus- 
 triously. Ma. You will find me easy to be wrought upon : do you 
 see that you form and model me 1 Pa. But only say three words. 
 
 Ma. That is a very easy matter; but words, when they are once 
 out, cannot be called in again. I will give you counsel that shall be 
 better than that for both of us. Do you treat with both our parents 
 that it may be done with their consent. Pa. You bid me go a great 
 way about, and you may satisfy me in three words. Ma. I cannot 
 tell whether I can or no. I am not at my own disposal. It was the 
 custom in old time to have the consent of parents. The match, in my 
 opinion, is like to be the more happy if we have our parents' consent 
 to it. It is your business to court ; it is not handsome for us to do 
 it. We maids love to be forced, though sometimes we love with the 
 strongest passion. Pa. I shall not think much to court, if you your- 
 self will not frustrate my endeavours. Ma. I promise you I will not, 
 my Pamphilus ; do not be discouraged. Pa. I wish you were not so 
 scrupulous. Ma. Do you first endeavour to know your own mind 
 thoroughly, and don't be governed by your passion, but by reason. 
 The passion of love is but temporary, but what proceeds from reason 
 is lasting. 
 
 Pa. In truth, you play the philosopher very prettily, and there- 
 fore I will follow your advice. Ma. You will not repent of your 
 condescension. But, hark ye, though, here is one scruple comes into 
 my mind, that I cannot well get over. 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 untouched. Pa. Will a kiss take 
 anything from your virginity 1 Ma. Will you give me leave to kiss 
 other folks ? Pa. No, by no means; I would have my kisses kept
 
 THE VIRGIN AVERSE TO MATRIMONY. 119 
 
 for myself. Ma. Well, I will keep them for you. But there is 
 another reason why I dare not give you a kiss as things are at present. 
 Pa. What is that 1 Ma. You say yaur 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 will pray to God in the meantime that whatsoever be done may 
 be for both our good. 
 
 THE VIRGIN A VERSE TO MATRIMONY. 
 
 Eubulus, Catherine. 
 
 Eu. 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 
 divei'sion in the world. Ca. And I was quite tired of sitting so long 
 at table. Eu. How green and charming does everything in the world 
 look, surely this is its youth ! Ca. Ay, so it is, Eu. But why is it 
 not spring with you too 1 Ca. What do you mean ? Eu. Because 
 you look a little dull. Ca. Why, don't I look as I used to do 1 Eu. 
 Shall I shew 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 yoxi will not believe me, see 
 your own face in this fountain here. 
 
 What was the meaning you sat sighing at supper so ? Ca. Pray, 
 do not ask questions about that which does not concern you. Eu. 
 But it does very much concern me, since I cannot be cheerful myself 
 without you be so too. See, now, there is another sigh, and a deep 
 one too. Ca. There is, indeed, something that troubles my mind, but 
 I must not tell it. Eu. What, will you not 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 am 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 
 cannot serve you in the thing itself, perhaps I may in counsel or con- 
 solation. Ca. I cannot speak it out. Eu. What is the matter ? 
 Do you hate me 1 Ca. I love you more dearly than my own brother, 
 and yet for all that my heart will not let me divulge it. Eu. Will 
 you tell me if I guess it ? Why do you quibble now "? Give me your 
 word, or I will 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 cannot imagine what you 
 should want of being completely happy. Ca. I would I were so. 
 Eu. You are in the very flower of your age. If I am not mistaken, 
 you are now in your seventeenth year. Ca. That is true. Eu. So 
 that, in my opinion, the fear of old age cannot 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
 
 120 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 endowed 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 1 Of all the young women in the 
 country, you are the person I would choose for a wife, if I were in 
 condition to pretend to it. Ca. And I would choose none but you 
 for a husband, if I were disposed 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 will not take it ill, 
 I hope, if I guess at it. Ca. I have promised you I will not. Eu. I 
 know by experience what a torment love is. Come, confess now, is 
 that it ? You promised to tell me. Ca. There is 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 guessed all the 
 guesses I can guess; but I am resolved I will 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 1 Ca. To put myself into a cloister. Eu. What ! to be a 
 nun 1 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 is that 
 you say, Eubulus 1 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 you. Ca. On the other 
 hand, I strove by entreaties, Fair words, and tears, to overcome that 
 pious aversion of my parents. Eu. Oh, strange ! Ca. At length, 
 when they saw I persisted in entreaties, prayers, and tears, they pro- 
 mised me that if I continued 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 cannot do all that you would, do 
 all that you can. Ca. It will certainly be the death of me if I have 
 not my desire. Eu. What was it that gave the first rise to this fatal 
 resolution 1 Ca. Formerly, when I was a little girl, they carx'ied me 
 into one of those cloisters of virgins, carried me all about it, and 
 shewed me the whole college. I was mightily taken with the virgins, 
 they looked so charmingly pretty, just like angels; the chapels were 
 so neat, and smelt so sweet, the gardens looked so delicately well- 
 ordered, that, in short, which way soever I turned my eye everything
 
 THE VIRGIN AVERSE TO MATRIMONY. 121 
 
 seemed delightful. And then I had the prettiest discourse with the 
 nuns; and I found two or three that had been my playfellows 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 tl e 
 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. 
 Co. 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 cloister, from which you 
 never can come out. You may keep your maidenhead at home witli 
 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-bellied monks. They are no capons, I will assure you, whatever 
 you may think of them. They are called fathers, and they commonly 
 make good their calling to the very letter. Time was when inaida 
 lived nowhere honester than at home with their parents, when the 
 only spiritual father they had was the bishop. But, prithee, tell me 
 what cloister hast thou made choice of among them 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 are right. 
 
 Eu. I am very well acquainted with the whole gang. A sweet 
 fellowship to renounce father and mother, Mends, and a worthy family 
 for ! For the patriarch himself, what with age, wine, and a certain, 
 natural drowsiness, has been moped this many a day. He cannot 
 now relish anything but wine; and he has two companions, John and 
 Jodocus, that match him to a hair. And as for John, indeed I cannot 
 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 is so arrant a sot that if he were 
 not tied 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 them 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 them good and learned men to-day, you 
 will find them 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 married folks are 
 so given to talk smutty. I am put to it sometimes when men come 
 to kiss me, and you know one cannot well deny a kiss. Eu. He 
 that would avoid everything that offends him must go out of the 
 world. We must accustom our ears to hear everything, 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.
 
 122 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 thoroughly acquainted there, and see things nearer hand, 
 perhaps things will not look with so good a face as they did once. 
 They are not all virgins that wear veils, 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 trans- 
 ferred to a great many to be called virgins after child-bearing. Ca. I 
 abhor the thoughts of it. Eu. Nay, and more than that, those maids, 
 I will assure you, do more than becomes maids to do. Ca. Ay, why 
 so, pray? Eu. Because there are more among them that imitate 
 Sappho in manners than are like her in wit. Ca. I do not 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 disposi- 
 tion comes from God, because it hath continued 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 im- 
 portunities 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 will either give him an invitation to 
 them, because they know he will bring wine enough with him to serve 
 for ten lusty soaks, or else they will 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 professed Christ 
 by baptism, and your parents should forbid you to be baptized, 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 a 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 serve masters and 
 mistresses rather than parents ? For you are so under your parents' 
 direction that they would have you be at liberty wholly. And there-
 
 THE riRGIX ATE BSE TO MATRIMONY. 123 
 
 fore sons and daughters are called (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 footsteps 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 are 
 lugged back again, just like a criminal that had poisoned 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 called Francis or 
 Dominic or Thomas. Peter first gives his name up to Christ, and 
 being to be entered into Dominic's order, he is called Thomas. If a 
 military servant casts off the garment his master gave him, is he not 
 looked upon to have renounced his master? And do we applaud him 
 that takes upon him a habit that Christ, the master of us all, never 
 gave him 1 ? He is punished 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 uncer- 
 tain, 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 1 ? Ca. No, I cannot. Eu. What right have you 
 then to give away yourself to I know not whom against your parent's 
 consent 1 Are you not his child, the dearest and most appropriate part 
 of his 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 con- 
 sider 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 endowed with singular probity from whom 
 you may learn what will make for your bettering, you may have their 
 conversation ; and you may choose that preacher that preaches Christ 
 most purely. When once you come into a cloister all these things, 
 that are the greatest assistances in the promotion of true piety, you 
 lose at once.
 
 124 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Ca. But in the meantime I shall not be a mm. 
 
 Eu. What signifies the name? consider the thing itself. They 
 make their boast of obedience, and will 3 7 ou not be praiseworthy in 
 being obedient to your parents, your bishop, and your pastor, whom 
 God has commanded you to obey 1 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 anything 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 1 A vail, a linen shift turned into a stole, and 
 certain ceremonies, which of themselves signify nothing to the advance- 
 ment of piety, and make nobody 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 discharged from the government of your parents, cannot 
 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 1 ? 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 established ? What the old law hath taught, 
 and the gospel approved, and the apostles confirmed? That is an 
 ordinance that never came from heaven, bxit was hatched by a company 
 of monks in their cells. And after this manner some of them under- 
 take 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 dictates 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 espoused 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 abandoned for the sake of these things ; and 
 you ought to look to it, that instead of espousing Christ you do not 
 espouse somebody else. Ca. But I am told that in this case it is a 
 piece of the highest sanctity even to contemn one's 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 cannot 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 monkeiy that is 
 (as it too often proves) to fly from ought to stark naught What piety 
 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 be without prejudice to religion itself. 
 
 Ca. Are you then against the main institution of a monastic life ?
 
 THE PENITENT VIRGIN. 1:5 
 
 Eu. No, by no means : but as I will not persuade anybody against 
 it that is already engaged in tins 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 charity is more in danger in a cloister than 
 out of it ; and beside that, you may do whatever is done there as well 
 at home. Ca. You have indeed urged many and very considerable 
 arguments, yet this affection of mine cannot be removed. Eu. If I 
 cannot dissuade you from it, as I wish heartily I could, however, 
 remember this one thing, that Eubulus told you beforehand. In the 
 meantime, out of the love I bear you, I wish your inclinations may 
 succeed better than my counsel. 
 
 THE PENITENT VIRGIN. 
 
 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 is 
 the matter ; do you take leave before you salute ? Eu. I did not 
 come hither to see you cry. What is 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 will put on my better looks, and we will 
 be merry together. 
 
 Eu. What sort of cattle have we got here ? Ca. It is 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 will be so good natured 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 nobody gave more wise and grave 
 advice than you that are the youngest of them all. 
 
 Eu. Tell me how did you get your parents' consent at last ? Ca. 
 First, by the restless solicitations 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 plied 
 by several engines, he was prevailed upon to yield ; but yet rather 
 like one that was forced than that consented. The matter was con- 
 cluded in their cxips, and they preached damnation to him if he refused 
 to let Christ have his spouse. Eu. Oh, the villany of fools ! But 
 what then ? 
 
 Ca. I was kept close at home for three days ; but in the meantime 
 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 meanwhile 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 j and yet I was so horridly frightened that I had rather die ten.
 
 126 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 times over than suffer the same again. Eu. What was that, pray 1 
 Ca. It is not to be uttered. 
 
 Eu. Come, tell me freely, you know I am 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 pushed 
 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 solicitresses 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 bewitched yoxi, or conjured 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 would 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 dressed 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. Oh, these scaramouches, how they know to wheedle the poor people ! 
 How many days did you continue in that holy college of virgins, for- 
 sooth ? 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 loved 
 my life, to get me out of the college again. She would not hear of it, 
 but bade 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 affec- 
 tions, and that now he would 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 xipon 
 this they took me home. Eu. It was very well that you recanted 
 before you had professed yourself for good and all. But still, I do not 
 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 am 
 sure you cannot guess it; and if you do, I will not tell you. Eu. Well, 
 for all that, I guess what it was. But in the meantime, you have been 
 at a great charge. Ca. Above 400 crowns. Eu. Oh, these guttling 
 nuptials ! Well, but I am glad, though the money is gone, that you 
 are 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. 127 
 
 THE UNEASY WIFE. 
 
 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 clothes 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 it is a charming purple. 
 Who gave you this fine present ? Eu. My husband. From whom 
 should a virtuous wife receive presents from 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 mush- 
 room when I was married to my Nick. Eu. Why so, pray ? What, 
 is it come to an open rupture between you already 1 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 am not ashamed to go out of doors any whither 
 when I see how fine other women are, whose husbands ai'e nothing 
 nigh so rich as mine is. 
 
 Eu. The ornament of a matron does not consist in fine clothes 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 tricked up to take the eyes of 
 many, but we are well enough dressed if we do but please our own 
 husbands. 
 
 Xa. But, meanwhile, 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 1 
 Xa. Why, as the maggot bites, sometimes at the tavern, sometimes 
 upon his whores, sometimes a gaming. Eu. Oh, fie ! you should never 
 say so of yoxir husband. Xa. But I am sure it is too true; and then 
 when he comes home, after I have been waiting for him till I do not 
 know what time at night, as druuk as David's sow, he does nothing 
 but lie snoring all night long by my side, and sometimes bespews the 
 bed too, to say nothing more. Eu. Hold your tongue. You disgrace 
 yourself in disgracing your husband. Xa. Let me die if I had not 
 rather lie with a swine than such a husband as I have got. 
 
 Eu. Don't you scold at him then 1 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 1 Xa. At first he used to 
 hector at me lustily, thinking to frighten 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 fisticuffs. Eu. How, 
 woman, say you so ! Xa. He held x\p his stick at me, swearing and 
 cursing like a foot-soldier, and threatening me dreadfully. Eu. Were 
 you not afraid then? Xa. Nay, I snatched up a three-legged stool,
 
 128 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 and if he had but touched 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 t If he does not use me 
 like a wife I will not 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 called her husband, Abraham, lord. Xa. I have 
 heard those things; but the same Paul likewise teaches that men 
 should love their wives as Christ loved his spouse the church. Let 
 him remember his duty and I will remember mine. Eu. But, never- 
 theless, 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 threaten- 
 ing after this ? Xa. He did leave off, and it was his wisdom so to do, 
 or else he would have been thrashed. Eu. But did not you leave off 
 scolding at him 1 Xa. No, nor never will. Eu. But what does he 
 do in the meantime 1 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 expressed, 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 loved 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 irrecon- 
 cileable 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 deprived 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 1 Eu. 
 All is quiet with us now. Xa. Well, then, you had some difference 
 at first? Eu. Never anything of a storm; but yet, as it is common 
 with humankind, sometimes a few small clouds would rise, which 
 might have produced a storm if it had not been prevented by con- 
 descension. Every one has his humoiirs, 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 
 thoroughly acquainted one with another. This is the first thing that
 
 THE UNEASY WIFE. 129 
 
 ought to be provided against ; for when a spirit of dissension 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 reflec- 
 tions. Those things that are joined together with glue are easily 
 pulled 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 
 eifected by obsequiousness and an agreeableness of tempers. For 
 that love that is founded only upon beauty is, for the most part, 
 but short-lived. 
 
 Xa. But, prithee, tell me by what arts you brought your husband 
 to your humour. Eu. I will 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 twelvemonths yet. Xa. You are very right. Eu. Then I will 
 tell you, but upon condition that you will 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 pleased him and what vexed him, as they use 
 to do who tame elephants and lions, or such sort of creatures that 
 cannot be mastered 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 
 expei-ience that these creatures are made fierce by these colours, just 
 as tigers are made so raging mad by the sound of a drum that they 
 will tear their own selves; and jockeys have particular sounds and 
 whistles and strokings and other methods to soothe 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 1 Eu. I was very diligent in the care of my family, which is 
 the peculiar province of women, that nothing was neglected, and that 
 everything should be suitable to his temper, although it were in the 
 most minute things. Xa. What things ? Eu. Suppose my husband 
 peculiarly fancied such a dish of meat, or liked it dressed after such a 
 manner, or if he liked his bed made after such or such a manner. 
 Xa. But how could you humour one who was never at home, or was 
 drunk 1 
 
 Eu. Have patience, I was coming to that point. If at any time 
 uiy husband seemed to be melancholy and did not much care for 
 talking, I did not laugh and put on a gay humour as some women are 
 used 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
 
 130 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 of her husband, not to be cheerful 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 soothe 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 anything but tender language, that by kind expressions 
 I might get him to go to bed. 
 
 Xa. This is indeed a very unhappy portion for wives if they 
 must only humour their husbands when they are in a passion, and 
 doing everything that they have a mind to do. 
 
 Eu. As though this duty were not reciprocal, and that our 1 
 husbands are not forced 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 is neither in a passion nor in the hippo, nor 
 in liquor ; then, being in private, you may kindly advise him, but 
 rather entreat 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 seasoned with witty jests and pleasantries. Sometimes, 
 by way of preface, I make a bargain with him beforehand that he shall 
 not be angry with me if, being a foolish woman, I take upon me to 
 advise him in anything 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 Imsband 
 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 anything of that kind shall happen that cannot be 
 borne with, and that the husband cannot be cured by the admonition 
 of his wife, it is more prudent for the wife to carry her complaints to 
 her hxisband's parents and kindred than to her own, and so to soften 
 her complaint, that she may not 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 borne with, let him be as bad as he will. 
 It is therefore better 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 1 How much more does it become us to use our 
 husbands after this manner 1 Xa. You will give an instance, then, of 
 a man that is as unlike my husband as black is from white.
 
 THE UNEASY WIFE. 131 
 
 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 inexperienced maid, that he 
 might the more easily form her manners to his own humour. He 
 began to instruct her in literature and music, 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 refused to submit to what her husband required of her, and 
 when her husband pressed her about it, she would cry continually ; 
 sometimes she would throw herself flat on the ground, and beat her 
 head against the ground, as though she wished for death. 
 
 Her husband, finding there was no end of this, concealed 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 obliged 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 entreats 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 sub- 
 mission. The son-in-law replies, I know my own power, but I had 
 much rather she should be reformed by your art or authority, than to 
 come to these extremities. The father-in-law promised 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 of what I have done for you, nor con- 
 sidering that you have such a husband, who, if he were not the best 
 natured 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 
 seemed to be scarce able to keep his hands off her ; for he was so won- 
 derful cunning, a man, that he would act any part as well as any 
 comedian. The young lady, partly for fear and partly convinced 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 performed 
 what she promised.
 
 132 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Xa. Well, what happened after that ? 
 
 Eu. The young lady, going away after her father's 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 entreat you to forget what is 
 past. The husband received this speech with a kiss, and promised to 
 do everything she could desire, if she did but continue in that resolu- 
 tion. Xa. What? did she continue in it 1 Eu. Even to her dying 
 day, nor was anything so mean but she readily and cheerfully went 
 about it, if her husband would have it so. So great a love grew, and 
 was confirmed between them. Some years after the young lady would 
 often congratulate herself that she had happened to marry such a 
 husband, which, had it not happened, 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 will tell you a story 
 that lately happened 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 happened 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 at 
 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 discovered them, 
 by I cannot 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 increased, and finds his entertainment more 
 delicate than it used to be ; he inquired from whence this unaccus- 
 tomed 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 sus- 
 pected that this was done by his wife. When he came home, he asked 
 her if she had been there. She did not deny it. Then he asked her 
 for what reason she had sent thither that household furniture 1 My 
 dear, says she, you are used to a handsomer way of living; I found that 
 you fared 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 furnished him with a fine bed. 
 
 Eu. But hear the conclusion of my story ; the gentleman was so 
 touched, 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.
 
 THE UNEASY WIFE. 133 
 
 I know you know Gilbert the Dutchman. Xa. I know him. Eu. 
 He, you know, in the prime of his age married a gentlewoman well 
 stricken in years, and in a declining age. Xa. It may be he married 
 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 used ever and anon to divert himself abroad. 
 He very seldom either dined or. supped at home. What would you have 
 done if this had been your case, Xantippe 1 Xa. Why I would have 
 torn his beloved strumpet's head-cloths off, and I would have washed 
 him well with a chamber-pot when he was going to her, that he might 
 have gone thus perfumed 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 supped abroad with her, she sent them thither 
 some nicety or other, desiring them to be merry together. Xa. As 
 for me, I would sooner choose to lose my life than to be bawd to my 
 own husband. 
 
 Eu. But in the meantime, 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 I 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 will 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 com- 
 mendable 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 is the matter, says he, that you are crying and sobbing like 
 a child] To which she prudently replied, Why says she, 4 is it not much 
 better to lament my misfortune here, than, if I should make a bawling 
 in the street, as other women do 1 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 that he would never lay his hand 
 upon her after as long as he lived. Nor did he ever do it. Xa. I 
 have obtained as much from my husband, but by a different conduct. 
 Eu. But in the meantime there are perpetual wars between you. 
 
 Xa. What then would you have me to do 1 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 you now 
 do. Xa. Ay, but he is too ill-natured 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 tamed by good management ; therefore do not 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 everything there; 
 
 H
 
 134 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 be cheerful 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 matri- 
 mony might be cured. Xa. That has often been my case. Eu. And 
 though it ought always to be the care of a wife not to make her husband 
 uneasy in anything, yet that ought to be especially her care to study, 
 in conjitgal 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 ancient 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 imagin- 
 able to be so engaging to her husband in conjugal embraces, that 
 matrimonial affection may be retained and renewed, and if there has 
 been any distaste or aversion, it may be expelled the mind. 
 
 Xa. But where can a person get this girdle. Eu. There is no 
 need of witchcrafts and spells to procure one. There is no enchant- 
 ment so effectual as virtue, joined with a sweetness of disposition. 
 Xa. I cannot 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 cannot 
 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 
 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 fixed 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 it is 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 chooses a husband by her eyes, who looks at
 
 THE UXEASY WIFE. 135 
 
 nothing else but his person and bare outside; she chooses 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 some- 
 thing 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, kissed me, and I do not 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. Oh brave ! 
 to a good soil here is a good ploughman to till it. Xa. As to this 
 affair he is 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 Inisband's companions give him ? 
 and what company does he keep when he is abroad? Xa. They give 
 him the character of an exceeding good-humoured, 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 is 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 depiive yourself of that, than 
 which nothing is more dear. 
 
 Last of all, tell me is there anybody that wishes you ill 1 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.
 
 136 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 divorced 
 from your husband a widow, nay, to live (a widow bewitched) worse 
 than a widow; for widows may marry again? Xa. I approve of your 
 advice, but cannot 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 1 
 
 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 remember- 
 ing that respect which is due from a wife to a husband. Let all 
 melancholy and ill-timed gaiety be banished out of doors; be not 
 morose nor frolicsome. Let your table be handsomely provided. You 
 know your husband's palate, dress that which he likes best. Behave 
 yourself courteously and affabJy to those of his acquaintance he respects. 
 Invite them frequently to dinner; let all things be pleasant and cheer- 
 ful 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 expenses. 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 J 
 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 meantime I will talk to your 
 husband, and put him in mind of his duty. Xa. I approve of your 
 design; but take care that he may not discover anything of what has 
 passed between us two, for he would throw the house out of the 
 windows. Eu. Do not fear, I will 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, Z will treat 
 him after my way, as engagingly as can be, and I hope shall render 
 him to you better tempered. I will likewise take occasion to tell a lie 
 or two in your favour, how lovingly and respectfully you spoke of him. 
 Xa. Heavens prosper both our undertakings. Eu. It will, I doubt 
 not, if you are not wanting to yourself, 
 
 THE SOLDIER AND THE CARTHUSIAN. 
 
 Sold, Good morrow, my brother. Cart. Good morrow to you, 
 dear cousin. Sold. I scarce knew you. Cart. Am I grown so old 
 in two years' time ? Sold. 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. Sold. No.; not if she was in such a one as yours. Cart,
 
 THE SOLDIER AND THE CARTHUSIAN. 13? 
 
 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 1 No bird had ever such a variety of feathers. 
 How all is cut and slashed ! Nothing according to Nature or fashion ! 
 your cut hair, your half-shaved 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. 
 
 Sold. Thus it becomes a man to come back from the wars. But, 
 pi-ay, tell me, was there so great a scarcity of good physicians in this 
 quarter of the world? Cart. Why do you ask? Sold. Because you 
 did not get the distemper of your brain cured before you plunged 
 yourself into this slavery. Cart. Why, do you think I was mad then 1 
 Sold. Yes, I do. What occasion was there for you to be buried here 
 before yoar time, when you had enough in the world to have lived 
 handsomely upon! Cart. What, do not you think I live in the 
 world now ? Sold. No, by Jove. Cart. Tell me why. Sold. Be- 
 cause you cannot go where you list. You are confined 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 wonder you 
 are not turned into a fish. Cart. If men were turned into what they 
 eat, you had long ago been turned into a hog, for you used to be a 
 mighty lover of pork. 
 
 Sold. I do not doubt but you have repented of what you have done 
 long enough before now, for I find but very few that do not 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 entered 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 supposed 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 anything 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. Sold. What you say as to this comes pretty 
 near the truth, 
 
 Cart. You cannot blame me for shaving my head, who voluntarily 
 have your own hair clipped for convenience' sake. Shaving to me, 
 if it does nothing else, it 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 xises, 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
 
 138 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 solitiide 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 ethnic 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 anything 
 that is 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 
 tedium 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 oftener than I would have them or is convenient. Do I then, 
 in your opinion, live melancholy ? 
 
 Sold. But you cannot always have these to talk with. Cart. 
 Nor is it always expedient, for conversation is the pleasanter for 
 being something interrupted. Sold. You do not think amiss; for even 
 to me myself flesh relishes much better after Lent. Cart. And more 
 than that, when I seein to be most alone, I do not want companions 
 which are by far more delightful and entertaining than those common 
 jesters. Sold. Where are they ? 
 
 Cart. Look you, here are the four evangelists. In this book, He 
 that so pleasantly communed with the two disciples in the way going 
 to Emmaus, and who by His heavenly discourse caused 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 dictators that are both learned and eloquent. Do you know any 
 such pleasant companions abroad in the world that you can have 
 conversation with 1 Do you think I can be weary of retirement in 
 .such society as this 1 And I am never without it. Sold. 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, and I who live upon fish ? Sold. 
 If you had a wife, as ,1 have, you would not be so lusty. Cart. And 
 for that reason any food serves us, let it be never so little. Sold. 
 But in the meantime you live the life of a Jew. Cart. .Forbear 
 reflections : if we cannot oome up to Christianity, at least we follow 
 after it, 
 
 Sold. 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. Sold. Why do you observe these things then ? Cart. That 
 I may be at peace with my brethren, and give nobody offence. I 
 would give no offence to any one for the sake of these trivial things,
 
 THE SOLDIER AND THE CARTHUSIAN. 139 
 
 which it is but a very little trouble to observe. As we are men, let its 
 wear what clothes 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 1 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 ? Sold. 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 public 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 thfi very soul of you. Sold. No ? Cart. No, by Christ, 
 I would not. 
 
 Now, which do you think is the harder task, to be obedient to a 
 good man, whom 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 ofiicer, who 
 often calls yoxi 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 1 Sold. There are more evils than you have mentioned 
 ySt. 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 anything contrary to the general's 
 orders, you must either be hanged for it or run the gauntlet for it 
 would be a favour to have your head cut off. Sold. I cannot deny 
 what you say to be true. 
 
 Cart. And now your habit bespeaks that you have not brought 
 much money home, after all your brave adventures. Sold. 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 conie out of your way hither when you hurried 
 yourself into that wicked life of a soldier. But how come you so bare ? 
 Sold. Do you ask that ? Why, whatsoever I got of pay, plunder, 
 sacrilege, rapine, and theft was spent in wine, whores, and gaming. 
 Cart. Oh, 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 1 Sold. The having so many companions of my 
 wickedness made me insensible of my evil. 
 
 Cart, But I am afraid your wife will not know you again. Sold,
 
 HO FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Why so ? Cart. Because your scars have made you the picture of 
 quite another man. What a trench you have got here in your forehead ? 
 It looks as if you had had a horn cut out. Sold. Nay, if you did but 
 know the matter you would congratulate me upon this scar. Cart. 
 Why so ? Sold. I was within a hairsbreadth of losing my life. Cart. 
 Why, what mischief was there? Sold. 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. Sold. 
 I got this wound in a battle. Cart. In what battle, in the field? 
 Sold. No; but in a quarrel that arose at dice. Cart. And I see I 
 cannot tell what sort of rubies on your chin. Sold. Oh, they are 
 nothing. Cart. I suspect that you have had the pox. Sold. You 
 guess very right, brother. It was the third time I had that dis- 
 temper, 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 1 Sold. The disease 
 has contracted my nerves to that degfee. 
 
 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 semireptile animal. Sold. This is the fortune of war. 
 Cart. Nay, it is the madness of your own mind. But what spoils will 
 you carry home to your wife and children 1 Sold. 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. 
 Cart. 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 carcase. Sold. 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 1 How putrid and ulcerated ? With how many wounds is 
 that sore ? Sold. 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 a*id His angels. Sold. 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 will go and try 
 what the prior will do. Sold. If anything was to be given, your hands 
 would be ready to receive it ; but now there are a great many diffi- 
 culties 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 will talk more of these matters after dinner, for it is 
 now time to sit down at table. 
 
 ON SPEAKING UNTRUTHFULLY. 
 
 Philetymua and Pseudocheus. 
 
 Phil. From what fountain does this flood of lies flow? Pseud. 
 From whence do spiders' webs proceed 1 Phil. Then, it is not the 
 product of art, but of nature. Pseud. The seeds, indeed, proceed
 
 ON SPEAKING UNTRUTHFULL Y. 141 
 
 from nature; but art and use have enlarged the faculty. Phil. Why, 
 are you not ashamed of it 1 Pseud. No more than a cuckoo 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 1 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 cleA^erly. Phil, What is 
 clever lying ? Pseud. Would you have me define it 1 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 is 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 1 Phil. No. 
 Pseud. Come on, listen attentively ; now I will 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 called you the best of men ; is not that a 
 swinging lie, when you are not so much as good 1 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 deceived 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 1 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 forewarned ; prick up your 
 ears, listen attentively, and see if you can catch me in a lie. Phil. I 
 do listen attentively, say on. Pseud. I have said already, and you 
 have imitated me in lying. Phil. Why, you will persuade me I have 
 neither ears nor eyes by and by. Pseud. When men's ears are 
 immovable, and can neither be pricked 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.
 
 142 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 it is to 
 those that have not 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 1 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 is 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 1 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 anything upon credit I set it down carefully 
 in my book of accounts. Phil. And what then 1 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 1 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 bashf ulness 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 is 
 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 crossed 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 crossed out. When the sum is cast up we 
 contend about it, and I, for the most part, get the better, though it be 
 by fox-swearing 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 
 anything 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 cannot 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 everywhere. 
 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 meantime I make use of other people's money, I 
 bring some over to my interest by a show 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 though 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
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 143 
 
 affairs; and, besides all, that I may not be caught, as there are many 
 tricks, this is one of the chief. 1 intercept all the letters I can, open 
 them and read them. If anything 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 1 Pseud. 
 He is 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 anything. 
 ]Sow 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 and conversion, or for one that 
 having borrowed a thing forswears it, that puts a trick upon one by 
 some such artifice 1 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 have not a mind to 
 learn them. Goodbye to you. Pseud. You may go on and be plagued 
 with your ragged truth. In the meantime I will live merrily upon 
 my thieving, lying tricks, with sleight of hand. 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 Antony and Adolph. 
 
 A nt. You tell dreadful stories. Is this going to sea 1 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 will 
 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 passed are pleasant to be thought on. 
 One thing happened 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 scuttle, so I think they call it, at the maintop-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 ancients 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 1 ? 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, do you not see what a companion you 
 have by your side 1 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
 
 U4 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 itself over and over close to the pilot. Ant. And was not he frightened 
 out of his wits 1 Adol. Sailors are used to terrible sights. 
 
 It stopped a little there, then rolled 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 1 
 Ant. I have seen them. Adol. Those mountains are molehills if they 
 be compared to the waves of the sea. As often as we were tossed up 
 one might have touched the moon with his finger, and as often as we 
 were let fall down into the sea we seemed to be going directly down to 
 hell, the earth gaping to receive us. Ant. Oh, 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, though it is 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 merchandise 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 you, 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 1 Adol. If you 
 and your trinkets were to drown by yourselves, says he, here is nobody 
 would hinder you, but it is not fit that we should run the risk of our 
 lives for the sake of your cabinet ; if you will not consent we will 
 throw you and your cabinet into the sea together. Ant. Spoken like 
 a tarpaulin. 
 
 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 asked 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 1 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 meantime? 
 Adol. There you might have seen a wretched face of things, the
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 145 
 
 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 1 
 
 Adol. In ancient times Venus took care of mariners, because she 
 was believed 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. Oh, most merciful sea! Oh, most generous sea! 
 Oh, most rich sea ! Oh, 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 1 
 
 Adol. Some did nothing but spue, and some made vows. There 
 was an Englishman there that promised golden mountains to our Lady 
 of Walsingham, so he did but get ashore alive. Others promised 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-headed, clothed in a coat of mail, and begging his bread 
 all the way. Ant. Did nobody make any mention of St. Christopher? 
 A dol. 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 bawled 
 out this over and over as loud as he could, an acquaintance of his 
 jogged him on the elbow and cautioned 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 answered 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 as much as a tallow candle. 
 Ant. O blockhead ! I fancy he was a Hollander. Adol. No, he was a 
 Zealander. Ant. I wonder nobody 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 1 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 will 
 give you if you do so and so j or I will do so and so if you do so and
 
 146 FAMILIAE COLLOQUIES. 
 
 so ; I -will give you a wax taper if I swim out alive ; I will 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 even went the next way to 
 God the Father, saying, Our Father which art in heaven. There is 
 none of the saints hears sooner than He does, or more readily gives 
 what is asked for. 
 
 Ant. But in the meantime did not your conscience check you ? 
 Was you not afraid to call Him Father whom you had offended with 
 so many wickednesses 1 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, though it be by the hair of the head, and throw him out upon a 
 bank. There was nobody among them all behaved herself more com- 
 posed than a woman who had a child sucking at her breast. Ant. 
 What did she do? Adol. She only neither bawled, nor wept, nor 
 made vows, but hugging her little boy, prayed 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, undergirded jier 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 preached 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 confessed those that had a mind 
 to it. Ant. What did you do 1 ? Adol. I, seeing that everything 
 was in a hurry, confessed 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 yourselves 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 leaked 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 you if ye had called upon him by his 
 name. Adol. But that we did not know. In the meantime the 
 pilot steers the ship, torn and leaking everywhere, 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 shore that the inhabitants of the place 
 could see us in distress, and ran down in throngs to the utmost edge of
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 147 
 
 the shore, and holding xip 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 everywhere 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. Everybody was for getting into it; the mariners cried out 
 amain they will 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 1 ? Adol. She got to shore the first of them all. Ant. How 
 could she do that? Adol. We set her upon a broad plank, and tied 
 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 rowed with her right hand. 
 Ant. O virago ! Adol. Now when there was nothing else left one 
 pulled up a wooden image of the Virgin Mary, rotten and rat-eaten, and 
 embracing it in his arms, tried to swim upon it. 
 
 A nt. Did the boat get safe to land ? A dol. None perished sooner 
 than they that were in that, and there were above thirty-two 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 looked 
 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 placed 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 is that third 
 person, he will drown us all ? But he very calmly bids us be easy, for 
 there was room enough, God will be with iis. Ant. How came he to 
 be so late 1 Adol. He was to have been in the boat with the Domini- 
 can. For they all paid him this deference. But though they had 
 confessed themselves in the ship, yet having forgotten I know not 
 what circumstances, they confessed over again at the ship-side, and 
 each lays his hand upon the other, and while this was doing the boat 
 was overturned. This I had from Adam himself. 
 
 Ant. What became of the Dominican 1 Adol. As the same man- 
 told me, having implored the help of his saints, and stripped himself, he 
 threw himself naked into the sea. Ant. What saints did he call upon ! 
 Adol. St. Dominic, St. Thomas, St. Vincent, and one of the Peters,
 
 148 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 but I cannot tell which; but his chief reliance was upon Catherina 
 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 cowl ; 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 rolled 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 main- 
 tain my post on the right hand resolutely, and to strike out my feet 
 stoutly. In the meantime we drank in abundance of salt water ; for 
 Neptune had provided us not only a salt bath, but a salt potion too, 
 although the old priest prescribed a remedy for it. Ant. What was 
 that? Adol. Why, as often as a billow met us, he turned 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 shore 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 rolled thither by the sea. Nay, says he, I am 
 sure I feel ground by the scratching of my toes. Having floated 
 tlms a little longer, and he had felt the bottom again, Do you do what 
 you please, says he, I will 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 suc- 
 ceeded so well to him followed his example. 
 
 There stood upon the shore men who had long pikes handed from 
 one to another, which kept them firm against the force of the waves 
 strong bodied men and accustomed to the waves, and he that was last of 
 them held out a pike to the person swimming towards him. All that 
 came to shore, and laying hold of that, were drawn safely to dry land. 
 Some were saved this way. Ant. How many ? Adol. Seven. But two 
 of these fainted away on 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 supplied us 
 with all necessaries with exceeding cheerfulness as lodging, fire, 
 victuals, clothes, and money to bear oxir charges when we went away. 
 Ant. What country was it? Adol. Holland. Ant. There is.no 
 nation more humane, although they are encompassed with such fierce 
 nations. I fancy you will not be going to sea again. Adol No, 
 unless God shall please to deprive me of my reason. Ant. I had 
 rather hear such stories than feel them.
 
 OR, TEE INNS. 149 
 
 DIVERSORIA; OR, THE INNS. 
 
 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 am 
 not at rest till I come to my journey's end. Will. Nay, I wonder as 
 much that anybody can get away from thence. Bert. But why so 1 
 Will. Because that is a place the companions of Ulysses could not have 
 got away from. There are syrens. Nobody is better entertained at 
 his own house than he is there at an inn. Bert. What is done 
 there 1 
 
 Will. There is 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 bade 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. Oh, I know the .French 
 way of civility very well. Will. And because they cannot be always 
 with you, by reason of the other affairs of the house, and the wel- 
 coming 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 
 everybody, and no conceit comes amiss to her. The mother, you must 
 know, was somewhat in years. Bert. But what was your table 
 furnished with, for stories fill no bellies ? Will. Truly, so splendid 
 that I was amazed 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 1 
 
 Will. Why, there was everywhere some pretty lass or other 
 giggling and playing wanton tricks? They asked us if we had any 
 foul linen 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 
 stables, and they would every now and then run in there too. When 
 you go away they embrace you, and part with you with as much affec- 
 tion as if you were their own brothers or near kinsfolk. 
 
 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 cannot tell whether 
 the method of entertaining be the same everywhere; but I will tell you 
 what I saw there. Nobody 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
 
 150 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 a tortoise from under his shell. Him you must ask if you can Lave 
 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 clothes, clean and 
 warm yourself, or take rest, if you have a mind to it. 
 
 Bert. There is 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 clothes near the stove iron, and get near it to dry yourself. 
 There is 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 o'clock in the afternoon, you must not go to supper till nine, and 
 sometimes not till ten. Will. Why so ? Bert. They never make 
 anything 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 footmen, horsemen, merchants, 
 mariners, waggoners, husbandmen, 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 garlic, and, in short, there is as great a con- 
 fusion of tongues and persons as there was at the building the tower of 
 Babel. And if they see any person 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 oxit 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 is no person thinks 
 anything strange. 
 
 Bert. In the meantime, it is a crime for you to call for anything. 
 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 
 bteam shall presume to open the window never so little that he be not
 
 DIFERSORIA; OR, THE INNS. 15.1 
 
 stifled, presently they cry out to shut it again. If you answer you are 
 not able to bear it, you will 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 garlic, 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 called, 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 meantime, they are bold at the 
 perils of other men. Bert. What would you do in this case 1 ? It is 
 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 everywhere 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 would 
 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 is no 
 difference between poor and rich, between the master and the servant. 
 Will. This was that ancient equality which now the tyrant custom has 
 driven quite out of the world. I suppose Christ lived after this 
 manner with His disciples. Bert. After they are all placed, out 
 comes the sour-looked 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 them- 
 selves 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 meantime 1 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 sophists ought to drink no 
 other. And if any of the guests should privately offer a piece of 
 money to get a little better wine somewhere else, at first they will say 
 nothing to you, but give you a look, as if they were going to murder 
 you ; and if you press it further, they answer you there have been so 
 many counts and marquises that have lodged here, and none of them 
 ever found fault with this wine. If you do not like it, get you another 
 inn. They account only the noblemen of their own nation to be men, 
 and wherever you come they are shewing you their arms. By this 
 time comes a morsel to pacify a barking stomach. And by and by 
 follosv 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 boiled, or salt meats warmed again, and then pulse 
 again, and by and by something of more solid food, until their stomachs
 
 152 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 being pretty well staid, they bring roast meat or stewed fish, which is 
 not to be at all contemned; 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 meantime, any 
 body should say, take away this dish, there is nobody 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, though 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 enter- 
 tainment, 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 mimics, which these people very 
 much delight in, though they are a detestable sort of men. There is 
 such a singing, prating, bawling, jumping, and knocking, that you 
 would think the stove were falling upon your head, and that one man 
 cannot hear another speak. And this they think is a pleasant way of 
 living, and there you must sit in spite of your heart till near midnight. 
 
 Will. Make an end of your meal now, for I myself am tired 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 many circles and semi-circles drawn upon it with chalk ; this he 
 lays down upon the table with a grim countenance and without speak- 
 ing. 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 filled. 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 anything over and above 1 Bert. Perhaps 
 he will give it you again, and they oftentimes do so. Witt. Does nobody 
 find fault with the reckoning? Bert. Nobody that is wise. For they 
 will say, what sort of a fellow are you 1 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 supped, 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 
 shewn to his chamber, and truly it is 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 1 Bert. As clean as they 
 were at the table. Sheets washed 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 everywhere ? 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 called Lombardy, and in Spain, and in England, and
 
 THE YOUNG MAN AND THE HARLOT. 153 
 
 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 o'clock, 
 unless I would lose my passage. Another time we shall have an 
 opportunity of prating our bellyful. 
 
 THE YOUNG MAN AND THE HARLOT. 
 
 Lucretia, Sophronius, 
 
 Lu. Oh, 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 are come back with something of a 
 beard. What is the matter, my little heart, you look duller than you 
 used 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 will go into my inner bedchamber, if you have a mind to 
 anything. So. I don't think this place is private enough yet. Lu. 
 How comes it about you are so bashful all on a sudden ? Well, come, 
 I have a closet where I lay up my clothes, 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 nobody 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 1 Lu. No, He sees all things 
 clearly. So. And of the angels 1 Lu. No, we cannot escape their 
 sight. So. How comes it about then, that men are not ashamed 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 1 Lu. What sort of an 
 alteration is this 1 Did you come hither to preach a sermon ? Prithee, 
 put on a Franciscan's hood, and get up into a pulpit, and then we will 
 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. 
 1 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 will pay you four times over. 
 
 Lu. Well, say what you have a mind to say. So. Answer ine this 
 question in the first place : Are there any persons that owe you any 
 ill-will ] Lu. Not one. So. Is there anybody that you have a spleen 
 against? Lu. According as they deserve. So. And if you could do 
 anything that would gratify them, would you do it 1 Lu. I would 
 poison them sooner. So. But then do you but consider with yourself;
 
 154 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 is there anything 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 banished into the most 
 remote parts of the world, this you undergo voluntarily. Lu. What 
 is that? So. Hast thou not of thine own accord renounced 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 
 ashamed to own thee, and thyself ashamed 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 esteemed 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 loved thee so dearly as to redeem 
 thee with His o\\ r n 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 
 has not yet seized 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. Tho\i 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 forced to endure, and how late at nights 
 art thou obliged to sit up ? Lu. How came you to be a preacher ? 
 So. And do you but seriously consider, this flower of thy beauty that 
 now brings thee so many gallants will soon fade, and then, poor crea- 
 ture, what wilt thou do ? Thou wilt be pissed upon by everybody. 
 It may be thou thinkest, instead of a mistress I will then be a bawd. 
 All whores cannot attain to that ; and if thou shouldest, what employ- 
 ment 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 them. Nobody 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 used to come from thence worse than they went. How 
 comes it about it is otherwise with you ? So. I will 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 is 
 half a heretic. So. Has his name reached to this place too ? Lu.
 
 THE YOUXG MAX AND THE HARLOT. 155 
 
 There is no name more noted among us. So. Did you ever see him 1 
 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 
 them from them that are bad themselves. Lu. Nay, from men of 
 the gown. So. "Who are they 1 Lu. It is not convenient to name 
 names. So. Why so 1 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 will not speak a word of it. Lu. Whisper 
 then. So, You foolish girl, what need is there to whisper when 
 there is nobody but ourselves 1 ? What, lest God should hear 1 ? Ah, 
 good God ! I perceive you are a religious whore, that relievest mendi- 
 cants. 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 is best. In that book Paul, that cannot 
 lie, told me that neither whores nor whoremongers shall obtain the 
 kingdom of heaven. When I read this, I began thus to think with my- 
 self: It is but a small matter that I look for from my father's inherit- 
 ance, 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 disinherit- 
 ing ; and upon that I immediately tied myself up from all conversa- 
 tion 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 emptied 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 to sobriety of life, and enjoined 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 person. And I wondering that 
 for so many whoring tricks he enjoined me so small a penance, he 
 answered 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-eyed, 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 gained him, for he was lost before, and was 
 neither his own friend nor thine neither. Now he loves thee in 
 reality, and longs for the salvation of thy soul. Lu. What would 
 you have me do then, my Sophronius 1 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 wiped off in time. Either marry, and I will 
 give you something toward a portion, or go into some cloister that 
 takes in cracked maids, or go into some strange place and get into 
 some honest family. I will lend you my assistance to any of these.
 
 156 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Lu. My Sophronius, I love thee dearly ; look oiit for one for me, I 
 \v01 follow thy advice. So. But in the meantime get away from 
 hence. Lu. Whoo ! what, so suddenly ! So. Why not to-day rather 
 than to-morrow, if delays are dangerous 1 Lu. Whither shall I go ? 
 So. Qet all your things together, give them to me in the evening, my 
 servant shall carry them privately to a faithful matron ; and I will 
 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 
 will be glad you have done so. 
 
 THE POETICAL BANQUET. 
 
 Hilary, Leonard, Crato, Guests, Margaret, Carinus, Eubulus, Sbrulius, 
 Parihenius, Mus, Hilary's Servant. 
 
 Hi. Levis apparatus, animus est lautissimus. 
 Le. Ccenam sinistro es auspicatus omine. 
 Hi. Imo absit omen triste. Sed cur hoc putas ? 
 Le. Cruenti iambi haud congruunt 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. Oh brave ! I am sure the muses are amongst us, verses flow so 
 from us when we don't think of them. 
 
 Si rotatiles trochaeos mavelis, en, accipe : 
 Vilis apparatus hie 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 ? Ca. If a man may be allowed 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 them, and besides, where is 
 the milky juice 1 where are their soft prickles 1 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 
 it was that discovered them to be beets. Co. Crato. Ma. I thought 
 it was no poet who did it. Hi. If ever you serve me so again, I will
 
 THE POETICAL BANQUET. 157 
 
 call you Blitea instead of Margarita. Co. 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 am called Galatea, Euterpe, Calliope, Callirhoe, Melissa, Venus, 
 Minerva, and what not ; when he is out of humour at anything, then 
 presently I am Tisiphone, Megsera, Alecto, Medusa, Baucis, and whatso- 
 ever comes into his head in his mad mood. Hi. Get you gone with 
 your beets, Blitea. Ma. I wonder what you called me for. Hi. 
 That you may go whence you came. Ma. It is an old saying and a 
 true, it is an easier matter to raise the devil than it is to lay him. 
 Co. 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. 
 
 " Be gone, ye beetles, for the cruel wolf pursues you." 
 
 Ma. What says ^Esop ? Cr. Have a care, Hilary, she will hit you a 
 slap on the face. This is your laying her with your Greek verse. A 
 notable conjuror indeed ! Hi. Crato, what do you think of this jade 1 
 I could have laid ten great devils with such a verse as this. Ma. I 
 do not care a straw for your Greek verses. Hi. Well, then, I must 
 make use of a magical spell, or, if that will not do, Mercury's mace. 
 Cr. My Margaret, you know we poets are a sorb of enthusiasts, I won't 
 say madmen ; prithee, let me entreat 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 1 Often when 
 I am to go to market he has never a penny of money to give me, and 
 yet he is 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, sweetheart, keep your 
 temper for my sake. Ma. Well, I will go, and it is for your sake, and 
 nobody's else. Hi. Is she gone 1 Ma. Not so far but she can hear 
 you. Mus. She is in the kitchen now, muttering something to herself 
 I cannot tell what. Cr. I will 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 will not waste, an ugly one sweethearts 
 will not 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 is as ugly as she 
 is surly ; as to her honesty, I cannot 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 anybody likes them better. Here 
 are new figs too, just gathered, as you may see by the milk in the stalks.
 
 158 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 cannot 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 oat 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 will not let them 
 go away without learning something of them. 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, quia Isesit prior, 
 
 Qui ben6 vertendo, et eas 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 Ter- 
 ence. 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 though well skilled in all manner of philosophy, yet he is very 
 ready in all criticisms in grammar, he shewed me a book of great 
 antiquity which had it thus : 
 
 Sic existirnat, sciat, 
 
 Responsum non dictum esse, quale sit prius 
 Qui benfe 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 subjoined. 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 provoked replies, only makes his defence or 
 answer. He promises to give an example thereof, quale sit being the 
 same with otov 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 informed by you of one small 
 and very easy thing, how this verse is to be scanned 
 
 Ex Grsecis bonis Latinas fecit non bonas.
 
 THE POETICAL BANQUET. 159 
 
 Scan it upon your fingers. Hi. I think that according to the custom 
 of the ancients s is to be cut off, so that there be an anapsestus 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 
 countrymen's 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 malee, ex 
 Grsecis 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 tried and could do no good on it. Le. Sine is an 
 iambic, vidia an anapsestus, laudem is a spondee, venias an anapsestus, 
 and ami another anapsestus. 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 tribi-ach. Le. Indeed you 
 say true. We are aground; who shall help us off? Eu. Nobody can 
 do it better than he that brought us into it. Well, Carinus, if thou 
 canst say anything to the matter, do not 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 often- 
 times in this word enimvero; so that the part enime makes an anapsestus. 
 Le. Then scan it for us. Ca. I will do it. Sine invidi is a proseleus- 
 matic foot, unless you had rather have it cut off by syneresis, as when 
 Yirgil puts aureo at the end of an heroic verse for auro. But if you 
 please, let there be a tribrach in the first place, a lau is a spondee, 
 a" 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 cannot tell whether anybody 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 morse; 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 1 Sb. Sine being a term 
 of threatening, there is nothing follows in this place that makes for a 
 threatening. Therefore it is my opinion that the poet wrote it 
 
 Sin eveniat quod volo, 
 that sin may answer to the si that went before.
 
 160 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Si propter amoreni uxorem nolit ducere. 
 
 For the old man propounds two parts differing from one another : Si., 
 etc. "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 entreat 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 will shew you 
 another doubtful place. This verse is not found in the prologue of 
 Eunuchus. 
 
 Habeo alia multa, quae nunc condonabuntur. 
 " I have many other things which shall now be delivered." 
 
 Although the Latin comedians especially take great liberty to them- 
 selves in this kind of verse, yet I do not remember that they anywhere 
 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 will humour her. When we have filled our bellies we 
 will go to our play again ; now we will play with our fingers in the 
 dish. Hi. Take notice of poetic luxury. You have three sorts of 
 eggs boiled, roasted, and fried ; they are all very new laid within 
 these two days. Ca. I cannot abide to eat butter. If they are fried 
 with oil I shall like them very well. Hi. Boy, go ask Margaret what 
 they are fried in. Mo. She says they are fried in neither. Hi. 
 What ! neither in butter nor oil. In what then 1 Mb. She says they 
 are fried in lye. Cr. She has given you an answer like your question. 
 What a great difficulty it is 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 1 Hi. Bid her send 
 us some juice of the tendrils of a vine pounded. Mo. I will tell her, 
 sir. Hi. What ! do you come back empty handed ? Mo. She says 
 juice is not used to be squeezed out of vine tendrils. Le. A fine 
 maid-servant, indeed ! 
 
 Sb. Well, we will 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. 
 
 Tu usque venter partum ejus, 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
 
 THE POETICAL BANQUET. 161 
 
 I will write down Porphyry's words, if we can believe them to be his : 
 She is exilis, says he, under that form, as though she were become 
 deformed by travel ; by slenderness of body he means a natural lean- 
 ness. A shameful mistake, if so great a man did not perceive that the 
 law of the metre did contradict the 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 jumped 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 qucesieris. Now, the 
 common reading is this, Neu Babylonios tentaris numeros, ut melius 
 quicquid erit pati. The ancient interpreters pass this place over, as if 
 there were no difficulty in it. Only Mancinellus, thinking the sen- 
 tence imperfect, bids us add possis. Sb. Have you anything more 
 that is certain about this matter ? Le. I do not know whether I have 
 or not ; 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 dc and wcrt. 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 anything. 
 
 Cr. What new dainty dish is this 1 Hi. This is a cucumber 
 sliced. This is the broth of the pulp of a gourd boiled ; it is good to 
 make the belly loose. 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 will highly commend this supper to-morrow. Sb. 
 Why so 1 Hi. When you find that your dinner has been well 
 seasoned. Sb. What, with a good stomach 1 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 
 them; and to give you an example, we sing thus 
 
 Hostis, Herodes, impie, 
 Christum venire quid times 1 
 
 ' Thou wicked enemy, Herod, why dost thou dread the coming of 
 Christ?" 
 
 The misplacing of one word spoils the verse two ways. For the word 
 Jiostis, making a trochee, has no place in an iambic verse, and Hero, 
 being a spondee, will not stand in the second place. Nor is there any 
 doubt but the verse at first was thus written 
 
 Herodes hostis impie. 
 
 For the epithet impie better agrees with hostis than with Herod. 
 Besides, Herodes being a Greek word rj is turned into e in the vocative ; 
 as, Stojc/oarijc, o SwKjoarfc ; and so 'Ayer;Uf//va>v in the nominative 
 case is turned into o. So again we sing the hymn
 
 162 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Jesu, corona virginum, 
 Quern mater ilia concepit, 
 Quae sola virgo parturit. i 
 
 " Jesus, the crown of virgins, 
 Whom she, the mother, conceived, 
 Which was the only person of a virgin that brought forth." 
 
 There is no doubt but the word should be pronounced concipit ; for 
 the change of the sense sets off a word, and it is ridiculous for us to 
 find fault with concipit when parturit 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 caesura 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 is a good fat hen that has laid me 
 eggs and hatched me chickens for ten years together. Cr. It is pity 
 that she should have been killed. 
 
 Ca. If it were fit to intermingle anything 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 cannot tell what 
 sort of witticism, which I do not well understand. Le. I will 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 
 nmch greater part is lost in doing 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 viciously employed, we are 
 doing that we should not do; when we are employed about frivolous 
 matters we do that we should not do; and when we study philosophy, 
 in that we do it negligently and carelessly, we do something to no 
 purpose. If this interpretation do not 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 meantime let us fall manfully upon the hen. I would 
 not have you mistaken, I have no more provision for you, and it agrees 
 with what went before. That is the basest loss that comes by negli- 
 gence, 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
 
 THE POETICAL BANQUET. ^ 163 
 
 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 iis. 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 Dtpt TMV 'EXe-y^wy, the argument of which is, for the most 
 part, common both to rhetoricians and philosophers, I happened to 
 fall upon some egregious mistakes of the interpreters; and there is no 
 doubt but that they that are unskilled in the Greek have often missed 
 it in many places. For Aristotle proposes a sort of such kind of 
 ambiguity as arises from a word of a contrary signification. "Ort /uav- 
 ol ETrtorajuevot' TO. jap oTroo-o^iart^o/iEva juavvtivsatv ol 
 TO yap f.iav%avtixb [iwvvfAOV, TO T vvitvai ^pwwevov 
 rrj iiriaijfjnj, KCU TO Xajji^avtiv TT)V ETTtcrTjyurjv. And they turn it thus. 
 Because intelligent persons learn, for grammarians are only tongue- 
 learned; 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 1 Hi. ISTo. 
 
 Le. What then can be more foolish than to desire to turn that 
 which cannot possibly be turned. For although the Greek word 
 HavSavtiv signifies as much as fjLaStiv and juovtrcuav, so among the 
 Latins, discere, to learn, signifies as much as doctrinam accipere, or 
 doctrinam tradere. But whether this be true or not I cannot tell. I 
 rather think /mavSavtiv 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 fiavSaveiv whilst he hears his scholars, as 
 also the scholars who learn of him. But how gracefully hath he turned 
 that TCL yap aTroa-OjuaTiZ^ueva navSavacriv ol Fpa/^/.tarticoi, nam secun- 
 dum os Grammatici discunt : for the grammarians are tongue-learned; 
 since it ought to be translated, Nam Grammatici, qucn 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. Though I am apt to suspect here 
 is some error in the Greek copy, and that it ought to be written 
 b/j.(jjvv/nov TW TE ^vvilvai KOI rCt) Xa/u^avtiv. 
 
 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. To flovXsaOai \attv fie TOVQ 
 TToXejuisCj voile me accipere pugnantes, to be willing that I should receive 
 the fighting men ; for so he translates it, instead of velle me capere hastes, 
 to be willing that I take the enemies; and if one should read fiovXtvSt 
 it is more perspicuous. Vultis ut ego cajriam hostes ? will ye that I 
 take the enemies 1 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 1 If it follows, then this will be the sense, Are you 
 willing that the enemies should take me ? He adds also another
 
 164 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 example of the same kind, *Apa 6 Tig yivutarKfi, TOVTO ytvaxTKfi, i. e., An 
 quod quis novit hoc novit. The ambiguity lies in TOVTO. If it should be 
 taken in the accusative case, the sense will be this, Whatsoever it is 
 that anybody knows, that thing he knows to be. But if in the 
 nominative case, the sense will be this, That thing which anybody 
 knows, it knows; as though that could not be known that knows not 
 again by course. Again, he adds another example, *Apa 6 Tig bpq, 
 TOVTO bpq.; bpq. Sc TOV Kiova, axre 6joa 6 KIMV, that which any one 
 sees, does that thing see; but he sees a post, does the post therefore 
 see ? The ambiguity lies again in TOVTO, as we shewed before. 
 
 But these sentences may be rendered into Latin well enough ; but 
 that which follows cannot possibly by any means be rendered, 7 A pa o av 
 <f>riq elvai, TOVTO ai> <j>T)g tivui: <j>r)g CE \iBov tivai, av dpa <j>rig \idog 
 tlvai. 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 o and TOVTO, which 
 if they be taken in the nominative case the sense will be, That which 
 thou sayest thou art, that thoxi art'; but if in the accusative case the 
 sense will be, Whatsoever thou sayest is, that thou sayest is; and to 
 this sense he subjoins \iSov (prig flvai, but to the former sense he 
 subjoins av apa 0r)e XiOog elvai. Catullus once attempted to imitate 
 the propriety of the Greek tongue : 
 
 Phaselus iste, quern videtis, hospites, 
 Ait fuisse naviom celerrimus. 
 
 " My guests, that galley which you see, 
 The most swift of the navy is, says he." 
 
 For so was this verse in the old edition. Those who write commen- 
 taries 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. Kai apa tort orywvTa Xtyfiv; SITOOV yap 
 i<TTi, TO ftyuvra Xejsiv, TO TE TOV XSJOVTO. criyav, KOI TO TO Xiyo/neva. 
 That they have rendered thus : Et putas, est tacentem dicere ? Duplex 
 enim est, tacentem dicere; et hunc dicere tacentem, et quce dicuntur. Are 
 not these words more obscure than the books of the Sibyls? Hi. 
 I am not satisfied with the Greek. 
 
 Le. I will interpret it as well as I can. Is it possible for a man 
 to speak while he is silent 1 This interrogation has a twofold 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 am- 
 biguity that arises from more words conjoined, the Greeks have 
 changed the word seculum into the letters tiriaTaaBai TO. joa^/maTa, 
 seeing that the Latin copies have it scire seculum. For here arises a
 
 THE POETICAL BANQUET. 165 
 
 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 aluva or ACOCTJUOV, than into ypafjfjiaTa. For it is absurd to say that 
 letters know anything; 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 woi-ds instead of Homer's, when there was the 
 same necessity in that example, quicquid dices esse, hoc est, what thou 
 sayest is, it is. Aristotle out of Homer says, ov Karairv^ETai o/ipw, 
 if ov should be aspirated and circumflected, it sounds in Latin thus, 
 cujus computrescit pluvid, by whose rain it puti'efies; but if ov be acuted 
 and exile, it sounds non computrescit pluvid, it does not putrefy with 
 rain; and this indeed is taken out of the Iliad \fj. Another is, StSo/xev 
 E ol i>x o C aptaOai: the accent being placed upon the last syllable 
 but one signifies, grant to him; but placed upon the first syllable 
 to/*v, 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 8tSo//v is used for StSovKdt. 
 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 dormia. 
 
 For if the accent be on me being short, and tu be pronounced 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 sethera nimbi. 
 
 Although here also the ambiguity lies in the composition. Hi. 
 Leonard, these things are indeed niceties worthy to be known; but in 
 the meantime, I am afraid our entertainment should seem rather a 
 sophistical one than a poetical one. At another time, if you please, 
 we will hunt niceties and criticisms for a whole day together. Le. 
 That is as much as to say, we will hunt for wood in a grove, or seek 
 for water in the sea. 
 
 Hi. Where is my Mouse 1 Mou. Here he is. Hi. Bid Margaret 
 bring up the sweetmeats. Mou. I go, sir. Hi. What ! do you come 
 again empty-handed 1 ? Mou. She says she never thought of any 
 sweetmeats, and that you have sat long enough already. Hi. I am 
 afraid, if we should philosophise any longer she will come and over- 
 throw the table, as Xantippe did to Socrates; therefore it is better for 
 us to take our sweetmeats 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, do not spare whatever you find. And now if yoxi 
 think you have walked enough, what if we should sit down together 
 
 K
 
 166 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 under this teil tree, and rouse 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 will do so. He acts 
 very preposterously who has a garden neatly trimmed up, and 
 furnished with various delicacies, and at the same time has a mind 
 adorned with no sciences nor virtues. Le. We shall believe the 
 muses themselves are amongst us, if thou shalt give us the same sen- 
 tence in verse. Hi. That is 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 
 Squallere patitur, is facit prsepostere. 
 
 " Whose garden is all graced with flowers sweet, 
 His soul meanwhile being impolite, 
 Is far from doing what is meet." 
 
 Here are 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 plums, or 
 cherries, or medlars, or pears, or of anything else he likes better. Le. 
 Who should be the umpire of the trial of skill? Hi. Who shall but 
 Crato 1 And therefore he shall be excused from versifying, that he 
 may attend the more diligently. Cr. I am afraid you will have such 
 a kind of judge as the cuckoo and nightingale once had, when they 
 vied 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, floribus, arborumque fcetu, 
 Et multo et vario, nee excolendum 
 Curat pectus et artibus probatis, 
 Et virtutibus, is rnihi videtur 
 Lsevo judicio, parumque recto. 
 
 " Who that his garden shine doth mind 
 
 With herbs and flowers, and fruits of various kind ; 
 
 And in meanwhile 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 am out of the poetical vein. 
 
 Cura cui est, ut niteat hortus flosculis ac foetibus, 
 Negligent! excolere pectus disciplinis optimis ; 
 Hie labore, mihi ut videtur, ringitur praepostero. 
 
 " Whose only care is that his gardens be 
 With flowers and fruits furnished most pleasantly, 
 But disregards his mind with art to grace, 
 Bestows his pains and care much like an ass."
 
 THE POETICAL BANQUET. 167 
 
 Hi. You have not 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 squallere, nee ullis 
 Artibus expoliens, huic est prsepostera 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 them out before he is aware. 
 
 Sb. Cui vernat hortus cultus et elegans, 
 Nee pectus ullis artibus excolit, 
 Prsepostera is cura laborat. 
 Sit ratio tibi prima 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 prsepostera 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 j you ought more earnestly to endeavour that your 
 youth passes 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 tilled, 
 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 accom- 
 plished with honest studies, yields a great many virtues ; but if it be 
 neglected, is overrun with various vices. Sb. A garden oiight to be 
 dressed every year, that it may look handsome. The mind being once 
 furnished 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 
 stich recreations and divertisements as are not contrary to learning. 
 Hi. Oh, 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 turned it into Latin. And let 
 Leonard begin, that has been an old acquaintance of the Greek poets. 
 Le. I will begin, if you bid me. Hi. I both bid and command you. 
 
 Le. Qi KT/TTOC \ariv avSeai yeXwv KaXo?e, 
 
 Qi Se I'owc? /xaX' av^fjifitv, rolq KaXoTf fjta
 
 1C8 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 tai KOjui/>6e, owTOf OVK o/aS'to 
 Ilcpt irXetovot; iroiwv TO. ^>avX' T) 
 
 " 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 is Margaret coming upon us of a sudden ; 
 she is bringing I know not what dainties. Hi. If she does so she 
 will do more than I thought she would do. My Fury, what hast brought 
 us? Ma. Mustard-seed to season your sweetmeats. Are you not 
 ashamed to stand prating here till I cannot tell what time of night ? 
 And yet you poets are always reflecting against women's talkativeness. 
 Cr. Margaret says very right ; it is high time for every one to go home 
 to bed. At another time we will 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 nobody has overcome but I. Hi. 
 How did you overcome that did not contend at all. Cr. You have 
 contended, but not tried it out, I have overcome Margaret, and that 
 is more than any of you could do. Ca. He demands what is his 
 right ; let him. have the basket. 
 
 CONCERNING FAITH. 
 
 Aulus, Barbatus. 
 
 Au. Salute freely is a lesson for children. But I cannot tell 
 whether I should bid you be well or no. Ha. In truth, I had rather 
 any one would make me well than bid me so. Au. Why do you say 
 that ? Ba. Why ? Because if you have a mind to know, you smell of 
 brimstone or Jupiter's thunderbolt. 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 are right. Ba. I have indeed heard 
 dreadful thunders, but I never yet felt the blow of the thunderbolt. 
 Au. How so t 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 them, strike the mountains and the seas. Ba. They do strike 
 them indeed, but with strokes that have no effect upon them. 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 frightened 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
 
 CONCERNING FAITH. 169 
 
 by us we had been all lost. Au. Why sol Ba. Because when \ve 
 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 sayest is indeed very 
 true. Ba. In truth it would go very hard with all such persons if 
 the physician should avoid speaking to them 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 is 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 1 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 cannct 
 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 will permit me, I will be a 
 physician to you. Ba. Do, with all my heart. Au. Inquisitive 
 persons are commonly hated, but yet philosophers are allowed to be 
 inquisitive after every particular thing. Ba. Ask me anything that 
 you have a mind to ask me. A u. I will try. But you must promise 
 me you will answer me sincerely. Ba. I will promise you. But let 
 me know what you will ask me about. Au. Concerning the apostles' 
 creed. Ba. Symbolum is indeed a military word. I will be content to 
 be looked upon an enemy to Christ, if I shall deceive you in this matter. 
 
 Au. Dost thou believe in God the Father Almighty, and 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 sayest God, what dost thou understand by it 1 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 1 Ba. When I 
 conceive Him to be omnipotent I submit myself wholly to Him, in com- 
 parison 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
 
 170 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 1 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 assured that he cannot 
 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 anything, fear anything, 
 or love anything, 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 1 Ba. Examine me. 
 
 Au. Dost thou believe JesTis was God and man ? Ba. Yes. 
 Au. Could it be that the same should be both immortal God and 
 mortal man 1 ? 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 what- 
 soever I owe to the Father I owe also to the Son, but only that it hath 
 seemed good to the Father to create the world by His Son, and to 
 bestow all things on us through Him. Au. Why then do the Holy 
 Scriptures more frequently call the Son Lord than God 1 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, although 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 man 
 to God. 
 
 Au. Dost thou believe He was conceived withoiit the help of man, 
 by the operation of the Holy Ghost, and born of the undefiled Virgin
 
 CONCERNING FAITH. 171 
 
 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 unto Him, might 
 be made the sons of God. Au. Dost thou believe that He lived here 
 upon earth, did mii-acles, taught those things that are recorded to us .in 
 the gospel 1 Ba. Ay, more cei'tainly 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 1 Ba. I believe nothing more firmly. 
 Au. Dost thou believe His doctrine and life are sufficient to lead us to 
 perfect piety 1 Ba. Yes, perfectly sufficient. 
 
 Au. Dost thou believe that the same was really apprehended by 
 the Jews, bound, buffeted, beaten, spit upon, mocked, scourged under 
 Pontius Pilate, and lastly nailed to the cross, and there died] Be. 
 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 1 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 lingering; because it was meet for Him 
 who would invite all the nations of the world unto salvation, with His 
 members stretched out into every coast of the world, and call off men 
 who were glued 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 healed 
 of the wounds of the serpent, and fulfil the prophet's promise who 
 prophesied, " Say ye among the nations God hath reigned from a 
 tree." Au. Why should 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 sealed, and also public 
 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
 
 172 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 recorded in Tertullian, a very ancient writer. And yet notwith- 
 standing, 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 quickened by the Spirit, in which 
 also He came and preached 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 life again? Ba. For three reasons 
 especially. Au. Which are they 1 Ba. First of all, to give us an 
 assured hope of our resurrection. Secondly, that we might know that 
 He in whom we have placed the safety of our resurrection is immortal, 
 and shall never die. Lastly, that we being dead in sins by repentance, 
 and biiried 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 revived 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 of 
 the foreskin of Christ, and the milk of the Vii'gin Mary, what do you 
 think would have been had He abode on the earth eating and dis- 
 coursing ? What dissensions 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 dis- 
 ciples 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 anything, 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? a. 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 compelled 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
 
 CONCERNING FAITH. 173 
 
 his own body. The blessed angels also shall be there as faithful 
 servants, and the devils to be judged. Then He will from on high 
 pronounce that un voidable sentence, which will cast the devil, together 
 with those that have taken his part, into eternal punishment, 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 Testaments 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 quickened by the secret inspiration of the Holy Spirit. 
 Au. Is it not lawful to call the Father a spirit? Ba. Why notl 
 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 nowhere 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 named 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 distinguished afterwards 
 by the term 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 in the holy 
 church which is the body of Christ that is to say, a certain congrega- 
 tion 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
 
 174 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 at 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 reconciled 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 heretics, 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 
 repentance, 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 
 sayest the flesh ? Ba. A human body animated with a soul. Au. 
 Shall every soul receive its own body which is left dead 1 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 changed 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 1 I do not 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 cannot lie, and so power- 
 ful 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. 
 
 A u. 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 two- 
 fold 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 resurrec- 
 tion the godly shall have everlasting life, both of body and soul. Nor 
 shall the body be then any more obnoxious to disease, old age, hunger, 
 thirst, pain, weariness, death, or any inconveniences ; but being made
 
 THE OLD MEN'S DIALOGUE. 175 
 
 spiritual, it shall be moved as the spirit will have it. ]STor shall the 
 soul be any more solicited 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 everlast- 
 ing 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 
 rnfeignedly 1 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 will 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 inquire 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 inquire of everything at leisure : I will give 
 you both arms to feel my pulse, and you shall see both stool and urine ; 
 and after that, if you please, you shall anatomise 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 heretics. ]$a. Nay, biit there is nothing more religious than 
 to favour heretics. Au. How so ? Ba,. Did not Paul wish to be 
 made an anathema for the Jews, which were worse than heretics ? 
 Does not he favour him that endeavours that a man may be made a 
 good man of a bad man 1 Au. Yes, he does so. Ba. Well, then, do 
 you favour me thus, and you need not fear anything. 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 entertained 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 besides our creed. 
 
 THE OLD MEN'S DIALOGUE. 
 
 Eusebius, Pampirus, Potygamus, Glycion, Huguitio, and Harry the 
 
 coachman. 
 
 Eu. What new faces do I see here 1 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
 
 176 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 little, Eusebius. Po. Hail, heartily, my wished-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, though 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 
 have not 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 1 Po. With all my heart, if it 
 can be done fairly. Eu. We will pretend that we will go thither afoot 
 together. Po. They will sooner believe that a crabfish will fly, than 
 that such heavy fellows as we will take such a journey on foot. Eu. 
 Will you follow good wholesome advice? Po. Yes, by all means. 
 Gl. They are a drinking, and the longer they are a 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 expense will 
 be made up by many advantages, we shall have the more room, and shall 
 pass the journey more pleasantly in mutual conversation. Po. Glycion 
 is much in the right of it. 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 have 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 
 lived together at Paris 1 Eu. I believe it is not less than two and forty 
 years. Pa. Then we seemed 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 1 Pa. What ? why 
 either the one loitered and stopped in his course, or the other run 
 faster (outrun 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 wilt 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 will tell you 
 my art, upon condition you will tell us your art of coming to be old so 
 soon. Po. I agree to the condition, I will 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 be-
 
 THE OLD MEN'S DIALOGUE. 177 
 
 think myself what course of life to choose, 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 unsuccess- 
 ful 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 anything, 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 do not mistake the matter, all this was not owing to fortune 
 neither. Po. Why so? Gl. I will tell you, some love before they 
 choose, I made my choice with judgment first, and then loved afterwards, 
 and nevertheless I married this woman more for the sake of posterity 
 than for any carnal satisfaction. With her I lived 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 public office? 
 Gl. I have a public employ. I might have happened to have got into 
 a higher post, but I chose this because it was credible enough to 
 secure me from contempt, and is free from troublesome attendance. 
 And it is siich that nobody 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 received from it ; this I 
 account to be more honourable than to borrow my dignity from the 
 splendour 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 is one of the most difficult 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 pompoxis felicity, but a 
 mediocrity is safe ; this was always my study, not to make any advan- 
 tage to myself from the disadvantages of other people. I embraced as 
 much as I could that which the Greeks call freedom from the encum- 
 brance 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 
 c ise 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,
 
 178 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 I affront no man, I carry a cheerful countenance to all, I salute and 
 re-salute affably, I find no fault with what any man purposes to do or 
 does. I do not prefer myself before other people, I let every one enjoy 
 his opinion ; what I would have kept as a secret I tell to nobody. I 
 never am curious to pry into the privacies of other men. If I happen 
 to come to the knowledge of anything, 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 wherever 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 1 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 wished that we might 
 have grown old together, and might have enjoyed 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 there- 
 fore did not think there was cause for me to afflict myself with grief, 
 that would do no good neither to me nor the deceased. Po. What, 
 had you never an inclination to marry again, especially the first having 
 been so happy a match to yoxi 1 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. Po. But it is 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 everything ; 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 anything. 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 
 anything falls out cross, I am not much perplexed. 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 o\it of my thoughts, whether it be from 
 the sense of an affront offered or anything done unhandsomely. Po. 
 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 to take care of, not to suffer any vexation, be it never so great, 
 to go to bed with me. Eu. No wonder that you do not grow old, 
 who are of that temper. Gl. Well, and that I may not conceal any- 
 thing from friends, in an especial manner I have kept this guard upon
 
 THE OLD MEN'S DIALOGUE. 179 
 
 myself, never to commit anything 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 reconciled myself to God. To be 
 at peace with God is the fountain of true tranquillity of mind, or as the 
 Greeks call it, ivOv/uia. For they who live thus, men can do them no 
 great injury. 
 
 Eu. Have you never any anxious thoughts upon the apprehen- 
 sion 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 cannot live happily that does not live piously. 
 Pa. But I should grow old with the tiresomeness of living so long in 
 the same place, though it were Rome itself. Gl. The changing of 
 place has indeed something of pleasure in it ; but then, as for long 
 travels, though 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 countryman, and having 
 recreated myself there, I return again to the city a new comer, and 
 salute and am welcomed as if I had returned from the new found 
 islands. Eu. Don't you assist nature with a little physic ? Gl. I 
 never was let blood, or took pills nor potions in my life yet. If I feel 
 any disorder coming tipon me, I drive it away with spare diet or the 
 countiy air. 
 
 Eu. Do yoti not 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 osten- 
 tation. After meat I have a collation of learned stories, or else some- 
 body 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 1 ? GL My sleep is not so sound nor my memory so good, 
 unless I fix anything 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 sxich trusty companions. Eu. You will tell it to those 
 that will not make a discourse of it. 
 
 Po. You veiy well know I indulged 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 1 ? 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 1 Po. He smelt
 
 180 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 threatening to discard me, I marched 
 oif, removed 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 anybody so little wit as to lend you ? Po. There 
 are some persons who will trust nobody more readily than they will a 
 spendthrift. Pa. And what next 1 
 
 Po. At last my father was going about to disinherit me in good 
 earnest. Some friends interposed 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 
 passed 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 eloped from some time before. 
 Eu. Bat 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. Are you not weary of wifeing 1 
 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 main- 
 tains 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 ninepence, 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 lived 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 
 will tell it you, 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 ancient 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 merchandising 
 was what I took to. Po. I admire this way of life pleased 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 merchandise seemed the most^apposite to
 
 THE OLD MEN'S DIALOGUE. 181 
 
 that purpose, from which a general knowledge of things proceeds* 
 Po. But a wretched one, which is often purchased with inconveniences. 
 Pa. It is so; therefore my father gave ine a good large stock, that J. 
 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 withoub 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 ran 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 
 cannot tell what sea it is 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 cannot 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 im- 
 placable 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. Though 
 what you say may be true, I lost my wife in the meantime. 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 consumed, my wife was lost, I was 
 everywhere called 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 choose, the 
 easier way of dying. Pa. Nay, sick as I was of life itself, I pitched 
 upon that which seemed to me the most painful. Gl. And yet many 
 people cast themselves into monasteries that they may live more 
 comfortable there. Pa. I 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 linen 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 sailed 
 into Scotland. Gl. What displeased you among them ? Pa. No- 
 thing, 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 passed in Scotland ? Pa. Then I changed my linen 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 seemed so to 
 me when I heard them singing. Gl. What ! do dead men sing ? 
 But how many months did you spend among the Scotch? Pa. Almost 
 six. GL A wonderful constancy ! Eu. What offended you there ? 
 Pa. Because it seemed 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] 
 
 L
 
 182 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Pa. Into France. There I found some clothed all in black, of the 
 order of St. Benedict, who intimate by the colour of their clothes that 
 they are mourners in this world; and among these there were some 
 that for their upper garment wore haircloth like a net. Gl. A 
 grievous mortification of the flesh. Pa. Here I stayed eleven months. 
 
 JEu. "What was the matter that you did not stay there for good 
 and all 1 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 enjoined a more severe discipline, the black 
 habit being changed into a white one. With these I lived ten months. 
 Eu. What disgusted you here ? Pa. I did not much dislike anything, 
 for I found them very good company ; but the Greek proverb ran in 
 my mind, Att TUQ "^eXwvag T? ipaytiv rj firi tyaytlv, 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 nobody 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 anything that could satisfy it. At last, as I was walking 
 up and down, I fell in among some cross-bearers. This badge pleased 
 me at first sight, but the variety hindered me from choosing which to 
 take to. Some carried a white cross, some a red cross, some a green 
 cross, some a particoloured 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 untried, 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 inquiry, 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 backload of sancti- 
 mony. Po. And did you go thither 1 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 inquired after that a great while ago. But you know the old 
 proverb, A man of art will live anywhere. Gl. What art do you 
 carry with you 1 Pa. Palmistry. Gl. Where did you learn it ? 
 Pa. What signifies that 1 Gl. Who was your master 1 Pa. My 
 belly, the great master of all arts. I foretold things past, present, and 
 to come. Gl. And did you know anything of the matter ? Pa. 
 Nothing at all, but I made bold guesses, and ran no risk neither, 
 having got my money first. Po. And was so ridiculous an art suffi- 
 cient to maintain you ? Pa. It was, and two servants too. There is 
 everywhere 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
 
 TEE OLD MEN'S DIALOGUE. 183 
 
 have died in peace unless he had first visited Jerusalem. Eu. What, 
 did he leave a wife at home 1 Pa. Yes, and six children. Eu. Oh, 
 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 entered into the 
 army. 
 
 Eu. What, then, did you look for religion in the camp, than 
 which what is there that there 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 1 
 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 lived harder here than I did 
 in the monasteries. Eu. And what did you do after this 1 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 meantime it came into my mind 
 that I might follow both together. Pa. What, be a merchant and a 
 monk both together 1 Pa. Why not ? There is nothing more 
 religious than the order 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 do not trade for gain. Pa. 
 Very often with better success than we do. 
 
 Eu. Which of these orders did you make choice of? Pa. I tried 
 them alL Eu. Did none of them please you 1 Pa. I liked them all 
 well enough, if I might but presently have" gone to trading; but I con- 
 sidered 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 returned home, 
 and by my mother's advice I married, and betook myself to my old 
 business of traffic. Gl. Prithee, tell me when you changed your 
 habit so often, and were transformed, as it were, into another sort of 
 creature, how could you behave yourself with a proper decorum 1 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 tried 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 of it. 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 returned to my own country, I took a year to 
 deliberate what way of living to choose, and examined myself, to what 
 employment my inclination led me, and I was fit for. In the mean-
 
 184 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 reputa- 
 tion 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 though they 
 dropped out of heaven; handsome houses well furnished, 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 scandalised 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 
 do not 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 lived in 1 Eu. 
 Always, except four years that I lived at Padua. Pa. What did you 
 do there ? Eu. These years I divided in this manner I studied 
 physic 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 (upon occasion) according to my talent. And under these 
 circumstances I have led a very quiet life, being content with a single 
 benefice, not being ambitioiisly desirous of any more, and should have 
 refused it if it had been offered me. Pa. I wish we could learn how 
 the rest of our old companions have lived, that were our familiars. 
 Eu. I can tell you somewhat of some of them; biit 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. 
 
 Hu. [a waggoner.] You blinking fellow, where did you take up this 
 rubbish 1 Ha. [the waggoner.] Where are you carrying that harlotry, 
 you pimp 1 Hu. You ought to throw these frigid old fellows somewhere 
 into a bed of nettles to make them grow warm again. Ha. Do you see 
 that yoxi shoot that herd of yours somewhere into a pond to cool them, 
 to lay their concupiscence, for they are too hot. Hu. I am not used 
 to overturn my passengers. Ha. No; but I saw you a little while 
 ago overturn half a dozen Carthusians into the mire, so that though 
 they went in white they came out black, and you stood grinning at it, 
 as if you had done some noble exploit. Hu. I was in the right of it : 
 they were all asleep, and added a dead weight to my waggon. Ha* 
 But these old gentlemen, by talking merrily all the way, have made 
 my waggon go light. I never had a better fare. Hu. But you do 
 not use to like such passengers. Ha. But these are good old men. 
 Hu. How do you know that 1 ? Ha. Because they made me drink 
 humming ale three times by the way. Hu. Ha, ha, ha; then they are 
 good to you. 
 
 THE FRANCISCANS; OR, RICH BEGGARS. 
 
 Conrade, a Bemardine Monk, a Parson, an Innkeeper and his wife. 
 
 Con. Hospitality becomes a pastor. Par. But I am a pastor of 
 sheep; I do not love wolves. Con. But perhaps you do not hate a 
 wench so much. But what harm have we done you that you have
 
 THE FRANCISCANS; OB, RICH BEGGARS. 185 
 
 such an aversion to xis, that you -will not so much as admit us under 
 your roof? We will not put you to the charge of a supper. Par. I 
 will tell you, because if you spy but a hen or a chicken in a person's 
 house, I should be sure to hear of it to-morrow in the pulpit. This is 
 the gratitude you shew for your being entertained. Con. We are 
 not all such blabs. Par. Well, be what you will, I would 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. Par. 
 There is a public inn here in the town. Con. What sign has it 1 
 Par. 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 is an unlucky sign. Par. You 
 may even make your best of it. 
 
 Con. What sort of a pastor is this? we might be starved for him. 
 Ber. If he feeds his sheep no better than he feeds us, they must needs 
 be very lean. In a difficult case we had need of good counsel. What 
 shall we do ? Con. We must set a good face on it. Ber. There is 
 little to be got by modesty in a case of necessity. Con. Very right, 
 St. Francis will be with us. Ber. Let us try our fortune then. 
 Con. We will not stay for our host's answer at the door, but we will 
 rush directly into the stove, and we will not easily be got out again. 
 Ber. Oh, impudent trick ! Con. This is better than to lie abroad all 
 night and be frozen to death. In the meantime 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 do 
 not know what delight God may take in such servants; but I would 
 not have many of them in my house. Con. Why so 1 Innk. Be- 
 cause 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 
 used to tell us in the pulpit that he was a pure bachelor, 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 it is 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 will observe you too that you do not do me 
 any damage, for I have a mortal aversion for this sort of cattle. Con. 
 Why so, I pray 1 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 yoxi labour for me ? 
 Con. Do, shew us. Innk. Look upon that picture there, just by you; 
 on your left hand there you will see a wolf preaching, and behind him. 
 a goose thrusting her head out of a cowl. There, again, you will 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 do not deny but sometimes wolves, foxes, and 
 apes are clothed with this habit; nay, we confess oftentimes that swine,
 
 186 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 dogs, horses, lions, and basilisks are concealed under it; but then the 
 same garment covers many honest men. As a garment makes nobody 
 better, so it makes nobody worse. It is unjust to judge a man by his 
 clothes; for if so, the garment that you wear sometimes were to be 
 accounted detestable, because it covers many thieves, murderers, con- 
 jurers, and whoremasters. 
 
 Innk. Well, I will dispense with your habit, if you will but pay your 
 reckonings. Con. "We will pray to God for you. Innk. And I will 
 pray to God for you, and there is one for the 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. Btit 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 ate while your able, 
 Rise not hence before you have first paid your score. 
 
 Con. We will 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 will not keep my family. Con. We will hide ourselves in some 
 corner of the stove, and will not be troublesome to anybody. Innk. 
 My stove will not hold such company. Con. What, will you thrust us 
 out of doors then 1 It may be we shall be devoured by wolves to-night. 
 Innk. Neither wolves nor hogs 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 corpus, and lie naked in a warm bed behind the stove, and 
 will you thrust us out of doors to be perished with cold, if the wolves 
 should not devour us ? Innk. Adam lived 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 wilt thrive the better for it. Innk. Here is a 
 reconciler for you. I am afraid you are agreed upon the matter. I 
 do not very well like to hear this good character from a woman, good 
 men. Wife. Phoo, there is nothing it. But think with yourself how 
 often you have offended God with dicing, drinking, brawling, quarrel- 
 ling. At least, make an atonement for your sins by this act of charity, 
 and do not thrust these men out of doors whom you would wish to be 
 with you when you are upon your deathbed. 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
 
 THE FRANCISCANS; OR, RICH BEGGARS. 187 
 
 been sent packing if they had. Bert. It fell out very happily that we 
 brought a flagon 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 
 us take part of the table with them, but so that we do not incommode 
 anybody. 
 
 Innk. I believe I may put it to yoxir 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 to our score, if it has not happened to you often. 
 Innk. Oftener than I would have it so. Con. Well, do not be uneasy ; 
 Christ lives, and He will never forsake his servants. Innk. I have 
 heard you are called evangelical men ; but the gospel forbids carrying 
 about satchels and bread, but I see you have great sleeves for wallets, 
 and you do not 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. Oh happy beggars ! my wife has dressed 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 do not you carry with you coleworts and dead wine ? Con. Be- 
 cause the people where we dined 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 1 Con. From Basil. 
 Innk. Whoo ! what, so far 1 ? 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 1 Con. Nothing less. Innk. How do you live then 1 
 Con. By Him who hath promised. Innk. Who is he 1 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 healed the sick, so that it is no wonder how they 
 lived everywhere, but you can do. no such thing, Con. We could, if 
 we were like the apostles, and if the matter required a miracle. But 
 miracles were only given for a time for the conviction of the unbeliev- 
 ing; there is no need of anything 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 anywhere find pastors that are 
 dumb. And if we find no opportunity of doing good, we take care to 
 do nobody 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. To St. Antony. He was indeed a good man. But how 
 came he to have'a holy-day ] Innk. I will tell you. This town abounds 
 with swineherds, by reason of a large wood hard by that produces plenty 
 of acorns, and the people have an opinion that St. Antony takes charge
 
 188 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 of the hogs, and therefore they worship him, for fear he should grow 
 angry if they neglect him. i Con. I wish they would worship him as 
 they ought to do. Innk. How is that? Con. Whosoever imitates 
 the saints in their lives worships as he oxight 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 
 &t. 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 1 
 Innk. What he is to other people I do not k-now, but he is a very 
 good one to me, for he drinks all day at my house, and nobody 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 1 
 Con. We entreated him to let us lodge with him, but he chased 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 is nobody 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 will 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 will undertake he will, but \ipon this condition, 
 that you do not have any flirts at him, as it is a common practice for 
 you to do. Con. They have used themselves to an ill custom that do 
 so. If a pastor offends in anything 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 is the meaning 
 of this variety of habits, for a great many people take you to be ill 
 men by your dress ? Con. Why so 1 Innk. I cannot 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 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 1 Con. What is 
 your opinion 1 Innk. Why, I see no advantage at all, except in pro- 
 cessions 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 con- 
 sidered. Innk. What are they? Con. Necessity, use, and decency.
 
 THE FRANCISCANS; OR, RICH BEGGARS. 189 
 
 Why do we eat ? Innk. That we may not be starved with hunger. 
 Con. And for the very same reason we take a garment that we may 
 not be starved 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 hoi'seman, 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 clothes three times a day : in the 
 morning they take a coat lined with fur, about noon they take a single 
 one, and towards night one that is a little thicker ; but every one is 
 not furnished with this variety; therefore this garment of ours is con- 
 trived so that this one will serve for various uses. Innk. How is 
 that 1 Con. If the north wind blow 7 , 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 
 contrived 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 iis consider the decency of it. Pray, tell me honestly 
 if you should put on your wife's clothes, would not every one say that 
 you acted indecently 1 ? Innk. They would say I was mad. Con. 
 And what would you say if she should put on your clothes ? Innk. I 
 should not say much, perhaps, but I should cudgel her handsomely. 
 Con. But then, how does it signify nothing what garment any one 
 wears 1 Innk. Oh, 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 clothes 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 banged for it 1 Or if an old woman should attire herself 
 like a young girl, and the contrary ? Innk. No doubt. Con. In like 
 manner, if a layman should wear a priest's habit, and a priest a layman's. 
 Innk. They would both Tict unbecomingly. Con. What if a private 
 man should put on the habit of a prince, or an inferior clergyman that 
 of a bishop 2 Would he act unhandsomely or no 1 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 laughed at. Con. What if an English 
 ensign should carry a white cross in his colours, a Swiss a red one, a 
 Frenchman a black one 1 Innk. He would act imprudently. 
 
 Con. Why then do you wonder so much at our habit 1 ? Innk. I 
 know the difference between a private man and a prince, between a 
 man and a woman ; but I do not understand the difference between a 
 monk and no monk. Con. What difference is there between a poor 
 man and a rich man 1 Innk. Fortiine. Con. And yet it would be 
 unbecoming a poor man to imitate a rich man in his dress 1 Innk. 
 Very true, as rich men go now a-days. Con. What difference is there 
 between a fool and a wise man 1 Innk. Something more than there is
 
 190 -FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 between a rich man and a poor man. Con. Are not fools dressed up 
 in a different manner from wise men ? Innk. I cannot 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 do not 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 lined with furs, hoods, and other ensigns of 
 wise men ; therefore it seems a ridiculous thing to me to make a show 
 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 
 publicly with a show 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 1 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 nobody might hurt them if they say or do any- 
 thing that is foolish. Innk. But, on the contrary, I will not say that 
 their dress does rather provoke some people to do them hurt, insomuch 
 that oftentimes of fools they become madmen. 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 punished, 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 tailor, 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 1 If you are laymen, why do you differ from us ? 
 
 Con. In ancient 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 bestowed honours upon us, and we 
 ourselves gave some reputation to the habit, which now is neither 
 simply laic nor 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 1 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 worn clothes 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
 
 THE FRANCISCANS; OR, RICH BEGGARS. 191 
 
 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 1 Innk. It is not many days ago since some travellers 
 lodged at my house, who said that they had travelled through diverse 
 countries lately discovered, which are wanting in the ancient maps. 
 They said they came to an island of a very temperate air, where they 
 looked upon it as the greatest indecency in the world to cover their 
 bodies. Con. It may be they lived like beasts. Innk. Nay, they 
 said they lived a life of great humanity they lived 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 plucked up a certain 
 sort of roots, that serves them instead of bread, and is more pleasant 
 and more wholesome than bread ; and when this was done they every 
 one went to his business, what they had a mind to do. They bring up 
 their children religiously, they avoid and punish vices, but none more 
 severely than adultery. Con. What is 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 public 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 clothes, and sew a piece of a wolfs skin 
 upon his buttocks, to make him wear a particoloured pair of stockings, 
 and to cut the forepart 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 
 a cap on his head, cut and slashed with a huge plume of feathers, 
 and so expose him publicly woxild not this make him more ridiculous 
 than to put on him 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 
 madman 1 ? 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 1 And yet some cardinals are not ashamed 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 obtained. 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
 
 192 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 1 Innk. I 
 cannot tell. Do you tell me that. Con. Because an invincible 
 custom hindered it ; for whatsoever is deeply rooted in the minds of 
 men, and has been confirmed by long use, and is turned as it were into 
 nature, can never be removed on a sudden without endangering the 
 public peace; but must be removed by degrees, as a horse's tail is 
 plucked 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 1 Con. Custom 
 has brought in this evil which brings in everything. 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. 
 Do not 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 relics of ancient 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 
 mere dreams. Innk. Some despair of being able to recover from a fit 
 of sickness unless they be wrapped up in a Dominican's habit ; nay, nor 
 will not 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 outdo it. Innk. 
 I wish you would outdo 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 Saracen 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 1 Innk. I believe 
 it. Con. And from thence also came our variety. Dominic, he took 
 his dress from the honest ploughmen in that part of Spain in which he 
 lived, and Benedict from the country fellows of that part of Italy in 
 which he lived, 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 1 Con. Yes, good man, see that you 
 hold it fast. Ask your godfathers what you promised in baptism, what 
 profession you then made. Do you want a human rule who have
 
 THE ABBOT AND THE LEARNED WOMAN. 193 
 
 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 innkeepers go to heaven 
 Can. Why not 1 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 alf, I cannot 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. Some- 
 times I do not 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 is a smaller fault than selling of wine made 
 up with unwholesome 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 a hundred; you have but one father, 
 we have a hundred ; you have but one house, we have a 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 
 truth, you have been a good companion for me ; let me die if I do 
 not like this discourse better than to drink with our parson. Do 
 us the honour to pi-each to the people to-morrow, and if ever you 
 happen to come this way again, know that here is 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 will tell you in a few words, but in your ear. Innk. Tell me. 
 Con. Innk. I will remember it, and do it.j 
 
 THE ABBOT AND THE LEARNED 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 Antronius, Magdada. 
 
 Ant. What sort of household stuff do I see ? Mag. Is it not that 
 which is neat ? Ant. How neat it is, I cannot tell, but I am sure it is 
 not very becoming either a maid or a matron. Mag. Why so? Ant. 
 Because here are books lying about everywhere. Mag. What, have 
 you lived 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
 
 194 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 anybody live a 
 pleasant life that does not live a good life? Ant. Nay, rather how 
 can anybody live a pleasant life that does not live a good life 1 Mag. 
 Why, then, do you approve of living illy, if it be but pleasantly ? Ant. 
 I am of the opinion that they live , 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-skulled 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 that you call by the 
 name of wisdom 1 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 read- 
 ing a good author than you do in hunting, drinking, or gaming, will not 
 you think I live pleasantly ? Ant. I would not live that sort of life. 
 Mag. I do not inquire 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 cannot tell what they teach, but I 
 cannot 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. 
 A nt. I have not leisure. Mag. Why so ? Ant. Because I have not time. 
 Mag. What, not at leisure to be wise ? Ant. No. Mag. Pray what 
 hinders you? Ant. Long prayers, the affairs of my household, hunt- 
 ing, 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 them- 
 selves. Ant. You seem to be a sophistress, you argue so smartly. 
 Mag. I will not tell you what you seem to me to be. But why does this 
 household 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
 
 THE ABBOT AND THE LEARNED WOMAN. 195 
 
 of her family, and to instruct her children 1 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 looked 
 after all this while. Ant. I could dispense with books, but I cannot 
 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 stuffed 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 do not understand Latin. Mag. Nay, there is the 
 least danger from that quarter, according to your way of working, 
 because you take all the pains you can not to know anything 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 followed ? What have I to do with custom, that is 
 the mistress of all evil practices 1 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 1 
 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. A nt.- 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 is 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 got 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
 
 196 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 the most pi'ecious 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 herself to be wise, and 
 that is being twice a fool. Ant. I cannot well tell how it is, that as 
 panniers do not become an ox, so neither does learning become a woman. 
 Mag. But, I suppose, you cannot 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 1 Ant. Of the order of Benedictines. Mag. 
 Indeed ! What did Paula and Eustochium do ? Did not they con- 
 verse with the Holy Scriptures ? Ant. Ay, but this is a rare thing 
 now. Mag. So was a blockheaded abbot in old times ; 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 vie with the men, and there are the 
 Morites in England, and the Bilibald-duks and B]aureticks 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 will endure 
 you, a parcel of dumb teachers. You see the world is turned upside 
 down, and you must either lay aside your dress or perform your part. 
 Ant. How came I to fall into this woman's company 1 If you will 
 come to see me, I will treat you more pleasantly. Mag. After what 
 manner? Ant. Why, we will dance and drink heartily, and hunt, 
 and play, and laugh. Mag. I can hardly forbear laughing now. 
 
 THE EPITHALAMIUM OF PETER 
 sEGIDIUS. 
 
 Alipius, Balbinus, Musce. 
 
 Al. Good God ! what strange glorious sight do I see here ? Ba. 
 Either you see what is not to be seen, or I cannot see that which is to 
 be seen. Al. Nay, I will assure you, it is a wonderful charming 
 sight. Ba. Why do you plague me at this rate 1 Tell me where it 
 is 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 cannot see a bit of a 
 maid anywhere. Al. Hush, they are just now coming out of the 
 grove. Oh, admirable ! how neat they are ! how charming they look ! 
 It is a heavenly sight. Ba. What! are you possessed? Al. Oh, I 
 know who they are ! they are the nine Muses and the three Graces ; 
 I wonder what they are doing. I never in all my life saw them more
 
 THE EPITHALAMIUM OF PETER JEGIDIUS. 197 
 
 charmingly dressed, nor in a gayer humcmr ; they have every one of 
 them got crowns of laurel upon their heads, and their instruments of 
 music in their hands. And how lovingly the Graces go side by side ? 
 How becoming they look in their loose dress, with their garments 
 flowing and trailing after them. 
 
 Ba. I never heard anybody talk more like a madman in all my 
 days than you do. Al. You never saw a happier man in all your 
 lifetime. Ba. Pray, what is the matter that you can see and 1 1 annot ? 
 Al. Because you have never drank of the Muses' fountain; and 
 nobody can see them 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 cannot you do something to 
 make me see this sight as well as you 1 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 1 ? That 
 is clever, I vow. Ba. But prithee, sprinkle me with it. A I. Now 
 look, do you see now 1 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 cannot 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, do not plague yourself about it, perhaps it is better for 
 you not to see it, lest you should come off as ill by seeing the Muses as 
 Actseon did by seeing Diana. For you would perhaps be in danger of 
 being turned either into a hedgehog, or a wild boar, a swine, a camel, 
 a frog, or a jackdaw. But, however, if you cannot see, I will make 
 you hear them, if you don't make a noise; they are just coming this 
 way. Let us meet them. 
 
 Hail, most welcome goddesses ! Mu. And you heartily, lover of 
 the Muses. Al. What makes you pull me so? Ba. You are not as 
 good as your word. Al. Why, do not you hear them ? Ba. I hear 
 somewhat, but I don't know what it is. Al. Well, I will speak 
 Latin to them 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 will not 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 will 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 
 anywhere else. Al. May not a person know who it will be that shall 
 do so much honour to our country 1 Mu. You may know it, that are 
 one of our priests ? There is no doubt but you have heard the name 
 of the Bulslidians, famous all the world over. Al. You have men- 
 tioned a noble family truly, born to grace the palaces of the greatest 
 princes in the universe. For who does not revere the great Francis 
 Bulslidius, the bishop of the church of Beza^on, who has approved him- 
 self moi-e 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? 
 
 M
 
 198 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Mu. Oh, how happy had we been if the fates had not envied 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 accomplished 
 with all manner of literature, and adorned with every kind of virtue. 
 Mu. But the destinies will not suffer him to be long-lived neither, 
 though no man in the world better deserves to be immortalised. A I. 
 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 bxiilding of a 
 college at Louvain, in which most learned men shall profess and teach 
 publicly and gratis the three languages. These things will bring a 
 great ornament to learning, and glory to Charles himself. Then we 
 will reside at Louvain with all our hearts, 
 
 AL But whither are you going now? Mu. To Antwerp. AL 
 What, the Muses and the 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. It is 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 to be ashamed to be at : nay, more 
 than that, we believe she will be at it. AL May not a person know 
 the bride and bridegroom's name ? Mu. We believe you must needs 
 know, that most courteous and accomplished youth in all kinds of 
 polite learning, Peter ^Egidius. AL You have named an angel, not 
 a man. Mu. The pretty maid Cornelia, a fit match for Apollo him- 
 self, is going to be married to ^Egidius. AL Indeed, he has been a 
 great admirer of you, even from his infancy. Mu. We are going to 
 sing him an epithalamixim. 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 them. She shall never 
 hear anything 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. 
 
 A I. I should wonder 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 changed into quite the 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 called 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 will not be there ; she is a scolding goddess, and is 
 but seldom in a good humour with her own Jove, Nor, indeed, that
 
 19S 
 
 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 them, 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, ho\v bright she is J 
 How majestic and beautiful she appears ! The other Yenus compared 
 with this is a homely one. Mu. Do you see what modest Cupids 
 there are? They are no blind ones, such as that Yenus has that 
 makes mankind mad. But these are sharp little rogues, and they do 
 not carry furious torches, but most gentle fires; they have no leaden- 
 pointed darts, to make the beloved hate the lover, and torment poor 
 wretches with the want of a reciprocal affection. Al. In truth, they are 
 as like their mother as can be. Oh, that is a blessed house, and dearly 
 beloved by the gods ! But may not a person hear the marriage song 
 that you design to present them with] Mu. Nay, we were just 
 going to ask you to hear it. 
 
 CKo. 
 
 Peter hath married fair Cornelia, 
 Propitious Heaven, bless the wedding-day. 
 
 Melpomene. 
 
 Concord of turtle-doves between them be, 
 And of the jackdaw 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's 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 Plancius, who did disdain 
 To outlive his deceased 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.
 
 200 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Polyhymnia. 
 
 May their offspring like them be, 
 Their honour equal their estate; 
 Always from rancorous envy free, 
 Deserved glory on them wait. 
 
 Al. I should very much envy Peter ^Egidius so much happiness, 
 but that he is a man of such candour that he himself envies nobody. 
 Mu. It is now high time for us to prosecute our journey. Al. Have 
 you any service to command me at Louvain 1 Mu. That thou wouldst 
 recommend us to all our sincere loving friends ; but especially to our 
 ancient admirers, John Paludus, Jodocus Gaverius, Martin Dorpius, 
 and John Borsalus. Al. Well, I will be sure to take care to do your 
 message. What shall I say to the rest*? Mu. I will tell you in 
 your ear. A I. Well, it is a matter that will not cost very much, it 
 shall certainly be done out of hand. 
 
 THE APPARITION. 
 
 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 will you not impart it to your com- 
 panion, what good thing soever it is 1 Ans. Yes, I will, for I have 
 been wishing a good while for somebody to communicate my merri- 
 ment to. Tho. Come on then, let us have it. Ans. I was just now 
 told the pleasantest story, which you would swear was a sham if I did 
 not know the place, the persons, and whole matter as well as you know 
 me. Tho. I am with child to hear it. 
 
 Ans. Do you know Polus, Faunus's son-in-law ? Tho. Perfectly 
 well. Ans. He is 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 is 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 walked near that bridge, and 
 of hideous bowlings 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 1 Ans. Who but Polus, that 
 made this the prologue to his comedy. Tho. What did he mean by 
 inventing such a flam 1 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 s\ich fictions as these. 
 
 1 will 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
 
 THE APPARITION. 201 
 
 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 composed his countenance to an air of amaze- 
 ment, 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 urged 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, Do you not see, 
 says he, that monstrous dragon armed with fiery horns, and its tail 
 turned up in a circle 1 ? 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 ashamed that they could not see what was so plain to be seen. 
 And in short, in three days' time the rumour of this portentous appa- 
 rition 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 con- 
 triver 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 meantime 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 perceived that Faunus had not only heard of the report, 
 but believed it, he began to entreat 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 o'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 1 
 
 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 bowlings. 
 Polus having hid himself in a bramble hedge hard by, had very art- 
 fully 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, outdoes Menander's Phasma. 
 Ans. You will 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 passed, 
 and added something of his own to it, to make the matter more 
 wonderful. Tho. Could Polus keep his countenance in the meantime ? 
 Ans. He kept his countenance ! He has his countenance in his hand ; 
 you would have said that a serious affair was transacted.
 
 202 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 In the end Faunus, upon the pressing importunity of Polus, 
 xindertakes 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 
 X>nes 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 performed 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 called it), upon which hung the beginning of 
 the Gospel of St. 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 called 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 discovered, he got a 
 parish priest thereabout, whom he acquainted beforehand 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 o'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 is 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, inquires what was done. 
 Faunus tells him that two hideous Cacodemons appeared to him on black 
 horses, their eyes sparkling with fire, and breathing fire out of their 
 nostrils, making an attempt to break into the circlej 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 provoked 
 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 outrageous noise, making a feint as if they would break 
 into the circle. Tho. Had they no fire then? Ans. No, none at
 
 THE APPARITION. 203 
 
 all; for that had liked to have fallen out very unluckily to them. 
 But hear another device: they threw 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 
 bad for playing his part ? Ana. 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 courageously he 
 had driven both the evil spirits away with his charms, and now he had 
 arrived at a firm persuasion that there was no demon, 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 
 advanced, Polus's son-in-law comes in very good time, for he had 
 married Polus's eldest daughter; he is 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 1 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 shroud, and carrying a live coal 
 in a shell, it appeared through his shroud as if something were burn- 
 ing. About night he goes to the place where this play was acted ; 
 there were heard most doleful moans. Faunus lets fly all his exor- 
 cisms. 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, dressed 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 adjured, he answers, 
 that he was the soul of a Christian man, and being asked his name, he 
 answered Faunus. Faunus ! replies the other, that is my name. So 
 then they being namesakes, 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 coune again the next clay 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 though 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 ridi- 
 culous passage in the next exorcism. Tho. Prithee, what was that ?
 
 204 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Ans. When Faunus had called up the ghost, Polus, that acted the 
 devil, leaped directly at him, as if he would, without any more to do, 
 break into the circle ; and Faunus he resisted stoutly with his exor- 
 cisms, 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 though he had told 
 Polus 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 conjectui-ed 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 1 
 
 Ans. Now Faunus more courageously advances to the very edge 
 of the circle and challenges the devil of his own accord ; but the 
 devil's heai't 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 confessed 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 1 It answered it might, if the money 
 that it had left behind, being got 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 replied, That might do. 
 The exorcist was rejoiced at this ; he inquires particularly what sum 
 there was of it 1 The spirit replied 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 ordered 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 pleased. Now Faunus' s 
 mind was fixed upon the treasure ; he had, in a manner, swallowed it 
 in his mind. Tho. That is a common disease, but more peculiarly 
 thrown in the priest's 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 alchemy and magic. 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
 
 THE APPARITION. 205 
 
 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 talked 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 everywhere proclaiming his folly ; though 
 he was privately cautioned by his friends, and especially his abbot, that 
 he who had hithei-to 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 possessed 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 hammered out this piece 
 betwixt them. They counterfeited an epistle written in a strange 
 antique character, and not upon common paper, but such as goldbeaters 
 put their leaf-gold in, a reddish paper, you know. The form of the 
 epistle was thus : 
 
 . 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 comest to us I will give thee 
 public thanks. In the meantime 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.
 
 206 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 THE ALCHEMIST. 
 
 Philecous, Lalus* 
 
 Ph. What news is here that Lalus laughs to himself so that lie 
 even giggles again, every now and then signing himself with the sign 
 of the cross ? I will 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 con- 
 ceitedness. Ph> Prithee, then, make me happy as soon as you can. 
 La. Do you know Balbinus ? Ph. 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 bewitched with the art called alchemy* Ph. 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 suffered himself to be imposed upon again. 
 Ph. 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 engaged in the most sacred studies. 
 Balbinus gave him a nod, as was his custom, for he is wonderfully 
 sparing of his words. PA. That is 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 cannot 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, 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. Ph. You are rather drawing an orator than 
 an alchemist. La. You shall hear the alchemist by and by. 
 
 This happiness, says he, I have had from a child, to have learned 
 that most desirable art, I mean alchemy, the very marrow of universal 
 philosophy. At the very mention of the name alchemy, Balbinus 
 raised 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 called the longation, and 
 the other which is called 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
 
 'THE ALCHEMIST. 207 
 
 pity on me, arid 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 obliged 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 : Although sir, says he, I know I speak 
 to a person that is better skilled than" my self, 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 un- 
 happy, that I have laboured in that way that does not suit my genius, 
 nor could I yet find out anybody 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 cleai-ed himself from all suspicion of a design, 
 and had gained credit that he understood one way perfectly well, Bal- 
 binus' 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 understand- 
 ing it. Tell me sincerely, do you thoroughly understand longation? 
 Phoo ! says he, perfectly well ; but I do not love the tediousness of 
 it. Then Balbinus asked him how much time it would take up? 
 Too much, says he, almost a whole year ; but in the meantime 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 impostor 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 alchemist lavishes away on whores, 
 gaming, and drinking. Ph. 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 is well begun 
 is half done? It is a great matter to have the materials well prepared. 
 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 with- 
 out a bait, so alchemists must cast gold in before they can fetch gold 
 out. In the meantime Balbinus was busy in his accounts, for he 
 reckoned thus, if one ounce made fifteen, what would be the product of
 
 208 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 two thousand; for that was the sum that he determined to spend. 
 When the alchemist had spent this money and two months' time, 
 pretending to be wonderfully busy about the bellows and the coals, 
 Balbinus inquired of him whether the business went forward 1 ? 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 entering 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 chemist 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 leather he was to give it over, just as it is 
 with gamesters, as if it were not better to lose some than all. La. 
 Very true. Ph. The chemist 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 seemed 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, 
 though 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 missed going to chapel or 
 saying the horary prayers, for nothing would succeed if these were 
 omitted. Says the impostor, 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 failed this extravagant operator,
 
 TEE ALCHEMIST. 209 
 
 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 frightened 
 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 got an inkling of what we have been about, 
 and I expect nothing else but to be carried to gaol immediately. Bal- 
 binus at the hearing of this tm-ned pale as ashes; for you know it is 
 capital with us for any man to practise alchemy without a licence 
 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 replied, I shall be 
 carried away into some castle, and there be forced 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 
 \inderstood the art of rhetoric, casts his thoughts every way if this mis- 
 chief could be prevented any way. Cannot you deny the crime, says he 1 ? 
 By no means, says the other, the matter is known among the courtiei-s, 
 and they have such proof of it that it cannot be evaded, and there is 
 no defending of the fact, for the law is point blank against it. Many 
 things having been proposed, but coming to no conclusion that seemed 
 feasible, says the alchemist 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 alchemist, 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 bribed 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. 
 
 Ph. Balbinus was wonderfully liberal, as you tell the story. La. 
 Nay, in an honest cause you would sooner have got his teeth out of 
 his head than money. Well, then, the alchemist was provided for, who 
 was in no danger, but that of wanting money for his wench. Ph. I 
 wonder Balbinus could not smoke the roguery all this while. La. 
 This is the only thing that he is soft in; he is as sharp as a needle in 
 anything 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 expense 
 and labour were lost. In the meantime there fell out one most 
 ridiculous chance. Ph. What was that 1 La. The alchemist had a 
 criminal correspondence with a certain courtier's lady. The husband, 
 beginning to be jealous, watched him narrowly, and in the conclusion, 
 having intelligence that the priest was in the bedchamber, he comes 
 home before he was looked for, knocks at the door. Ph. What did 
 he design to do to him ? La. What ! Why nothing very good, either
 
 210 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 kill him or geld him. When the husband, being very pressing to come, 
 threatened 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 pulled 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 chemist guessed it would be so. Ph. There 
 was no getting off of this business. ia.-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 
 chemist 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; there- 
 fore he on purpose begins a talk about the success of their business, 
 complaining that it had not succeeded as it used 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 counte- 
 nance, says, O Balbinus ! what you have said is very true, it is sin, it 
 is sin that has been the hindrance ; but my sins, not yours ; for I am 
 not ashamed 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, oh ! 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 
 perished 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. Ph. Well, and did Balbinus believe all this ? 
 La. Believe it, yes, and pardoned him too, and admonished 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. 
 
 Ph. Well, what was the end of all this 1 La. The story is very 
 long, but I will cut it short. When he had played upon Balbinus 
 long enough with these inventions and wheedled him out of a consider- 
 able sum of money, a certain gentleman happened 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 everywhere, 
 admonishes Balbinus privately, and acquainted him what sort of 
 a fellow he harboured, 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. Ph. Well, what did Balbinus dq
 
 THE HORSE-CHEAT. 211 
 
 then ? Sure he took care to have him sent to gaol 1 La. To gaol ! 
 Nay, he gave him money to bear his charges, and conjured 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 impostor 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 charged him with theft his 
 ordination woiild have saved him from the gallows, and nobody would 
 have been at the charge of maintaining such a fellow in prison. Ph. 
 I should pity Balbinus, but that he .took pleasure in being gulled. 
 La. I must now make haste to the hall. At another time I will tell 
 you stories more ridiculous than this. Ph. When you shall be at 
 leisure I shall be glad to hear them, and I will give you story for story. 
 
 THE HORSE-CHEAT. 
 
 Aulus, Phcedrus. 
 
 Au. Good God ! what a grave countenance our Phsedrus has put 
 on, gaping ever and anon into the air. I will attack him. Phaedrus, 
 what news to-day 1 Ph. Why do you ask me that question, Aulus ? 
 Au. Because of a Phsedrus you seem to have become a Cato, there is 
 so much sourness in your countenance. Ph. That is no wonder, my 
 friend, I am just come from confession. Au. Nay, then my wonder is 
 over; but tell me upon your honest word did you confess all '? Ph. All 
 that I could remember but one. Au. And why did you reserve that 
 one 1 Ph. Because I cannot be out of love with it. . Au. It must needs 
 be some pleasant sin. Ph. I cannot tell whether it is a sin or no; but 
 if you are at leisure you shall hear what it is. Au. I would be glad 
 to hear it, with all my heart. Ph. You know what cheating tricks 
 are played by our jockeys, who sell and let out horses. Au. 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 them, 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 anything he would be so now. He promised me that 
 he would use me as kindly as if I were his own dear brother. Au. It 
 may be he would have cheated his brother. Ph. He leads me into the 
 stable, and bids me choose which I would out of them all. At last I 
 pitched upon one that I liked 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 fora 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 rode him an hour and a half, I perceived he was downright 
 tired, nor could I by spurring him get him any farther. I had heard
 
 212 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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. 
 
 Au. But what did you do in this case, being a horseman without a 
 horse ? Ph. I did what I was obliged to do. I turned 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 returned my hired horse, and finding my own in very good case and 
 thoroughly rested, I mounted his back and rode back to the horse- 
 courser, desiring him to set hin> up for a few days till I called for him 
 again. He asked me how well he carried me. I swore by all that was 
 good that I never bestrid a better nag in my life, that he flew rather 
 than walked, nor never tired 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 asked 
 me if I would sell the horse. I refused 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 value nothing so nmch but I would sell it, if 
 I could have a good price for it, although anybody had a mind to buy 
 myself. Au. 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 asked 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 liked 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 will be frightened 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 ostler 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 spurred, 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 is true, said I, but 
 this business has happened unexpectedly, and it is the king's business,
 
 THE BEGGARS' DIALOGUE. 213 
 
 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 asked him why 
 so 1 Because, says he, he is sold. Then I pretended to be in a great 
 passion: God forbid, says I; as this journey has happened, I would not 
 sell him if any man would offer me four times his price. I fell to 
 wrangling, and cry out I am ruined. 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 
 cannot 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 com- 
 puted with himself, I had better make that profit of him than restore 
 the horse. I go away, as if I was vexed in my mind, and scarcely 
 pacified, though 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 nobody 
 came, nor ever will come. Au. But in the meantime, did he never 
 expostulate the matter with you? Ph. With what face or colour 
 could he do that 1 I have met him over and over since, and he com- 
 plained of the unfairness of the buyer. But I often reasoned the 
 matter with him, and told him he deserved to be so served, who by 
 his hasty sale of him had deprived me of my horse. This was a fraud 
 so well placed, in my opinion, that I could not find it in my heart to 
 confess it as a fault. Au. If I had done such a thing, I should have 
 been so far from confessing it as a fault, that I should have required a 
 statue for it. Ph. I cannot tell whether you speak as yoxi think or 
 not, but you set me agog, however, to be paying more of these fellows 
 
 in their own coin. 
 
 
 
 THE BEGGARS' DIALOGUE. 
 
 Irides, Misoponus. 
 
 Ir. What new sort of bird is this I see flying here 1 I know the 
 face, but the clothes don't suit it. If I am not quite mistaken, this 
 is Misoponus. I will venture to speak to him, as ragged as I am. 
 God save you, Misoponus. Mis. Hold your tongue, I say. Ir. What 
 is the matter ; may not a person salute you 1 Mis. Not by that name. 
 Ir. Why, what has happened to you 1 Are you not the same man 
 that you were 1 What, have you changed your name with your clothes? 
 Mis. No, but I have taken up my old name again. Ir. Who was you, 
 then 1 Mis. Apitius. Ir. Never be ashamed of your old acquaint- 
 ance, if anything of a better fortune has happened to you. It is not 
 long since you belonged to our order. Mis. Prithee, come hither, and 
 I will tell you the whole story. I am not ashamed of your order, hut 
 I am ashamed of the order that I was first of myself. Ir. What order 
 do you mean 1 That of the Franciscans 1 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. 
 
 x
 
 2H FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Mis. I had a good fortune, I spent lavishly, and when I began to 
 be in want nobody knew Apitius. I ran away for shame, and betook 
 myself to your college ; I liked that better than digging. Ir. Very 
 -wisely done ; but how conies your body to be in so good case of late ? 
 for as to your change of clothes, I don't so much wonder at that. 
 Mis. Why so 1 Ir. Because the goddess Laverna makes m.any i-ich 
 on a sudden. Mis. What ! do you think I got an estate by thieving, 
 then ? Jr. Nay, perhaps more idly, by rapine. Mis. No, I swear by 
 your goddess Penia, neither by thieving nor by rapine. But first I 
 will 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 anybody is more friendly to me than I am to myself. Ir. But 
 I never knew you understood physic before. 
 
 Mis. Why, all that dress was nothing but a cheat I had daubed 
 on with paints, frankincense, brimstone, rosin, bird-lime, and clouts 
 dipped in blood ; and what I put on, when I pleased I took off again. 
 Ir. impostor! nothing appeared more miserable than you were. 
 You might have acted the part of Job in a tragedy. Mis. My neces- 
 sity 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 is a little better than yours. Ir. What could you get money out 
 of that had no stock? Mis. An artist will live anywhere. 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 chemistry. Ir. Why, it 
 is scarce above a fortnight since you went away from us, and have you 
 in that time learned an art that others can hardly learn in many years 1 
 Mis. But I have got a shorter way. Ir. Prithee, what way ? 
 
 Mis. When I had gotten almost four guineas by your art, I hap- 
 pened, as good luck would have it, to fall into the company of an old 
 companion of mine, who had managed 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 it is my liveli- 
 hood. Ir. May not a person learn it ? Mis. I will 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 insinuat- 
 ing myself into their acquaintance, and talk big of my art, and wherever 
 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,
 
 THE BEGGARS' DIALOGUE. 213 
 
 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 do not 
 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 before- 
 hand 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 tried 
 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 chai'geable to me. Ir. 
 But has your art no cheat in it? Mis. It is a mere cheat all over. 
 Ir. I cannot see where the cheat lies. Mis. I will make you see it 
 presently. 
 
 I first make a bargain for my reward ; but I will not be paid befc re 
 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 anybody living. Ir. But I have not 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 beforehand will be produced. 
 And after the powder is pxit in, I set the pot in such a manner that 
 it is covered all over, above, beneath, and sides with coals, and I per- 
 suade 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 1 
 
 Mis. When he has done everything according to my direction, be- 
 fore the crucible is stirred 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 beforehand, which I can 
 take, and nobody know anything of the matter. Ir. But when they 
 try to do this without you, and it does not succeed, what excuse have 
 you to make 1 Mis. I am safe enough when I have got my money. 
 I pretend one thing or other, either that the crucible was cracked, 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 choose to bring you back to our trade. Mis. 
 What ! that I should voluntarily return again to that I have escaped 
 from, and forsake that which I have found profitable 1 Ir. This pro- 
 fession of ours has this property in it, that it grows pleasant by custom. 
 And thence it is, that though 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 followed it. Mis. That little taste
 
 216 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 I had of it taught me that it was the most wretched life in nature. 
 Ir. Why does nobody quit it, then? Mis. Perhaps becaitse 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 hap- 
 piness 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 do not doubt but there are 
 many kings that envy us beggars. Let there be war or peace, we live 
 secure; we are not pressed for soldiers, nor pvit upon parish-offices, nor 
 taxed. When the people are loaded with taxes, there is no scrutiny 
 into our way of living. If we commit anything that is illegal, who 
 will sue a beggar? If we beat a man, he will be ashamed to fight with 
 a beggar. Kings cannot live at ease neither in war nor 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 conse- 
 crated 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 1 have heard a talk in the 
 cities that there will be a law that mendicants shall not be allowed 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 incon- 
 veniences arise to the public from your order. Ir. Ay, I have heard 
 these stories time after time, and they will bring it about when the 
 devil is blind. Mis. Perhaps sooner than you would have it. 
 
 THE FABULOUS BANQUET. 
 
 Polymythus, Gelasinus, Eidrapelus, Astceus, Philythlus, Philogelos, 
 JEuglottus, Lerochares, Adolesches. 
 
 Po. As it is unfitting for a well ordered 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 determined 
 by their votes ; he shall be our president that Jxipiter shall favoiir. Oh, 
 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 it than good Latin Novus rex nova lex, new 
 lords new laws. Therefore, king, make thou laws. 
 
 Hut. 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 allowed as legitimate, 
 provided regard be had to probability and decency. If nobody 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
 
 THE FABULOUS BANQUET. 217 
 
 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 them be ratified. He that will not- 
 observe the orders let him be gone, but with liberty to come again to 
 a collation the next day. We give our votes for the passing the bill 
 our king has brought in. But who must tell the first story ? Eug. 
 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 aimed at, there he deserves as much commenda- 
 tion who tells the worst as he that tells the best story, because it 
 affords as much merriment ; as amongst songsters none are admired 
 but they that sing very well, or they that sing very ill. Do not more 
 laugh to hear the cuckoo than to hear the nightingale? In this case 
 mediocrity is not praiseworthy. As. But pray, why must they be 
 punished 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. 
 
 Ph. Do you make no order as to the method of drinking ? Eut. 
 Having considered the matter, I will follow the example of Agesilaus 
 king of the Lacedemonians. Ph. What did he do ? Eut. Upon a 
 certain time, he being by lot chosen master of the feast, when the 
 marshal of the hall asked 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 are scarce of wine, give every 
 man equally alike. Ph. What did the Lacedemonian mean by that ? 
 Eut. He did this that it might neither be a drunken feast nor a 
 querulous one. Ph. Why so? Eut. Because some love to drink 
 plentifully, and some sparingly, and some drink no wine at all ; such 
 an one Romulus is said to have been. For if nobody has any wine but 
 what he asks for, in the first place nobody is compelled to drink, and 
 there is no want to them that love to drink more plentifully. And so 
 it comes to pass that nobody 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 anybody complain in an 
 equality, and they that would have drank more largely are contentedly 
 temperate. 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. 
 
 Ph. But what did Romulus drink then? Eut. The same that 
 dogs drink. Ph. 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 breathed out ; and on the contrary, the king draws in the 
 very same air that the dog breathed 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
 
 218 FAMILIAE COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 would 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 will not 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 will begin the 
 exercise of telling stories, and auspiciously. If the story be not a 
 pleasant one, remember it is a Dutch one. 
 
 I suppose some of you have heard of the name of Maccns ! Ge. 
 Yes, he has not been dead long. Po. He coming once to the city of 
 Leyden, 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 wares, asks him what he would buy. Maccus setting his eyes upon 
 a pair of boots that hung up there, the shoemaker asked him if he 
 would buy any boots. Maccus assenting to it, he looks out a pair that 
 would fit him, and when he had found them brings them out very 
 readily, and, as the usual way is, draws them on. Maccus being very 
 well fitted with a pair of boots, How well, says he, would a pair of 
 double-soled shoes agree with these boots ? The shoemaker asks him 
 if he would have a pair of shoes too. He assents; a pair is looked 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 them, hoping to get a better price, since the 
 customer liked 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 them 1 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 would run 
 after him. Then says Maccus, but are you in jest or in earnest] In 
 earnest, says the other, and I would do it in earnest too. Says Maccus, 
 I will try whether you will or no. See I run for the shoes, and you 
 are 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, Do not 
 stop me, says he, we are running a race for a wager of a pot of ale ; and 
 so they all stood still and looked on, thinking the shoemaker had 
 craftily made that outcry that he might have the opportunity to get 
 before him. At last the shoemaker, being tired with running, gives 
 out, and goes sweating, puffing, and blowing home again : so Maccus 
 got the prize. 
 
 Ge. Maccus indeed escaped the shoemaker, but did not escape the 
 thief. Po. Why so? Ge. Because he earned the thief along with 
 him. Po. Perhaps he might not have money at that time, but paid 
 for them afterwards. Ge. He might have indicted him for a robbery.
 
 THE FABULOUS BANQUET. 219 
 
 Po. That was attempted afterwards, but now the magistrates knew 
 Maccus. Ge. What did Maccus say for himself 1 Po. Do you ask 
 what he said for himself in so good a cause as this 1 The plaintiff was 
 in more danger than the defendant. Ge. How so 1 Po. Because he 
 arrested him in an action of defamation, and prosecuted him upon the 
 statute of Eheims, which says, that he that charges a man with what 
 he cannot prove shall suffer the penalty which the defendant was to 
 suffer if he had been convicted. He denied that he had meddled with 
 another man's goods without his leave, but that he put them upon 
 him, and that there was no mention made of anything of a price ; but 
 that he challenged the shoemaker to run for a wager, and that he 
 accepted the challenge, and that he had no reason to complain because 
 he had outrun him. Ge. This action was pretty much like that of the 
 shadow of the ass. "Well, but what then 1 ? 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 happened a daventer when I was a boy. 
 It was at a time when it is the fishmonger's fair and the butchers' time 
 to be starved. A certain man stood at a fruiterer's stall, or oporo- 
 polist's, if you would have it in Greek. The woman was a very fat 
 woman, and he stared 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 pounds; Would you have five pounds, says she 1 
 He nods again; she turns him five pounds 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 outcry, 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 them him freely; if she had a mind to 
 have a trial for it, he would put in an appearance. 
 
 Ge. Well, I will 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 conversed 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 dexterous. You would swear they were 
 born under a lucky planet. Our entertainer gave us a tale with an 
 epilogue; I will give you one with a prologue to it. Now you shall 
 hear what happened lately at Antwerp. 
 
 An old priest had received there a pretty handsome sum of money, 
 but it was in silver. A sharper has his eye upon him; he goes to the
 
 220 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 priest, "who had put his money in a large bag in his cassock, where it 
 bouged out; he salutes him very civilly, and tells him that he had 
 orders to buy a surplice, which is the chief vestment used in perform- 
 ing divine service, for the priest of his parish; he entreats 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 shewn them, 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 
 shopkeeper 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 hindering the other, the sharper 
 gets clear off. 
 
 Eut. Hanging is too good for such a rogue. Ge. It is so, if he 
 be not hanged already. Eut. I would not have him hanged only, but 
 all those that encourage such monstrous rogues to the damage of the 
 state. Ge. They do not encourage them for nothing; there is a fellow 
 feeling between them from the lowest to the highest. Eut. Well, 
 but let us return to our stories again. As. It comes to your turn 
 now, if it be meet to oblige a king to keep his turn. Eut. I will not 
 need to be forced to keep my turn, I will keep it voluntarily; I should 
 be a tyrant, and not a king, if 1 refused to comply with those laws I 
 prescribe to others. As. 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 called Csesar; 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 politic 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. 
 
 Louis, king of France, the eleventh of that name, when his affairs 
 were disturbed 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, 
 used often to go to his house ; and as great princes do sometimes delight 
 themselves with mean matters, he used to be mightily pleased in eating 
 of his turnips. Not long after Louis having settled his affairs, obtained 
 the government of the French nation; Conon's wife puts him upon 
 remembering the king of his old entertainment at their house, bids him
 
 THE FABULOUS BANQUET. 221 
 
 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 them all up 
 but one very large one. When Conon had got admission into the hall 
 that the king was to pass through, the king knew him presently, and 
 sent for him; and he with a great deal of cheerfulness offers his pre- 
 sent, and the king with as much readiness of mind receives it, com- 
 manding 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 1,000 crowns for his turnip. 
 
 When the report of this thing, as it is common, was spread abroad 
 through the king's household 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 
 meantime 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 offered him by a country farmer, how much more magnificently 
 will he requite the present of so fine a horse by a courtier 1 When one 
 answered one thing, and another another to the king that was consult- 
 ing 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 is 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 wrapped up in silk; the turnip is brought, and 
 the king with his own hand gives it the courtier, wrapped 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 1,000 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 laughed at by everybody into 
 the bargain. 
 
 As. But, Mr. King, if you will please to permit me, who am but 
 a peasant, to speak of regal matters, I will tell you something that 
 comes into my mind, by hearing your story concerning the same Louis ; 
 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. Louis offering himself to 
 him, he takes off the louse and threw it away privately; the king asks 
 him what it was; he seemed ashamed to tell him, but the king urging 
 him, he confessed it was a louse. That is 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 ordered him a 
 pi-esent of forty crowns for his good service. 
 
 Some time after, another person (who had seen how well he came
 
 222 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 off that had performed 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 show of taking something of 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 forty crowns orders him forty stripes. 
 
 Ph. I hear it is no good jesting with kings; for as lions will 
 sometimes stand still to be stroked, are lions again when they please, 
 and kill their playfellow, just so princes play with men. But I will 
 tell you a story not much unlike yours, not to go off from Louis, who 
 used to take a pleasure in tricking tricksters. He had received a 
 present often 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 Louis knew 
 very well: this money being poured out upon a table, he, to raise all 
 their expectations, thus bespeaks them, What say you, am not I a very 
 rich king 1 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 ser- 
 vices ? Now let them come before this money is gone. At that word 
 a great many came running ; everybody hoped to get some of it. 
 
 The king taking notice of one that looked 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 informed the king that he had for 
 a long time very faithfully kept the king's hawks, and been at a great 
 expense 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 them all very patiently, and 
 approved of what they said. This consultation held a long time, that 
 he might tease them the more, by keeping them betwixt hope and 
 despair. Among the rest stood the great chancellor, for the king had 
 ordered 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 
 received more already from your royal bounty than I have deserved. 
 I am so far from craving more, that 1 am not desirous of anything so 
 much as to behave myself worthy of the royal bounty I have received. 
 Then, says the king, you are the only man of them all that does not 
 want money. Says the chancellor, I must thank your bounty that I 
 do not. Then he turns to the others and says, I am the most magni- 
 ficent prince in the world, that have such a wealthy chancellor. This 
 more inflamed all their expectations that the money would be distri- 
 buted among them, since, he desired none of it. When the king had 
 played upon them 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 looked a little dull upon it, says he, You must stay till the 
 next opportunity.
 
 THE FABULOUS BANQUET. 223 
 
 Phi. Perhaps that I am going to tell you will not seem so enter- 
 taining. Howevei', 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 excused. One came to the same Louis with a petition that he would 
 bestow upon him an office that happened to be vacant in the town 
 where he lived. The king, hearing the petition read, answers imme- 
 diately, You shall not have it, by that means putting him out of any 
 future expectation; the petitioner immediately returns the king thanks 
 nd goes his way. The king observing the man's countenance, per- 
 ceived he was no blockhead, and thinking perhaps he might have 
 misunderstood what he said, bid him be called back again. He came 
 back : then says the king, Did you understand what I said to yoxi 1 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 meto have here danced 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 gained 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 asked him a few 
 questions, says he, You shall have what you asked for, that you may 
 thank me twice, and turning to his officers, Let, says he, letters patent 
 oe made out for this man without delay, that he may not be detained 
 here to his detriment. 
 
 Enj. I could tell you a story of Louis, 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 ambassador extorted fifty thousand from them, and gave Caesar 
 thirty of them. Caesar being glad te receive more than he expected, 
 dismisses the man without asking any questions. In the meantime 
 the treasurer and receivers smelt the matter, that he had received 
 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 
 received fifty thousand. He confessed it. But you have paid in but 
 thirty thousand. He confessed that too. Says he, You must give an 
 account of it. He promised he would do it, and went away. But 
 again, he doing nothing in it, the officers pressing the matter, he was 
 called again ; then says Caesar to him, A little while ago you were 
 ordered 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 imme- 
 diately, and does not refuse to do anything. Then says Caesar, Did 
 not you promise to balance the account ? Yes, said he. Well, says he,
 
 224 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 Csesar, I do not 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. Csesar 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 Csesar as he had, that is, to keep good part 
 of the money to themselves. 
 
 Le. Now it is 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 will pick out one of the cleanest of them. 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 to 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 is 
 bright. Having done this he sends his boy to the pawnbroker 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 pawnbroker, 
 not knowing the pot, being scoured 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 pawnbroker'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 nobody had been in the kitchen all that day but 
 Anthony. It seemed an ill thing to suspect a priest. But, however, at 
 last they went to him, searched the house for the pot, but no pot was 
 found. But, in short, they charged him home with the pot, because he 
 was the only person who had been in the kitchen till the pot was 
 missing. He confessed that he had borrowed 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 dealings 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 pawnbroker's 
 own hand to shew. And with that he produces the note of his hand. 
 They perceived the trick, and it made good sport all the country over,
 
 THE FABULOUS BANQUET. 225 
 
 that the pawnbroker had lent money upon his own porridge-pot. Men 
 are commonly very well pleased 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. 
 
 Ad. In truth, by mentioning the name of Anthony, you have laid 
 open an ocean of merry stories ; but I will 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 it is 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 proposed, Which was the most honour- 
 able part of a man ] One said the eyes, another said the heart, another 
 said the brain, and others said other parts ; and every one alleged 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 it, I cannot 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 cried out that 
 was absurd, he backed 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 pleased 
 with his wit, and Anthony seemed to have the worst of it. Anthony 
 turned the matter off very well, saying 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 enter- 
 tainment, 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 full in his face, He being in a violent 
 
 passion, says to him, Out, you saucy fellow, where was you dragged up 
 at Hogs Norton 1 Then says Anthony, What, are you angry 1 ? if I 
 had saluted you with my mouth you would have answered 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 regained 
 the reputation he had lost. 
 
 We have eveiy one told our tale ; now, Mr. Judge, it is your 
 business to pass sentence. Ge. Well, I will do that, but not before 
 every man has taken off his glass, and I will lead the way. But talk 
 of the devil and he will 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 am 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 do not confess that it has 
 been more entertaining than your fabulous one, I will be content to I e 
 amerced a supper ; there is nothing more diverting than to treat of 
 trifles in a serious manner.
 
 226 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 THE LYING-IN WOMAN. 
 
 Eu. Honest Fabulla, I am glad to see you; I wish you well. 
 Fa. I wish you well heartily, Eutrapelus. But what is the matter 
 more than ordinary that you that come so seldom to see me are come 
 now 1 None of our family has seen you this three years. Eu. I will 
 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 is 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 jest- 
 ing, 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 do not know that he goes a courting as 
 hotly as if he had lived all his days a bachelor. I asked him what was 
 the matter ; he told me that in this house the body of a woman had 
 been dissevered. 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 is 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 nobody's Fabulla but Petronius's. Eu. Indeed you 
 bear children for Petronius alone, but you do not 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 1 Fa. I do not 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 1 Fa. Pray, Eutra- 
 pelus, what should He do else but preserve by propagation what He 
 has founded by creation 1 Eu. What should He do else, good dame ? 
 If He were not God, He would 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- 
 not 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 
 enlarge the territories of his monarchy. And Ferdinand is mightily
 
 TEE LYING-IN WOMAN. 227 
 
 taken up about his affairs in Germany. And the courtiers everywhere 
 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 tithes, 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 called 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 meantime the Turks 
 overrun all wherever they come, and are ready to invade us and lay all 
 waste, if they succeed in what they are about ; and do yoxi ask what 
 God has else to do 1 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 1 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 1 Fa. Yes, I woxild. Eu. 
 Bxit what if He should give you one of common glass, would you give 
 Him the like thanks ? But I am afraid instead of comforting you by 
 this discourse I shoxild 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 
 do you not get out of your bed then 1 Fa. The king has forbid me. 
 Eu. What king ] Fa. Nay, a tyrant rather. Eu. What tyrant, 
 prithee 1 Fa. I will tell you in one syllable (Mos) custom. 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 
 men's opinion. But are men anything longer lived than women ? 
 Are they free from distempers "? Eu. No, but in the general they are 
 stronger. Fa. But then they themselves are excelled 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 latter 
 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 xinder subjection, that 
 though 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 per- 
 son, he that yields to another, or he that is yielded to 1 Eu. I will 
 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.
 
 228 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Well, I will resolve you that if you answer me tliis 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 1 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 surren- 
 dering, 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. yoii will be secure from that danger. Fa. In 
 truth, there is nothing in the world I am more desirous 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 will present you with half a score dried neats- 
 tongues. Eu. I had rather have them than the tongues of ten night- 
 ingales. Well, I do not dislike the condition, but we will not 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 will 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 dissiiading 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 advisable to yield 
 to you at this time. At another time I will 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 1 Fa. In the next room. 
 Eu. What is he doing there, cooking the pot 1 Fa. You trifler, he is 
 with his nurse. Eu. What nurse do you talk of? Has he any nurse
 
 THE LYING-IN WOMAN. 229 
 
 but his mother 1 Fa. Why not 1 it is the fashion. Eu. You quote 
 the worst author in the world, Fabulla, the fashion; it is 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 con- 
 ceive, it doubtless gives strength to give suck too. Fa. That may be. 
 
 Eu. Prithee, tell me, do not 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 called the mother 
 of your child 1 Fa. By no means. Eu. Why, then, do you volun* 
 tarily make another woman more than half the mother of what you 
 have brought into the world ? Fa. Oh fie ! Eutrapelus, I do not 
 divide my son in two; I am entirely his mother, and nobody in the 
 world else. Eu. Nay, Fabulla, in this case nature herself blames you 
 to your face. Why is the earth called 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 1 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 
 do not abominate it. Is it not a sort of turning out of doors to com- 
 mit a tender little infant, yet reeking 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 wholesome in body nor honest, who has more regard to 
 a little wages than to your child? Fa. But they have made choice 
 of a wholesome, 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 cherished with warmth it has been 
 accustomed to, and its being forced 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 plucked 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, a grace of God, when you will send away 
 your young son from you out of doors to be accomplished with learn- 
 ing and undergo harsh discipline, and which indeed is rather the 
 province of the father than of the mother, bu t now its tender age calls 
 for indulgence. And besides, whereas the food, according as it is, con- 
 tributes 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 seasoned. For Horace's saying takes place here, What is bred in 
 
 o
 
 230 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 the bone will never out of the flesh. Fa. I do not 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 axe whose edge is spoiled 1 Eu. 
 Then you do acknowledge the body is the organ of the mind 1 Fa. 
 That is 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 ; sup- 
 pose the soul of a man was to pass into the body of a cock, would it 
 make the same sound it does now 1 Fa. No, to be sure. Eu. What 
 would hinder 1 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 1 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 1 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 Csesar, having contracted 
 his lips as much as he possibly could, scarce pronounced O, but could 
 by no means pronounce Csesar. The same person when having heard 
 a story, and that he might not forget it, would have written it, repre- 
 hended 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 through pur- 
 blind 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 cannot 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 will grant that too, but what 
 signifies that to the goodness of the mind 1 Eu. As much as darnel 
 does to a clear eyesight, Fa. Because it vitiates the organ. Eu. 
 Well answered. But solve me this difficulty, why is it that one 
 understands quicker than another, and has a better memory ? why 
 one is more prone to anger than another, or is more moderate in his 
 resentment 1 Fa. It proceeds from the disposition of the mind. Eu. 
 That will not 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 sophist with me. Eu. Then do you play the 
 sophistress with me,
 
 THE LYING-IN WOMAN. 231 
 
 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 appeased. 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 insensible. Fa. I have sometimes 
 seen that myself. 
 
 Eu. Hence it is to be collected, that the organs of the will, under- 
 standing, and memory are placed within the skull, being not so crass 
 as the eyes and ears, and yet are material, inasmuch as the most 
 subtil 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 will feel the 
 smoke. Fa. I will not try that experiment. Eu. Well, if you 
 will not 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 are describing to me an alembic, in 
 which we distil simple waters. 
 
 Eu. You do not guess much amiss. For the liver, to which the 
 gall adheres, is the fire-place; the stomach, the pan; the skull, 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, some- 
 times 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 1 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 extinguished by the heaping on too 
 much matter. 
 
 Fa. Why, then, is the mind corporeal, so as to be affected with 
 corporeal things 1 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 allowed 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,
 
 232 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Eu. The Holy Scriptures condescend to those low expressions because 
 of the dulness of men, to signify a mind pure from alt 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 clothes, 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 dressed 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 clothed. 
 
 Fa, Come, have done with the garment, and say something con- 
 cerning the habitation. Eu. But, Fabulla, that which I say to you 
 may not 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 called the body the sepulchre of the soul, supposing 
 it was called aiofia, as though it were <rr)/ua. Some call it the prison 
 of the mind, and some the fortress or fortified 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 not 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 cannot 
 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. 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 garrison, 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
 
 THE LYING-IN WOMAN. 233 
 
 say, in houses where it rains in, that are dai'k, exposed to all winds, 
 that are smoky, damp, decayed, and ruinous, and such as are filthy and 
 infected ; and yet Cato accounts it the principal happiness of a man to 
 dwell handsomely. Fa. It were tolerable, if there was any passing out 
 of one house into another. Eu. There is no going out before the land- 
 lord calls oiit. But though we cannot 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 
 plastered or wainscotted, and the situation may be purified with fire 
 or perfume. But this 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 clothings. How many are there, 
 think you, who are exposed to. grievous diseases and vice, 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 1 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 will be a Franciscan, and 
 preach to you. 
 
 Fa. In truth, I would fain know what tho, soul is, about which we 
 hear so much and talk of so often, and nobody has seen. Eu. Nay, 
 everybody 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 begged for these wings, 
 when he cried 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 with the eyes of 
 the body. But those things that are perceived 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 deceived, but so many proofs of the 
 senses cannot deceive you. 
 
 Fa. Well, then, if you cannot 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 decipherer of everything. 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 is 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
 
 234 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 proceeds frcra the soul. And the motion of the body is various. Fa. 
 I take that in, but why does he add of an organical 1 Eu. Because 
 the soul does nothing but by the help of organs that is, by the instru- 
 ments of the body. Fa. Why does he say physical? Eu. Because 
 Daedalus made such a body to no purpose; and therefore he adds, hav- 
 ing life in potentia. Form does not act upon everything, 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 soxil 1 
 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 Mm ; 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 is true, or to a beetle or a snaiL Fa. What difference, then, is 
 there between the soul of an ox and that X)f a man 1 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 accord- 
 ing to the quality of your guitar your music will be the sweeter. Fa. 
 I own it. Eu. Nor is it of small moment of what wood and in what 
 shape your guitar 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 dryness of the 
 circumambient air, and will sometimes break. Fa. I have seen that 
 more than once. 
 
 Eu. On this accofunt you may do uncommon service to your little 
 infafi-t, 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 will 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 everything that has life is not an animal ; for trees live, grow 
 old, and die ; but they have no sense, though 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 woodmongers 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
 
 THE LYING-IN WOMAN. 235 
 
 ancients 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 cannot bear the thoughts of it, that the soul of a beetle 
 and of a man should be the same. En. 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 composed 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 under- 
 stand without bodily organs. Fa*. Can the soul do the same thing 1 
 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 1 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 remembering, 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 do not well understand you. Eu. Well, then, I will make you 
 understand me. You are a wife in the bed-chamber, in your workshop 
 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 philosophise very bluntly. Is, then, the soul so in the body as I 
 am in my house 1 Eu. It is. Fa. But while I am weaving in my 
 workshop I am not cooking in my kitchen. Eu. Nor are you all 
 soul, but a soul carrying about a body, and the body cannot be in many 
 places at the same time ; but the soul, being a simple form, is so in the 
 whole body, though 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 
 the 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 infused with the life, and that, like a
 
 236 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 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 moved with it. Eu. Ay, and as a squirrel turns his 
 wheel-cage about to make the bells ring, 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 is no absurdity in that. Fa. And so the angels are equal, 
 inasmuch as they are without matter, which, you say, is that which 
 makes the inequality. 
 
 Eu. We have had philosophy enough. Let divines puzzle them- 
 selves about these things ; let us discourse of those matters that were 
 first mentioned. If you would be a complete 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 
 yoiirsclf, 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 1 when you have refused to let him have it, and turned 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 ; although, 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 
 sucked in this ill humour with the mirse'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 M/JTIJ/O from /LITJ r?jp/v, 
 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 sucked, what spittle it swallowed with its chewed
 
 THE LYING-IN WOMAN. 37 
 
 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 at 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 will not 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 learn- 
 ing is the mutual love between the teacher and scholar. So that if he 
 does not lose anything of the fragrance 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 cannot depend upon what I say, St. Paul, speaking 
 very plainly of women, says, " She shall be saved in child-bearing." 
 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 ; but a careful admonition is of 
 that moment, that Paul accounts it imputable to mothers if the chil- 
 dren 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 will take that 
 upon me, if you will but lend your helping hand. Fa. I promise 
 you I will. Eu. But may not a person see this little boy 1 Fa. 
 Yes, that you may and welcome. Do you hear, Syrisca, bid the nurse 
 bring the child. Eu. It is 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. Ftt. 
 Why, it is not a piece of carved work, that so nnich art should be 
 required. Eu. That is 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 is the nose and eyes of the father, the fore- 
 head and chin of the mother. Can you find in your heart to entmst 
 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 to themselves 
 too; because, in the child, the spoiling of the milk often brings
 
 238 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 dangerous diseases, and so it conies 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 is the boy's name 1 Fa. 
 Cornelius. Eu* That is the name of his grandfather 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 will not discharge you till you have 
 finished the good service that you have begun> Eu. What is that 1 ? 
 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. 
 
 THE RELIGIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Menedemus, Ogygius. 
 
 Me. What novelty is this 1 Don't I see my old neighbour Ogygius, 
 that nobody has set their eyes on this six months 1 There was a report 
 he was dead. It is he, or I am mightily mistaken. I will go up to 
 him and give him his welcome. Welcome, Ogygius. Og. And well 
 met, Menedemus. Me. From what part of the world came you 1 for 
 here was a melancholy report that you had taken a voyage to the 
 Stygian shades. Og. Nay, I thank God, I never was better in all my 
 life than I have been ever since I saw you last. Me. And may you 
 live always to confute such vain reports. But what strange dress is 
 this 1 It is all over set off with shells scolloped, full of images of lead 
 and tin, and chains of straw-work, and the cuffs are adorned with 
 snakes' eggs, instead of bracelets. Og. I have been to pay a visit to 
 St. James at Compostella, and after that to the famous virgin on the 
 other side the water in England ; and this was rather a re- visit, for I 
 had been to see her three years before. Me. What ! out of curiosity, 
 I suppose ? Og. Nay, upon the score of religion. Me. That religion, 
 I suppose, the Greek tongue taught you. 
 
 Og. My wife's mother had bound herself by a vow, that if her 
 daughter should be delivered of a live male child, I should go to 
 present my respects to St. James in person, and thank him for it. 
 Me. And did you salute the saint only in your own and your mother- 
 in-law's name? Og. Nay, in the name of the whole family. Me. 
 Truly I am persuaded your family would have been every whit as well 
 if you had never complimented him at all. But, prithee, what answer 
 did he make you when you thanked him 1 Og. None at all, but upon 
 tendering my present he seemed to smile, and gave me a gentle nod, 
 with this same scollop shell. Me. But why does he rather give those 
 than anything else ? Og. Because he has plenty of them, the neigh- 
 bouring sea furnishing him with them. Me. O gracious saint, that is 
 both a midwife to women in labour and hospitable to travellers too ! 
 
 But what new fashion of making vows is this, that one who does
 
 THE RELIGIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 239 
 
 nothing himself shall make a vow that another man shall work 1 Put 
 the case that you should tie yourself up by a vow that I should fast 
 twice a week if you should succeed in such and such an affair, do you 
 think I would perform what yon had vowed 1 Og. I believe you 
 would not, although you had made the vow yourself, for you make a 
 joke of fobbing the saints off. But it was my mother-in-law that 
 made the vow, and it was my duty to be obedient. You know the 
 temper 'of women, and also my own interest lay at stake. Me. If you 
 had not performed the vow what risk had you run? Og. I do not 
 believe the saint could have laid an action at law against me, but he 
 might for the future have stopped his ears at my petitions^ or slily have 
 brought some mischief or other upon my family; you know the humour 
 of great persons. 
 
 Me. Prithee, tell me how does the good man St. James do, and 
 what was he doing? Og. Why, truly, not so well as by far he used to be. 
 Me. What is the mattery is he grown old? Og. Trifler, you know 
 saints never grow old. No, but it is this new opinion that has been 
 spread abroad through the world is the occasion that he has not so 
 many visits paid to him as he used to have, and those that do come 
 give him a bare salute, and either nothing at all, or little or nothing 
 else ; they say they can bestow their money to better purpose upon 
 those that want it. Me. An impious opinion. Og. And this is the 
 cause that this great apostle, that used to glitter with gold and jewels, 
 now is brought to the very block that he is made of, and has scarce a 
 tallow candle. Me. If this be true the rest of the saints are in danger 
 of coming to the same pass. 
 
 Og. Nay, I can assure you that there is a letter handed about 
 which the Virgin Mary herself has written about this matter. Me. 
 What Mary ? Og. She that is called Maria a Lapide. Me. That is 
 up towards Basil, if I am not mistaken. Og. The very same. Me. 
 You talk of a very stony saint. But who did she write it to? Og. 
 The letter tells you the name. Me. Who did she send it by ? Og. 
 An angel, no doubt, who laid it down in the pulpit, where the preacher 
 to whom it was sent took it up ; and to put the matter out of all doubt, 
 you shall see the original letter. Me. Do you know the angel's hand 
 that is secretary to the Virgin Mary ? Og. Well enough. Me. By 
 what token ? Og. I have read St. Bede's epitaph that was engraven 
 by the same angel, and the shape of the letters are exactly the same; 
 and I have read the dischai'ge sent to St. ^Egidius, and they agree 
 exactly. Do not these prove the matter plain enough ? Me. May a 
 person see it ? Og. You may, if you will damn your soul to the pit 
 of hell if ever you speak about it. Me. It is as safe as if you spoke 
 it to a stone. Og. But there are some stones that are infamous for 
 this, that they cannot keep a secret. Me. If you cannot trust to a 
 stone, speak to a mute then. Og. Upon that condition I will recite it 
 to you ; but prick up both your ears. Me. I have done so. 
 
 Og. Mary, the mother of Jesus, to Glaucoplutus sendeth greeting. 
 This is to let you know that I take it in good part, and you have much 
 obliged me in that you have so strenuously followed Luther, and con- 
 \ inced the world that it is a thing altogether needless to invoke saints. 
 For before this time I was even wearied out of my life with the wicked
 
 240 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 importunities of mortals. Everything was asked of me, as if my Son 
 was always a child, because He is painted so, and at my breast, and 
 therefore they take it for granted I have Him still at my beck, and that 
 He dares not deny me anything I ask of Him, for fear I should deny Him 
 the bubby when He is thirsty. Nay, and they ask such things from 
 me, a virgin, that a modest young man would scarce dare to ask of a 
 bawd, and which I am ashamed to commit to writing. 
 
 A merchant that is going a voyage to Spain to get pelf recom- 
 mends to me the chastity of his kept mistress; and a professed nun, 
 having thrown away her veil in order to make her escape, recommends 
 to me the care of her reputation, which she at the same time intends 
 to prostitute. The wicked soldier, who butchers men for money, bawls 
 out to me with these words, O blessed Virgin, send me rich plunder. 
 The gamester calls out to me to give him good luck, and promises I 
 shall go snips with him in what he shall win.; and if the dice do not 
 favour, I am railed at and cursed because I would not be a confederate 
 in his wickedness. The usurer prays, Help me to large interest for my 
 money, and if I deny them anything they cry out I am no mother of 
 mercy. 
 
 And there is another sort of people whose prayers are not properly 
 so wicked as they are foolish. The maid prays, Mary, give me a hand- 
 some, rich husband ; the wife cries, Give me fine children ; and the 
 woman with child, Give me a good delivery. The old woman prays to 
 live long without a cough and thirst ; and the doting old man, Send 
 that I may grow young again. The philosopher says, Give me the 
 faculty of starting difficulties never to be resolved; the priest says, 
 Give me a fat benefice; the bishop cries out for the saving of his 
 diocese, and the mariner for a prosperous voyage; the magistrate cries 
 out, Shew me thy Son before I die ; the courtier, that he may make an 
 effectual confession when at the point of death; the husbandman calls 
 on me for seasonable rain, and a farmer's wife to preserve her sheep 
 and cattle. If I refuse them anything, then presently I am hard- 
 hearted. If I refer them to my Son they cry, If you will but say the 
 word, I am sure He will do it. How is it possible for me a lone body, 
 a woman, and a virgin, to assist sailors, soldiers, merchants, gamesters, 
 brides and bridegrooms, women in travail, princes, kings, and peasants? 
 And what I have mentioned is the least part of what I suffer. 
 
 But I am much less troubled with these concerns now than I have 
 been, for which I would give you my hearty thanks, if this conveniency 
 did not bring a greater inconveniency along with it. I have indeed 
 more leisure, but less honour and less money. Before I was saluted 
 queen of the heavens and lady of the world, but now there are very 
 few from whom I hear an Ave Mary. Formerly I was adorned with 
 jewels and gold, and had abundance of changes of apparel : I had 
 presents made me of gold and jewels; but now I have scarce half a vest 
 to cover me, and that is mouse-eaten too. And my yearly revenue is 
 scarce enough to keep alive my poor sexton, who lights me up a little 
 wax or tallow candle. 
 
 But all these things might be borne with, if you did not tell ITS 
 that there were greater things going forward. They say you aim at 
 this, to strip the altars and temples of the saints everywhere. I advise 
 you again and again to hare a care what you do, for other saints do
 
 THE RELIGIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 241 
 
 not want power to avenge themselves for the wrong done to them. 
 Peter, being turned out of his church, can shut the gate of the kingdom 
 of heaven against you j Paul has a sword, and St. Bartholomew a knife. 
 The monk William has a coat of mail under his habit, and a heavy 
 lance too. And how will you encounter St. George on horseback, in 
 his cuirassier's arms, his sword, and his whinyard ? Nor is Anthony 
 without his weapon ; he has his sacred fire. And the rest of them have 
 either their arms or their mischiefs, that they can send out against 
 whom they please. And as for myself, although I wear no weapons, 
 you shall not turn me out unless you turn out my Son too, whom I 
 hold in my arms. I will not be pulled away from Him; you shall either 
 throw us both out or leave us both, unless you have a mind to have a 
 church without a Christ. These things I would have you know, and 
 consider what answer to give me, for I have the matter much at heart. 
 
 From our Stone House, the Calends of 
 August, the Year of my Son's Passion, 
 1524. I, the Stony Virgin, have sub- 
 scribed this with my own hand. 
 
 Me. In truth, this is a very terrible threatening letter, and I be- 
 lieve Glaxicoplutus will take care what he does. Og. He will, if he is 
 wise. Me. But why did not honest James write to him about this 
 matter ? Og. Truly I cannot tell, except it is because he is a great 
 way off, and now-a-days all letters are intercepted. Me. But what 
 wind carried you to England 1 Og. A very favourable wind, and I 
 had made half a promise to the beyond-sea she-saint to pay her another 
 visit within two or three years. Me. What did you go to ask for of 
 her? Og. Nothing new but those common matters, the health of my 
 family, the increase of my fortune, a long and a happy life in this 
 world, and eternal happiness in the next. Me. But could not our 
 Virgin Mary have done as much for you here ? She has at Antwerp a 
 temple much more magnificent than that beyond sea. Og. I will not 
 deny that she is able, but one thing is bestowed in one place and 
 another thing in another ; whether this be her pleasure merely, or 
 whether she being of a kind disposition, accommodates herself in this 
 to our affections. 
 
 Me. I have often heard of James, but, prithee, give me some 
 account of that beyond-sea lady. Og. I will do it as briefly as I can. 
 Her name is very famous all over England, and you shall scarce find 
 anybody in that island who thinks his affairs can be prosperous unless 
 he every year makes some present to that lady, greater or smaller, 
 according as his circumstances are in the world. Me. Whereabouts 
 does she dwell ? Og. Near the coast, upon the fui'thest part between 
 the west and the north, about three miles from the sea ; it is a town 
 that depends chiefly upon the resort of strangers. There is a college 
 of canons there, to which the Latins have added the name of Regulars, 
 which are of a middle sort between monks and those canons that are 
 called Seculars. Me. You tell me of amphibious creatiires, such as the 
 beavers are. Og. Nay, so are crocodiles too. But trifling apart, I 
 will tell you in three words : in odious cases they are canons, in 
 favourable cases they are monks. Me. You have hitherto been telling 
 rue riddles. Og. Why, then, I will give you a mathematical demon-
 
 242 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 stration. If the pope of Rome should throw a thunderbolt at all 
 monks, then they will be all canons ; and if he will allow all monks to 
 marry, then they will be all monks.. Me. These are new favours ; I 
 wish they would take mine for one. 
 
 Og. But to return to the matter- in hand. This college has little 
 else to maintain it but the liberality of the Virgin, for all presents of 
 value are laid up ; but as for anything of money or lesser value, that 
 goes to the support of the flock and the head of it, which they call the 
 prior. Me. Are they men of good lives'? Og. Not much amiss. 
 They are richer in piety than in revenue. There is a clever neat 
 church, but the Virgin does not dwell in it herself, but \ipon point of 
 honour has given it to her Son. Her church is on the right hand of 
 her Son's. Me. Upon His right hand ! which way then does her Son 
 look 1 Og. That is well taken notice of. When He looks toward the 
 west He has His mother on the right, and when He looks toward "the 
 east she is on His left hand. And she does not dwell there neither, 
 for the building is not finished ; the doors and windows are all open, 
 and the wind blows through it ; and npt far off is a place where 
 Oceanus the father of the winds resides. Me. That is a hard case ; 
 where does she dwell then ? Og. In that unfinished church that I 
 spoke of, there is a little boarded chapel with a little door on each side 
 to receive visitors. There is but little light to it but what comes from 
 the tapers; but the scent is very grateful. Me. All these things 
 conduce to religion. Og. Nay, Menedemus, if you saw the inside of 
 it you would say it was the seat of the saints, it is all so glittering with 
 jewels, gold, and silver. Me. You set me agog to go thither too. 
 Og. If you do you will never repent of your journey. 
 
 Me. Is there any holy oil there 1 Og. Simpleton, that oil is only 
 the sweat of saints in their sepulchres, as of Andrew, Catherine, &c. 
 Mary was never buried. Me. I confess I was under a mistake ; but 
 make an end of your story, Og. That religion may spread itself the 
 more widely, some things are shewn at one place and some at another. 
 Me. And it may be that the donations may be larger, according to the 
 old saying, Many hands will carry off much plunder. Og. And there 
 are always some at hand to shew you what you have a mind to see. 
 Me. What, of the canons'? Og. No, no, they are not permitted, lest 
 under the colour of religion they should prove irreligious, and while 
 they are serving the Virgin lose their own virginity. Only in the 
 inner chapel, which I call the chamber of the holy Virgin, a certain 
 canon stands at the altar. Me. What does he stand there for? Og. 
 To receive and keep that which is given. Me. Must people give 
 whether they will or no ? Og. No ; but a certain religious modesty 
 makes some give, when anybody stands by, who would not give a 
 farthing if there were no witness of it, or give more than otherwise 
 they would give. Me. You set forth human nature as I have 
 experienced in myself. Og. There are some so devoted to the human 
 nature, that while they pretend to lay one gift on the altar, by a 
 wonderful sleight of hand they steal what another has laid down. 
 Me. But put the case, if nobody were by, would the Virgin thunder at 
 them? Og. Why should the Virgin do that any more than God 
 himself does, whom they are not afraid to strip of His ornaments, and 
 to break through the walls of the church to come at them ? Me. I
 
 THE RELIGIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 243 
 
 cannot well tell which I admire at most, the impious confidence of 
 those wretches or God's patience. 
 
 Og. At the north side there is a certain gate, not of a church, 
 don't mistake me, but of the wall that encloses the churchyard, that 
 has a very little wicket, as in the great gates of noblemen, that he that 
 has a mind to get in must first venture the breaking of his shins and 
 afterwards stoop his head too. Me. In truth, it would not be safe for 
 a man to enter in at such a little door. Og. You are in the right of 
 it. But yet the verger told me that some time since a knight on 
 horseback, having escaped out of the hands of his enemy, who followed 
 him at the heels, got in through this wicket. The poor man at the 
 last pinch, by a sudden turn of thought, recommended himself to the 
 holy Virgin that was the nearest to him, for he resolved to take 
 sanctuary at her altar, if the gate had been open. When, behold, which 
 is such a thing as was never heard of, both man and horse were on a 
 sudden taken into the churchyard and his enemy left on the outside of 
 it stark mad at his disappointment. 
 
 Me. And did he give you reason to believe so wonderful a rela- 
 tion 1 Og. Without doubt. Me. That was no easy matter to a man 
 of your philosophy. Og. He shewed me a plate of copper nailed on 
 the door, that had the very image of this knight that was thus saved, 
 and in the very habit which was then in fashion among the English, 
 which is the same we see in old pictures, which, if they are drawn 
 truly, the barbers and dyers and weavers in those days had but a bad 
 time of it. Me. Why so ? Og. Why, he had a beard like a goat, 
 and there was not a wrinkle in any of his clothes they were made so 
 strait to his body that the very straitness of them made his body the 
 more slender. There was also another plate that was an exact descrip- 
 tion of the chapel and the size of it. Me. Then there was no doubt 
 to be made of it. Og. Under the little wicket there was an iron 
 grate, no bigger than what a man on foot could just get in at; for it 
 was not fit that any horse afterwards should tread upon that place 
 which the former knight had consecrated to the Virgin. Me. And 
 very good reason. 
 
 Og. From hence towards the east, there is another chapel full of 
 wonders ; thither I went. Another verger received me. There we 
 prayed a little ; and there was shewn us the middle joint of a man's 
 finger. I kissed it, and asked whose relic it was ? He told me it was 
 St. Peter's. What, said I, the Apostle 1 He said it was. I then 
 took notice of the bigness of the joint, which was large enough to be 
 taken for that of a giant. Upon which, said I, Peter must needs have 
 been a very lusty man. At this, one of the company fell a laughing. 
 I was very much vexed at it ; for if he had held his tongue the 
 verger would have shewn us all the relics. However, we pacified him 
 pretty well, by giving him a few groats. 
 
 Before this little chapel stood a house, which he told us, in the win- 
 ter time, when all things were buried in snow, was brought there on a 
 sudden from some place a great way off. Under this house there were 
 two pits brimful, that were fed by a fountain consecrated to the holy 
 Virgin. The water was wonderful cold, and of great virtue in curing 
 pains in the head and stomach. Me. If cold water will cure pains 
 in the head and stomach, in time oil will quench fire. Og. But, my
 
 244 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 good friend, you are hearing that which is miraculous; for what miracle 
 is there in cold water quenching thirst ? Me. That shift goes a 
 great way in this story. Og. It was positively affirmed that this 
 spring burst out of the ground on a sudden at the command of the 
 holy Virgin. 
 
 I, observing everything very diligently, asked him how many 
 years it was since that little house was brought thither 1 ? He said 
 it had been there for some ages. But, said I, methinks the walls don't 
 seem to carry any marks of antiquity in them. He did not much 
 deny it. Nor these pillars, said I. He did not deny but those had 
 been set up lately ; and the thing shewed itself plainly. Then, said I, 
 that straw and reeds, the whole thatch of it seems not to have been so 
 long laid. He allowed it. Nor do these cross beams and rafters that 
 bear up the roof seem to have been laid many years ago. He con- 
 fessed they were not. And there being no part of that cottage remain- 
 ing, said I to him, How then does it appear that this is the very cottage 
 that was brought so far through the air 1 Me. Prithee, how did the 
 sexton extricate himself out of this difficulty? Og. He presently 
 shewed us an old bear's skin tacked there to a piece of timber, and 
 almost laughed at us to our very faces for not having eyes to per- 
 ceive a thing that was so plain. Therefore, seeming to be satisfied, and 
 excusing our dulness of apprehension, we turned ourselves to the 
 heavenly milk of the blessed Virgin. 
 
 Me. O mother like her Son ! for as He has left us so much of His 
 blood upon earth, so she has left us so much of her milk, that it is 
 scarce credible that a woman who never had but one child should have 
 so much, although her child had never sucked a drop. Og. And they 
 tell us the same stories about our Lord's cross, that is shewn up and 
 down both publicly and privately in so many places, that if all the 
 fragments were gathered together, they would seem to be sufficient 
 loading for a good large ship ; and yet our Lord himself carried the 
 whole cross upon his shoulders. Me. And don't you think this is 
 wonderful 1 Og. It may be said to be an extraordinary thing, but 
 not a wonderful one, since the Lord, who increases these things accord- 
 ing to His own pleasure, is omnipotent. Me. You put a very pious 
 construction upon it, but I ain afraid that a great many such things are 
 forged for the sake of getting money. Og. I cannot think God would 
 suffer any one to put these mockeries upon Him. Me. Nay, when 
 both the mother and Son, Father and Spirit are robbed by sacrilegious 
 persons, they don't seem to be moved the least in the world, so as to 
 deter wicked persons, so much as by a nod or a stamp, so great is the 
 lenity of the divine being. 
 
 Og. This is true, but hear me out. That milk is kept upon the 
 high altar in which Christ is in the middle, and his mother, for respect 
 sake, at his right hand ; for the milk represents the mother. Me. 
 Why, is it plain to be seen then 1 Og. It is preserved in a crystal 
 glass. Me. Is it liquid then 1 Og. What do you talk of being 
 liquid, when it has been put in above 1500 years ago. It is so con- 
 creted, you would take it for beaten chalk tempered with the white of 
 an egg. Me. But why don't they shew it open 1 Og. Lest the 
 milk of the Virgin should be defiled by the kisses of men. Me. 
 You say very well, for I believe there are some who put lips to it, that
 
 THE RELIGIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 245 
 
 are neither pure nor virgin ones. Og. As soon as the officer sees us, 
 he runs presently and puts on a surplice and a stole about his neck, 
 and falls down very devoutly and worships, and by and by gives us 
 the holy milk to kiss. Then we prostrated ourselves at the lowest 
 step of the altar, and having first paid our adoration to Christ, we 
 applied ourselves to the Virgin in the following prayer, which we had 
 framed beforehand for this very purpose : 
 
 " Virgin Mother, who hast merited to give suck to the Lord of 
 heaven and earth, thy Son Jesus, from thy virgin breasts, we desire 
 that, being purified by His blood, we may arrive at that happy infant 
 state of dove-like innocence which, being void of malice, fraud, and 
 deceit, we may continually desire the milk of the evangelical doctrine, 
 until it grows up to a perfect man, and to the measure of the fulness of 
 Christ, whose blessed society thou wilt enjoy for evermore, with the 
 Father and the Holy Spirit. Amen." 
 
 Me. Truly, a devout prayer. But what answer did she make ? 
 Og. If my eyes did not deceive me, they were both pleased, for the 
 holy milk seemed to give a leap, and the eucharist seemed to look 
 somewhat bigger than usual. In the meantime the shower of the 
 relics came to us, without speaking a word, holding out such a kind of 
 table as they in Germany that take toll on the bridges hold out to 
 you. Me. In truth, I have oftentimes cursed those craving tables 
 when I travelled in Germany. Og. We laid down some pieces of 
 money, which he presented to the Virgin. 
 
 After this, by our interpreter (if I remember right), one Robert 
 Aldridge, a well-spoken young man, and a great master of the English 
 tongue, I inquired as civilly as I could, what assurance he had that 
 this was really the Virgin's milk. And truly I desired to be satisfied 
 of this with a pious intention, that I might stop the mouths of some 
 impious persons who are used to scoff at all these things. The officer 
 first contracted his brow without speaking a word ; thereupon I 
 pressed the interpreter to put the same question to him again, but in 
 the fairest manner that could be, and he did it in so obliging a manner 
 that if he had addressed himself to the mother herself in these terms, 
 when she had but newly Jain in, she would not have taken it amiss. 
 But the officer, as if he had been inspired with some enthusiasm, look- 
 ing upon us with astonished eyes, and with a sort of horror, cursing 
 our blasphemous expression, said, What need is there for your putting 
 this question, when you have an authentic record 1 and had turned 
 us out of doors for heretics, had not a few pence pacified his rage. 
 
 Me. But how did you behave yourselves in the interim 1 ? Og. 
 Just as if we had been stunned with a cudgel, or struck with thunder ; 
 we sneaked away, humbly begging his pardon for our boldness ; for 
 so a man ought to do in holy matters. Thence we went to the little 
 chapel, the dwelling of the Virgin Saint. In our way thither an 
 expounder of sacred things, one of the minors, offers himself; he stares 
 upon us as if he had a mind to draw our pictures ; and having gone a 
 little farther, another meets iis, staring upon us after the same manner ; 
 and after him a third. Me. It may be they had a mind to have 
 drawn your picture. Og. But I suspected far otherwise. Me. What 
 did you imagine then 1 Og. That some sacrilegious person had stolen 
 some of the Virgin's vestments, and that I was suspected as the thief, 
 
 p
 
 246 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Therefore, having entered the chapel, I addressed myself to the Virgin 
 mother with this short prayer: 
 
 "O thou who only of all women art a mother and a virgin, the most 
 happy of mothers and the purest of virgins, we that are impure do now 
 come to visit and address ourselves to thee that art pure, and reverence 
 thee with our poor offerings, such as they are. Oh that thy son would 
 enable us to imitate thy most holy life, that we may deserve, by the 
 grace of the Holy Spirit, to conceive the Lord Jesus in the most inward 
 bowels of our minds, and having once conceived him, never to lose 
 him. Amen." 
 
 So I kissed the altar, laid down some money, and withdrew. 
 
 Me. What, did the Virgin hear ? Did she give you no nod as a 
 token that she had heard your prayer ? Og. As I told you before, it 
 was but an uncertain light, and she stood in the dark at the right side 
 of the altar. And the check of the former officer had made me so 
 dejected that I did not dare to lift up my eyes again. Me. Then 
 this adventure had not a very happy conclusion 1 Og. Nay, the 
 happiest of all. Me. Nay, now you put me in courage again ; for, 
 as your Homer says, my heart was even sunk into my breeches. Og. 
 After dinner we go to church again. Me. How did you dare to do 
 that, being suspected of sacrilege 1 Og. It may be I was ; but I did 
 not suspect myself. A clear conscience fears nothing. I had a great 
 mind to see the record that the shower of the relics had referred us to. 
 Having hunted a great while for it, we found it at last ; but it was hung 
 up so high that he must have good eyes that could read it ; and mine 
 are none of the best, nor none of the worst. Therefore, not being 
 willing wholly to trust to him in a matter of such moment, I went along 
 with Aldrisius as he read it. 
 
 Me. Well ! and were all your doubts removed 1 Og. I was 
 ashamed of myself that I should doubt of a matter that there was 
 made so plain before one's eyes, the name, the place, the order of the 
 proceeding in one word, there was nothing omitted. There was one 
 William of Paris, a man of general piety, but more especially religious 
 in getting together the relics of saints all over the earth, he having 
 travelled over a great many countries, and having everywhere diligently 
 searched monasteries and churches, at last arrived at Constantinople 
 (for this William's brother was a bishop there). When he was pre- 
 paring to return home, the bishop acquainted him that there was a 
 certain nun that had the Virgin's milk, and that he would be the 
 happiest man in the world if he could possibly get any of it, either for 
 love or money, or by any other means, for that all the relics he had 
 hitherto collected were nothing compared to that sacred milk. Upon 
 this William never was at rest till he had obtained one-half of this 
 milk, and having gotten this treasure, thought himself richer than 
 Croesus. Me. And very well he might. It was a thing so un- 
 expected too. 
 
 Og. He goes straight homeward, but falls sick by the way. Me. 
 Oh, how little trust is to be put in human felicity that it shall be either 
 perfect or long-lived ! Og. Finding himself in danger he sends for a 
 Frenchman, a faithful fellow-traveller, and makes him swear secrecy, 
 and then delivers the milk to him upon this condition, " That if he got 
 hpjne . safe he should deposit that treasure on the altar of the holy
 
 THE RELIGIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 247 
 
 Virgin that is worshipped at Paris in that noble church that has the 
 river Seine on each side of it, as if itself gave place in reverence to the 
 divinity of the Virgin. To sum up the matter in few words, William 
 was buried ; the other rides post, but he falls sick by the way, and 
 thinking himself past recovery, he delivers the milk to an Englishman 
 that was his fellow-traveller, making him take a solemn oath that he 
 would perform that which he himself was to have done. The one dies, 
 the other takes it and puts it upon the altar in the presence of all the 
 canons of the place, those that at that time were called regulars, as they 
 are yet at St. Genoveve. He obtained half this milk of them and 
 carried it into England, and made a present of it to this beyond-sea 
 place, his mind being moved thereunto by a divine impulse. Me. 
 Truly this story hangs very handsomely together. 
 
 Off. Nay, further, that there might not be left the least room to 
 doubt, the very names of the bishops were set down that were author- 
 ised to grant releases and indulgences to such as should come to see the 
 milk according to the power to them given, but not without some 
 donation or another. Me. And how far did that power extend? Og. 
 To forty days. Me. But are there days in purgatory] Og. For 
 certain there is time there. Me. But when they have disposed of this 
 stock of forty days have they no more to bestow! Og. No; for there 
 ever and anon arises something for them to bestow, and it is in this 
 quite otherwise than it is with the tub of the Danaides; for though that 
 is continually filling, it is always empty; but in this, though you are 
 continually drawing out, there is never the less in the vessel. Me. 
 But if the remission of forty days were given to a hundred thousand 
 men would every one have so much 1 Og. Yes, so much. Me. And 
 suppose that they that have received forty days in the morning should ask 
 for forty days more at night, would they have wherewithal to give them? 
 Og. Yes, te^ times over in an hour. Me. I wish I had such a cabinet 
 at home. I would not wish for above three groats if they might be 
 doubled and tripled after that manner. Og. You might as well have 
 wished to be all turned into gold yourself, and as soon have had what 
 you wished for. 
 
 But to return to my story, there was one argument added by a man 
 of great piety and candour, which is, that though the Virgin's milk, 
 which is shewn in many other places, is indeed venerable enough in that 
 it was scraped off from stones, yet this was more venerable than all 
 the rest, because this was saved as it flowed from the Virgin's breast 
 without touching the ground. Me. But how does that appear? Og. 
 Oh, the nun at Constantinople that gave it said so. Me. It may be 
 she had it of St. Bernard. Og. I believe she had. Me. He, when 
 he was very old, had the happiness to taste milk from the same nipple 
 which the child Jesus sucked, whence I wonder he was not rather 
 called Lactifluous than Mellifluous. But how is that called the Virgin's 
 milk that did not flow from her breasts 1 Og. That did flow from her 
 breasts, but dropping upon the stone she sat upon while- she was giving 
 suck it concreted, and was afterwards by Providence so multiplied. 
 Me. Right. Go on. 
 
 Og. These things being over, we were just upon the point of goinw 
 away, but walking about and looking round us to see if there was any- 
 thing worth taking notice of, the chapel officers come to us again,
 
 248 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 leering at us. Pointing at us with their fingers, they advance to us, 
 retreat, run backward and forward, nod as if they would fain have said 
 something to us, if they had had courage enough to have done it. Me. 
 And was not you afraid then? Og. No, not at all; but I looked them 
 full in the face very cheerfully, as who should say speak and welcome. 
 At length one of them comes up to me and asked my name. I told it 
 him. He asked me if I was the person that a matter of two years 
 ago set up a votive table in Hebrew letters'? I told him I was. Me. 
 Can you write Hebrew then? Og. No; but they call everything Hebrew 
 that they cannot understand. But by and by, upon calling, as I sup- 
 pose, came the Tr/owroc ucrtooc of the college. 
 
 Me. Whattitleof dignity is that? Have they not an abbot? Og. 
 No. Me. Why so? Og. Because they do not understand Hebrew. 
 Me. Have they no bishop? Og. None at all. Me. Why so? Og. 
 Because the Virgin is so poor that she has not wherewith to buy 
 a staff and mitre. Me. Have they not so much as a president? 
 Og. No, nor that neither. Me. What hinders? Og. Because a 
 president is a name of dignity and not of holiness, and there- 
 fore the colleges of canons reject the name of an abbot, but they 
 willingly allow the name of a president. Me. But this irpwroe 
 vfff poe is what I never heard of before. Og. In truth you are but an 
 indifferent grammarian then. Me. I know what ixreporrpwrov is in 
 rhetoric. Og. Why, that is it. He that is next the prior is 
 posterior-prior. You mean a sub-prior. 
 
 Og. He saluted me very courteously. He told me what great pains 
 had been taken to read those verses; what wiping of spectacles there 
 had been to no purpose ; how often one grave doctor of divinity, and 
 another of law, had been brought thither to expound the table. One 
 said the letters wei % e Arabic, another said they were fictitious ones; but 
 at last they found one that made a shift to read the title. It was 
 written in Latin words and Latin capitals. The verses were Greek in 
 Greek capitals, which at first sigh t looked like Roman capitals. Being 
 requested, I turned the verses into Latin, word for word. They would 
 have given me a reward for this small service, but I positively refused 
 it, affirming that there was nothing so difficult that I would not, with 
 all the readiness in the world, undertake for the sake of the holy 
 Virgin, even if she should command me to carry a letter for her from 
 thence to Jerusalem. Me. What occasion can she have for you to be 
 her letter-carrier that has so many angels for her secretaries and pages? 
 
 Og. He ptille^ out of his pouch a little piece of wood, cut off from 
 the beam on which the Virgin mother stood. The admirable fragrancy 
 of it shewed it to be a thing that was highly sacred. I having received 
 this present in the lowest posture of humility and bare headed, and 
 having kissed it over and over, put it in my pocket. Me. May a person 
 see it? Og. I will let you see it if you will. But if you have eaten 
 or drank to-day, or have had to do with your wife last night, I would 
 not advise you to look upon it. Me. Let me see it; there is no danger. 
 Og. Here it is for you. Me. O happy man art thou that hast such a 
 present ! Og. Whether you know it or no, I would not exchange this 
 little fragment for all the gold in Tagus. I will set it in gold, and put 
 it in a crystal case so that it may be seen through it.
 
 THE RELIGIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 249 
 
 When this hysteroprotos saw me so religiously transported with 
 that small present, thinking I deserved to have things of greater 
 moment imparted to me, he asked me if I had seen the Virgin's secrets. 
 That word startled me a little, but I durst not ask him what he meant 
 by the Virgin's secrets, for in matters so sacred there is danger in a slip 
 of the tongue. I told him I had not seen them, but I had a very great 
 desire to see them. Then I am conducted in as one in an ecstacy. A 
 wax taper or two was lighted, and a little image was shewn me that 
 made no extraordinary figure, neither for magnitude, matter, nor work- 
 manship, but of extraordinary virtue. Me. Bulk has no great matter 
 in it as to the doing of miracles. I have seen St. Christopher at Paris, 
 not him of a cartload or of the size of a colossus, but rather of a large 
 mountain; but I never heard he was famous for doing miracles. Og. 
 At the feet of the Virgin there is a jewel that neither the Latins nor 
 Greeks have yet given a name to. The French have given it a name 
 from a toad, because it has the resemblance of a toad in it so lively that 
 no art can match it. And that which is the more miraculous is that it 
 is a very small stone, and the image does not stand out of it, bxit is 
 included in the very body of the stone, and may be seen through it. 
 
 Me. Perhaps they may fancy they see the likeness of a toad cut in 
 it, as some fancy they see that of an eagle in the stalk of a brake or 
 fern ; and as boys, who see everything in the clouds, as dragons 
 breathing out fire, burning mountains, and armed men fighting. Og. 
 Nay, that you may be thoroughly satisfied in the matter, no living 
 toad ever shewed itself more plainly than that is expressed there. 
 Me. I have been hearing your stories all this while, but I would have 
 you find out somebody else to give credit to yoxir story of the toad. 
 Og. I do not at all wonder, Menedemus, that you are so incredulous ; 
 I should not have believed it myself if the whole tribe of divines had 
 asserted it, unless I had seen it with these eyes I say beheld it with 
 these very eyes, and had experienced the truth of it. But methinks 
 you seem not to be curious enough upon these natural rarities. Me. 
 Why so ? what, because I will not believe that asses fly. 
 
 Og. But do you not observe ho.w nature sports herself in imitating 
 the shapes and colours of everything in other things, but especially in 
 precious stones ? And also what admirable virtues it has planted in 
 them, which are altogether incredible if common experience did not 
 force us to a belief of them ? Prithee, tell me, would you ever have 
 believed without seeing it with your eyes that steel could have been 
 drawn by the loadstone without touching it, or be driven away from it 
 without being touched by it ? Me. No, indeed, I never should, 
 although ten Aristotles had taken their oaths of the truth of it. 
 
 Og. Well, then, do not say everything is a fable that has not fallen 
 within the compass of your experience. We find the figure of a bolt 
 in a thunder-stone, fire in the carbuncle, the figure of hail and the 
 coldness of it in the hail- stone, nay, even though you throw it into the 
 midst of the fire ; the deep and transparent waves of the sea in the 
 emerald ; the carcinias imitates the figure of a sea-crab, the echites of 
 a viper, the scarites of a gilt head, the theracites of a hawk, the gera- 
 nites shews you the figured n,eck of a crane, the segophthalmus shews, 
 the eye of a goat, and some shew that of a hog, and another three 
 human eyes together; the lycophthalmus paints you out the eye of a
 
 250 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 wolf in four colours, fiery and bloody, and in the middle black encom- 
 passed with white. If you open the black cyamea you will find a bean 
 in the middle; the dryites represents the trunk of a tree, and burns 
 like wood ; the cissites and narcissites represent ivy, the astrapias darts 
 forth rays of lightning out of the midst of white or blue, the phlegontites 
 shews a flame within that does not come out; in the anthracitis you 
 may see certain sparks running to and fro ; the crocias represents the 
 colour of saffron, the rhodites that of a rose, the chalcites of brass, the 
 aietites the figure of an eagle with a white tail, the taos represents a 
 peacock, the chelidonia an asp, the mermecites has the image of a 
 creeping pismire growing within it ; the cantharias shews a perfect 
 beetle, and the scorpites admirably deciphers a scorpion. But why 
 should I proceed to recount that which is innumerable, when there 
 is no part of nature, either in elements, animals, or plants, which 
 nature, as it were to sport herself, does not give us some resemblance 
 of in stones 1 And do you then admire that the form of , toad is 
 represented in the bufonites 1 Me. I wonder -that nature has so much 
 spare time as to divert herself in drawing -the pictures of everything. 
 Og. It has a mind to exercise the curiosity of mankind, and by that 
 means to keep us from being idle. And yet, as though we were at a 
 loss to know how to pass away our time, we run a madding after 
 buffoons, dice, and jugglers. Me. You say true. 
 
 Og. And some persons of credit add, that if you put this toad- 
 stone into vinegar it will move its legs and swim. Me. But why is 
 this dedicated to the Virgin 1 Og. Because she has overcome, trampled 
 upon, and extinguished all uncleanness, malice, pride, avarice, and all 
 manner of earthly desires. Me. Woe to us, then, who carry so much 
 of the toad still in our hearts ! Og. But we shall be pure if we wor- 
 ship the Virgin as we ought. Me. How would she have us worship 
 her 1 Og. You will perform most acceptable service to her if you 
 imitate her. Me. That is soon said, but not so easily performed. 
 Og. It is hard indeed, but then it is very well worth the pains. Me. 
 Come on, go forwards in what you have begun. Og. Afterwards he 
 shewed me statues of gold and silver. This, says he, is solid gold, and 
 this is only silver gilt. He told me the weight of every one, the price, 
 and the name of the donor. 
 
 I being full of admiration at everything, and congratulating the 
 Virgin being mistress of so much wealth, says the officer to me, Inas- 
 much as I perceive you are so pious a spectator, I think I should not 
 do fairly by you if I should conceal anything from you, therefore you 
 shall see the greatest privacies the Virgin has. And presently he takes 
 out of a drawer from under the altar a world of admirable things, the 
 particulars of which, if I should proceed to mention, the day would not 
 be long enough ; so that thus far the journey succeeded to my wish. I 
 satisfied my curiosity abundantly with fine sights, and brought home 
 with me this inestimable present, ; a pledge of the Virgin's love, given 
 me by herself. 
 
 Me. Did you ever make trial of the virtues of this piece of wood 1 
 Og. I have. Three or four days ago I, being in an house of entertain- 
 ment, found a man stark mad, whom they were just going to put 
 into chains; I put this piece of wood privately under his bolster, and 
 he fell into a sound sleep and slept a long time, and when he rose in
 
 THE RELIGIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 251 
 
 the morning he was as sober as ever. Me. Perhaps he was not dis- 
 tracted but drunk, and sleep commonly cures that distemper. Og. 
 Menedemus, since you love to use raillery, take another subject. 
 It is neither pious nor safe to make sport with saints ; nay, the man 
 himself told me that there was a woman appeared to him in his sleep 
 of an incomparable beauty, that held forth a cup to him to drink* Me. 
 Hellebore, I believe. Og. That is uncertain; but this is certain, that 
 the man recovered his reason. 
 
 Me. Did you pass by Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury ? Og. 
 No, I think I did not. It is one of the most religious pilgrimages in 
 the world. Me. I long to hear it, if it will not be too much trouble to 
 you. Og. It is so far from that, that you will oblige me in hearing of 
 it. That part of England that looks towards Flanders and France is 
 called Kent ; the metropolis of it is Canterbury. There are two 
 monasteries in it that are almost contiguous, and they are both of 
 Benedictines. That which bears the name of Augustine is the ancienter 
 of the two ; that which is now called by the name of St. Thomas 
 seems to have been the seat of St. Thomas the archbishop, where he 
 had led his life with a few monks whom he chose for his companions, 
 as now-a-days deans have their palaces near the church, though separate 
 from the houses of other canons. For, in old time, both bishops and 
 canons were monks, as appears by the manifest vestigia of things. 
 
 But the church that is dedicated to St. Thomas raises itself up to- 
 wards heaven with that majesty that it strikes those that behold it at 
 a great distance with an awe of religion, and now with its splendour 
 makes the light of the neighbouring palaces look dim, and as it were 
 obscures the place that was anciently the most celebrated for religion. 
 There are two lofty turrets which stand as it were bidding visitants 
 welcome from afar off, and a ring of bells that make the adjacent 
 country echo far and wide with their rolling sound. In the south 
 porch of the church stand three stone statues of men in armour, who 
 with wicked hands murdered the holy man, with the names of their 
 countries Tusci, Fusci, and Betri. Me. Why have such wicked men 
 so much honour done them. 1 Og. They have the same honour done 
 to them that is done to Judas, Pilate, Caiaphas, and the band of wicked 
 soldiers whose images you may see carved upon stately altars ; and 
 their names are added that none after them might arrogate to them- 
 selves the glory of the fact. They are set there in open sight to be a 
 warning to wicked courtiers, that no one may hereafter presume to lay 
 his hand on either bishops or the possessions of the church. For these 
 three ruffians ran mad with horror of the fact they had committed ; nor 
 had they come to themselves again, had not holy Thomas been implored 
 in favour of them. Me. Oh, the perpetual clemency of martyrs ! 
 
 Og. When you are entered in, a certain spacious majesty of place 
 opens itself to you, which is free to every one. Me. Is there nothing 
 to be seen there ? Og. Nothing but the bulk of the structure, and 
 some books chained to the pillars, containing the gospel of Nicodemus 
 and the sepulchre of I cannot tell who. Me. And what else 1 Og. 
 Iron grates enclose the place called the choir, so that there is no en- 
 trance, but so that the view is still open from one end of the church to 
 the other. You ascend to this by a great many steps, under which 
 there is a certain vault that opens a passage to the north side. There
 
 52 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 they shew a wooden altar consecrated to the holy Virgin ; it is a very 
 small one, and remarkable for nothing except as a monument of anti- 
 quity, reproaching the luxury of the present times. In that place the 
 good man is reported to have taken his last leave of the Virgin, when 
 he was at the point of death. Upon the altar is the point of the 
 sword with which the top of the head of that good prelate was 
 wounded, and some of his brains that were beaten out, to make sure 
 work of it. We most religiously kissed the sacred rust of this weapon 
 out of love to the martyr. 
 
 Leaving this place, we went down into a vault underground; to 
 that there belong two showers of relics. The first thing they shew 
 you is the skull of the martyr, as it was bored through; the upper 
 part is left open to be kissed, all the rest is covered over with silver. 
 There also is shewn you a leaden plate with this inscription, Thomas 
 Acrensis. And there hang up in a great place the shirts of hair-cloth, 
 the 'girdles, and breeches with which this prelate used to mortify his 
 flesh, the very sight of which is enough to strike one with horror, and 
 to reproach the effeminacy and delicacy of our age. Me. Nay, perhaps 
 of the monks themselves. Og. That I can neither affirm nor deny, nor 
 does it signify much to me. Me. You say right. 
 
 Og. From hence we return to the choir. On the north side they 
 open a private place. It is incredible what a world of bones they 
 brought out of it, skulls, chins, teeth, hands, fingers, whole arms, all 
 which we having first adored, kissed; nor had there been any end of 
 it had it not been for one of my fellow-travellers, who indiscreetly 
 interrupted the officer that was shewing them. Me. Who was he ? 
 Og. He was an Englishman, his name was Gratian Pullus, a man of 
 learning and piety, but not so well affected to this part of religion as I 
 could wish he were. Me. I fancy he was a Wickliffite. Og. No, I 
 believe he was not, though he had read his books; but I do not know 
 where he had them. Me. Did he make the officer angry 1 Og. He 
 took out an arm having yet some bloody flesh upon it; he shewed a 
 reluctance to the kissing it, and a sort of uneasiness in his counten- 
 ance : and presently the officer shut up all his relics again. 
 
 After this we viewed the table of the altar, and the ornaments ; 
 and after that those things that were laid up under the altar : all was 
 very rich; you would have said Midas and Croesus were beggars com- 
 pared to them, if you beheld the great quantities of gold and silver. 
 Me. And was there no kissing here 1 Og. No, but my mind was 
 touched with other sorts of wishes. Me. What were they? Og. I 
 made me sigh to think I bad no such relics in my own house. Me. 
 A sacrilegious wish ! Og. I confess it, and I humbly begged pardon 
 of the saint before I set my foot out of the church. 
 
 After this we were carried into the vestry. Good God ! what a 
 pomp of silk vestments was there, of golden candlesticks ! There we 
 saw also St. Thomas's foot. It looked like a reed painted over with 
 silver; it hath but little of weight, and nothing of workmanship, and 
 was longer than up to one's girdle. Me. Was there never a cross ? 
 Og. I saw none. There was a gown shewn; it was silk, indeed, but 
 coarse and without embroidery or jewels, and a handkerchief, still 
 having plain marks of sweat and blood from the saint's neck. We 
 readily kissed these monuments of ancient frugality. Me. Are these
 
 THE RELIGIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 253 
 
 shewn to everybody ? Og. No, certainly, ray good friend. Me. How 
 then did you come to have such credit with them, that none of their 
 secrets were concealed from you ] Og. I had some acquaintance with 
 the reverend prelate, William Warham, the ai'chbishop, and he recom- 
 mended me. Me. I have heard he was a man of great humanity. 
 Og. Nay, if you knew the man, you would take him for humanity 
 itself. He was a man of that learning, that candour of manners, and 
 that piety of life, that there was nothing wanting in him to make him 
 a most accomplished prelate. 
 
 From hence we were conducted up higher; for behind the high 
 altar there is another ascent as into another church. In a certain 
 new chapel there was shewn to us the whole face of the good man set 
 in gold, and adorned with jewels ; and here a certain unexpected 
 chance had near interrupted all our felicity. Me. I want sadly to 
 hear what mischievous matter this was. Og. My friend Gratian lost 
 himself here extremely. After a short prayer, he says to the assistant 
 of him that shewed us the relics, Good father, is it true, as I have 
 heard, that Thomas, while he lived, was very charitable to the poor 1 
 Very true, replies he, and began to relate a great many instances of 
 his charity. Then, answers Gratian, I do not believe that good in- 
 clination in him is changed, unless it be for the better. The officer 
 assented. Then, says he again, if this holy man was so liberal to the 
 poor when he was a poor man himself, and stood in need of charity 
 for the support of his own body, do you not think he would take it 
 well now, when he is grown so rich and wants nothing, if some poor 
 woman having a family of children at home ready to starve, or 
 daughters in danger of being under a necessity to prostitute themselves 
 for want of portions, or a husband sick in bed, and destitute of all 
 comforts ; if such a woman should ask him leave to make bold with 
 some small portion of these vast riches for the relief of her family, 
 taking it either as by consent, or by gift, or by way of borrowing 1 
 
 The assistant making no answer to this, Gratian being a warm 
 man, I am fully persuaded, says he, that the good man would be glad 
 at his heart, that when he is dead he could be able to relieve the 
 necessities of the poor with his wealth. Upon this the shower of the 
 relics began to frown, and to pout out his lips, and to look upon us as 
 if he would have eaten us up; and I do not doubt but he would have 
 spit in our faces, and have turned us out of the church by the neck 
 and shoulders, but that we had the archbishop's recommendation. 
 Indeed I did in some measure pacify him with good words, telling him 
 that Gratian did not speak this from his heart, but had a droll way 
 with him, and also laid down a little money. 
 
 Me. Indeed, I exceedingly approve of your piety. But I some- 
 times seriously think of it, how they can possibly excuse themselves 
 from being guilty of a fault who consume such vast sums in building, 
 beautifying, and enriching churches, setting no bound to their ex- 
 penses. I allow that there ought to be a dignity in the sacred vestments, 
 the vessels of a church, agreeable to the solemn service, and would 
 have the structure of it to have a certain air of majesty; but to what 
 purpose are so many golden fonts, so many candlesticks, and so many 
 images 1 To what purpose is such a profusion of expense ujxni organs, 
 as they call them 1 Nor are we, indeed, content with one pair. What
 
 254 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 signify those concerts of music, hired at so great an expense; when in 
 the meantime our brothers and sisters, Christ's living temples, are 
 ready to perish for hunger and thirst ! 
 
 Og. There is no man, either of piety or wisdom, but would wish 
 for a moderation in these matters ; but since this error proceeds from a 
 certain extreme of piety, it deserves some favour, especially when we 
 reflect, on the other hand, on the contrary errors of others, who rob 
 churches rather than build them up. They are commonly endowed by 
 great men and monarchs, who would employ the money worse in gam- 
 ing or war. And, moreover, if you take anything away from the 
 church, in the first place it is accounted sacrilege; and in the second 
 place, it shuts up the hands of those who had an inclination to give; 
 and besides, it is a temptation to rapine. The churchmen are rather 
 guardians of these things than masters of them. And lastly, I had 
 rather see a church luxuriant with sacred furniture, than as some of 
 them are, naked and sordid, more like stables than churches. Me. 
 But we read that the bishops of old were commended for selling the 
 sacred vessels and relieving the poor with the money. Og. And so 
 they are commended at this day; but they are only commended; for I 
 am of the mind, they neither have the power nor the will to follow the 
 example. 
 
 Me. But I hinder your narration ; I now expect to hear the con- 
 clusion of your story. Og. Well, you shall have it, and I will be 
 very brief. Upon this, out comes the head of the college. Me. Who 
 was he, the abbot of the place 1 Og. He wears a mitre, and has the 
 revenue of an abbot he wants nothing but the name; he is called the 
 prior, because the archbishop is in the place of an abbot ; for in old 
 time every one that was an archbishop of that diocese was a monk. 
 Me. I did not matter if I was called a camel, if I had but the revenue 
 of an abbot. Og. He seemed to me to be a godly and prudent man, 
 and not unacquainted with the Scotch divinity. He opened us the 
 box in which the remainder of the holy man's body is said to rest. 
 Me. Did you see the bones 1 Og. That is not permitted, nor can it 
 be done without a ladder. But a wooden box covers a golden one, and 
 that being craned up with ropes, discovers an inestimable treasure. 
 Me. What say you ? Og. Gold was the basest part. Everything 
 sparkled and shined with very large and scarce jewels, some of them 
 bigger than a goose's egg. There some monks stood about with the 
 greatest veneration. The cover being taken off, we all worshipped. 
 The prior, with a white wand, touched every stone one by one, telling 
 us the name in French, the value of it, and who was the donor of it. 
 The principal of them were the presents of kings. Me. He had need 
 to have a good memory. Og, You guess right, and yet practice goes a 
 great way, for he does tkis frequently. 
 
 Hence he carried us back into a vault. There the Virgin Mary 
 has her residence ; it is something dark ; it is doubly railed in and en- 
 compassed about with iron bars. Me. What is she afraid of? Og. 
 Nothing, I suppose, but thieves. And I never in my life saw anything 
 more laden with riches. Me. You tell me of riches in the dark. 
 Og. Candles being brought in we saw more than a royal sight. Me. 
 What, doc 1 , it go beyond the Parathalassian virgin in wealth 1 Og. 
 It goes far beyond in appearance. What is concealed she knows best.
 
 THE RELIGIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 255 
 
 These things are shewn to none but great persons or peculiar friends. 
 In the end we were carried back into the vestry. There was pulled 
 out a chest covered with black leather ; it was set upon the table and 
 opened. They all fell down on their knees and worshipped. Me. 
 What was in it 1 Og. Pieces of linen rags, a great many of them 
 retaining still the marks of the snot. These were those, they say, that 
 the holy man used to wipe the sweat off from his face and neck with, 
 the snot out of his nose, or any other such sort of filth which human 
 bodies are not free from. 
 
 Here again my Gratian behaved himself in none of the most 
 obliging manners ; for the gentle prior offered to him, being an 
 Englishman, an acquaintance, and a man of considerable authority, 
 one of the rags for a present, thinking he had presented him with a 
 very acceptable gift ; but Gratian unthankfully took it squeamishly in 
 his fingers, and laid it down with an air of contempt, making up his 
 mouth at it as if he would have smacked it. For this was his custom, 
 if anything came in his way that he would express his contempt to. I 
 was both ashamed and afraid. Nevertheless the good prior, though 
 not insensible of the affront, seemed to take no notice of it ; and after 
 he had civilly entertained us with a glass of wine, dismissed us, and 
 we went back to London. 
 
 Me. What need was there for that when you were not far from 
 your own shore 1 Og. I was not, but I industriously shunned that 
 shore, it being more infamous for cheats and rapines than any rocks 
 are for shipwrecks. I will tell you what I saw in my last passage that 
 way. There was a pretty many of us upon the shore of Calais, who 
 were carried thence in a chaloupe to a large ship. Among the rest 
 there was a young Frenchman that was poor and ragged, and they 
 demanded twopence for his passage, for so much they will have if they 
 carry you but a boat's length. He pleaded poverty. They in a frolic 
 would needs search him, and having pulled off his shoes they find ten 
 or twelve pieces of silver between the soles. They took the money, 
 laughed at him to his face, and bantered the Frenchman as a cheat 
 into the bargain. Me. What did the fellow do then? Og. What 
 should he do but lament his misfortune 1 
 
 Me. Do they do these things by authority 1 Og. By the same 
 authority that they steal the baggage of a guest in his inn, or take his 
 purse upon the road, if they find an opportunity. Me. It is very 
 strange that they dare to commit such villainy before so many wit- 
 nesses. Og. They are so used to it that they think they do well in 
 it. There were many in the great ship who looked on, and some 
 English merchants in the boat who grumbled at it, but to no purpose. 
 They boasted of it as a piece of wit in catching the Frenchman in his 
 roguery. Me. I would hang up those coast .thieves, and laugh at 
 them, and banter them at the gallows. Og. Nay, both shores abotind 
 with such fellows. Hence I make this improvement, If the little 
 thieves dare to do thus, what will their masters do ? So that I had 
 rather for the future go ever so far about than that shortest way. 
 And besides, as the descent to hell is easy but the return is difficult, 
 so the entrance of this shore is not very easy, and the getting out of it 
 very difficult. 
 
 There were at London some skippers belonging to Antwerp, so I
 
 256 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 determined to take passage with them. Me. Are the skippers of that 
 country any better than others ? Og. I confess, as an ape will always 
 be an ape, so a skipper will always be a skipper ; but if you compare 
 them to those that live upon the catch, they are angels. Me. I shall 
 remember it, if I ever have a mind to visit that island. But go on 
 again, I have led you out of the way. 
 
 Og. In our journey to London, not far] from Canterbury there is 
 a narrow, hollow, steep way, and a cragged, steep bank on either side, 
 so that you cannot escape it, for there is no other way to go. Upon 
 the left hand of that way there is a little cottage of old mendicants. 
 As soon as they espy a man on horseback coming, one of them runs 
 out and sprinkles him with holy water, and then offers him the upper 
 leather of a shoe, with a brass ring to it, in which is a glass, as if it 
 were some gem. Having kissed it, you give a small piece of money. 
 Me. In such a way I had rather meet with a cottage of old mendicants 
 than a gang of lusty footpads, 
 
 Og. Gratian rode on my left hand, next to this cottage ; he was 
 sprinkled with holy water, and took it pretty well ; but upon presenting 
 the shoe he asked what was meant by that ? This, says the poor man, 
 was St. Thomas's shoe. Gratian fell into a passion, and turning to me 
 said, What would these brutes have ? "Will they make us kiss the 
 shoes of all that have been good men 1 Why do they not as well give 
 us their spittle and the other excrements of their bodies to kiss ? I 
 pitied the poor old man, and comforted him, being sorrowful, by giving 
 him a little money. Me. In my opinion Gratian was not angry alto- 
 gether without a cause. If these shoes and slippers were preserved as 
 an argument of moderation in living I should not dislike it, but I 
 think it a piece of impudence to thrust slippers, and shoes, and stock- 
 ings upon any one to be kissed. If any one shall do it of their own free 
 choice, from a great affection to piety, I think they deserve to be left 
 to their own liberty. 
 
 Og. Not to dissemble, I think those things had better be let alone ; 
 but in those matters that cannot be mended on a sudden, it is my way 
 to make the best of them. In the meantime my mind was delighted with 
 this contemplation, that a good man was like a sheep and a wicked man 
 like a hurtful beast. A viper, indeed, cannot bite when it is dead, yet 
 it is infectious by its stink and corruption. A sheep, while it lives, 
 nourishes us with its milk, clothes us with its wool, and enriches us 
 by its increase ; when it is dead it supplies us with leather, and is 
 every part of it fit to be eaten. In like manner, men that are furious 
 and devoted to this world while they live are troublesome to all 
 persons, and when they are dead are a disturbance to those that are 
 alive, with the noise of the bells and a pompous funeral, and sometimes 
 to their successors at their entering upon their possessions, by causing 
 new exactions. But good men make themselves profitable in all 
 respects to the whole world, As this saint, while he was alive, by his 
 example, his doctrine, and admonitions invited to piety, comforted the 
 friendless, succoured the needy, so now he is dead he is in some sort 
 more useful. He built this magnificent church, and advanced the 
 authority of the priesthood all over England; and now, after all, this 
 fragment of his shoe maintains a conventicle of poor men. 
 
 Me. That, indeed, is a very pious contemplation; but I wonder,
 
 TEE RELIGIOUS PILGRIMAGE. 257 
 
 since you are of this mind, that you never went to see St. Patrick's 
 den, of -which the people say so many prodigious things that I can 
 scarce think likely to be true. Og. Nay, there is no report of it can 
 be so prodigious but that the thing itself exceeds it. Me. Why, 
 then, did you ever enter into it 1 Og. Yes, I have ferried over a lake 
 truly Stygian, and descended into the very jaws of Avernus, and seen 
 all that is done in hell. Me. You will bless me if you shall not think 
 much to relate it. Og. I think this preface of our discourse has been 
 prolix enough. I am going home to give order to get supper ready, 
 for I have not dined yet. 
 
 Me. Why have you had no dinner ? Is it ripon a religious 
 account 1 Og. No, but oxit of spite. Me. What, do you spite your 
 belly] Og. No, but unconscionable victuallers who, although they 
 serve you with what is not fit to be eaten, make no scruple of demand- 
 ing for it an unreasonable price. This is the way that I revenge myself 
 on them. If I am in hope of a good supper, either at an acquaintance's 
 or at an eating-house, that is anything tolerable, my stomach fails me 
 at dinner. If fortune throws in my way a dinner such as I like, then 
 my stomach fails me at supper-time. Me. And are you not ashamed 
 to be so stingy and sneaking 1 Og. Believe me, Menedemus, in such 
 cases as this those that make use of their modesty employ it to a wrong 
 use. I have learned to keep my bashfulness for other purposes. 
 
 Me. I do even long for the remainder of your story, and therefore 
 expect me at supper, and there you may tell it more at leisure. Og. 
 In truth, I give you thanks for taking the freedom to invite yourself, 
 when many who are invited with earnestness will not accept of it; but 
 I will thank you over and over if you shall sup at home to-night, for 
 my time will be taken up in congratulating my family. But I have 
 advice to give you that will be more commodious for us both. Do you 
 provide a dinner at your house for me and my wife to-morrow, and I will 
 proceed in my story till supper-time, till you shall say you have your 
 bellyful ; and if you are contented so, we will not leave you at supper 
 neithei*. What, do you scratch your head ? Do you but make provi- 
 sion, and I will give you my word we will come without fail. 
 
 Me. I like stories best gratis. However, come, I will provide a 
 dinner for you, but it shall be an unsavoury one if you do not make it 
 relishing with your stories. Og. But hark ye, have not I set you 
 a-gog to go on pilgrimages 1 Me. Perhaps you may by that time you 
 have finished your relation, but as I find myself at present I have 
 enough to do to travel my Roman stations. Og. Roman ones, you who 
 never saw Rome 1 Me. I will tell you after that manner I walk about 
 my house, I go to my study, and take care of my daughter's chastity ; 
 thence I go into my shop and see what my servants are doing, then 
 into the kitchen and see if anything be amiss there; and so from one 
 place to another, what my wife and what my children are doing, taking 
 care that every one be at his business. These are my Roman stations. 
 Og. But St. James would take care of these things for you. Me. The 
 Holy Scriptures enjoin me to look after them myself, but I do not find 
 any text to leave them to the saints.
 
 258 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 ICHTHYOPHAGIA; OR, FISH-EATING. 
 
 A Butcher and a Salt-Fishmonger. 
 
 Bu. Tell me, silly seller of salt fish, have you not bought a halter 
 yet? Fi. A halter, butcher? Bu. Yes, I say an halter. Fi. For 
 what ? Bu. To hang yourself with. Fi. Let them buy halters that 
 want them, I am not weary of my life yet. Bu. But you will be 
 weary of it quickly. Fi. God send that may rather be your case than 
 mine. What is the matter ? Bu. I will tell you if you do not know. 
 Here is a time coming upon you that you and your brother tradesmen 
 will be all starved to death, and ready to hang yourselves out of the 
 way. Fi. Easy, easy, butcher, God send this may be our enemies' 
 case and not ours. But prithee, butcher, how came you to be a fortune- 
 teller all on a sudden, to divine such a calamity ? Bu. It is no guess 
 work, I promise you ; do not flatter yourself, it is matter of fact. Fi. 
 You fright me out of my wits ; if you have anything to say let us 
 have it out. 
 
 Bu. I will tell you to your cost. Here is a dispensation of the 
 college of cardinals coming out for everybody to eat what he lists. 
 Then what will you and your fraternity do but be starved to death in 
 the midst of your heaps of stinking salt fish ? Fi. They that have a 
 mind to it may feed upon snails or nettles with all my heart. But 
 is there a prohibition that nobody shall eat fish ? Bu. No, but every- 
 body is at liberty to eat flesh that has a mind to it. Fi. If what you 
 predict be true, you rather deserve to be hanged than I ; and if it be 
 false, you have more need to buy a halter. For I hope for a better 
 trade for the future. Bu. You may have stock enough by you, but 
 your bellyful of fasting. But if you will hear the best of the story 
 you may live a little cleanlier than you used to do, and not have 
 occasion to wipe your snotty, scabby nose upon your elbow. Fi. 
 Ha, ha, now it has come out at last : the kettle calls the pot black. Is 
 there any part of a butcher cleaner and sweeter than his backside ? I 
 wish what you say were true, but I am afraid you only feed me with 
 fancies. 
 
 Bu. What I tell you is too true to make a jest on. But, prithee, 
 how do you promise yourself a better trade upon this consideration ? 
 Fi. Because people- are of that humour that they are most desirous of 
 that which is forbidden. Bu. What, then ? Fi. When they are at 
 liberty to eat flesh, they will eat least of it ; and then no entertainment 
 will be accounted noble but what has fish at it, as it used to be in old 
 time. So I shall be glad if there be a licence to eat flesh. And I 
 wish heartily that the eating fish were forbidden too, then people 
 would covet it more earnestly. Bu. Well wished indeed. I should 
 wish so too if I were like you, and aimed at nothing but getting money, 
 for the sake of which thou sendest that lumpish, flesh-fed soul of thine 
 to the devil. 
 
 Fi. You are very smart upon me, but what you say is very silly. 
 What is it puts the see of Rome uf>on the relaxing the law for pro- 
 hibiting eating of flesh, that has been observed for so many ages 1 Bu. 
 Why, indeed, they have had a mind to do it a great while ago, and for
 
 ICETIIYOPHAGIA; OE, FISH-EATING. 259 
 
 this reason, that they think, as it really is, that the city is defiled by 
 salt-fish mongers ; the land, the waters, rivers, air, and fire are infected, 
 and all the other elements, if there be any more, men's bodies corrupted 
 and filled with putrid humours by the eating of fish ; from whence 
 proceed fevers, consumptions, gouts, falling-sicknesses, leprosies, and 
 what not of diseases. Fi. But, prithee, tell me, Hippocrates, how it 
 comes to pass that in well-governed cities it is forbid to kill oxen and 
 hogs within the walls of the city 1 for it would tend more to the 
 healthfulness of the city if they were restrained from killing sheep in 
 it too. Why is there a certain place appointed for butchers apart from 
 others, but lest if they had liberty to rove about and settle anywhere, 
 they should infect the whole city ? Is there any kind of stink so 
 pestilential as that of the corrupted blood and gore of beasts ? Bu. 
 They are mere perfumes compared to stinking fish. 
 
 Fi. You, perhaps, may think them perfumes, but it is a sign the 
 magistrates thought otherwise that expelled you the city. Besides 
 that, how fragrant your slaughter-houses smell is very plainly seen, by 
 people stopping their noses when they pass by them, and that they had 
 rather have ten bawds for their neighbous than one butcher. Bu. 
 Whole ponds and rivers are little enough for you to wash your stink- 
 ing salt fish in ; for, as the old saying is, You do but attempt to wash 
 the blackamore white ; for a fish will always smell like a fish though 
 you perfume it. Nor is it to be wondered at that they smell so strong 
 when they are dead, when many stink alive, and as soon as they are 
 taken. Flesh, pickled up, is so far from stinking that it may be pre- 
 served many years, and smell as sweet as a violet at last ; nay, being 
 but salted up with common salt will never stink ; and being hung up 
 a drying in smoke, or wind, will have no ill scent. But do what you 
 will to a fish it will smell like a fish still. It is evident there is no 
 stink to be compared to that of fish ; that fish corrupts even salt itself, 
 which was given for the very end of preserving things from putrefac- 
 tion, by shutting, binding up, and also forcing out that which should 
 produce anything nauseous, and drying up the humours within from 
 whence putrefaction might come : fish is the only thing on which salt 
 loses its efficacy. 
 
 It may be some nice beau or other may stop his nose as he passes 
 by a butcher's shop, but nobody can bear to be in the boat where your 
 salt fish is. If a traveller chance to meet a cart laden with salt fish 
 on the road, how does he run away, stop his nose, hawk and spit, and 
 curse the stinking cargo? And if it were possible that salt fish could 
 be carried sweet into the city, as we do our beef when killed and 
 dressed, the law would be laid aside. But besides, what can you say 
 as to them that stink while they are eaten 1 and besides, how often 
 do we see your condemned ware thrown into the rivers by the clerks 
 of the markets, and a fine put upoft you for selling it ] And we should 
 see that oftener, but that they, corrupted by you, do not so much 
 regard the city's good as their own profit. Nor is this the only thing 
 that you are notorious for ; but besides that, there is a wicked com- 
 bination among you to hinder fresh from coming to town. 
 
 Fi. Pray, did nobody ever know a butcher fined for killing 
 measled pork, or selling mutton drowned in a ditch, or maggoty 
 shoulders of mutton daubed over with fresh blood, to make them look
 
 260 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 as if new killed 1 Bu. But nobody ever knew such an instance of us 
 as has been known by you lately, that nine persons were poisoned by 
 one eel baked in a pie. And this is what you furnish citizens' tables 
 with. Fi. What you speak of was an accident ; and nobody can help 
 that, when it pleases God it shall fall out so. But it is a daily practice 
 with you to sell young cats for rabbits, and puppies for hares, if people 
 do not know them by their ears and rough feet ; not to speak of your 
 meat-pies made of dead men's flesh. 
 
 Bu. That which you charge me with is the failings of men in 
 common ; and let them defend themselves that are guilty of the fault. 
 I make my comparison between gain and gain. By the same reason 
 you may condemn gardeners, who, by mistake, sell henbane for cole- 
 worts ; or apothecaries, who administer poison instead of antidotes. 
 There is no trade or calling that is not liable to these mistakes. But 
 you, when you act the most faithfully in your calling, sell that which 
 is poison. If, indeed, you sold a cramp-fish, a water-snake, or a sea-hare, 
 caught among other fish, it would be an accident rather than a fault. 
 Nor do I think it any more to be imputed to you than to a physician, 
 that sometimes kills the patient he undertakes to cui-e. And this 
 might be excusable if you only put off your stinking wares in the 
 winter season ; then the cold might mitigate the contagiousness of 
 infection ; but you add putrid matter to the fire of the summer season, 
 and render autumn, which is of itself a sickly season, more sickly. 
 And in the spring of the year, when the humours that have been 
 locked up begin to flow to the hazard of the body, then for two whole 
 months you exercise your tyranny and corrupt the infancy of the 
 springing year, by bringing an old age upon it. And when nature is 
 busied to purge the body from unwholesome juices and make it fresh 
 and blooming with new, you throw into it more stinks and corruption ; 
 so that if there be any vicious humours in the body you increase them, 
 adding worse to bad, and not only so, but corrupting the good juices of 
 the body. But this might be borne with too if you only injured the 
 body ; but inasmuch as by different foods the organs of the mind are 
 vitiated, you vitiate the very minds themselves. So that do but mind 
 your fish-eaters, how like fishes do they look, pale, stinking, stupid, 
 and mute? 
 
 Fi. Ob, rare Thales ! But, prithee, how wise are they that live 
 upon beets'? just as much as the beets themselves. What sort of 
 fellows are they that feed upon beef, mutton, and goats' flesh 1 truly, 
 like oxen, sheep, and goats themselves. You sell kids for a mighty 
 delicacy, and yet this creature is very bad for the falling-sickness, and 
 brings that distemper upon the flesh -eaters. Were it not better to 
 satisfy a craving appetite with salt fish 1 Bu. Do you think, then, that 
 all that your naturalists write is true ? But were what they say ever 
 so true, it is certain that to some persons that are inclinable to diseases, 
 those things that are good of themselves prove hurtful. We sell kids 
 for those that are troubled with the hectic, or phthisic, but not for those 
 that have the vapours. 
 
 Fi. If the eating of fish be so prejudicial as you would insinuate, 
 how comes it about that our superiors permit us to sell our ware the 
 whole year, and make you keep holiday for a good part of it 1 Bu. 
 That is none of my bxisiness to answer. But it may be this was the
 
 ICHTIIYOPHAGIA ; OR, FISH-EATING. 261- 
 
 contrivance of wicked doctors, that they might get the more money. 
 Fi. I do not know what doctors they are that you speak of; for I am 
 sure none are greater enemies to fish than they are. Bu. Goodman 
 coxcomb, to set you right in this matter, it is not for your sake nor 
 the love of fish ; for none are more adverse than they to the eating it, 
 but it is their own game they play. The more people are troubled 
 with coughs, consumptions, and chronic distempers, the more they 
 get by it. 
 
 Fi. I will not advocate for doctors in this matter, let them avenge 
 their own quarrel when they get thee into their clutches. The ancient 
 sanctimony of life, the authority of the most approved, the majesty of 
 bishops, and the public usage of Christian nations are enough for my 
 purpose ; all which, if you tax with madness, I had rather be mad with 
 them than be sober with butchers. Bu. You decline being an advo- 
 cate for doctors, and so do I to be an accuser or censurer of the ancients, 
 or common custom. Those it is my custom to revere, but not revile. 
 Fi. You are more cautious than pious in this point, or I am mistaken, 
 in you, butcher. Bu. In my opinion, they are the wisest that have 
 least to do with those that carry thunderbolts in their hands. But, 
 however, I will not conceal what I understand from my Bible, trans- 
 lated into my mother tongue, that I sometimes read. Fi. What now, 
 the butcher is turned parson too. 
 
 Bu. I am of the opinion that mankind, in the first ages, being 
 newly formed out of primitive clay, were of more healthful constitu- 
 tions. This appears by their vivacity. More than that, I believe 
 paradise was a place commodiously situated, and in a very healthy 
 climate. Such bodies, in such a situation, might be sustained without 
 food, by breathing the very air and fragrancy of herbs, trees, and flowers, 
 that exhaled everywhere, and especially the earth, spontaneously pro- 
 ducing all things in abundance without man's sweating or toiling, who 
 was neither infected with distempers nor old age. The dressing of such 
 a garden was not a toil, but rather a pleasure. Fi. Hitherto you seem 
 to be right. Bu. Of the various increase of so fertile a garden nothing 
 was prohibited but the use of one single tree. Fi. That is true too. 
 Bu. And that for this reason only, that they might pay their acknow- 
 ledgment to their Lord and Creator by obedience. Fi. All this is 
 very right. 
 
 Bu. Moreover, I verily believe that the new earth produced 
 everything better in its kind, and of a more nutritive juice than it does 
 now, grown old and almost past bearing. Fi. Well, I grant it. Take 
 that for granted. Bu. And that especially in paradise. Fi. It is 
 very probable. Bu. If so, then eating was rather for the sake of 
 pleasure than necessity. Fi. I have heard so. Bu. At that time to 
 abstain from eating flesh was rather humanity than sanctity. Fi. I 
 do not know. I read that the eating of flesh was permitted after the 
 flood, but I do not read it was forbidden before. But to what 
 purpose were it to permit it if it were permitted before 1 Bu. Why 
 do not we eat frogs'? Not because they are forbidden, but because we 
 have an aversion to them. How can you tell whether God might not 
 instruct man what food human nature required, and not what He 
 permitted 1 Fi. I cannot divine. 
 
 Bu. But, presently after man's creation, we read, " Rule ye over
 
 262 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 the fish of the sea, the fowls of the air, and every living creature that 
 inoveth upon the face of the earth." What use was there of the 
 government of them, if it were not lawful to eat them ? Fi. O cruel 
 master ! do you eat your men and maid-servants, your wife and chil- 
 dren ? Why don't you at the same time eat your chamber-pot, for you 
 are master of that too 1 Bu. But, prithee, hear me again, thou silly salt- 
 fishmonger. There is a real use of other things, and not a bare name 
 of dominion only. A liorse carries me upon its back, and a camel my 
 baggage, but what tise are fish of but to be eaten ? Fi. As if there 
 were not abundance of fish that are good for physic. And besides, 
 there are a great many that were created merely for the sake of con- 
 templation, and to carry us forth to admire their Creator. It may be 
 you don't believe that dolphins carry men on their backs. In the last 
 place, there are some fish that are useful to foretell a tempest, as the 
 echinus or sea-urchin; and would you not wish to have such a servant 
 in yotir own house ? 
 
 Bu. Suppose that be granted, that before the flood it was not lawful 
 to eat any food but the fruits of the earth, it was no great matter to 
 abstain from those things the necessity of the body did not require, 
 and in the killing of which was cruelty ; yet you will allow that in the 
 beginning the eating of living creatures was permitted, by reason of 
 the weakness of human bodies. The deluge had brought in a cold 
 temperament, and at this time we see those that live in cold climates 
 are greater eaters than others in hotter, and the flood had either quite 
 destroyed or at least spoiled the products of the earth. Fi. That is 
 granted. Bu. And yet after the deluge they lived above two hundred 
 years. Fi. I believe they did. Bu. Why then did God afterwards, 
 as Moses commanded, tie up persons of a weaker constitution and 
 shorter lived to some particular kinds of living creatures, which He 
 permitted to those of a stronger without exception 1 
 
 Fi. Just as if it were my province to give a reason for whab God 
 did. But I believe that God did then as masters do now, who contract 
 their indulgence towards their servants when they see them abuse 
 their lenity. So we forbear to feed a horse with oats and beans when 
 he grows pampered and too mettlesome, give him hay more sparingly, 
 and ride him with a curb bridle and a sharper spur. Mankind had 
 thrown off all reverence of the Deity, and lived as licentiously as if 
 there was no God at all. Upon this account the lattices of the law and 
 bars of ceremonies, the bridles of threatenings and precepts, were made 
 use of to bring them to know themselves. Bu. What then, do those 
 bars of the law hold us in at this day too? Fi. Inasmuch as the 
 asperity of carnal servitude is removed, we being by the gospel adopted 
 sons of God, there being an augmentation of grace, there is a diminu- 
 tion of the number of precepts. 
 
 Bu. How comes it to pass that when God calls His covenant 
 everlasting, and Christ denies that He dissolved the law, but fulfilled 
 it, by what confidence, I say, do men of after-ages dare to abrogate 
 good part of it 1 Fi. That law was not given to the Gentiles, and 
 therefore it seemed meet to the apostles not to burden them with the 
 load of circumcision, lest, as the Jews even at this day do, they should 
 rather place the hope of their salvation in corporeal observances, than 
 iii faith and love towards God. Bu. I forbear to speak of the Gen-
 
 ICHTHYOPHAGIA ; OR, FISH-EATING. 263 
 
 tiles, what scripture is there that says plainly of the Jews, that if they 
 did embrace the gospel they should be freed from the servitude of the 
 Mosaical law] 
 
 FL That was prophesied by the prophets, who promise a new 
 covenant and a new heart, and introduce God as abhorring the festival 
 days of the Jews, aversating their meat-offerings, abhorring their fasts, 
 rejecting their gifts, and desiring a people of circumcised hearts; and 
 the Lord himself confirmed what they had promised, who holding forth 
 to His disciples His body and blood, calls it the New Testament. If 
 nothing be abolished of the old, why is this called a new one ? The 
 Lord did not only abrogate the Jewish choice of meats by His example, 
 but by His doctrine, when He denies that man is defiled by meats 
 which go into the stomach, and pass thence into the draught. He 
 teaches Peter the same by a vision, and Peter himself shews the same, 
 in that he, with Paul and others, ate of common meats from which the 
 law commanded them to abstain. Paul treats in this manner every- 
 where in his epistles, nor is there any doubt but what Christians now 
 practise was handed down to us by tradition from the apostles them- 
 selves. So that the Jews were not so properly set at liberty as weaned 
 from superstition as from the milk to which they had been accustomed 
 and made familiar, but now was grown out of season. 
 
 Neither is the law abrogated, but it is but requisite that that part 
 of it should give way which was not essential. Leaves and flowers 
 bespeak fruit coming; and when a tree is loaded with that nobody 
 covets the leaves. Nor is anybody sorry that his son's puerility is 
 gone when maturity of age is come. Nor does anybody call for candles 
 and torches when the sun is got above the horizon. Nor does a 
 schoolmaster complain if a son, being come to man's estate, puts in his 
 claim for freedom, and in his turn has the master under his tuition. 
 A pledge ceases to be a pledge when the thing promised is produced. 
 The spouse comforts herself with the bridegroom's letters till she is 
 married she kisses his presents, embraces his picture ; but when she 
 comes to enjoy his company she disregards those things she before 
 admired for the sake of it. The Jews at first were very hardly brought 
 off from those things they had been accustomed to, which is just as if 
 a child that had been used to suck, being grown a lusty fellow, should 
 cry for the breast and slight more solid food. So they were forced, as 
 it were, from those figures, shadows, and temporary comforts, that they 
 might entirely turn themselves to Him whom that law had promised 
 and shadowed out. 
 
 Eu. Who would have expected so much divinity from a seller of 
 salt fish ? FL I used to serve the Dominican college in our city with 
 fish, and by that means they often dine with me, and I sometimes with 
 them, and I gathered these things from their discourses. Eu. In 
 truth, instead of a seller of salt fish, you deserve to be a seller of fresh 
 fish. But, prithee, tell me if you were a Jew (for I cannot very well 
 tell whether you are one or not), and you were like to be starved with 
 hunger, would you eat swine's flesh or rather die 1 Fi. I cannot very 
 well tell what I should do, for 'I do not yet well understand :what I 
 ought to do. Eu. God has forbid both, " Thou shalt not kill," and 
 " Thou shalt not eat swine's flesh." In such a case as this, which 
 precept must give way to the other ?
 
 264 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Fi. In the first place, it does not appear that God has forbidden 
 the eating swine's flesh, meaning that a man should rather be accessory 
 to his own death than eat it. For the Lord excuses David in that he 
 ate shewbread contrary to the letter of the law. And in the Baby- 
 lonish captivity many things were omitted by the Jews which were 
 required by the law. Secondly, I am of opinion that the law which 
 nature has dictated, and therefore is perpetual and inviolable, ought to 
 be accounted the more obligatory, which never was nor ever will be 
 abrogated. Bu. But why, then, were the Maccabees so much com- 
 mended that chose rather to die than eat swine's flesh? Fi. I suppose 
 because this eating being required by the king, did comprise in itself 
 a denial in the general of the law of the country ; as circumcision, 
 which the Jews endeavoured to obtrude on the Gentiles, carried in it 
 a profession of the whole law, just as money given in earnest obliges 
 to the performance of the whole contract. 
 
 Bu. Well., then, if this more gross part of the law is justly taken 
 away, after the exhibition of the gospel, by what authority are either 
 the same or like things imposed upon us, especially when our Lord 
 calls His yoke an easy one, and Peter, in the Acts of the Apostles, calls 
 the law of the Jews a hard one, which neither they nor their fathers 
 were able to bear ! Circumcision is taken away, but baptism came in 
 the room of it, and, indeed, I was about to say, with a harder condition. 
 That was deferred till the eighth day; and if anything happened to the 
 child in that time, the vow of circumcision was taken for circumcision 
 itself. But we dip children, scarce well got out of the dark caverns of 
 the mother's womb, all over in cold water, which has stood a long time 
 in a stony font (not to say while it stinks), and if it chance to die upon 
 the first day, or in its very ingress into the world, though there be no 
 fault neither in its parents nor friends, the poor babe is doomed to 
 eternal damnation. Fi. They do say so indeed. 
 
 Bu. The sabbath is abrogated ; nay, indeed, not abrogated, but 
 translated to the Sunday. What does it signify ? The Mosaic law 
 enjoined a few fast days ; but what a number have we added to them ? 
 And as to the choice of meats, how much freer were the Jews than we 
 are, who were at liberty to eat sheep, capons, partridges, and kids all 
 the year round 1 They were forbid the use of no garment, but what 
 was mixed with linen and woollen. But now, besides the appointed 
 and forbidden forms and colours of a great number of garments, the 
 head must be shaven too, some after one manner, and some another. 
 Not to mention that heavy burden of confession, the wallets of human 
 constitutions, tithes, and those not single ones neither ; matrimony 
 screwed up into too narrow a compass, the new laws of affinity, and 
 abundance of other things, which render the Jews' circumstances much 
 more easy than ours. 
 
 Fi. Indeed, butcher, you are much out of the way, the yoke of 
 Christ is not to be accounted for by that rule you imagine. A Christian 
 is tied up in many points, and to harder circumstances, and liable to a 
 greater punishment. But to make amends for this, the greater 
 strength of faith and love that is added makes those things pleasant 
 which by nature are burdensome. Bu. Pray, tell me why, when the 
 Holy Spirit descended from heaven of old, in the shape of fiery tongues, 
 and enriched the hearts of believers with a more copious gift of faitli
 
 ICHTHYOPHAGIA; OB, FISH-EATING. 265 
 
 and charity, why was the burden of the law taken away from them, as 
 from persons weak, and in danger, under an unequal yoke 1 Why did 
 Peter by the inspiration of the Spirit call it an intolerable burden 1 ? 
 
 Fi. It was taken away on one part, lest Judaism, as it had begun, 
 should overwhelm the glory of the gospel } and lest the Gentiles, by 
 the stumblingblock of the law, should be alienated from Christ, among 
 whom there were many weak persons, who were in a double danger 
 on the one hand, lest they should believe there was no salvation to be 
 had without the observation of the law ; and on the other hand, lest 
 they should rather choose to remain in paganism, than take upon them 
 the yoke of the Mosaic law. It was necessary to allure these weak 
 minds, as it were, with a bait of liberty. Secondly, That they might 
 heal them who denied there was any hope of salvation by the profes- 
 sion of the gospel without the observation of the law, circumcision, 
 sabbaths, and the choice of meats, and other things of that kind, they 
 either wholly took away, or changed into something else. And besides, 
 whereas Peter denies that he was able to bear the burden of the law, it 
 is not to be understood of him as to the person he then bare, when 
 there was nothing unbearable to him, but of the stupid and weak Jews, 
 who, though they were cloyed with it, fed upon the husk, not having 
 any relish of the Spirit. 
 
 Bu. You argue, indeed, very smartly ; but for all that, in my 
 opinion, even at this day, there is no less reason why those carnal 
 obligations that are arbitrary, and not obligatory, should be taken away. 
 Fi. Why so ] 
 
 Bu. I lately saw the whole world described in a large map ; from 
 thence I learned how small a part of the world it was that truly and 
 sincerely professed the Christian religion. One small part of Europe 
 to the east, and another towards the north; the third inclining towards 
 the soiith, but reaching but a little way; and the fourth part, which is 
 Poland, inclining towards the east. All the rest of the world is either 
 possessed by barbarians or such as differ but very little from brute 
 beasts ; or schismatics, or heretics, or both. Fi. But did you not mind 
 the southern shore, and the Christian islands that lay scattered about 
 it ? Bu. I saw them, and learned that there were great spoils brought 
 out of them, but no Christianity carried into them. When, indeed, 
 when there is so plentiful a harvest, it seems most advisable for the 
 propagation of the Christian religion to do as the apostle did, who took 
 away the burden of the Mosaic law, lest the Gentiles should fall back ; 
 so now to allure the weak, the obligations to some ceremonies should 
 be removed, without which the world was saved in the beginning, and 
 may now, if it hath faith and gospel charity. 
 
 Again, I both hear and see many who place religion in places, 
 garments, meats, fasts, gestures, and songs, and for the sake of these 
 things judge their neighbours contrary to the precept of the gospel. 
 From whence it comes to pass, that whereas faith and charity consti- 
 tute the Christian religion, they are both extinguished by those super- 
 stitions. For he is far from the faith of the gospel who depends upon 
 these acts ; and he is far from Christian charity who for the sake of 
 meat or drink, which a person may lawfully use, exasperates his brother, 
 for whose liberty Christ died. What bitter contentions do we see 
 among Christians 1 What spiteful calumnies upon account of- a g^r-
 
 266 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 ment differently tied, or of different colours than what is customary, 
 and about that sort of food which the water produces and that which 
 the land produces ? And if this evil had reached but a few, it might 
 have been slighted. But now we see the whole world in a flame on 
 account of these deadly contentions. These and such like things, were 
 they removed, we should both live in greater concord, not minding 
 ceremonies, but pressing after those things which Christ hath taught 
 us j and the nations of the world would the more readily embrace 
 religion were it accompanied with liberty. 
 
 Fi. But there is no salvation out of the pale of the church. Bu. 
 I confess it. Fi. Whosoever does not own the authority of the pope 
 is out of the pale of the church. Bu. I don't deny that neither. Fi. 
 But he that neglects his injunctions does not own him. Bu. But I 
 hope a time will come that the pope, who is Clement by name, and 
 most of all so by nature, will mitigate all these things which hitherto 
 seem to have alienated some people from the Roman Church ; that he 
 may bring all nations to the communion of it, and will rather pursue 
 those things that are for the good of the church than his own private 
 interest. I hear daily complaints of yearly offerings, pardons, dispen- 
 sations, and other exactions and church grievances ; but I believe he 
 will so moderate all things, that in time to come it would be impudent 
 to complain. Fi. I wish all monarchs would do the like, and then I 
 would not doubt but Chiistianity, which is now confined to a narrow 
 compass, would extend itself, when the barbarous nations did perceive 
 that they were called, not to human servitude, but to gospel liberty ; 
 and that they were not sought after to be made a prey of, but to a 
 fellow-enjoyment of happiness and holiness. If once they came to be 
 united with us, and found in us manners truly Christian, they would 
 of their own accord offer us more than the \itmost violence can extort 
 from them. 
 
 Bu. I should soon hope to see that accomplished, if that mischiev- 
 ous Ate, that has engaged the two most mighty monarchs in the world 
 in a bloody war, were sent to her place (i.e. to the dogs). Fi. I won- 
 der that that is not done already, when nothing can be imagined more 
 humane than Francis ; and I look upon it that Charles has had princi- 
 ples instilled into him by his masters, that by how much the more 
 fortune enlarges the bounds of his empire, by so much the more he 
 increases in clemency and bounty ; besides that, good humour and 
 lenity are peculiar to his age. Bu. You will not find that they will be 
 wanting in anything. 
 
 Fi. What, then, is it that hinders the accomplishment of that which 
 all the world wishes for ? Bu. Why, the lawyers have not yet come 
 to an agreement about bounds and limits, and you know that the storm 
 of a comedy always ends in the calm of a matrimony; and the tragedies 
 of princes commonly end in the like manner. But in comedies matches 
 are quickly made up, but among great men matters move but slowly ; 
 and it is better to have a wound long in healing than presently to 
 break out again in an ulcer. 
 
 Fi. But do you think marriages to be firm bonds of amity ? Bu. 
 I would have them so, indeed ; but I see sometimes the sharpest con- 
 tentions rise from them ; and when once a war arises between near 
 kindred, it not only is more extensive, but harder to be made up.
 
 ICUTIIYOPHAGIA; OR, FISH-EATING. 267 
 
 Fi. I confess it, and acknowledge it to be true. Bu. But do you 
 thiuk it fit that because of the contentions and delays of lawyers in 
 relation to contracts, the whole world should be kept in pain ? For 
 as matters are now, there is no safety anywhere, and the worst of 
 men take advantage of the opportunity, while thqre is neither peace 
 nor war. 
 
 Fi. It is not my business to determine concerning the counsels of 
 princes. But if I were Csesar, I know what I would do. Bu. Well, 
 come on, then, you shall be Csesar, and the pope too, if you please. 
 What is it yoxi would do 1 ? Fi. I had rather be emperor and king of 
 France. Bu. Well, let it be so, you shall be both of them then. Fi. 
 I would immediately take upon me a vow of peace, and publish a truce 
 throughout my dominions, disband my forces, and make it a capital 
 crime for any to touch so nntch as a hen that was not their own. So 
 having settled affairs to my conveniency, or rather that of the public, 
 I would treat concerning the limits of my dominion, or the con- 
 ditions of a match. Bu. Have you projected any tinner ties than 
 those of matrimony ? Fi. I think I have. Bu. Let us hear them. 
 
 Fi. Were I emperor, I would without delay thus treat with the 
 king of France : " My brother, some evil spirit has set this war on 
 foot between you and me; nor do we fight for our lives, but our 
 dominions. You, as to your part, have behaved yourself as a stout 
 and valiant warrior ; but fortune has been on my side, and of a king 
 made you a captive. What has been your lot may be mine, and your 
 mishap admonishes all of our human condition. We have experienced 
 that this way of contention has been detrimental to both of us; let us 
 engage one another after a different manner. I give you your life, 
 and restore you your liberty, and instead of an enemy take you for my 
 friend. Let all past animosities be forgotten, you are at free liberty 
 to return into your own dominions, enjoy what is your own, be a good 
 neighbour, and for the future let this be the only contention, which 
 shall outdo the other in offices of fidelity and friendship ; nor let us vie 
 one with another which shall govern the largest dominions, but who 
 shall govern his own with the greatest justice and goodness. In the 
 former conflict I have bore away the prize of fortune, but in this he 
 that gets the better shall gain far more glory. As for me, the fame of 
 this clemency will get me more true glory than if I had added all 
 France to my dominion ; and in you a grateful mind will be more to 
 your praise than if you had drove me quite out of Italy. Do you not 
 envy me the praise that I am ambitious of, and I will on the other 
 hand carry myself toward you, that you shall willingly owe an obliga- 
 tion to so good a friend." 
 
 Bu. In truth, not only all France but all the world might be 
 attached by this method. For if this ulcer should happen to be 
 skinned over, rather than thoroughly healed by unequal terms, I am 
 afraid that upon the first opportunity, the skin being broken, abundance 
 of corrupt matter would issue out, and that with more dangerous con- 
 sequences. Fi. How great and glorious would this act of humanity 
 render Charles all over the world 1 What nation would not readily 
 submit to so generous and kind a prince ? 
 
 Bu. You have acted the part of the emperor very well : now act 
 the pope too. Fi. It would be too long to go through everything.
 
 268 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 I will tell you in brief. I would so demean myself that the whole 
 Avorld should see that there was a prince of the church that aspired 
 after nothing but the glory of Christ and salvation of mankind. That 
 would infallibly take away all invidiousness from the name of pope, 
 and gain him solid and lasting glory. But, by the way, from worse to 
 better. We have digressed from our first proposition. Bu. Well, I 
 will bring you to rights again by and by. But do you say, then, that 
 the pope's laws are binding to the whole church 1 Fi. I do say so. 
 Bu. What ! to the punishment of hell ? Fi. They say so. Bu. 
 And are the bishops' laws obligatory in like manner? Fi. I think 
 they are, every one in his own diocese. Bu. And those of abbots 
 too ? Fi. I am in doubt as to that ; for they receive their adminis- 
 tration upon certain conditions, nor have any power to burden their 
 inferiors with constitutions without the concurrence of the whole 
 order. Bu. But what if a bishop receive his function upon the same 
 conditions ? Fi. I doubt as to that. 
 
 Bu. Can the pope annul what a bishop has constituted 1 Fi. 
 I believe he can. Bu. Can nobody annul what the pope decrees 1 
 Fi. No, nobody. Bu. How comes it about that we hear of the 
 resuming of popes' constitutions under this title, that they have not 
 been rightly instructed, and that the constitutions of former popes 
 have been antiquated by later, as deviating from piety 1 Fi. Those 
 were surreptitious and temporary things ; for the pope, considered as 
 a man, may be ignorant of person and fact. But that which proceeds 
 from the authority of an universal council is a heavenly oracle, and is 
 of equal authority with the gospel itself, or at least very near it. Bu. 
 Is it lawful to doubt concerning the gospels 1 Fi. By no means ; no, 
 nor the councils neither, rightly assembled by the Holy Spirit, carried 
 on, published, and received. Bu. What if any one should doubt 
 whether there is any council so constituted? as I hear concerning the 
 council at Basil, which has been rejected by some; nor do all approve 
 of that of Constance. I speak of those that are accounted orthodox, 
 not to mention the late Lateran council. Fi. Let them that will 
 doubt at their own peril. I will not doubt for my part. 
 
 Bu. Had Peter, then, the authority of making new laws? Fi. 
 He had. Bu. And had Paul too, and the rest of the apostles ? Fi. 
 Yes, they had every one in their own churches committed to them by 
 Peter or Christ. Bu. And have the successors of Peter a like 
 authority with Peter himself? Fi. Why not? Bu. And is there 
 the' same regard to be had to the pope of Rome's letter as to the 
 Epistle of St. Peter himself, and as much to the constitutions of bishops 
 as to the Epistles of St. Paul ? Fi. Nay, I think, and more too, if 
 they command and make ife a law by authority. Bu. Is it lawful to 
 doubt whether Peter and Paul wrote by the inspiration of the Holy 
 Spirit ? Fi. Nay, let him be accounted an heretic that doubts of that. 
 
 Bu. And do you think the same of the ordinances and constitu- 
 tions of the popes and bishops ? Fi. I do as to the popes, but I should 
 make some question as to the bishops, but that it seems a part of piety 
 not to be suspicious of any person unless there be very good grounds 
 for it. Bu. But why will the Holy Spirit suffer a bishop to err rather 
 than a pope ? Fi. Because that error is the most dangerous that pro- 
 ceeds from the head. Bu.. If the constitutions of prelates are of such
 
 ICHTHYOPHAGIA ; OR, FISH-EATING. 269 
 
 force, what does the Lord mean in Deuteronomy, who uses so severe 
 a commination, that none add to or diminish from the law ] Fi. He 
 does not add to the law that more largely explains what lay couched in 
 it, and who suggests those things that have relation to the observation 
 of the law; nor does he diminish who preaches the law according to 
 the capacity of the hearers, declaring some things, and concealing 
 others, according to the circumstances of the time. 
 
 Bu. Were the constitutions of the Pharisees and Scribes 
 obligatory? Fi. I do not think they were. Bu. Why so? Fi. 
 Because, though they had authority to teach, yet not to make laws. 
 Bu. Which power is the greater, that of making human laws or that 
 of interpreting divine? Fi. That of making human laws. Bu. I 
 am of another mind; for he that has the right of interpreting his 
 opinion has the force of a divine law. Fi. I do not well take you in. 
 Bu. I will explain it to you. The divine law commands us to assist 
 our parents. The Pharisee interprets it thus : That which is offered 
 to the church is given to the Father, because God is the father of all. 
 Does not the divine law then give place to this interpretation ? Fi. 
 But that is a false interpretation. Bu. But when once they have 
 received an authority of interpreting, how can I tell which interpreta- 
 tion is true, and especially if they differ among themselves ? Fi. If 
 you cannot be satisfied as to the sense of the commonalty, follow the 
 authority of the prelates; that is the safest. 
 
 Bu. Is then the authority of the Scribes and Pharisees devolved 
 upon divines and preachers ? Fi. It is. Bu. I hear none more 
 ready to inculcate, " hear, I say unto you," than those that never made 
 divinity much their study. Fi. You must hear all candidly, but 
 with judgment, unless they are qiiite mad. Then people ought to rise 
 and hiss them out of the pulpit, to make them sensible of their mad- 
 ness. But you ought to believe those that have arrived to the degree 
 of a doctor in divinity. Bu. But among them I find a great many 
 that are much more ignorant and foolish than those that are altogether 
 illiterate; and I see much controvei-sy among the learned themselves. 
 Fi. Single out the best things, and leave those things that are difficult 
 to others, always receiving those things that the consent of the rulers 
 and majority has approved. Bu. I know that is the safest way. 
 But then there are false constitutions as well as false interpretations. 
 Fi. Whether there be or no, let others look to that. I believe there 
 may be. 
 
 Bu. Had Annas and Caiaphas authority to make laws ? Fi. 
 Yes, they had ? Bu. Did these men's constitutions in all things 
 oblige to the punishment of hell ? Fi. I cannot tell. Bu. Suppose 
 Annas had made an order that nobody coming from a market should 
 touch a bit of meat before he had washed his body: if any one ate 
 meat unwashed, did he incur the pain of damnation ? Fi. I think 
 not, unless the contempt of the public authority aggi-avated the crime. 
 Bu. Did all the laws of God oblige to the punishment of eternal 
 damnation? Fi. I believe not; for God forbids all sin, how venial 
 soever, if we may believe divines. Bu. But perhaps a venial sin 
 might send to hell, unless God by His mercy assisted our infirmity. 
 Fi. It is no absurdity to say so, but I dare not affirm it. Bu. When 
 the Israelites were in captivity in Babylon, besides a great many other
 
 270 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 things which the law requires, many of them omitted circumcision ; 
 did all these perish ? Fi. God knows that. 
 
 Bu. If a Jew should privately, for fear of being starved, eat 
 swine's flesh, would he be guilty of a crime 1 Fi. In my opinion, the 
 necessity would excuse the fact; inasmuch as David was excused by 
 the mouth of God himself, that he had ate holy bread, which is called 
 shewbread. contrary to the precept of the law ; and did not only eat 
 it himself, but also fed his profane companions with it too. Bu. If 
 any one lay under that necessity that he must either steal or starve, 
 which ought he to choose, to steal or be starved to death? Fi. 
 Perhaps, in that case, theft would not be theft. Bu. How is that ? 
 What, is not an egg an egg ? Fi. Especially, if he took it with an 
 intention of making a return, and pacifying the owner, as soon as he 
 should be in a capacity to do it. Bu. What if a man must either 
 lose his own life or swear falsely against his neighbour, which must 
 he choose ? Fi. Death. Bu. What if he could save his life by 
 committing adultery ? Fi. He ought rather to choose death. Bu. 
 What if he could save his life by committing fornication 1 Fi. They 
 say he ought rather to die. Bu. Why does not an egg cease to be an 
 egg here, especially if there be no force offered or injury done? Fi. 
 There is wrong done to the maiden's body. Bu. What if by perjury? 
 Fi. He ought to die. Bu. What say you as to a simple harmless 
 lie ? Fi. They say a man must rather die. But I am of opinion 
 that upon an urgent necessity, or a great advantage, such a sort of a lie 
 rather is no fault, or a very small one; unless it be that having once 
 opened the way, there is danger of our growing into a habit of lying 
 injuriously. Put the case that by a harmless lie a man might save the 
 bodies and souls of his whole country; which would a pious man 
 choose ? would he refuse to tell the lie ? Bu. What others would do 
 I cannot tell, but as for me, I would make no scruple of telling fifteen 
 as notorious lies as ever Homer told in his life, and presently wash 
 away my guilt with holy water. Fi. I would do the same. 
 
 Bu. Well, then, it is not what God has commanded nor what He 
 has forbid that obliges to eternal damnation. Fi. It seems otherwise. 
 Bu. Then the modus of the obligation is not so much from the author 
 of the law as from the matter of it ; for some things give way to 
 necessity, and some do not. Fi. It seems so. Bu. What if a priest 
 should be in danger of his life, and should save it by marrying ? 
 Whether should he choose? Fi. Death. Bu. When a divine law can 
 give way to necessity, why does not this human law give way to it? 
 Fi. It is not the law that hinders but the vow. Bu. What if any one 
 should make a vow of going to Jerusalem but could not do it without 
 being sure to lose his life, shall he go or shall he die ? Fi. Why, he 
 ought to die, unless he can get his vow dispensed with by the pope. 
 Bu. But why may one vow be dispensed with and not another? Fi. 
 Because one is a solemn vow and the other a private one. Bu. What 
 do you mean by a solemn one? Fi. That which is usual. Bu. Why 
 then, is not the other a solemn one which is a daily one? Fi. Yes, 
 but then it is a private one. 
 
 Bu. Well, then, if a monk should profess privately before an abbot, 
 would not this be a solemn one? Fi. You trifle. A private vow is 
 the easier dischai'ged, because it is dispensed with the least offence. He
 
 ICHTHYOPHAGIA; OR, FISH-EATIXG. 271 
 
 that makes a private vow does it with this intention, that if it be con- 
 venient he may alter his mind. Bu. Then might they vow with this 
 intention that vow perpetual chastity. Fi. They ought so to do. Bu. 
 Then it would be perpetual and not perpetual. What if it were the case 
 of a Carthusian monk that be must either eat meat or die? Whether 
 ought he to choose 1 Fi. Physicians tell us that there is no flesh so 
 efficacious but aurum potabile, and jewels would answer the end. Bu. 
 Which is the more useful, to succour a person in danger of life with 
 gold and jewels, or with the price of them to succour a great many 
 whose lives are in danger, and to let the sick man have a chicken. Fi. 
 I cannot say as to that. Bu. But the eating of fish or flesh is not 
 of the number of those things that are called substantials. Fi. Let us 
 leave the Carthusians to be their own judge. 
 
 Bu. Let us then talk in the general. Sabbath-keeping has been 
 diligently, frequently, and largely inculcated in the law of Moses. Fi. 
 True. Bu. Whether then ought I to relieve a city in danger, neglect- 
 ing the sabbath or not? Fi. Do you think me a Jew then? Bu. I 
 wish you were, and a circumcised one too. Fi. The Lord himself had 
 solved that difficulty, saying, the sabbath was made for man, and not 
 man for the sabbath. Bu. Well, then, is that law of force in all 
 human constitutions. Fi. Yes, except anything obstruct. Bu. 
 What if a lawmaker make a law, not with this design, that it should 
 be obligatory upon the pain of eternal damnation, nor indeed unto any 
 guilt, and to have no other force but an exhortation ? Fi. Good man, 
 is it not in the lawmaker's power how far the law shall be binding] He 
 uses his authority in making the law, but as to what it shall oblige to, 
 and what not, that is in the hand of God. 
 
 Bu. Why, then, do we hear our parish priests out of the pulpit 
 crying, "To-morrow you must fast, under pain of eternal damnation," if 
 it does not appear to us how far a human law is binding? Fi. They 
 do this that they may in an especial manner strike terror into the 
 contumacious, for I presume those words do properly belong to them. 
 Bu. Whether they are a terror to the contumacious I know not: they 
 throw weak persons into scruples and danger. Fi. It is a hard matter 
 to suit both. Bu. The power of the law and custom are much the 
 same. Fi. Sometimes custom is the more powerful. Bu. They that 
 introduce a custom, whether they do it with design of bringing any one 
 into a snare or not, they oftentimes bring them into an obligation 
 nolens volens. Fi. I am of your mind. Bu. Custom may lay a 
 burden upon a man when it cannot take it off again. Fi. It may so. 
 Bu. Well, then, now I hope you are sensible how dangerous a thing it 
 is to impose new laws upon men without any necessity or a very great 
 utility. Fi. I confess it. 
 
 Bu. When the Lord says, "Swear not at all," does He render every 
 one that swears obnoxious to the pains of hell ? Fi. I think not. I take 
 it to be a counsel and not a command. B.u. But how can that be made 
 clear to my understanding, when He has scarce forbid anything with 
 greater strictness and severity than that we swear not? Fi. You must 
 learn of your teachers. Bu. When Paul gives advice, does he oblige to 
 the pain of damnation? Fi. By no means. Bu. Why so? Fi. Because 
 he will not cast a stumblingblock before the weak. Bu. So then it 
 is in the breast of the maker of the law to lay liable to damnation or
 
 272 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 not. And it is a sacred thing to beware lest we lay a stumbling- 
 block before the weak by any constitutions. Fi. It is. Bu. And if 
 Paul made use of this caution, much more ought priests to use it, of 
 whom it is uncertain whether they have the Spirit or not. Fi. I 
 confess so. 
 
 Bu. But a little while ago you denied that it was at the lawgiver's 
 pleasure how far the law should oblige a person. Fi. But here it is a 
 counsel and not a law. Bu. Nothing is easier than to change the 
 word "swear not." Is it a command 1 ? Fi. It is. Bu. Resist not 
 evil. Fi. It is a counsel. Bu. But this last carries in it the 
 face of a command more than the former; at least, is it in the 
 breasts of bishops whether they will have their constitutions, com- 
 mands, or counsels ? Fi. It is. Bu. You denied that strenuously 
 but now. For he who will not have his constitution render 
 any one guilty of a crime he makes it advice, and not command. 
 Pi. True; but it is not expedient the vulgar should know this, lest 
 they should presently cry out that what they have not a mind to 
 observe is counsel. Bu. But then what will you do as to those weak 
 consciences that are so miserably perplexed by thy silence 1 But come 
 on, pray tell me can learned men know by any certain tokens whether 
 a constitution has the force of a counsel or a command? Fi. As I have 
 heard, they can, Bu. May not a person know the mystery 1 ? Fi. You 
 may, if you will not blab it out. Bu. Pshaw, I will be as mute as a 
 fish. Fi. When you hear nothing but, " We exhort, we ordain, we 
 command," it is a counsel; when you hear, "We command, we require," 
 especially if threatenings of excommunication be added, it is a com- 
 mand. 
 
 Bu. Suppose I owe money to my baker and cannot pay him, and 
 had rather run away than be cast into prison, am I guilty of a capital 
 offence ? Fi. I think not, unless a will be wanting as well as ability. 
 Bu. Why ami excommunicated then? Fi. That thunderbolt affrights 
 the wicked, but does not hurt the innocent; for, you know, amongst 
 the ancient Romans there were certain dreadful threatening laws made 
 for this very purpose, as that which is fetched from the twelve tables, 
 concerning the cutting the body of the debtor asunder, of which there 
 is no example extant, because it was not made for use but terror. And 
 now as lightning has no effect upon wax or flax, but upon brass, so 
 such excommunications do not operate upon persons in misery, but upon 
 the contumacious. Bu. To speak ingenuously, to make use of Christ's 
 thunderbolt on such frivolous occasions as these are seems in a manner 
 to be, as the ancients said, in lente unguentum. 
 
 Bu. Has a master of a house the same power in his own house 
 as a bishop has in his diocese ? Fi. It is my opinion he has propor- 
 tionably. Bu. And do his prescriptions equally oblige? Fi. Why 
 not? Bu. I command that nobody eat onions, how is he that does 
 not obey a sinner before God ? Fi. Let him see to that. Bu. Then 
 for the future I will say I admonish you, not I command you. Fi. 
 That will be wisely done. Bu. But suppose I see my neighbour in 
 danger, and therefore I take him aside and admonish him privately 
 to withdraw himself from the society of drunkards and game- 
 sters, but he, slighting my admonition, lives more profligately than 
 before, does my admonition lay him under an obligation? Fi. In my
 
 ICHTHTOPHAGIA ; OR, FISH-EATING. 273 
 
 opinion it does. Bu. Then neither by counsel nor exhortation do we 
 avoid the snare. Fi. Nay, it is not admonition, but the argument of 
 admonition that brings into the snare. For if I admonish my brother 
 to make use of slippers, and he does not do it, he is not guilty of a 
 crime. 
 
 Bu. I will not put the question at this time how far the prescrip- 
 tions of physicians are obligatory. Does a vow lay liable to the pain 
 of eternal damnation? Fi. Yes. Eu. What, all kind of vows? Fi. 
 Ay, all universally, if they be possible, lawful, and voluntary. Bu. 
 What do you mean by voluntary ? Fi. That which is extorted by no 
 necessity. Bu. What is necessity ? Fi. Fear falling upon a man of 
 constancy. Bu. What, upon a Stoic, such a one as Horace says, If 
 the world fall to pieces about his ears he would not be afraid ? Fi. 
 Shew me such a Stoic, and then I will give you an answer. Bu. But, 
 without jesting, can the fear of famine or infamy fall upon a man of 
 constancy ? Fi. Why not ? 
 
 Bu. Suppose a daughter that is not at her own disposal should 
 marry privately, without the consent of her parents, who would give 
 their consent if they knew it, will the vow be lawful? Fi. It will. 
 I cannot tell whether it be or no ; but this I am sure of, if there be 
 any such this is one of the number of those which, although they be 
 true, yet lest they be a scandal to the weak, are to be kept secret. 
 Bu. Again, suppose a virgin who, by her parents' consent, has engaged 
 herself in marriage to her lover should enter herself in the cloister of 
 Sb. Clare, will this vow be allowable and lawful? Fi. Yes, if it be 
 a solemn one. Bu. Can that be solemn that is done in a field and a 
 dark monastery ? Fi. It is accounted so. Bu. Suppose the same 
 person at home, a few witnesses being present, should make a vow of 
 perpetual virginity, will it not be a lawful vow? Fi. No. Bu. 
 Why so ? Fi. Because a more holy vow is in the way. Bu. If the 
 same maid sell a field, will the contract be good ? Fi. I think not. 
 Bu. And will it be valid if she give herself into the power of another? 
 Fi. If she devote herself to God. 
 
 Bu. And does not a private vow devote a person to God ? and 
 does not he that receives the holy sacrament of matrimony devote 
 himself to God? and can they whom God has joined together devote 
 themselves to the devil, when only of married persons God has said, 
 Whom God has joined, let no man put asunder? And besides this, 
 when a young man not come of age and a simple maid, by the threats 
 of parents, severity of tutors, the wicked instigation of monks, fair 
 promises, and terrifyings, are thrust into a nunnery, is the vow a free 
 vow ? Fi. Yes, if they are at years of discretion. Bu. A virgin of 
 that age is emphatically doli capax, being easy to be imposed upon. 
 What if I should purpose in my mind to drink no wine on a Friday, 
 would my purpose bind me as strongly as a vow ? Fi. I do not 
 think it would. Bu. What difference is there then between a deter- 
 minate purpose and a vow conceived in the mind ? Fi. The mind of 
 binding. Bu. You denied but just now that the mind signified 
 anything in this matter. Do I purpose if I am able, and vow whether 
 I am able or not ? Fi. You have it. Bu. Have it ? I have clouds 
 painted upon the wall that is just nothing at all. What, then, is the 
 ratio of the matter to be disregarded in a purpose ? Fi. I think so.
 
 274 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Bu. And must we take care of that on account of the law, and this 
 on account of the vow ? Fi. Yes. 
 
 Bu. Suppose the pope should make a law that nobody should 
 marry any one within the seventh degree of affinity, would he be 
 guilty of a sin that should marry a cousin in the sixth degree ? Fi. 
 In my opinion he would. Bu. What if a bishop should put forth an 
 edict that nobody should have to do with his wife but on a Monday, 
 Thursday, and Saturday, would he be guilty of a sin that should have 
 to do with her upon other days ? Fi. I think he would. Bu. What 
 if he should enjoin that nobody should eat bulbous roots 1 Fi. What 
 does that signify to piety 1 Bu. Because bulbous roots are provoca- 
 tives, but what I say of bulbs, I say even of the herb rocket. Fi. I 
 cannot well tell. Bu. Why cannot you tell where lies the force of 
 obligation in human laws 1 Fi. In the words of St. Paul, Be obedient 
 to those that are set over you. Bu. Upon this foot the constitution 
 of a bishop and magistrate binds all persons. Fi. Yes, if it be just 
 and lawfully made. Bu. But who shall be judge of that 1 Fi. He 
 that made it ; for he that makes the law ought to interpret it. 
 
 Bu. What, then, must we be obedient to all constitutions without 
 distinction 1 Fi. I think we should. Bu. What if a fool or a wicked 
 person be set over us, and he make a foolish and wicked law, must we 
 abide by his judgment, and must the people obey, as having no right to 
 judge 1 Fi. What signifies it to suppose what is not 1 Bu. He that 
 succours his father, and would not succour him unless the law obliged 
 him to it, does he fulfil the law or not ? Fi. No, I think he does not. 
 Bu. Why not 1 Fi. In the first place, because he does not fulfil the 
 will of the lawgiver ; secondly, he adds hypoci'isy to his wicked will. 
 Bu. If he fasts that would not fast unless the church required him, 
 does he satisfy the law ? Fi. You change both the author of the law 
 and the matter of it. Bu. Well, then, compare a Jew, if he fasting 
 upon days appointed would not fast unless the law required him, with 
 Christ, who, keeping a fast appointed by men, would not keep it if 
 there were no law for it ; or, if you had rather, a Jew abstaining from 
 swine's flesh, and a Christian abstaining from flesh and milk-meats on 
 Friday. Fi. I believe there ought to be some grains of allowance 
 made to infirmity, though the law be against it ; but not so to him 
 that on purpose acts and murmurs against a law. 
 
 Bu. But you do allow that the divine laws do not always oblige to 
 eternal damnation. Fi. Why should I not ] Bu. But do you not 
 dare to own that there is any human law which does not bind to the 
 same penalty, but leave a man in suspense 1 Then you seem to attri- 
 bute something more to the laws of men than to the laws of God. 
 Lying and backbiting are evil in their own nature, and forbidden by 
 God himself, and yet you acknowledge that some kind of lies and 
 backbitings do not bind a person to the punishment of hell ; and yet 
 you do not dare to exempt a person from the same punishment that 
 upon any condition whatsoever eats flesh on a Friday. Fi. It is none 
 of my business to acquit or condemn any one. 
 
 Bu. If divine and human laws bind equally alike, what difference 
 is there between one and the other ? Fi. This difference, that he 
 that transgresses a human law sins immediately against man (if you 
 will allow me to use school terms), but mediately against God; he that
 
 ICHTHYOPHAGIA; OR, FISH-EATING. 275 
 
 transgresses a divine law, e contra. Bu. Where is the difference in 
 mingling vinegar and wormwood, which is put in first, if I must drink 
 them both ? Or what matter is it whether a stone that has given me 
 a wound rebounds from me to a friend directly or sideways ] Fi. I 
 have learned that. Bu, And if the modus of a law's binding, in laws 
 of both kinds, is to be taken from the matter and circumstances, what 
 difference is there between the authority of God and that of man ? 
 Fi. Indeed, a very wicked question. Bu. There are, for all that, 
 a great many that do not think there is much difference. God gave a 
 law by Moses, and it is not lawful to violate it ; and He also gives laws 
 by a pope or a council what difference is there between the one and the 
 other? Moses's law was given by God, and our laws were given by 
 men, and it should seem that those laws which God gave by one Moses 
 should be of less moment than those which the Holy Spirit gives by a 
 full council of bishops and learned men. Fi. It is unlawful to doubt 
 concerning the spirit of Moses. 
 
 Bu. Paul comes in the place of a bishop ; what difference is there, 
 then, betwixt the precepts of Paul and of any other bishop] Fi. Because, 
 without controversy, Paul wrote by the inspiration of the Spirit. Bu. 
 How far extends this authority of writers ? Fi. I think no farther 
 than the apostles themselves, unless that the authority of councils 
 ought to be looked upon inviolable. Bu. Why may we not doubt of 
 Paul's spirit 1 Fi. Because the consent of the church is against it. 
 Bu. May we doubt concerning that of bishops ? Fi. We ought not 
 rashly to be suspicious of those, unless the matter manifestly savours 
 of gain or impiety. Bu. But what think you of the councils 1 Fi. 
 We ought not to doubt of them, if they are rightly constituted and 
 managed by the Holy Spirit. Bu. Is there, then, any council that is 
 not so ] Fi. It is possible there may be such, otherwise divines 
 would never have made this exception. Bu. Then it seems that it is 
 lawful to doubt concerning councils themselves. Fi. I do not think 
 we may, if they be received and approved by the judgment and con- 
 sent of Christian nations. 
 
 Bu. But since we have exceeded the bound that God has set, and 
 within which He would have the sacred and inviolable authority of the 
 scripture circumscribed, it seems to me that there is some other 
 difference between laws divine and human. Fi. What is that? Bu. 
 Divine laws are immutable, unless such as are of that kind that they 
 seem to be given only for a time, for the sake of signification and 
 coercion, which the prophets foretold should end as to the carnal sense 
 of them, and the apostles have taught us are to be omitted. And 
 then, again, as to human laws : there are sometimes unjust, foolish, and 
 hurtful laws made, and therefore either abrogated by the authority of 
 superiors or by the universal neglect of the people ; but there is 
 nothing such in the divine laws. 
 
 Again, a human law ceases of itself when the causes for which it 
 was made cease ; as, for instance, suppose a constitution should enjoin 
 all persons yearly to contribute something towards building a church, 
 the requirement of the law ceases when the church is built. Add to 
 this, that a human law is no law, unless it be approved by the consent 
 of those who are to use it. A divine law cannot be dispensed with nor 
 abrogated, although, indeed, Moses being about to make a law required
 
 276 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 the consent of the people ; but this was not done because it was 
 necessary, but that he might render them the more criminal in not 
 keeping it. For, indeed, it is an impudent thing to break a law that 
 you gave your approbation to the making of. 
 
 And in the last place, inasmuch as human laws commonly concern 
 corporal matters, and are schoolmasters to piety, they seem to cease 
 when a person has arrived to that strength in grace that he does not 
 stand in need of any such restraints, but only should endeavour to 
 avoid giving an offence to weak persons who are conscientiously 
 scruptilous. As, for instance, suppose a father enjoins a daughter that 
 is under age not to drink wine, that she may with the greater safety 
 preserve her virginity till she is married, when she comes of age, and 
 is delivered up to a husband, she is not bound to her father's injunc- 
 tion. There are many laws that are like medicaments, that are altered 
 and give place according to the circumstances, and that with the appro- 
 bation of the physicians themselves, who, if they should at all times make 
 use of the remedies the ancients prescribed, would kill more than they 
 cure. Fi. You, indeed, heap a great many things together, some of 
 which I like and others I do not, and some I do not understand. 
 
 Bu. If a bishop's law manifestly savours of gain, that is. if he 
 makes an order that every parish priest every year purchase at a guinea 
 a piece a right of absolution in those cases that are called episcopals, 
 that he might extort the more money from those in his jurisdiction, 
 do you think it ought to be obeyed 1 Fi. Yes, I think it ought ; but 
 at the same time we ought to exclaim against this unjust law, but 
 always avoiding sedition. But how comes it about that you turn 
 catechiser at this rate, butcher ? Every one should keep to his own 
 trade. Bu. We are often perplexed with these questions at table, 
 and sometimes the contest proceeds to blows and bloodshed. Fi. 
 Well, let them fight that love fighting ; I think we ought with rever- 
 ence to receive the laws of our superiors, and religiously observe them 
 as coming from God ; nor is it either safe or religious either to conceive 
 in mind or sow among others any sinister suspicion concerning them. 
 And if there be any tyranny in them that does not compel us to im- 
 piety, it is better to bear it than seditiously to resist it. 
 
 Bu. I confess this is a very good way to maintain the authority of 
 persons in power ; I am pretty much of your mind, and as for them, I 
 do not envy them. But I should be glad to hear anything wherein 
 the liberty and advantage of the people is aimed at. Fi. God will 
 not be wanting to His people. Bu. But where all this while is that 
 liberty of the spirit that the apostles promise by the gospel, and which 
 Paul so often inculcates, saying, " The kingdom of God consists not in 
 meat and drink ; " and that we are not children under a schoolmaster, 
 and that we do no longer serve the elements of this world, and ab\m- 
 dance of other expressions : if Christians are tied to the observance of 
 so many more ceremonies than the Jews were, and if the laws of man 
 bind more closely than a great many commands of God ? Fi. Well, 
 butcher, I will tell you, the liberty of Christians does not consist in its 
 being lawful for them to do what they will, being set free from human 
 ordinances, but in that they do those things that are enjoined them 
 with a fervour of spirit and readiness of mind willingly and cheerfully, 
 and so are sons rather than servants.
 
 ICHTUYOPHAGIA ; OR, FISH-EATING. 277 
 
 En. Very cleverly answered indeed ! But there were sons under 
 the Mosaic law, and there are now servants under the gospel ; and I 
 am afraid the greatest part of mankind are so if they are servants who 
 do their duty by compulsion. What difference is there then between 
 the new dispensation and the old 1 Fi. A great deal in my opinion : 
 because the old taught under a veil, and the new is laid open to view ; 
 that which the old foretold by parables and riddles the new explains 
 clearly ; what that promised darkly, this exhibits for the most part 
 manifestly : that was given to one nation singly, this equally teaches 
 all the way of salvation ; that imparted that notable and spiritual 
 grace to a few prophets and famous men, but this largely sheds abroad 
 every kind of gifts, as tongues, healing diseases, prophecies, and 
 miracles, into persons of all ages, sexes, and nations whatsoever. Bu. 
 Where are those gifts nowl Fi. They are ceased, but not lost, either 
 because there is no need of them now the doctrine of Christ is spread 
 abroad, or else because many are only Christians in name, and we 
 want faith, which is the worker of miracles. 
 
 Bu. If miracles are necessary on account of unbelievers I am sure 
 the world is full of them now. Fi. This is an unbelief simply erring, 
 such as that of the Jews murmuring against Peter because he had 
 received Cornelius's family into the grace of the gospel ; and such as 
 was that of the Gentiles, who thought the religion they had received 
 from their ancestors was sufficient to salvation, and the apostles' 
 doctrine to be a strange superstition : these were converted by seeing 
 miracles. But now those that believe not the gospel when it shines 
 so gloriously through the whole world, do not err simply, but being 
 blinded by their evil affections, will not understand that they may 
 do what is good ; such as these no miracles would reduce to a better 
 mind. And now is the time of healing, but the time of punishing 
 will come. 
 
 Bu. Indeed you have said many things that have a probability in 
 them ; however, I am resolved not to depend upon the judgment of a 
 salt-fishmonger ; but I will go to some divine, eminent for learning, 
 and what he says concerning all these things I will believe. Fi. Who 1 ? 
 Pharetrius 1 Bu. He dotes before he is old, and is fit to preach to 
 none but doting old women. Fi. Well, then, what ? Bliteus 1 Bu. 
 Do you think I will give any credit to a prating sophist 1 Fi. Well, 
 then, Amphicholus ? Bu. I will never trust him to answer questions 
 that never answered my demands for the meat I trusted him. Can he 
 resolve hard questions that was always insolvent as to his debts 1 
 Fi. Who, then 1 Lemantius ] Bu. I shall not choose a blind man to 
 shew me the way. Fi. Who, then ? Bu. If you have a mind to 
 know, it is Cephalus, a man very well versed in three languages, and 
 accomplished with all good literature, familiarly acquainted with the 
 sacred scriptures and ancient fathers. Fi. I will advise you better : 
 go to the Elysian shades, and there you will find Rabin Druin, he will 
 cut all your knotty questions in two with a pair of shears. Bu. Do 
 you go before and clear the way. 
 
 Fi. But, setting aside jesting, is that true you told me of a 
 dispensation for flesh-eating 1 Bu. ISTo, I did but joke with you to 
 tease you. And if the pope had ever so much mind to do it, you 
 fishmongers would raise mobs about it. And besides, the world is full 
 
 R
 
 278 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 of a sort of pharisees who have no other way of appearing religions but 
 by such superstitions, who would neither be deprived of their ostenta- 
 tious sanctity, nor suffer their successors to have more liberty than 
 they had themselves. Nor, indeed, would it be for the interest of 
 butchers to have a free toleration to eat everything ; for then our trade 
 would be very uncertain, for now our profit is more certain, and we 
 run less hazards, as well as have less trouble. Fi. What you say is 
 very true, and we should be in the same condition. Bu. I am glad 
 here is something found out at last, that a fishmonger and butcher can 
 agree in. But to begin to talk seriously, as perhaps it would be con- 
 venient for Christians not to be tied up to so many ceremonies, 
 especially to such as make but very little to true religion, not to say 
 that make against it ; so I have no mind to vindicate those persons 
 who reject and set light by all human ordinances ; nay, such as often 
 do many things because they are forbid to do them. Yet I cannot but 
 wonder at the absurd notions of mankind in many things. Fi. Nor 
 can I help wondering at them neither. 
 
 Bu. We are for confounding heaven and earth together, if we do 
 but suspect any danger of lessening the authority of priests, as to their 
 impositions ; and are all asleep when we are under imminent danger 
 of attributing so much to the authority of man, that the authority of 
 God suffers by it. So we avoid one evil and fall into another far more 
 pernicious. That there is honour due to bishops nobody denies, 
 especially if they act agreeably to what they talk. But it is a wicked 
 thing to transfer the honour due to God alone upon men ; and in doing 
 too much honour to men, to do too little to God. God is to be 
 honoured and reverenced in our neighbour ; but, however, we ought to 
 take care at the same time that God, by this means, be not robbed of 
 His honour. Fi. We see a great many men lay so much stress upon 
 corporal ceremonies, that relying upon them they neglect matters of 
 real religion, arrogating that to their own merits which ought to be 
 attributed to the divine bounty ; and their taking up their station 
 where they should begin to ascend to greater perfection, and reviling 
 their neighbour for those things that in themselves are neither good 
 nor bad. 
 
 Bu. And when in the same matter there are two things, one 
 bebter than the other, we commonly choose the worst of them. The 
 body and those things that belong to the body are everywhere made 
 more account of than those of the mind. And it is accounted a great 
 crime to kill a man, and indeed it is so ; but to corrupt men's minds 
 with poisonous doctrine and pernicious principles is made a jest on. 
 If a priest lets his hair grow or wears a lay habit, he is thrown into 
 piison and severely punished ; but if he sits tippling in a bawdy-house 
 with whores, games, or debauches other men's wives, and never takes a 
 Bible in his hand, he is still a pillar of the church. Not that I excuse 
 the wearing a lay habit, but I accuse the absurdity of men's notions. 
 Fi. Nay, if he shall neglect to say his prayers at stated hoxirs, he must 
 be excommunicated ; but if he be an usurer, or guilty of simony, he 
 goes scot-free. 
 
 Bu. If anybody sees a Carthusian in a dress not of the order, or 
 eating flesh, how does he curse him, tremble at the sight, and fall into 
 a fright, lest the earth should open and swallow up him for wearing,
 
 ICIITHYOPHAGIA; OR, FISH-EATING. 279 
 
 and himself for beholding it ? But let the same person see him drunk 
 as a lord, reviling his neighbour with notorious lies, imposing upon his 
 poor neighbour with manifest frauds, he is not at all shocked at that. 
 Fi. So if any one sees a Franciscan with a girdle without knots, or an 
 Augustine girt with a woollen one instead of a leather one, or a Cai-me- 
 lite without one, or a Rhodian with one, or a Franciscan with whole 
 shoes on his feet, or a Crucifei-ian with half-shoes on, will he not set 
 the whole town into an uproar? Bu. There were lately in our 
 neighbourhood two women, whom one would take for persons of 
 prudence, and the one miscarried, and the other fell into a fit on seeing 
 a canon, who was a president of the nuns in a cloister not far distant, 
 appear out of doors without a surplice under his gawn. But the same 
 women have frequently seen these sort of cattle junketting, singing 
 and dancing, to say no more, and their stomachs never so much as 
 heaved at it. 
 
 FL Perhaps some allowance ought to be made for the sex. But I 
 suppose you know Polythresius. He was dangerously ill, his distem- 
 per was a consumption. The physicians for a long time had persuaded 
 him to eat eggs and milk-meats, \>\\i to no purpose. The ,bishop 
 exhorted him to do the like ; but he being a man of learning, and a 
 bachelor in divinity, seemed to resolve rather to die than to take the 
 advice of either of these physicians. At last the doctors, and his 
 friends together, contrived to put the cheat upon him, making him a 
 potion of eggs and goats' milk, telling him it was juice of almonds. 
 This he took very freely, and for several days together mended upon it, 
 till a certain maid told him the trick, upon which he fell to vomiting 
 of it up again. But the very same man that was so superstitious in 
 relation to milk, had so little religion in him, that he forswore a sum 
 of money that he owed me, having got before an opportunity to tear 
 the note of his hand that he had given me ; he forswore it, and I was 
 obliged to sit down with the loss. But he took not the oath with so 
 much difficulty, but that he seemed to wish he had such complaints 
 made against him every day. What can be more perverse than such a 
 spirit 1 He sinned against the mind of the church in not obeying the 
 priest and the doctors. But he whose stomach was so weak in rela- 
 tion to milk had a conscience strong enough as to perjury. 
 
 Bu. This story brings to my mind what I heard from a Dominican 
 in a full auditory, who upon Easter eve was setting out the death of 
 Christ, that he might temper the melancholiness of his subject by the 
 pleasantness of his story. A certain young man had got a nun with 
 child, and her great belly discovered her fault. A jury of nuns were 
 impannelled, and the lady abbess sat as judge of the court. Evidence 
 was given against her, the fact was too plain to admit of a denial ; 
 she was obliged to plead the unavoidableness of the crime, and defended 
 the fact upon that consideration; also transferring the blame to another, 
 having recourse to the Status Qualitatis, or if you will rather have 
 it so, the Status Translationis. I was overcome, says she, by one that 
 was too strong for me. Says the abbess, then you should have cried 
 out. So I would, says the prisoner, had it not been a crime to make a 
 noise in the dormitory. Whether this be a fable or not, it must be 
 confessed there are a great many foolisher things than this done. 
 
 But now I will tell you what I have seen with my own eyes.^ The
 
 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 man's name and place where he lives shall be concealed. There 
 was a cousin of mine, a prior that was next in degree to the 
 abbot of the Benedictine Order, but of that sort that don't eat flesh, 
 unless it were out of the place they call the great refectory ; 
 he was accounted a learned man, and he was desirous to be so 
 accounted, about fifty years of age. It was his daily practice to drink 
 freely and live merrily, and once every twelve days to go to the hot- 
 houses, to sweat out the diseases of his reins. Fi. Had he where- 
 withal to live at that rate ? Bu. About six hundred florins a year. 
 Fi. Such a poverty I myself would wish for. Bu. In short, with 
 drinking and whoring he had brought himself into a consumption. 
 The doctors had given him over ; the abbot ordered him to eat flesh, 
 adding that terrible sentence, upon pain of disobedience ; but he, 
 though at the point of death, could scarce be bro\ight to taste flesh, 
 though for many years he had had no aversion to flesn. 
 
 Fi. A prior and an abbot well matched ! I guess who they are, 
 for I remember I have heard the same story from their own mouths. 
 Bu. Guess. Fi. Is not the abbot a lusty fat man, that has a stam- 
 mering ;n his speech ; and the prior a little man, but straight-bodied 
 and long-visaged 1 Bu. You have guessed right. 
 
 .Ft, Well, now, I will make you amends; I will tell you what I 
 saw with my own eyes but the other day, and what I was not only 
 present at, but was in a manner the chief actor. There were two nuns 
 that went to pay a visit to some of their kinsfolks ; and when they 
 came to the place, their man-servant had left behind him their prayer- 
 book, which was according to the custom of the oixler and place where 
 they lived. Good God ! what a vexatious thing that was ! They did 
 not dare to go to supper before they had said their vespers, nor could 
 they read in any book but their own ; and at the same time all the 
 company was in great haste to go to supper ; the servant runs back, 
 and late at night brings the book ; and by that time they had said 
 their prayers, and got to supper, it was ten o'clock at night. Bu 
 That is not much to be found fault with hitherto. Fi. You have 
 heard but one part of the story yet. At supper the nuns began to 
 grow merry with wine ; they laughed, and joked, and kissed, and not 
 over-modestly neither, till you could hardly hear what was said for the 
 noise they made ; but nobody used more freedom than those two vir- 
 gins that would not go to supper before they had said their prayers. 
 After supper there was dancing, singing of lascivious songs, and such 
 doings I am ashamed to speak of, insomuch that I am much afraid that 
 night hardly passed very honestly ; if it did, the wanton plays, nods, 
 and kisses deceived me. 
 
 Bu. I do not blame the nuns for this so much as the priests 
 that look after them ; but, come on, I will give you story for story, or 
 rather a history that I myself was an eye-witness of. A little while 
 since there were some persons sent to prison for baking bread on 
 a Sunday, though at the same time they wanted it. Indeed, I do not 
 blame the deed, but I do the punishment. A little after, being Palm 
 Sunday, I had occasion to go to the next street, and being there about 
 four o'clock in the afternoon, I saw a sight, I cannot well tell whether 
 I shall call it ridiculous or wretched. I scarce believe any bacchanals 
 ever had so much lewdness in them ', some were so drunk they reeled
 
 ICHTHYOPHAGIA; OR, FISH-EATING. 281 
 
 to and fro, like a ship tossed by the waves, being without a rudder ; 
 others were supporting one so drunk he could not go, and hardly able 
 to stand themselves; others fell down, and could scarce get up again ; 
 some were crowned with leaves of oak. Fi. Vine leaves and wands 
 would have befitted them better. Bu. The senior of them, acting the 
 part of Silonus, was carried like a pack upon men's shoulders, after the 
 manner they carry a dead corpse, with his feet foremost, but with his 
 face downwards, lest he should be choked with his own vomit, vomit- 
 ing plentifully down the heels of those that carried hindmost ; and as 
 to the bearers, there was not a sober man. amongst them. They went 
 along laughing, but after such a manner that you might perceive they 
 had lost their senses. In short, they were all mad ; and in this pickle 
 they made a cavalcade into the city in the day-time. Fi, How came 
 they to be all so mad ? Bu. You must know, in the next town there 
 was wine sold something cheaper than in the city, so a parcel of boon 
 companions went thither, that they might attain the greater degree of 
 madness for the lesser sum of money; but though, indeed, they did 
 spend the less money, they got the more madness. If these men had 
 but tasted an egg, they would have been hauled to prison as if they had 
 committed parricide ; when, besides their neglecting divine service and 
 evening prayers upon so sacred a day, so much intemperance was not 
 only committed with impunity, but nobody seemed to be so much as 
 displeased at it. 
 
 Fi. But that you may not wonder so much at that, in the midst of 
 the cities, and in alehouses next to the churches, upon the most solemn 
 holidays, there was drinking, singing, dancing, fighting, with such a 
 noise and tumult, that divine service could not be performed, nor one 
 word heard that the parson said ; but if the same men had set a stitch 
 in a shoe, or eat pork on a Friday, they would have been severely 
 handled. Though the Lord's day was instituted chiefly for this end, 
 that they might be at leisure to attend to the doctrine of the gospel ; 
 and therefore it was forbid to mend shoes, that they might have leisure 
 to trim their souls. But is not this a strange perverting of judgment? 
 Bu. A prodigious one. 
 
 Fi. Whereas there are two things in the ordering a fast the one 
 abstinence from meat, and the other the choice of it there is scarce 
 anybody ignorant that the first is either a divine command, or very 
 near it ; but the other not only human, but also in a manner opposite 
 to the apostles' real doctrine. However we excuse it, nevertheless, by 
 a preposterous judgment in common, it is no crime to eat a supper, but 
 to taste a bit of meat that is forbidden by man, but permitted by God, 
 and also by the apostles, this is a capital crime. Fasts, though it isi 
 not certain they were commanded by the apostles, yet they are recom- 
 mended in their examples and epistles. But the forbidding the eating 
 of meats that God has made to be eaten with thanksgiving, if we were 
 to defend that before St. Paul as a judge, to what shifts should we be 
 driven ? And yet, almost all the world over, men eat plentifully, and 
 nobody is offended at it; but if a sick man taste a bit of a chicken, the 
 whole Christian religion is in danger. In England the common 
 people have a supper every other day, in Lent time, and nobody 
 wonders at it; but if a man at death's door in a fever should 
 sup a little chicken broth, it is accounted a crime worse than sacrilege.
 
 282 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Among the same persons in Lent time, than which there is nothing of 
 
 freater antiquity, nor more religiously observed among Christians, as 
 have said before, they sup without any penalty ; but if you shall 
 attempt to do the same, after Lent is over, on a Friday, nobody will 
 bear it ; if you ask the reason of it, they will tell you it is the custom 
 of the country. They curse a man who does not observe the custom of 
 the country, and yet they forgive themselves the neglect of the ancient 
 custom of the universal church. 
 
 Fi. He is not to be approved that without cause neglects the 
 custom of the country wherein he lives. Bu. No more do I blame 
 them that divide Lent between God and their bellies ; but I find fault 
 with preposterous censuring in matters. Fi. Though the Lord's day 
 was instituted in an especial manner, that persons might meet together 
 to hear the <*ospel preached, he that does not hear mass is looked upon 
 -as an abominable sinner, but he that neglects to hear a sermon, and 
 plays at ball in the time, is innocent. Bu. What a mighty crime is 
 it accounted for any one to receive the sacrament, not having first 
 washed his mouth, when at the same time they do not stick to take it 
 with an unpurified mind, defiled with vile affections ! How many 
 priests are there that would die before they would participate the 
 sacrament in a chalice and charger that has not been consecrated by a 
 bishop or in their every-day clothes ] But among them all that are 
 thus nice how many do we see that are not at all afraid to come to 
 the Lord's table drunk with the last night's debauch 1 How fearful 
 ^ire they lest they should touch the wafer with that part of the hand 
 that has not. been dipped in consecrated oil ? Why are they not as 
 religious in taking c&re that an unhallowed mind does not offend the 
 Lord himself? We will not So much as touch a consecrated vessel, 
 and think we have been guilty of a heinous offence, if we shall chance 
 so to do and yet, in the meantime, how unconcerned are we while we 
 violate the living temples of the Holy Spirit ! 
 
 Fi. Human constitutions require that no bastard, lame, or one 
 that hath but one eye, be admitted to any sacred function; how nice 
 are we as to this point ! But, in the meantime, unlearned, gamesters, 
 drunkards, soldiers, and murderers are admitted everywhere. They 
 tell us that the diseases of the mind lie not open to our view ; I do not 
 speak of those things that are hidden, but of such as are more plain to 
 be seen than the deformity of the body. There ai-e bishops, likewise, 
 that have nothing as to their function to value themselves upon, but 
 some sordid accomplishments. The gift of preaching, which is the 
 chief dignity of a bishop, this they make to give place to every sordid 
 thin^, which they would never do unless they were possessed with a 
 preposterous judgment. He that shall profane a holy-day instituted by 
 a bishop is hurried away to punishment ; but some great men, setting 
 at nought the constitution of popes and councils, and all their thunder- 
 bolts who hinder canonical elections, ravage the church lands, not 
 sparing almshouses and hospitals erected by the alms of pious persons 
 for the 5 succour of the old, sick, and needy, think themselves Christians 
 erood enough if they do but wreak their ill-temper upon persons that 
 offend in trivial matters. 
 
 Bu. But we had better let great men alone, and talk about salt 
 fish and flesh. Fi. I agree with you ; let us return to fasts and fish.
 
 ICHTHYOPHAGIA; OR, FISH-EATING. 283 
 
 I have heard say that the pope's laws do by name except boys, old 
 men, and sick and weakly persons, such as work hard, women with 
 child, sucking children, and very poor people. Bu. I have often 
 heard the same. Fi. I have also heard a very great divine, I think 
 his name is Gerson, say further, if there be any other case of equal 
 weight with those which the pope's laws except by name, the force of 
 the precept gives way in like manner. For there are peculiar habits of 
 body "which render the want of some things more material than an. 
 evident disease ; and there are distempers that do not appear that are 
 more dangerous than those that do, therefore he that is acquainted 
 with his own constitution has no need to consult a priest ; even as 
 infants do not, because their circumstances exempt them from the law. 
 And, therefore, they that oblige boys, or very old men, or persons 
 otherwise weak, to fast, commit a double sin; first, against brotherly 
 charity, and secondly against the very intention of the pope, who 
 would not involve them in a law the observation of which would be 
 pernicious to them. 
 
 Whatsoever Christ has ordered, He has ordained for the health of 
 body and mind both ; neither does any pope claim to himself such a 
 power, as by any constitution of his, to bring any person into danger 
 of life ; as suppose that any person by not eating in the evening should 
 not rest at night, and so for want of sleep be in danger of growing 
 light-headed, he is a murderer both against the sense of the church and 
 the will of God. Princes, as oft as it suits with their conveniency, 
 publish an edict threatening with a capital punishment. How far 
 their power extends I will not determine ; but this I will venture 
 to say, they would act more safely if they did not inflict death for any 
 other causes than such as are expressed in the Holy Scriptures. In 
 things blameworthy, the Lord dehorts from going to the extremity of 
 the limits, as in the case of perjury, forbidding to swear at all; in 
 murder, forbidding to be angry, we by a human constitution force 
 persons upon the extreme crime of homicide, which we call necessity. 
 Nay, as oft as a probable cause appears, it is a duty of charity of our 
 own accord to exhort our neighbour to those things that the weakness 
 of his body requires; and if there be no apparent cause, yet it is the 
 duty of Christian charity kindly to suppose it may be done with a good 
 intention, unless it carries along with it a manifest contempt of the 
 church. 
 
 A profane magistrate very justly punishes those that eat contu- 
 maciously and seditiously ; but what every one shall eat in his own 
 house is rather the business of a physician than a magistrate. Upon 
 which account, if any person shall be so wicked as to cause any dis- 
 order, they are guilty of sedition, and not the person that consults his 
 own health and breaks no law, neither of God nor man. In this the 
 authority of the pope is misapplied; it is absurd to pretend the 
 authority of popes in this case, who are persons of so much humanity 
 that if they did but know a good reason for it they would of their own 
 accord invite them to those things that are for their health, and defend 
 them by dispensations against the slanders of all persons ; and besides, 
 throughout Italy they permit flesh to be sold in certain markets for the 
 sake of the health of such persons as are not comprehended in that 
 law. Besides, I have heard divines that have not been precise in their
 
 284 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 sermons say, Do not be afraid at supper-time to eat a piece of bread, 
 or drink a pint of wine or ale, to support the weakness of the body. 
 If they take upon them the authority of indulging so that they will 
 indulge a small supper to those that are in health, and that contrary to 
 the ordinance of the church, which requires fasting, may they not per- 
 mit not only a small supper but a pretty hearty one to such persons 
 whose weakness requires it, and the popes themselves expressly declare 
 that they approve it 1 If any one treats his body with severity it may 
 be called zeal, for every one knows his own constitution best ; but 
 where is the piety and the charity of those persons that reduce a weak 
 brother, wherein the spirit is willing but the flesh weak, even to death's 
 door, or bringing him into a disease worse than death itself, against the 
 law of nature, the law of God, and the sense and meaning of the law of 
 the pope himself? 
 
 Bu. What you mention brings to my mind what I saw myself 
 about two years since. I believe you know Eros, an old man, about 
 sixty years of age, a man of a very weakly constitution, who by a 
 lingering illness, acute diseases, and hard studies, even enough to kill 
 a horse, was brought to death's door. This man, by some occult 
 quality in nature, had from a child a great aversion to eating fish, and 
 an inability to endure fasting, so that he never attempted them with- 
 out imminent hazard of his life ; at last he obtained a dispensation from 
 the pope to defend him against the malevolent tongues of some phari- 
 saical spirits. He not long ago, upon the invitation of friends, goes to 
 the city Eleutheropolis, a city not at all like its name; it was then 
 Lent time, and a day or two were devoted to the enjoyment of his 
 friends. In the meantime fish was the common diet ; but he, lest he 
 gave offence to any person, though he had his necessity to justify him, 
 as well as the pope's dispensation to bear him out, ate fish. He per- 
 ceived his old distemper coming upon him, which was worse than 
 death itself; so he prepares to take his leave of his friends and go 
 home, being necessitated so to do unless he would lie sick there. 
 
 Some there suspecting that he was in such haste to go because he 
 could not bear to eat fish, got Glaucoplutus, a very learned man, and a 
 chief magistrate in that province, to invite him to breakfast. Eros 
 being quite tired with company, which he could not avoid in a public 
 inn, consented to go, but upon this condition, that he should make no 
 provision but a couple of eggs, which he would eat standing, and im- 
 mediately take horse and be gone. He was promised it should be as 
 he desired ; but when he comes, there was a fowl provided. Eros, 
 taking it ill, tasted nothing but the eggs, and rising from table took 
 horse, some learned men bearing him company part of the way. But, 
 however, it came about, the smell of the fowl got into the noses of some 
 sycophants, and there was as great a noise in the city as if ten men had 
 been murdered; nor was the noise confined there, but was carried to 
 other places two days' journey off, and, as is usual, still gained by 
 carrying ; adding, that if Eros had not got away, he had been carried 
 before the justice, which, though that was false, yet true it was that 
 Glaucoplutus was obliged to give the magistrate satisfaction. But 
 now, considering the circumstances of Eros, had he ate flesh in public, 
 who could justly have been offended at it ? And yet in the same city 
 all Lent time, but especially on holy-days, they drink till they are mad,
 
 ICHTHYOPHAGIA ; OR, FISH-EATING. 285 
 
 bawl, dance, fight, play at dice at tlie church-door, so that you cannot 
 hear what the parson says when he is preaching ; and this is no offence. 
 Fi. A wonderful perversity of judgment ! 
 
 Bu. I will tell you another story not much unlike this. It is now 
 almost two years since the same Eros went for the sake of his health 
 to Ferventia, and I, out of civility, bore him company. He went to 
 an old friend's house who had given him frequent invitations by 
 letters. He was a great man and one of the pillars of the church. 
 When they came to eating of fish, Eros began to be in his old condi- 
 tion; a whole troop of distempers were coming \ipon him a fever, 
 severe headache, vomiting, and the stone. His landlord, though he 
 saw his friend in this danger, did not dare to give him a bit of flesh- 
 meat. But why? he saw a great many reasons that he might do it ; 
 he saw likewise the pope's licence; but he was afraid of public censure, 
 and the disease had grown so far upon him that then it was in vain to 
 give it him. 
 
 FL What did Eros do? I know the man's temper; he would 
 sooner die than be injurious to his friend. Bu. He shut himself up 
 in a chamber, and lived three days after his own manner; his dinner 
 was one egg, and his drink water and sugar boiled. As soon as his 
 fever was abated he took horse, carrying provision along with him. 
 Fi. What was it? Bu. Almond milk in a bottle, and dried grapes 
 in his poi-tmanteau. When he came home the stone seized him, and 
 he lay by it for a whole month. But for all this, after he was gone, 
 there was a very hot but a false report of eating flesh followed him, 
 which reached as far as Paris, and a great many notorious lies told 
 about it. What remedy do you think proper for such offences ? Fi. 
 I would have everybody empty their chamber-pots upon their heads, 
 and if they happen to meet them in the street, to stop their noses 
 while they go by them, that they may be brought to a sense of their 
 madness. 
 
 Bu. I think truly the divines ought to write sharply against such 
 pharisaical impiety. But what is your opinion of his landlord ? Fi. 
 He seems to be a very prudent man, who knows from what frivolous 
 causes the people excite such dismal tragedies. Bu. This may indeed 
 be the effect of prudence, and we may interpret the good man's timor- 
 ousness as favourably as may be; but how many are there who in the 
 like case suffer their brother to die, and pretend a cautiousness to act 
 against the usage of the church and to the offence of the people, 
 but have no fear upon them of acting to the offence of the people in 
 living a life publicly scandalous in rioting, whoring, luxury, and idle- 
 ness, in the highest contempt of religion, in rapine, simony, and 
 cheating? Fi. There are too many such; that which they call piety 
 is nothing but a barbarous and impious cruelty. But yet methinks 
 they seem to be more cruel who do not leave a man in danger occa- 
 sionally, but invent dangers for him, and force many into them as into 
 a trap, into manifest danger of both body and soul, especially having 
 no authority for it. Bu. I wait to hear what you have to say. 
 
 Fi. About thirty years ago I lived at Paris, in the college called 
 Vinegar College. Bu. That is a name of wisdom. But what say 
 you ? did a salt-fishmonger dwell in that sour college ? No wonder 
 then he is so acute a disputant in questions in divinity; for as I hear,
 
 286 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 the very walls there teach divinity. Fi. You say very right; but as for 
 me, I brought nothing out of it but my body full of gross humours, 
 and my clothes full of lice. But to go on as I began : At that time 
 one John Standonius was president, a man whose temper you would 
 not mislike, and whose qualifications yon would covet; for as I 
 remember, in his youth, when he was very poor himself, he was 
 very charitable, and that is much to be commended; and if he had 
 still supplied the necessities of young persons as he found them 
 materials for going on with their studies, he woxild not have had so 
 much money to have spent lavishly, but would have done praise- 
 worthily. But what with lying hard, by bad and spare diet, late and 
 hard studies, within one year's space, of many young men of a good 
 genius, and very hopeful, some he killed, others he blinded, others he 
 made run distracted, and others he brought into the leprosy, some of 
 whom I know very well; and, in short, not one of them but what was 
 in danger by him. Was not this cruelty against one's neighbour ? 
 Neither did this content him, but adding a cloak and cowl, he took 
 away the eating of flesh altogether, and transplanted such plants as 
 those into far distant countries. So that if every one should give 
 themselves such a liberty as he did himself, their followers would over- 
 spread the whole face of the earth. 
 
 If monasteries had their rise from siich beginnings as these, what 
 danger are not only popes, but kings themselves in ! It is a pious 
 thing to glory in the conversion of a neighbour to piety ; but to seek 
 for glory in a dress or diet is pharisaical. To supply the want of a 
 neighbour is a part of piety; to take care that the liberality of good 
 men be not converted to luxury is discipline ; but to drive a brother 
 into distempers, madness, and death is cruelty, is murdering him. 
 The intention of murder may, indeed, be wanting, but murder it is. 
 Perhaps some will say, nobody forces them into this kind of life ; they 
 come into it voluntarily, they beg to be admitted, and they are at liberty 
 to go away when they are weary of it; but this is a cruel answer. Is 
 it to be thought that young men can tell better what is good for them 
 than men of learning, experience, and age? A man might thus excuse 
 himself to a wolf that had drawn him into a trap, when he was almost 
 famished with hunger. But can he that sets unwholesome and poison- 
 ous food before a man that is ready to gnaw his flesh for hunger so 
 excuse himself to him when he is perishing, by saying, Nobody forced 
 you to eat it, you devoured what was set before you willingly and 
 eagerly? May he not justly answer him, You have not given me food, 
 but poison? Necessity is very prevalent, hunger is very sharp; there- 
 fore let them forbear to use these plausible excuses. They were, 
 indeed, at liberty to let it alone; but whosoever uses such engines 
 uses force. 
 
 Neither did this cruelty only destroy mean persons, but many 
 gentlemen's sons too, and spoiled many a hopeful genius. It is, indeed, 
 the part of a father to hold in youth that is apt to grow lascivious by 
 restraint. But in the very depth of winter, here is a morsel of bread 
 given them when they ask for their commons ; and as for their drink, 
 they must draw that out of a well that gives bad water, unwholesome 
 of itself, if it were not made the worse by the coldness of the morning. 
 I have known many that were brought to such an ill state of health
 
 ICHTKYOPHAGIA; OE, FISH-EATING. 27 
 
 that they have never got over it to this day. There were chambers on 
 a ground floor, and rotten plaister, they stood near a stinking house of 
 office, in which none ever dwelt but he either got his death or some 
 grievous distemper. I shall say nothing of the unmerciful whippings, 
 even of innocent persons. This they say is to break their fierceness, 
 for so they call a spritely genius; and therefore they must cow their 
 spirits, to make them more humble in the monasteries. Nor shall I 
 take notice how many rotten eggs were eaten, nor how much sour 
 wine was drank. Perhaps these things may be mended now; but, 
 however, it is too late for those that are dead already, or carry about 
 an infected carcase. 
 
 Nor do I mention these things because I have any ill will to the 
 college, but I thought it worth while to give this monition, lest human 
 severity should mar inexperienced and tender age under the pretence 
 of religion. How much civility or true piety may be taught there at 
 present I do not determine. If I could but see that those that put on 
 a cowl put off naughtiness, I should exhort everybody to wear one. 
 But, besides, the spirit of a vigorous age is not to be cowed for this 
 sort of life; but the mind is to be formed for piety. I can scarce enter 
 into a Carthusian monastery, but I find some fools and some madmen 
 among them. But it is time now, after so long a digression, to return 
 to our first proposition. Bu. We lose nothing by the digression as 
 long as we have talked to the purpose; but, perhaps, you have some- 
 thing further to add concerning human constitutions. Fi. In my 
 mind, he does by no means observe a human constitution who neglects 
 to do what he aimed at that ordained it. He that upon holy-days 
 forbears working, and does not employ them in divine duties, profanes 
 the day by neglecting to do that for which end it was appointed; 
 therefore is one good work forbidden that a better may be done. But 
 now, as for those that leave their secular employ to go to junketting, 
 whoring and drinking, fighting and gaming, they are guilty of a 
 double profanation of it. 
 
 Bu. It is my opinion that the task of saying prayers was imposed 
 upon priests and monks for this purpose, that by this exercise they 
 might accustom themselves to lift up their hearts to God; and yet he 
 that neglects saying his prayers is in danger to be punished, but he 
 that only mumbles over the words with his mouth, and does not 
 regard the meaning of them, nay, nor take pains so much as to learn 
 the language they are written in, without which he cannot tell what 
 the sound meaneth, is accounted a good man by others, and he thinks 
 himself such. Fi. I know a great many priests that look upon it a 
 heinous sin to omit any part of their prayers, or by mistake to have 
 said concerning the Virgin Mary when they should have said concern- 
 ing St. Paul ; but the same persons count it no crime to game, whore, 
 and drink, though these things are forbidden both by the law of God 
 and man. 
 
 Bu. Nay, I myself have known a great many that would sooner die 
 than be persuaded to take the sacrament after they had chanced to taste 
 a bit of food, or let a drop of water go down their throat -while they 
 were washing their mouths; yet the same persons will own that they 
 have so much malice against some, that if they had an opportunity 
 they would kill them ; nor are they afraid with this temper of mind to
 
 288 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 approach the Lord's table. Fi. That they take the sacrament fasting 
 is a human ordinance; but that they lay aside wrath before they come 
 to the Lord's table is a command of the Lord himself. 
 
 Bu. But then, again, how preposterously do we judge concerning 
 pei'jury ? He is accounted an infamous person who swears he has paid 
 a debt, when it is proved he has not. But perjury is not charged upon 
 a priest who publicly lives unchastely, though he publicly profess a 
 life of chastity. Fi. Why do you not tell this to the bishop's vicars, 
 who swear before the altar that they have found all that they present 
 to be entered into holy orders to be fit persons in age, learning, and 
 manners; when for the most part there are scarce two or three that 
 are tolerable, and most of them scarce fit to follow the plough ] Bu. 
 He is punished, that being provoked swears in a passion; but they 
 that forswear themselves every three words they speak escape scot-free. 
 Fi. But they do not swear from their hearts. Bu. By the same 
 colourable pretence you may vindicate a man that kills another, saying, 
 he did not do it in his heart. Perjury is not lawful either in jest or 
 earnest; and it would make the crime the greater to kill a man in jest. 
 
 Fi. What if we should weigh the oaths princes take at their 
 coronation in the same scale ? Bu. These things, though indeed they 
 are very serious matters, being done customarily, are not accounted 
 perjuries. There is the same complaint concerning vows. The vow of 
 matrimony is without doubt of divine right ; yet it is dissolved by 
 entering into a monastic life of man's invention. And though there is 
 no vow more religious than that of baptism, yet he that changes his 
 habit or his place is sought after, apprehended, confined, and some- 
 times put to death for the honovir of the order, as though he had 
 murdered his father; but those whose lives are diametrically repugnant 
 to their baptismal vows, in that they serve mammon, their bellies, and 
 the pomps of this world, are in mighty esteem, are never charged with 
 breaking their vow, nor upbraided, nor called apostates, but are reckoned 
 good Christians. 
 
 Bu. The common people have the like esteem of good and bad 
 deeds, and the safeguard of virtue. What a scandal is it for a maid to 
 be overcome 1 But a lying, slanderous tongue, and a malicious, envious 
 mind are greater crimes : and where is it that a small theft is not 
 punished more severely than adultery 1 ? Nobody will willingly keep 
 him company that has been accused of theft; but it is accounted a piece 
 of honour to hold a familiarity with such as are drenched in adultery. 
 Nobody will deign to marry a daughter to a hangman, who executes the 
 law for a livelihood, and a judge does the same ; but they have no 
 aversion at all to the affinity of a soldier, who has run away from his 
 parents, and listed himself a soldier for hire, and is defiled with all the 
 rapes, thefts, sacrileges, murders, and other crimes, that used to be 
 committed in their marches, camps, and retreats ; this may be taken 
 for a son-in-law, and though he be worse than any hangman, a maid may 
 love him dearly, and account him a noble personage. He that steals a 
 little money must be hanged ; but they that cheat the public of their 
 money and impoverish thousands by monopolies, extortions, and tricking 
 and cheating are held in great esteem. Fi. They that poison one 
 person are hanged for it ; but they that poison a whole nation with 
 infectious provisions go unpunished.
 
 ICHTHYP03AGIA; OR, FISH-EATING. 289 
 
 Bu. I know some monks so superstitious that they think them- 
 selves in the jaws of the devil, if by chance they are without their 
 sacred vestments ; but they are not at all afraid of his claws while they 
 are lying, slandering, drunkening, and acting maliciously. Fi. There 
 are a great many such to be seen among private persons, that cannot 
 think their house safe from evil spirits unless they have holy water, 
 holy leaves, and wax tapers ; but they are not afraid of them because 
 God is so often offended in them, and the devil served in them. Bu. 
 How many are there who put more trust in the safeguard of the Virgin 
 Mary, or St. Christopher, than of Christ himself! They worship the 
 mother with images, candles, and songs, and offend Christ heinously by 
 their impious living. A mariner when in a storm is more ready to 
 invoke St. Christopher, or some one or other of the saints, than Christ 
 himself. And they think they have made the Virgin their friend, by 
 singing her in the evening the little song, Salve regina, though they do 
 not know what it is they do sing ; when they have more reason to be 
 afraid that the Virgin should think they jeer her by their so singing, 
 when the whole day and great part of the night is spent in obscene 
 discourses, drunkenness and such doings as are not fit to be mentioned. 
 
 Fi. Ay, and so a soldier, when he is about any dangerous enter- 
 prise, is more ready to remember George or Barbara than Christ. 
 And though there is no reverence more acceptable to the saints than 
 the imitation of their deeds, by which they have approved themselves 
 to Christ, that is despised as much as can be ; and we fancy that St. 
 Anthony is mightily attached to us if we keep some hogs consecrated 
 to him, and have him painted upon doors and walls with his hog, his 
 fire, and his bell ; and never fear that which is more to be dreaded, lest 
 he should look with an evil eye upon those houses, where those wicked- 
 nesses reign that the holy man always abhorred. Do we say over 
 rosaries and salutations to the holy Virgin ? we should rather recount 
 to her the humiliation of our pride, the repressing our lusts, the forgiv- 
 ing of injuries. The mother of Christ takes more delight in such songs 
 as these, and these are the offices that oblige them both. 
 
 Bu. A man that is sick is more ready to remember St. Rochus or 
 Dionysius than Christ, the only health of mankind ; and more than 
 that, they that from the pulpit interpret the holy scriptures, which 
 none without the assistance of the Spirit can rightly understand or 
 profitably teach they choose rather to invoke the aid of the Virgin 
 Mary than of Christ or his Spirit. And he is suspected for a heretic 
 that dares to mutter against this custom, which they call laudable. But 
 the custom of the ancient fathers was much more laudable, such as 
 Origen, Basil, Chrysostom, Cyprian, Ambrose, Jerome, and Austin 
 used, who often invoked Christ's Spirit, but never implored the aid of 
 the Virgin. But they are not at all displeased at them who have 
 presumed to alter so holy a custom, taken from the doctrine of Christ 
 and the apostles, and the examples of holy fathers. 
 
 Fi. A great many monks are guilty of such like errors, who 
 persuade themselves that St. Benedict is mightily attached to them if 
 they wear his cowl and cloak ; though I do not believe he ever wore 
 one so full of folds, and that cost so much money ; and they are not 
 afraid of his anger, in that they do not imitate him in his life at all. 
 
 Bu. He is a very good son of St. Francis who does not disdain to
 
 290 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 wear aix ash-coloured habit and a canvas girdle ; but compare their 
 lives, and nothing can be more disagreeable : I speak of a great many, 
 but not of all. And this may be carried through all orders and profes- 
 sions. A preposterous confidence springs from an erroneous judgment, 
 and from them both, preposterous scandals. Ltet but a Franciscan go 
 out of doors with a leather girdle, if he has chanced to lose his rope, 
 or an Augustine with a woollen one, or one that uses to wear a girdle 
 without one, what an abomination would it be accounted 1 What 
 danger is there, that if some women should see this they would miscarry ! 
 And from such trifles as these, how is brotherly charity broke in upon ! 
 what bitter envyings, how virulent slauderings ! The Lord exclaims 
 against these in the gospel, and so does Paul vehemently, and so ought 
 divines and preachers to do. 
 
 Fi. Indeed they ought to do so ; but there are a great many among 
 them whose interest it is to have people, princes, and bishops such as 
 they are themselves. And there are others again that have no more 
 sense as to these things than the people themselves ; or if they do 
 know better, they dissemble it, consulting their own bellies rather than 
 the interest of Jesus Christ. And hence it comes to pass, that the 
 people being everywhere corrupted with erroneous judgments, are secure 
 where there is danger, and fearful where there is none ; can sit down 
 satisfied where they should proceed, and go forward when they should 
 return. And if a man attempt to bring any one off from these erroneous 
 principles, presently they cry out sedition, as though it were sedition 
 for any one with better remedies to endeavour to correct a vicious habit 
 of body, which an ignorant pretender to physic has for a long time 
 nourished, and almost brought it to be natural. But it is time to leave off 
 these complaints, for there is no end of them. And if the people should 
 hear what discourse we have, we are in danger to have a new proverb 
 raised upon us, that a salt-fishmonger and a butcher trouble their heads 
 about such things. 
 
 Bu. If they did, I would return this proverb upon them, Scepe 
 etiam est olitor opportune locutis. A little while ago I was talking of 
 these things at the table, and as ill luck would have it, there sat a ragged, 
 lousy, stern, old, withered, white-livered fellow ; he had scarce three 
 hairs on his head, and whenever he opened his mouth he shut his eyes; 
 they said he was a divine, and he called me a disciple of Antichrist, and 
 a great many such like things. Fi. What did you do then 1 Did you 
 say nothing ? Bu. I wished him a drachm of sound judgment in his 
 stinking brain, if he had any. Fi. I should be glad to hear the whole 
 of that story. Bu. So you shall, if you will come and dine with me 
 on Thursday next ; you shall have a veal-pie for dinner, so tender 
 baked that you may suck it through a quill. Fi. I will promise you 
 I will come ; if you will come and dine with me on Friday, I will con- 
 rince you that we fishmongers do not live merely on stinking salt fish. 
 
 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 Mwcolphus, Phcedrus. 
 
 Ma. Where have you been, Phaedrus 1 What, are you just come 
 out of Trophonius's cave? Ph. What makes you ask me that question ?
 
 THE FUNERAL. 291 
 
 Ma. Because you look so horridly sad, sour, and slovenly in short, 
 you do not look at all like what you are called. Ph. If they that 
 have been a long time in a smith's shop commonly have a dirty face, 
 do you wonder that I that have been so many days with two friends 
 that were sick, dying, and are now dead, should look a little more sad 
 than I used to do, especially when they were both of them my very 
 dear friends 1 Ma. Who are they that you talk of? Ph. I suppose 
 you know George Balearicus, don't you I Ma. I know him by name, 
 and that is all, I never saw his face. Ph. I know the other was 
 wholly a stranger to you; his name was Cornelius Montius. They 
 were both of them my particular friends, and had been so for many 
 years. 
 
 Ma. It was never my lot to be by where any one was dying. 
 Ph. But it has been mine too often, if I might have had my wish. 
 Ma. Well, but is death so terrible a thing as they make itl Ph. The 
 way to it is worse than the thing itself, so that if a man could free his 
 mind from the terror and apprehension of it, he would take away the 
 worst part of it. And, in short, whatsoever is tormenting either in 
 sickness or in death itself is rendered much more easy by resignation 
 to the will of God ; for as to the sense of death, when the soul is departing 
 from the body, I am of opinion they are either wholly insensible or the 
 faculty is become very dull and stupid, because nature, before it comes 
 to that point, lays asleep and stupefies all the sensible faculties. 
 
 Ma. We are born without sense of pain as to ourselves. Ph. 
 But we are not born without pain to our mother. Ma. Why might 
 we not die so? why would God make death so full of pain? Ph. He 
 was pleased to make birth painful and dangerous to the mother to 
 make the child the dearer to her, and death formidable to mankind, to 
 deter them from laying violent hands upon, themselves; for when we see 
 so many make away themselves as the case stands, what do you think 
 they would do if death had no terror in it ? As often as a servant or 
 a son is corrected, or a woman is angry at her husband, anything is 
 lost, or anything goes cross, men would presently repair to halters, 
 swords, rivers, precipices, or poisons. Now the bitterness of death 
 makes us put a greater value upon life, especially since the dead are 
 out of the reach of the doctor. Although, as we are not all born alike, 
 so we do not all die alike some die suddenly, others pine away with a 
 languishing illness; those that are seized with a lethargy and such as 
 are stung by an asp are, as it were, cast into a sound sleep, and die 
 without any sense of pain. I have made this observation that there is 
 no death so painful but a man may bear it by resolution. 
 
 Ma. But which of them bore his death the most like a Christian ? 
 Ph. Why, truly, in my opinion, Geoi'ge died the most like a mail of 
 honour. Ma. Why, then, is there any sense of ambition when a man 
 comes to that point 1 Ph. I never saw two people make such different 
 ends. If you will give me the hearing I will tell you what end each 
 of them made, and you shall judge which of them a Christian would 
 choose to make. Ma. Give you the hearing ! Nay, I desire you will 
 not think much of the trouble, for I have the greatest mind in the 
 world to hear it. Ph. Well, then, you shall first hear how George 
 died. As soon as ever the certain symptoms of death appeared the 
 physicians who had attended upon him during his sickness, saying
 
 292 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 never a word of the despair they had of his life, demanded their fees. 
 Ma. How many doctors had he? Ph. Sometimes ten, sometimes 
 twelve, but never under six. Ma. Enough, in conscience, to have done 
 the business of a man in perfect health. Ph. As soon as ever they 
 had got their money they privately hinted to some of his near relations 
 that his death was near at hand, and that they should take care of the 
 good of his soul, for there was no hope of his recovery ; and this was 
 handsomely intimated by some of his particular friends to the sick man 
 himself, desiring him that he would commit the care of his body to 
 God, and only mind those things that related to a happy exit out of 
 this world. 
 
 George, hearing this, looked wonderful sourly at the physicians, 
 taking it very heinously that they should leave him now in his distress. 
 They told him that physicians were but men, and not gods, and that 
 they had done what art could do, but there was no physic would 
 avail against fate, and so went into the next chamber. Ma. What 
 did they stay for after they were paid ? Ph. They were not yet 
 agreed upon the distemper : one would have it to be a dropsy, another 
 a tympany, another an imposthume in the guts, every man of them 
 would have it to be a different disease, and this dispute they were very 
 hot upon all the time he was sick. Ma. The patient had a blessed 
 time of it all this while. Ph. And to decide this controversy, they 
 desired by his wife that the body might be opened, which would be for 
 his honour, being a thing very usual among persons of quality, and 
 very beneficial to a great many others, and that it would add to the' 
 bulk of his merits; and lastly, they promised they would purchase 
 thirty masses at their own charge for the good of his soul. It was a 
 hard matter to bring him to it; but at last, by the importunities and 
 fair words of his wife and near relations, he was brought to consent to 
 it; and this being done the consultation was dissolved, for they say it 
 is not convenient that physicians, whose business it is to preserve life, 
 should be spectators of their patients' death, or present at their 
 funeral. 
 
 By and by Bernardino was sent for to take his confession, who is, 
 you know, a very reverend man, and warden of the Franciscans. His 
 confession was scarce over, but there was a whole houseful of the four 
 orders of begging friars, as they are called. Ma. What, so many 
 vultures to one carcase 1 Ph. And now the parish priest was called 
 to give him the extreme unction and the sacrament of the eucharist. 
 Ma. That was very religiously done. Ph. But there had like to have 
 been a very bloody fray between the parish priest and the monks. 
 Ma. What, at the sick man's bedside ? Ph. Nay, and Christ himself 
 looking on too. Ma. Pray, what was the occasion of so sudden a 
 hurly-burly? Ph. The parson of the parish, so soon as ever he found 
 the sick man had confessed to the Franciscan, did point blank refuse 
 to give him either the extreme unction, the eucharist, or afford him a 
 burial, unless he heard his confession with his own ears. He said he 
 was the parson of the parish, and that he was accountable for his own 
 flock, and that he could not do it unless he was acquainted with the 
 secrets of his conscience. Ma. And don't you think he was in the 
 right? Ph. Why, indeed, they did not think so, for they all fell upon 
 him, especially Bernardino and Vincent the Dominican. Ma. What
 
 THE FUNERAL. 293 
 
 had they to say 1 ? Ph. They rattled off the parson soundly, calling 
 him ass, and one fitter to be a pastor of swine than men's souls. I, 
 says Vincent, am a bachelor of divinity, and am shortly to be licensed 
 and take my degree of doctor, and you can scarce read the collect, you 
 are so far from being fit to dive into the secrets of a man's conscience. 
 But if you have such an itch of curiosity, go home and inquire into 
 the privacies of your concubine and bastards. And a great deal more 
 of such stuff, that I am ashamed to mention. 
 
 Ma. And did he say nothing to all this 1 Ph. Nothing, do you 
 say ? Never was any man so nettled. I, says he, will make a better 
 bachelor than you of a beanstalk; as for your masters, Dominic and 
 Francis, pray, where did they ever learn Aristotle's philosophy, the argu- 
 ments of Thomas, or the speculations of Scotus 1 Where did they take 
 their degree of bachelors 1 You have crept into a credulous world, a 
 company of mean wretches, though some, I must confess, were devout 
 and learned. You nested at first in fields and villages, and thence 
 anon you transplanted yourselves into opulent cities, and none but the 
 best part of them neither would content you. Your business lay then 
 only in places that could not maintain a pastor, but now, forsooth, 
 none but great men's houses will serve your turn. You boast much 
 of your being priests, but your privileges are not worth a rush, unless 
 in the absence of the bishop, pastor, or his curate. Not a man of you 
 shall ever come into my pulpit, I will assure you, as long as I am 
 pastor. It is true I am no bachelor, no more was St. Martin, and yet 
 he discharged the office of a bishop for all that. If I have not so much 
 learning as I should, I will never come a begging to you for it. Do 
 you think the world is so stupid as to think the holiness of Dominic 
 and Francis is entailed upon the habit 1 Is it any business of yours 
 what I do at my own house ] It is very well known in the world what 
 you do in your cells, and how you handle your holy virgins. Nobody 
 is ignorant that you make those rich men's houses you frequent no 
 better than they should be. 
 
 For the rest, Marcolphus, you must excuse me, it is too foul to be 
 told ; but in truth he handled the reverend fathers very scurvily ; and 
 there had been no end of it if George had not held up his hand in 
 token he had something to say, and it was with much ado that the 
 storm was laid at last, though but for a little while. Then says the 
 sick man, Peace be among you, I will confess myself over again to you, 
 Mr. Parson; and as for the charge of tolling the bell, my funeral-rites, 
 ray monument and burial, they shall all be paid down to you before 
 you go out of the house ; I will take order that you shall have no 
 cause to complain. Ma. Did the parson refuse this fair proposal ? 
 Ph. He did not absolutely refuse it, but he muttered something to 
 himself about confession ; but he remitted it at last, and told them 
 there was no need of troubling the patient or the priest with the 
 same things over again ; but if he had confessed to me in time, said he, 
 perhaps he would have made his will upon better conditions ; but if it 
 be not as it should be, you must now look to it. This equity of the 
 sick man vexed the monks to the heart, who thought very much that 
 any part of the booty should go to the parson of the parish. But upon 
 my intercession the matter was composed ; the parson gave the sick 
 man the unction and the sacrament, received his dues, and went away. 
 
 s
 
 294 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Ma. Well, now, certainly a calm followed this storm, did there not ? 
 Ph. So far from it, that this storm was no sooner laid than a worse 
 followed. Ma. Upon what ground, pray 1 Ph. I will tell you. 
 There were four orders of begging friars in the house already, and 
 now in comes a fifth of cross-bearers, against which all the other four 
 orders rise lip in a tumult, as illegitimate and spurious, saying, Where 
 did you ever see a waggon with five wheels ? or with what face would 
 they reckon more orders of mendicants than there were evangelists ? 
 At this rate ye may even as well call in all the beggars to you from 
 the bridges and cross-ways. Ma. What reply made the cross-bearers 
 to this 1 Ph. They asked them how the waggon of the church went 
 before there were any mendicants at all ? and so after that, when there 
 was but one order, and then again when there were three? As for the 
 number of the evangelists, say they, it has no more affinity with our 
 orders than with the die for having on every side four angles. Pray, 
 who brought the Augustines or Carmelites into the order 1 When did 
 Austin or Elias go a begging? for they make them to be principals 
 of their order. These and a great deal more they thundered out 
 violently ; but being overpowered with numbers of the four orders, 
 they could not stand the charge, but were forced to quit the ground, 
 but threatening them with dreadful things. 
 
 Ma. Well, but I hope all was quiet now. Ph. Nay, not so, for 
 this confederacy against the fifth order was come almost to daggers 
 drawing ; the Franciscan and Dominican would not allow the Augus- 
 tines and Carmelites to be true mendicants, but bastards and sup- 
 posititious. This contention rose to that height, that I was afraid it 
 would have come to blows. Ma. And could the sick man endure all 
 this 1 ? Ph. They were not in his bed-chamber now, but in a court 
 that joined to it, but so that he could hear every word they said ; for 
 there was no whispering, believe me, but they very fairly exercised 
 their lungs. Besides, men, as you know, are quicker of heai-ing than 
 ordinary in sickness. Ma. But what was the end of this dispute ? 
 Ph. Why, the sick man sent them word by his wife that if they would 
 but hold their tongues a little he would set all to rights ; and therefore 
 desired that the Augustines and Carmelites should go away for the 
 present, and that they should be no losers by it, for they should have 
 the same portion of meat sent them home that those had that staid 
 there. He gave direction that all the five orders should assist at his 
 funeral, and that every one of them should have an equal share of 
 money ; but that they should not all be set (down) at the common 
 table, lest they should fall together by the ears. 
 
 Ma. The man understood economy, I perceive, that had the skill 
 to compose so many differences, even upon his death-bed. Ph. Phoo; 
 he had been an officer in the army for many years, where such sort of 
 mutinies are common among the soldiers. Ma. Had he a great estate? 
 Ph. A very great one. Ma. But ill-gotten, perhaps, as is common, by 
 rapine, sacrilege, and extortion. Ph. Indeed officers commonly do 
 so, and I will not swear for him that he was a jot better than his 
 neighbours. But if I do not mistake the man, he made his fortune by 
 his wit, rather than by downright violence. Ma. After what manner? 
 Ph. He understood arithmetic very well. Ma. And what of that ? 
 fh. What of that ! why, he would reckon 30,000 soldiers when, there
 
 THE FUNERAL., 295 
 
 were but 7,000, and a great many of those he never paid neither. 
 Ma. A very compendious way of accounting ! Ph. Then he would 
 lengthen out the war, and raise contributions monthly, both from 
 friends and foes ; from his enemies that they might not be plundered, 
 and from his friends that they might have commerce with the enemy. 
 Ha. I know the common way of soldiers ; but make an end of your 
 story. 
 
 Ph. Bernardine and Vincent staid with the sick man, and the rest 
 had their provisions sent them. Ma. Well, and did they agree among 
 themselves that staid upon duty 1 Ph. Not very well ; they continually 
 grumbled something about the prerogative of their bulls ; but th'ey 
 were fain to dissemble the matter, that they might go the better on 
 with their work. Now the will is produced, and covenants entered 
 into before witnesses, according to. what they had agreed upon, b.etween, 
 themselves. Ma. I long to hear what that was. 
 
 Ph. I will tell you in brief, for the whole would be a long history. 
 He leaves a widow of thirty-eight years of age, a discreet, virtuous 
 woman ; and two sons, the one of nineteen, and the other fifteen years 
 of age ; and two daughters, both under age. He provided by this 
 testament, that his wife, seeing she would not be prevailed " upon to 
 confine hex-self to a cloi&ter, should put on the habit of a Beguin, which 
 is a middle order between a laic and a religious ; and the eldest son, 
 
 because he could not be prevailed upon to turn monk Ma. There is 
 
 no catching old birds with chaff. Ph. That as soon as his father's 
 funeral was over, he should ride post to Rome, and there being made 
 a priest before his time, by the pope's dispensation, he should say mass 
 once a day, for one whole year, in the Lateran Church, for his father's 
 soul, and creep up the holy steps there upon his knees every Friday. 
 Ma. And did he take this task upon himself willingly 1 Ph.. To deal 
 ingenuously with you, as willingly as an ass takes his burden. His 
 younger son was dedicated to St. Francis, his eldest daughter to St. 
 Clare, and the younger to Catherine Senensis. This was all that could 
 be obtained ; for it was George's purpose that he might lay the greater 
 obligation upon God, to dispose of the five survivors into the five orders 
 of the mendicants ; and it was very hard pressed too. But his wife 
 and his eldest son could not be wrought upon by any terms, either 
 fair or foul. Ma. Why, this is a kind of disinheriting. 
 
 Ph. The whole estate was so divided, that the funeral charges 
 being first taken out, one twelfth-part of it was to go to his wife ; one 
 half of that for her maintenance, and the other half to the stock of the 
 place where she should dispose of herself, upon condition that, if she 
 should alter her mind, the whole should go to that order. Another 
 twelfth was to go to the eldest son, who was to have so much money 
 paid him down upon the nail as would bear the charges of his journey, 
 purchase him a dispensation, and maintain him at Rome ; provided 
 always, that if he should at any time change his mind, and refuse to be 
 initiated into holy orders, his portion should be divided between the 
 Franciscans and Dominicans ; and I fear that will be the end of it, for 
 he had a strange aversion to that course of life. Two twelfth-parts were 
 to go to the monastery that should receive his younger son, and two 
 more to those that should entertain his daughters ; but upon this con- 
 dition, that if they should refuse to profess themselves, the money
 
 296 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 should go entire to the cloister. And then Bernardine was to have one 
 twelfth, and Vincent another ; a half share to the Carthusians, for the 
 communion of the good works of the whole order. The remaining 
 twelfth and moiety was to be distributed among such private poor as 
 Bernardine and Vincent should think worthy of the charity. Ma. It 
 would have been more lawyer-like to have said quos vel quas, instead 
 of quos only. 
 
 Ph. The testament was read, and the stipulation ran in these 
 words : George Balearicus, dost thou, being alive, and of sound and 
 disposing mind and memory, approve of this testament, which thou 
 madest long since according to thy own mind 1 I approve it. Is this 
 thy last and unchangeable will 1 It is. Dost thou constitute me and 
 this bachelor Vincent the executors of this thy last will ? I do so. 
 And then he was commanded to subscribe it. Ma. How could he 
 write when he was dying ? Ph. Why, Bernardine guided his hand. 
 Ma. What did he subscribe 1 Ph. Whosoever shall attempt to violate 
 this testament, may he incur the displeasure of St. Francis and St. 
 Dominic. Ma. But were they not afraid to have an action testamenti 
 inoffiaiosi [of a forged will] brought against them 1 Ph. That action 
 does not take place in things dedicated to God, nor will any man 
 willingly go to law in a suit with Him; When this was over the wife 
 and children give the sick man their right hands, and swear to the 
 observance of his directions. 
 
 After this they fell to treating of the funeral pomp, and there was 
 a squabble about that too ; but it was carried at last that there should 
 be nine out of every one of the five orders> in honour of the five books 
 of Moses, and the nine choirs of angels ; every order to carry its proper 
 cross, and sing the funeral songs. To these, besides the kindred, there 
 should be thirty torch-bearers hired, and all in mourning, in memory 
 of the thirty pieces of silver our Saviour was sold for ; and for honour's 
 sake, twelve mourners to accompany them, as a number sacred to the 
 apostolical order. That behind the bier should follow George's horse, 
 all in mourning, with his head tied down to his knees in such a 
 manner that he might seem to look upon the ground for his master. 
 That the pall should be hung about with escutcheons, and that the 
 body should be laid at the right hand of the high altar, in a marble 
 tomb, some four feet from the ground, and he himself lying in effigy at 
 length on the top of it, cut in the purest marble, all in armour from 
 head to foot. To his helmet a crest, which was the neck of an 
 onocrotalus, and a shield upon his left arm, charged with three boars' 
 heads or, in a field argent ; his sword by his side, with a golden hilt, 
 and a belt embroidered with gold and pearl, and golden spurs, he being 
 a knight of the Golden Order. That there should be a leopard at his 
 feet, and an inscription on his tomb worthy of so great a man. His 
 heart he would have to be buried separately in St. Francis's chapel, 
 and his bowels he bequeathed to the parish, to be honourably interred 
 in Our Lady's chapel. 
 
 Ma. This was a noble funeral, but a dear one. Now, a cobbler at 
 Venice should have as nmch honour done him, and with very little or 
 no charge at all ; the company gives him a handsome coffin, and they 
 have many times 600 monks, all in their habits, to attend one corpse. 
 Ph. I have seen it myself, and could not but laugh at the vanity of
 
 THE FUNERAL. 297 
 
 those poor people. The fullers and tanners march in the ran, the 
 cobblers bring up the rear, and the monks march in the body ; you 
 would have said it had been a chimera, if you had seen it. And George 
 had this caution too, that the Franciscans and Dominicans should 
 draw lots which should go first at the funeral, and after them the rest, 
 that there might be no quarrelling for place. The parson and clerk 
 went in the lowest place (that is, first), for the monks would not endure 
 it otherwise. Ma. I find George had skill in marshalling of a cere- 
 mony as well as an army. Ph. And it was provided that the funeral 
 service, which was to be performed by the parish priest, should be per- 
 formed with a concert of music, for the greater honour of the deceased. 
 
 While these and such like things were doing, the patient was 
 seized with a convulsion, which was a certain token that he was near 
 his end, so that they were now come to the last act. Mu. Why, is 
 not all done yet 1 Ph. Now, the pope's bull is to be read, wherein 
 he is promised a full pardon of all his sins, and an exemption from the 
 fear of purgatory, and with a justification over and above of his whole 
 estate. Ma. What, of an estate got by rapine? Ph. Got by 
 the law of arms and fortune of war. But one Philip, a civilian, his 
 wife's brother, happened to be by at the reading of the bull, and took 
 notice of one passage that was not as it should be, and raised a scruple 
 upon it of its not being authentic. Ma. It might very well have 
 been let pass at this time, and no notice taken of it, if there had been 
 any error, and the sick never the worse for it. Ph. I am of your 
 mind, and I will assure you it so wrought upon George, that it had 
 like to have cast him into despair ; and in this case Vincent shewed 
 himself a man indeed; he bid George be satisfied, for that he had an 
 authority to correct or supply any error or omission that might be in 
 the bull. So that, says he, if this bull should deceive you, this soul of 
 mine shall stand engaged for thine, that thine shall go to heaven, or 
 mine be damned. 
 
 Ma. But will God accept of this way of changing souls ? or, if he 
 does, is the pawn of Vincent's soul a sufficient security for George's ? 
 What if Vincent's soul should go to the devil, whether he changes it or 
 no ! Ph. I only tell you matter of fact. It is certain that Vincent 
 effected this by it, that the sick man was much comforted. By and by 
 the covenants are read, by which the whole society promise to transfer 
 to George the benefits of the works which were done by all the four 
 orders, and also a fifth, that of the Carthusians. Ma. I should be 
 afraid that such a weight would sink me to hell, if I were to carry it. 
 Ph. I speak of their good works only; for they bear down a soul that 
 is about to fly to heaven no more than feathers do a bird. Ma. But 
 who will they bequeath their evil works to then 1 Ph. To. the German 
 soldiers of fortune. Ma. By what right 1 Ph. By gospel right ; for, 
 " to him that has shall be given." And then was read over how many 
 masses and psalms were to accompany the soul of the deceased, a,nd 
 there was a vast number of them. After this, his confession was 
 repeated, and they gave him their benediction. 
 
 Ma. And so he died 1 Ph. Not yet. They laid a mat upon the 
 ground, rolled up at one end in the form of a pillow. Ma. Well, and 
 what is to be done now ] Ph. They strewed ashes upon it, but very 
 thin, and there they laid the sick man's body ; and then they conse-
 
 298 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 crated a Franciscan's coat with prayers and holy water, and that they 
 laid over him, and a cowl tinder his head (for there was no putting it on 
 then), and his pai 4 don and the covenants with it. Ma. This is a new 
 way of dying. Ph. But they affirm that the devil has no power over 
 those that die in this manner ; for so they say St. Martin and St. 
 Francis and others died. Ma. But their holy lives were correspon- 
 dent to their deaths. But, prithee, what followed 1 Ph. They then 
 presented the sick man with a crucifix and a wax candle. Upon the 
 holding out the crucifix, Says the sick man, I used to be safe in war 
 under the protection of my own buckler, but now I will oppose this 
 buckler to my enemy; and having kissed it, laid it at his left side. And 
 fcs to the holy taper, I was, said he, ever held to be a good pikeman in 
 the field, and now I will brandish this lance against the enemy of souls. 
 Ma. Spoken like a man of war ! 
 
 Ph. These were the last words he spake, for death presently seized 
 his tongue, and he breathed his last. Bernardine kept close to him in 
 his extremity, on his right hand, and Vincent on his left ; and they 
 had both of them their pipes open. One shewed him the image of St. 
 Francis, the other that of St. Dominic, while the rest up and down in 
 the chamber were mumbling over certain psalms to a most melancholy 
 tune, Bernardine bawling in his right ear, and Vincent in his left. 
 Ma. What was it they bawled 1 Ph. Bernardine spake to this pur- 
 pose : George Balearicus, if thou approvest of all that is here done, 
 lean thy head toward thy right shoxilder ; and so he did. Vincent on 
 the other side, said, George, fear not, yon have St. Francis and St. 
 Dominic for your "defenders, therefore be of good courage. Think on 
 what a great number of merits are bestowed upon thee, of the validity 
 of thy pardon, and remember that I have engaged my soul for thine, if 
 there be any clanger. If you understand all this, and approve of it, 
 lean your head upon yotif left shoulder ; and so he did. And then 
 they cried out as loud as before, If thou art sensible of all this, squeeze 
 my hand ; then he squeezed his hand. So that, what with turning of 
 his head and squeezing of the hand, there were almost three hours 
 spent. And when George began to yawn, Bernardine stood up and 
 pronounced the absolution, but could not go through with it before 
 George's soul was out of the body. This was about midnight, and in 
 the morning they went about the anatomy. 
 
 Ma. And pray, what did they find out of order in the body 1 ? Ph. 
 Well remembered, for I had like to have forgot it. There was a piece 
 of a bullet that stuck to the diaphragm. Ma. How came that? Ph. 
 His wife said he had been wounded with a musket-shot, and from 
 thence the physicians conjectured that some part of the melted lead 
 remained in his body. By and by they pub the mangled corpse (after 
 a sort) into a Franciscan's habit, and after dinner they buried him 
 with pomp, as it had been ordered. Ma. I never heard of more bustle 
 about a man's dying, or of a more pompous funeral; but I suppose you 
 would not have this story made public. Ph. Why not 1 ? Ma. Lest 
 you should provoke a nest of hornets. Ph. There is no danger, for if 
 what I relate be done well, it is 'convenient the whole world should 
 know it, but if it be ill done, all good men will thank me for discover- 
 ing it; and they themselves being seized with shame for what they 
 have doae, will do so no more. Besides, it may possibly preserve the
 
 THE FUNERAL 299 
 
 simple from falling into the like mistakes ; for some learned and pious 
 men have frequently complained to me that the superstition and 
 wickedness of some few brings a scandal upon the whole order. 
 
 Ma. This is well and bravely said. But I would fain know what 
 became of Cornelius. Ph. Why, truly, he died as he lived, without 
 troubling anybody. He had an anniversary fever, which took him 
 every year at such a certain time; but being now worse than ordinary, 
 either by reason of age (for he was above sixty years old), or some other 
 cause, finding that his fatal day was drawing on, he went to church 
 upon a Sunday, four days before he died> confessed to the parish priest, 
 heard divine service and the sermon, and having received the sacra- 
 ment, went home. Ma. Had he no physicians 1 Ph. Only one, who 
 was as good in morals as he was in his profession ; his name is James 
 Castrutius. Ma. I know him, as honest a man as any in the world. 
 Ph. He told him he should be ready to serve him in anything he could 
 as a friend, but that, in his opinion, his business lay rather with God 
 than the doctor. Cornelius received his answer as cheerfully as if he 
 had assured him of his recovery. Wherefore, although he had been 
 always very charitable according to his power, yet he then bestowed 
 upon the needy all that he coiild possibly spare from the necessities of 
 his wife and children, not upon such as take a seeming pride in a sort 
 of poverty that are everywhere to be met withal, but upon those good 
 men that oppose a laborious industry to an innocent poverty. 
 
 I desired him that he would betake himself to his bed, and send 
 for a minister to him, rather than fatigue his weak body. He replied 
 that it had been always his desire rather to make his friends easy 
 where he could, by doing good offices, than to make himself trouble- 
 some to them by receiving, and that he was now willing to die as he 
 had lived. Nor would he take to his bed till the very last day, and part 
 of the last night of his life. In the interim he supported his weak body 
 with a stick, or else sat in a chair, but very rarely went into the naked 
 bed, but lay down in his clothes, his head being raised. And in this 
 time he was either giving orders for the relief of the poor, especially 
 those of his acquaintance and neighbours, or reading something of the 
 scriptures proper to strengthen his faith in God, or that shew His love 
 to mankind. And when he was so tired that he could not read himself, 
 he heard some friend read to him, and would very frequently, and 
 with wonderful affection, exhort his family to mutual love and concord, 
 and the exercise of true piety; comforting his friends, who were solici- 
 tous for his death, with great tenderness, and gave it often in charge 
 to his family to take care to see all his debts paid, 
 
 Ma. Had he not made a will 1 Ph. Yes, a long time before ; lie 
 had taken care to do that when he was in perfect health ; for he was 
 used to say, that what a man did at his last gasp was rather a dotage 
 than a testament. Ma. Had he given anything to monasteries or 
 poor people? Ph. No, not a cross; I have, says he, already in my 
 lifetime given according to my ability, and now, as I leave the posses- 
 sion of what I have to my family, I leave them the disposing of it too, 
 and I trust that they will employ it better than I have done. Ma. 
 Did he send for no holy men, as George did ? Ph. Not a man ; there 
 was nobody about him but his own family and two intimate friends. 
 Ma. I wonder what he meant by that. Ph. He said he was not will-
 
 300 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 ing to trouble more people when he went out of the world than he did 
 when he came into it. 
 
 Ma. I want to hear .this story out. Ph. You shall hear it 
 presently. Thursday came, and finding himself extremely weak, he 
 kept his bed. The parish priest being then called, gave him the extreme 
 unction, and again the sacrament ; but he made no confession, for he 
 said he had no scruple upon his mind. The parson then began to talk 
 to him about his burial, with what pomp and in what place he would 
 be buried. Bury me, says he, as you would bury the meanest Chris- 
 tian ; nor do I concern myself where you lay this worthless body of 
 mine it will be found all one at the day of judgment wheresoever you 
 lay it ; and as to the pomp of my funeral, I matter it not. When he 
 came to mention the ringing of bells and saying masses (tricenary and 
 anniversary), pardons, and purchasing a communion of merits, he 
 replied, My good pastor, I shall find myself never the worse if no bell 
 be rung at all; if you will afford me but one funeral office it will 
 abundantly content me, but if there be anything else that the public 
 custom of the church has made necessary, and that cannot well be 
 omitted without scandal to the weak, I leave that to your pleasure. 
 Nor am I at all desirous to buy any man's prayers or rob any man of his 
 merits; there is merit enough in Christ, and to spare; and I trust that 
 I myself shall be the better for tke prayers and merits of the whole 
 church, if 1 be but a living member of it. My whole hope is in these 
 two assurances : the one is, that the Lord Jesus, the chief Shepherd, 
 hath taken all my sins upon Him, nailing them to His cross ; the 
 other is, that which Christ Himself hath signed and sealed with His 
 own holy blood, which gives us assurance of eternal salvation if we 
 place all our trust in Him. Far be it from me to insist upon being 
 furnished with merits and pardons, and provoke my God to enter into 
 judgment with His servant, in whose sight no flesh living shall be jus- 
 tified ; because His mercy is boundless and unspeakable, to it I appeal 
 from His justice. 
 
 The parson hearing this went away; and Cornelius, with great 
 joy and cheerfulness (as one transported with the hope of a better life), 
 caused some texts to be read out of the Holy Scriptures, that confirm 
 the hope of the resurrection and set before him the rewards of immor- 
 tality ; as that out of Isaiah, concerning the death of Hezekiah, together 
 with the hymn ; and then the fifteenth chapter of the First Epistle of 
 Paul to the Corinthians, the death of Lazarus out of John, but espe- 
 cially the history of Christ's passion out of the Gospels. But, oh, with 
 what affection did he take in all these scriptures, sighing at some 
 passages, folding his hands, as in thankfulness, at others ; one while 
 rapt and overjoyed at some passages, and another time sending up short 
 ejaculations. After dinner, having taken a little rest, he ordered the 
 twelfth chapter of St. John to be read to the end of the story. Here you 
 would have said the man was transfigured and possessed with a new spirit. 
 
 When it grew towards evening he called for his wife and children, 
 and raising himself as well as he* could, he thus bespake them : My 
 dear wife, the same God that once joined us together doth now part us, 
 but only in our bodies, and that too for a short time. That care, kind- 
 ness, and piety that thou hast hitherto used to divide betwixt me and 
 the tender pledges of our mutual love, do thou now transfer wholly to
 
 THE FUNERAL. 301 
 
 them. Think thou canst do nothing more acceptable either to God or 
 to me than to educate, cherish, and instruct those whom God has given 
 as the fruit of our conjugal relation, that they may be found worthy of 
 Christ. Double therefore thy piety upon them, and account upon my 
 share too as translated unto thee. If thou shalt do this, as I trust thou 
 wilt, they will not be accounted orphans ; and if ever thou shouldst 
 marry again at which word his wife burst out into tears, and was 
 about to forswear ever to think of marrying again, but Cornelius inter- 
 posed My dearest sister in Christ, if the Lord Jesus shall vouchsafe 
 to thee resolution and strength of spirit, be not wanting to the heavenly 
 gift, for it will be more commodious as well for thyself as the children. 
 But if the infirmity of the flesh shall carry thee another way, know 
 that my death has indeed freed thee from the bonds of wedlock, but 
 not from that obligation which in both our names thou owest in 
 common to the care of our children. As to marriage itself, make use 
 of the freedom that God has given thee ; only let me entreat and 
 admonish thee of this one thing, to make choice of a husband of such a 
 disposition, and discharge thyself so towards him that he, either by his 
 own goodness or for thy good carriage, may be kind to our children. 
 Therefore have a care of tying thyself up by any vow; keep thyself 
 free to God and to our children, and bring them up in all points 
 religiously, and take care that they do not fix upon any course of life 
 till by age and experience they shall come to understand what is fittest 
 for them. Then, turning to his children, he exhorted them to the study 
 of piety, obedience to their mother, and mutual love and concord 
 among themselves. And having done, he kissed his wife and them, 
 prayed for them, and making the sign of the cross recommended 
 them to the mercy of Christ. 
 
 And then, looking round upon all about him, By to-morrow morn- 
 ing, says he, the Lord who renewed this morning to me will graciously 
 please, out of His infinite mercy, to call this poor soul of mine out of 
 the sepulchre of my body, and out of the darkness of this mortality, 
 into His heavenly light. I will not have you fatigue yourselves in 
 your tender age with unprofitable watching, and as for the rest, let 
 them take their rest by turns ; one is enough to sit up with me, and 
 read to me. Having passed the night, about four o'clock in the morn- 
 ing, all the family being present, he caused that psalm to be read which 
 our Saviour praying recited upon the cross. And when that was done 
 he called for a taper and a cross, and taking the taper in his hand, he 
 said, The Lord is my light and salvation, whom shall I fear ] And 
 then, kissing the cross, he said, The Lord is the defender of my life, 
 of whom shall I be afraid ? And by and by, laying his hands upon 
 his breast in a praying posture, with his eyes lift up to heaven, he said, 
 Lord Jesus, receive my spirit ; and immediately he closed his eyes, as 
 if he were only going to sleep, and with a gentle breath delivered up 
 his spirit. You would have thought he had only been in a slumber, 
 and had not expired. Ma. I never heard of a less painful death in my 
 life. Ph. His life was as calm as his death. These two men were 
 both of them my friends, and perhaps I am not so good a judge which 
 of them died most like a Christian ; but you that are unbiassed may 
 perhaps make a better judgment. Ma. I will think of it, and give 
 you my opinion some time or other at leisure.
 
 302 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 THE ECHO. 
 
 The Young Man and the Echo. 
 
 To. I have a mind to ask your advice about a few things, if you 
 are at leisure. EC. I am at leisure. Yo, And if I, a yoxing man, 
 shall be welcome to you. EC. You shall be welcome. Yo. And can 
 you tell me true concerning things to come ? EC. I can. Yo. And 
 do you understand Greek too 1 What novelty is this ! EC. I do. 
 Yo. What kind of studies do you think those of the muses to be ? EC. 
 Divine ones. Yo. Do you think^ then, that those authors that conduce 
 to learning ought to be studied 1 EC. Do thou study them. Yo. 
 What is then in their minds that speak contemptibly of these studies ? 
 EC. The thoughts of a swine. Yo. But I wish the lovers of these 
 were as studious of piety. EC. I wish they were so. Yo. Now-a- 
 days the wickedness of some makes all hated. EC. It does so. Yo. 
 And many lay the sins of man on the back of learning. EC. Ay, 
 asses. Yo. Why, but they commonly seem not to be of the meanest 
 sort. EC. They are vile persons. Yo. What do you think they do 
 who spend their time in a sophistical kind of learning 1 Perhaps they 
 spin cobwebs ? EC. They do so. Yo. And they weave and unweave 
 Penelope's web. EC. They do weave it. 
 
 Yo. What course of life do you advise me to follow 1 EC. A safe 
 one. Yo. Will it prove fortunate if I shall marry? EC. Do it late. 
 Yo. But what if it shall happen to be iny lot to marry an unchaste or 
 extravagant wife? EC. You must bear it? Yo. Why, but it is worse 
 than death itself to live with such. EC. It is so. Yo. Does fortune so 
 domineer in human affairs? EC. Yes, she only. Yo. Perhaps a person 
 had better enter himself into the life of a monk than that of marriage. 
 EC. That binds one. Yo. What remedy is there left when any one is 
 bound by that knot that cannot be unloosed? EC. Melancholy. Yo. 
 Well, but it is a miserable life for men to live alone. EC. It is entirely 
 so. Yo. What sort of men do you account the monks of these times 
 to be? EC. A trouble. Yo. What then makes some esteem them as 
 half-gods? EC. Fear. Yo. What do most hunt after who sue for a 
 benefice? EC. Idleness. Yo. Does a priest get nothing else? EC. 
 Yes, gain. Yo. What good thing do they get that obtain bishoprics ? 
 EC. Labours. Yo. But none live more in idleness. EC. I know it. 
 Yo. What things will be able to make them think and xmderstand 
 what a great burden they have upon them? EC. Understanding. 
 Yo. Therefore the priesthood is an excellent thing, if a man behave 
 himself as he ought to do in it. EC. It makes him happy. 
 
 Yo. What advantage shall I have if I go into their court who excel 
 in princely dignity ? EC. Misery. Yo. But I see a great many that 
 are wont to promise themselves great happiness from thence. EC. 
 They are blockheads. Yo. But in the meantime, while they go 
 clothed in their silks, the common people look upon them as brave 
 fellows? EC. They are not worth a fig. Yo. Why, then, you speak 
 of men that are golden without and wooden within, if anybody were 
 but to inspect them narrowly ? EC. Not so good. Yo. Why, then, 
 those men have but little excellency in them, that being arrayed in
 
 THE UNEQUAL BANQUET. 303 
 
 silks, we worship as gods'? EC. Mischief. Yo. And, perhaps, you 
 will put no great value upon military men? EC. A farthing. Yo. 
 But your astrologers that tell fortunes by the stars promise great 
 things. EC. They are fables. Yo. But grammarians take a great 
 deal of pains. EC. To no purpose. Yo. I believe hungry, greedy 
 lawyers don't please you. EC. They are wolves. Yo. What sort of 
 a man shall I be if I turn a handicraftsman 1 ? EC. The scum of the 
 people. Yo. What, then, 'do good nor bad arts procure one nothing 
 else? EC. A maintenance. 
 
 Yo. Shall I be happy if I shall persevere in good learning ? EC. 
 You shall. Yo. But what will make me pious? EC. Age. Yo. I 
 have spent my time this ten years in Cicero. EC. O you ass ! 
 Yo. How comes it into your mind to call me an ass? EC. By the 
 thing itself. Yo. Perhaps you mean that I should not so apply myself 
 to him as to leave off others? EC. I do say so. Yo. Why, then, does 
 not he please you that fatigues himself all his days only for this pur- 
 pose that he may become a Ciceronian at last? EC. He is a madman. 
 Yo. What is left for them to do that are old, whose age is not seasonable 
 for the learning these things ? EC. The plough tail. Yo. I believe 
 you would be more eloquent if you were at a greater distance. 
 EC. I should be so. Yo. I do not like words of two syllables. EC. 
 Go your way. Yo. I began first, and I see I cannot hinder yoxir 
 having the last word. EC. Let me have it. Yo. Do you now think 
 I am sufficiently instructed to perform those things well which shall 
 happen in life? EC. Yes. Yo. Well, then, if you would have me 
 go away, bid me be gone. EC. Be gone. 
 
 THE UNEQUAL BANQUET. 
 
 Spudmus, Apitius. 
 
 Sp. Soho, soho, Apitius ! Ap. I do not hear you. Sp. Soho, I 
 say, Apitius ! Ap. What troublesome fellow is this? Sp. I have a 
 matter of consequence to tell you of. Ap. And I am going about a 
 matter of consequence, and in great haste too. Sp. Whither, prithee ? 
 Ap. Why, to supper. Sp. That was it I wanted to talk with you 
 about. Ap. I have not time now to meddle with talkers or doers, 
 lest I lose my labour. Sp. You shall lose no time, I will go along 
 with you. Ap. Well, tell me what it is quickly. Sp. I am busy in 
 contriving how to make a feast, so as to please all and displease none 
 of my guests, and knowing you to be the principal artist in this 
 scheme, I apply myself to you as to an oracle. Ap. Well, take this 
 for an answer, and, according to ancient usage, in verse, 
 
 If none you would displease, then none invite. 
 
 Sp. But it is a public entertainment; lam under a necessity of 
 having a great many guests. Ap. To be sure, the more you invite 
 the more you will displease. What play was so well written or so well 
 acted as to please the whole theatre ? Sp. But come, darling of the 
 god of banquets, assist me with your advice in this affair, and I will 
 account you an oracle for time to come. Ap. Take this in the first
 
 SO 4 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 place, do not attempt to do that which is impossible to be done. Sp. 
 What is that 1 A p. To be a master of a feast, and give satisfaction to 
 all your guests, when there is a great variety of palates. Sp. Well, 
 then, that I may displease but a few 1 Ap. Call but a few. Sp. But 
 that cannot be. Ap. Then invite those that are equals and of agree- 
 able humours. Sp. I am not at liberty to do that neither ; I cannot 
 avoid inviting a great many, and of different humours, nor are they 
 all of the same speech or nation. Ap. You talk of a bedlam rather 
 than a banquet. Here will necessarily arise such confusion as the 
 Hebrews relate to have happened at the building of Babel, that when 
 one asks for cold water the other will bring him hot. Sp. But, 
 prithee, help me out at a dead lift; you shall find I will be both mind- 
 ful of and grateful for your good office. 
 
 Ap. Well, come, then ; seeing you are not at liberty to pick and 
 choose your guests, I will give you advice in this difficult point. It 
 signifies no small matter as to the mirth of the entertainment what 
 places any of them sit in. Sp. That is very right. Ap. But to take 
 away all occasion of uneasiness, let them cast lots for their places. 
 Sp. That is well advised. Ap. Let not your dishes proceed gradu- 
 ally from the upper to the lower end of the table, so as to make the 
 letter 2, or rather in a serpentine order, or to be changed reciprocally 
 hither and thither, as the myrtle in old times used to be handed aboiit 
 at banquets. Sp. How then ? Ap. To every four gxtests set four 
 dishes, so that the fourth may be the middlemost, as boys upon three 
 nuts set a fourth ; in every one of these let there be a different sort of 
 victuals, that every one may help himself to what he likes. 
 
 Sp. Well, I like that very well ; but how often must I change the 
 dishes ? Ap. How many parts are there in a theatrical oration ? Sp. 
 Five, I think. Ap. How many acts are there in a play I Sp. I have 
 read in Horace that they ought not to exceed five. Ap. Well, then, 
 so many different courses you must have. Let the first course be soup, 
 and the last a dessert of sweetmeats. Sp. What order of the courses 
 do you approve of? Ap. The same that Pyrrhus did in his army. 
 Sp. What say you 1 Ap. As in an oration so at a feast, the preface 
 or first courses should not be very delicate ; and again, the last course 
 should rather excel in variety than daintiness. So Pyrrhus's discipline 
 consisted in three particulars, that on each side there should be some- 
 thing excellent, and in the middle that which was more ordinary. By 
 this method it will be so ordered that you will neither appear to be 
 sparing nor prodigal by reason of a cloying abundance. 
 
 Sp. The eating part is well enough contrived ; now tell me what 
 is to be done as to drinking. Ap. Do not you give the cup to any- 
 body ; leave that to your servants, to ask everybody what sort of wine 
 he likes, and to fill eveiy one the wine he drinks readily at the very 
 first call or nod. In this there will be a twofold conveniency, they 
 will drink both more sparingly and more merrily; not only because 
 every now and then there would otherwise be a different sort of wine 
 given them, but also because nobody will drink but when he is dry. 
 Sp. Upon my word, this is very goad advice. But then, how will they 
 all be made merry ? Ap. That is partly in your power. Sp. How 
 is that ? Ap. You know the old proverb, A hearty welcome is the 
 best cheer. Sp. How is that? Ap. .Entertain them courteously,
 
 THE UNEQUAL BANQUET. 305 
 
 speak to them with a cheerful countenance, ordering your speech 
 according to each person's age and humour. Sp. I will come nearer 
 to you that I may hear the better. Ap. You understand languages 1 
 Sp. Yes, most languages. Ap. You must ever and anon speak to 
 every one in his own tongue; and that the entertainment may be the 
 more diverting by a variety of stories, intermix such matters as every 
 one will remember with pleasure, and nobody will be uneasy to hear. 
 Sp. What sort of matters mean you ? 
 
 Ap. The peculiar differences of dispositions, which you yourself 
 are better versed in ; I will only touch upon some heads. Old men 
 take a pleasure in relating those things that are out of the memory of 
 many persons, and are admirers of those times in which they were in 
 their prime. It is a pleasant thing to a married woman to have the 
 memory of that time refreshed when she was courted by her sweet- 
 hearts. Mariners that have been in divers and far distant countries 
 take a pleasure to tell of those things that they have seen and other 
 people admire at; and according to the proverb, the remembrance of 
 dangers when they are over is very pleasant, if they are such as have 
 nothing opprobrious in them, as in the army, in travels, in the dangers 
 at sea. And in the last place, every one loves to talk of his own call- 
 ing, especially in that part that he excels in. These are some general 
 heads ; as to particular affections it is not possible to describe them ; 
 but, for example sake, one is ambitious of honour, another would be 
 accounted learned, another loves to be taken for a rich man; one is full 
 of talk, another is sparing of his speech ; some will be surly, others, on 
 the other hand, affable ; some do not care to be thought old when they 
 are so, and some would fain be thought older than they are, affecting to 
 be admired for carrying their age well. Some women please themselves 
 mightily in being thought handsome, and some love to be flattered. 
 These dispositions being known, it will be no difficult matter so to 
 intermix speeches as to be pleasing to every one, and to avoid those 
 things that cause uneasiness. 
 
 Sp. Upon my troth, you are excellently skilled in the art of order- 
 ing an entertainment. Ap* Phoo ! If I had spent as much time and 
 taken as much pains in the study of the law, physic, or divinity, as I 
 have spent upon this art, I had long before now commenced doctor of 
 them. all. Sp. I am of your mind. Ap. But, hark ye, that you may 
 not mistake, you must be sure to take care that your stories be not 
 long-winded ones, and that they do not turn upon drunkenness ; for as 
 there is nothing better than wine drank with moderation, so, on the 
 other hand, there is nothing worse if you drink too much. It is the 
 same in stories. Sp. You say right. But what remedy have you 
 for this 1 
 
 Ap. When you perceive any disposed to be quarrelsome, take an 
 opportunity to break off abruptly from what you were saying, and talk 
 of something else. I take it to be unnecessaiy to caution you against 
 bringing any one's affliction to his mind during the time of the enter- 
 tainment. Plato is of opinion that banquets will cure some distempers, 
 the wine driving away sorrow and making persons forget what caused 
 uneasiness to them. But you ought to be cautioned of this, not to 
 salute the guests too often ; yet I would have you walk about some- 
 times, and speak kindly first to one and then to another, for a master
 
 306 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 of a feast ought to act a movable part in the play. But then, again, 
 there is nothing more uncivil than to he continually talking of the sorts 
 of provision, the manner of dressing it, and what it cost you. It is the 
 same thing as to the wine. But you should rather modestly under- 
 value the provision ; for if yo,u undervalue it too much, it will be much 
 the same as if you were ostentatious concerning it. It is sufficient to 
 say twice, or at the most three times, Much good may it do you ; and 
 though my entertainment is but homely, your welcome is hearty. 
 Sometimes you may break a jest, but such a one that has no teeth. It 
 will also be proper to bespeak every one, now and then, in his own 
 tongue, but in few words. But it now comes into my mind to speak 
 what I should have said at the beginning. Sp. What is it 1 
 
 Ap. If you have not a mind to place the guests by lot, take care to 
 choose three out of the company thab are of a diverting humour and 
 apt to talk, place one at the upper end of the table, another at the 
 lower end, and a third in the middle, that they may keep the rest from 
 being either silent or melancholy. And if you perceive the company 
 
 grow either mute or noisy and inclinable to fall out Sp. This is very 
 
 common with our countrymen; but what must be done then? Ap. 
 Then take the course that I have frequently experienced to succeed. 
 Sp. I want to hear it. Ap. Bring in a couple of buffoons or jesters, 
 who by their gestures may express some argument without speaking 
 a word. Sp. But why without speaking? Ap. That the guests may 
 be all equally diverted, or, if they do speak, let them speak in a 
 language that none of them understands. By speaking by gestures 
 they will all understand alike. Sp. I cannot very well tell what you 
 mean by an argument. Ap. There are a thousand as suppose a wife 
 fighting with the husband for the breeches, or any other such comical 
 transaction in low life. And as to dancing, the more ridiculous it is the 
 more diverting it will be. These ought not to be above half-fools ; for, 
 if they be downright idiots, they will, before they are aware, foolishly 
 blab out what may give offence. Sp. As you have given me good 
 advice, so I wish that the deity Com us may always befriend ye. Ap. 
 I will conclude with this, or rather repeat what I said at first : Don't 
 be too thoughtful to please everybody, not only in this affair, but in 
 any other circumstance of life, and that will be the way to please them 
 the sooner ; for it is a good maxim in life, " Too much of one thing is 
 good for nothing." 
 
 THINGS AND WORDS. 
 
 Beatus and Boniface. 
 
 Be. God bless you, Boniface. Bo. And God bless you heartily, 
 Beatus. But I wish we were both of us answerable to our names you 
 rich and I handsoma Be. Why, then, do you account it so small a matter 
 to have a great name 1 ? Bo. Indeed I make very small account of the 
 name unless there be the thing too. Be. But most men are of another 
 mind. Bo. Perhaps they may be mortals, but I don't take them to 
 be men. Be. Nay, good man, they are men, unless you think there are 
 now-a-days camels and asses in the shape of men. Bo. I should sooner 
 be of that mind, than believe that they can be men who had rather have
 
 THINGS AND WORDS. 307 
 
 the name than the thing itself. Be. In some sort of things, I confess, 
 that many had rather have the thing than the name ; but in many 
 things it is quite the contrary. Bo. 1 don't very well take you in. 
 Be. We have an example of it in ourselves. You are called Boniface, 
 and you have what you are called ; but if you were to be deprived of 
 either of them, had you rather have an ugly face or be called Cornelius? 
 Bo. Why, indeed, I had rather be called Thersites than have a face as 
 ugly as the devil : whether I have a handsome one now or not I can- 
 not tell. 
 
 Be. Then, again, if I was rich and must either part with my 
 wealth or my name, I had rather be called Irus than be deprived of 
 my estate. Bo. I grant what you say to be true, and I am of opinion 
 it is the common temper of those that enjoy health and other corporeal 
 enjoyments. Bo. It is probable. Be. But how many may we see that 
 had rather have the name of being learned and pious than to be learned 
 and pious? Bo. I know a great many of this sort of people. Be. Well, 
 then, is not the name more esteemed among us than the thing itself? 
 Bo. So it seems to be. Be. Now, if we had a good logician, who could 
 properly define what a king, a bishop, a magistrate, and a philosopher 
 was, it is very likely we should find some among them who are more 
 for the name than the thing itself. Bo. He is really a king who aims 
 at the good of his people, and not his own, governing them by law and 
 justice; and he a bishop who watches carefully over the Lord's flock; 
 and he is a magistrate who sincerely studies the good of the public. 
 And a philosopher is one who, neglecting the goods of fortune, studies 
 only to get the endowments of the mind. Be. By these you may see 
 how many examples of this kind I could produce. Bo. Why, truly, 
 a great many. Be. Will you deny all these to be men? Bo. I am 
 afraid we shall sooner lose the name of men ourselves. 
 
 Be. But if man is a rational animal, how contrary is it to reason 
 that in the conveniences, rather than the real goods of the body, and 
 in external things which fortune gives and takes away at her pleasure 
 we had rather have the thing itself than the name, and in the real 
 goods of the mind we put more value upon the name than the thing 
 itself. Bo. It is an absurd way of judging, if a man did but con- 
 sider it seriously. Be. And the reason is quite the same in those 
 things that are on the contrary side. Bo. I expect what you are 
 going to say. Be. We may pass the same judgment as to the names 
 of those things that are to be avoided as has been given as to those 
 that are to be desired. Bo. That is plain. Be. For to be a tyrant 
 is more to be abhorred than to have the name ; and if a bishop be a 
 bad man, the scripture calls him a thief and a robber. These names 
 are not to be detested by us so much as the things themselves. Be. 
 In truth, I am of your mind. Bo. Do you infer the same as to 
 the rest? Bo. I understand you perfectly well. 
 
 Be. Do not all fools hate to be called fools ? Bo. Yes, indeed, 
 and more than other folks. Be. Would not he be a fool that should 
 fish with a golden hook, and prefer glass before jewels ? that should 
 put more value upon his horses than his wife and children ? Bo. He 
 would be a greater fool than Ben of the Minories. Be. Are not they 
 such fools that list themselves for soldiers, and for the sake of a poor 
 pay expose body and soul to danger ? who make it their study to scrape
 
 308 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 up riches when their minds are destitute of all good science? who 
 make their clothes and houses fine, but let their minds lie neglected 
 and slovenly ? who are very careful to preserve their bodies in health, 
 and take no care of their minds, that are sick of mortal diseases ? and 
 in the last place, who, for the sake of enjoying the fleeting pleasures of 
 this life, deserve eternal torments 1 Bo. Reason itself obliges a man 
 to confess that they are worse than fools. Be. But though every 
 place is full of such fools as these, you can scarce find one that can 
 bear to be called a fool, though they have no aversion to being fools. 
 Bo. It is really so. 
 
 Be. Come on, you know everybody hates to be called a liar or a 
 thief. Bo. They are very hateful names, and not without reason. 
 Be. But for all that, though to debauch another man's wife is a greater 
 sin than theft, some glory in the name of adulterers ; and if you were 
 to call them thieves they would draw their swords upon you. Bo. 
 This is a common thing with a great many. Be. And, again, though 
 many give themselves up to whoring and drinking, and do it publicly, 
 yet if you should call them whorern asters they would be highly offended 
 at it. Bo. These glory in the thing and hate the name that be- 
 longs to it. 
 
 Be. There is scarce any name that sounds harsher in our ears than 
 the name of a liar. Bo. I know some that would run a man through 
 that should affront them by giving them the lie. Be. But I wish they 
 did as much abhor the practice. Have you never had it happen to 
 you, that he that promised to pay you what you lent him, upon a 
 certain day, failed you 1 Bo. Ay, very often ; and though he had 
 sworn to it too, and not only once, but over and over. Be. But it 
 may be they were not able to pay. Bo. Nay, they were able enough, 
 but they thought it more to their advantage to let it alone. Be. And 
 is not this lying? Bo. Ay, downright. Be. And did you dare to 
 say to this debtor, Why have you told me so many lies ? Bo. No, 
 not except I had a mind to fight him too. Be. Well, and in like 
 manner do not masons, smiths, goldsmiths, and tailors promise things 
 xipon a certain day, and do not perform it, although it is of great 
 concern to you ? Bo. Ay, and are not at all ashamed of it. And you 
 may add to these such persons as promise to do you a kindness. 
 Be. Ay, you might give a thousand instances more, not one of which 
 would bear to have the lie given them. Bo. The world abounds 
 with these lies. 
 
 Be. So, in like manner, nobody will bear to be called thief, when at 
 the same time they have not the same abhorrence of stealing. Bo. I 
 would have you tell me plainly what difference there is between him 
 that steals a thing out of your escritoire and him that forswears what 
 you have deposited with him. Be. No difference but this, that he is 
 the more wicked man that robs him who reposes a confidence in him. 
 Bo. But how few are there that do restore that which has been put 
 into their hands ? or, if they do, restore the whole ? Be. I believe but 
 very few. But yet not one of them will bear to be called a thief, 
 though he has no aversion to the thing itself. Bo. This is very 
 common. Be. Now do but reckon up with me what is commonly 
 done in the management of the estates of orphans, as to wills and 
 legacies ; how much sticks to the fingers of the managers ? Bo. Very
 
 THINGS AND WORDS. 309 
 
 often the whole. Be. They love thieving, but hate the name of it. 
 Bo. It is true. 
 
 Be. What do collectors and coiners of public money do, who either 
 coin it with too great an alloy, or too light ? or they who raise and 
 fall the exchange of money for private ends 1 Though we do not very 
 well understand the reason of it, yet we may speak of what we ex- 
 perience daily. He that borrows or runs in debt with design never to 
 pay, although he be able, differs very little from a thief. Bo. He may 
 probably be said to be more wary, but not more honest. Be. But 
 notwithstanding there is so great a number, yet none of them can 
 endure the name of a thief. Bo. God alone knows the heart ; and for 
 that reason, among men those that run themselves over head and ears 
 in debt are not called thieves. Be. What signifies what men call 
 them, if God accounts them thieves 1 Surely every one knows his 
 own mind. 
 
 And besides, he that owes a great deal of money, and yet dis- 
 honestly lavishes away what money he gets, and after he has broke, 
 and cheated his creditors in one city, runs into another, hunting about 
 for people to cheat ; the oftener he does so, does not he declare the 
 more plainly what he is at heart? Bo. Ay, too plainly; but they 
 oftentimes gloss over the matter. Be. How] Bo. They pretend 
 that this is a common practice with great men and kings to owe a 
 great deal of money, and to a great many persons ; and therefore they 
 that are of this disposition more resemble great men. Be. What use 
 would they make of that 1 Bo. It is admirable what great liberty 
 they would have allowed to knights. Be. But by what right or by 
 what law ] Bo. Just the same that the lord of the manor shall claim 
 to himself whatsoever is cast ashore from a shipwreck, although there 
 be a right owner of it ; or by which other persons would keep to their 
 own use what they take from a highwayman after he has been 
 apprehended. Be. Robbers themselves might make such laws. Bo. 
 Ay, and they would too, if they knew how to maintain them ; and they 
 would have enough to plead in excuse of them if they did but denounce 
 war before they committed the robbery. 
 
 Be. Who gave knights this privilege above the commons 1 Bo. 
 The law of arms; for thus they are trained up for war, that they may 
 be more expert at plundering the enemy. Be. I believe it was after 
 this manner that Pyrrhus trained his soldiers up to war. Bo. No, 
 but the Lacedemonians did. Be. A mischief take them and their 
 whole army too. But how came this title to have so great a pre- 
 rogative 1 Bo. Some have it by descent, some purchase it with money, 
 and some take it to themselves. Be. And may anybody have it that 
 will ? Bo. Yes, he may, if his manners be but answerable to theirs. 
 Be. What are they ? Bo. Never to be guilty of doing a good action, 
 to go fine, wear a diamond ring, whore stoutly, game continually, spend 
 his life in drinking and diversion, speak of nothing that is mean, be 
 continually cracking of castles, duels, battles, and everything that looks 
 great. They take the liberty of quarrelling with whom they have a 
 mind, although they have not a foot of land of their own to set their 
 feet upon. Be. Such knights as these deserve to be mounted upon, 
 the wooden horse. But there are a great many such knights in, 
 Gelderland.
 
 310 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 CHARON. 
 
 CJiaron, Genius Alastor. 
 
 Ch. Whither are you going so brisk and in such haste, Alastor 1 
 Al. O Charon, you come in the nick of time, I was coming to you. 
 Ch. Well, what news do you bring? Al. I bring a message to you 
 and Proserpine that you will be glad to hear. Ch. Out with what 
 you have brought, and lighten your burden. AL The Furies have 
 been no less diligent than they have been successful in gaining their 
 point : there is not a foot of ground upon earth that they have not 
 infected with their hellish calamities, seditions, wars, robberies, and 
 plagues ; so that they are grown quite bald, having shed their snakes, 
 and having quite spit all their venom, they ramble about in search 
 after whatever they can find of vipers and asps ; being become as 
 smooth as an egg, not having so much as a single hair upon their heads, 
 and not one drop of venom more in their breasts. Do you get your 
 boat and your oars ready ; you will have such a vast multitude of 
 ghosts come to you anon, that I am afraid you will not be able to carry 
 them all over yourself. Ch. I could have told you that. Al. How 
 came you to know itl Ch. Ossa brought me that news above two 
 days ago. Al. Nothing is more swift than that goddess. But what 
 makes you loitering here, having left your boat ? 
 
 Ch. My business brought me hither; I came hither to provide 
 myself with a good strong three-oared boat, for my boat is so rotten 
 and leaky with age, that it will not carry such a burden, if Ossa told 
 me true. But, indeed, what need was there of Ossa? for the thing 
 shews itself, for I have suffered shipwreck already. Al. Indeed you 
 are dropping dry, I fancied you were just come out of a bath. Ch. No, 
 I swam out of the Stygian lake. Al. Where did you leave the 
 ghosts? Ch. They are swimming among the frogs. Al. But what 
 was it that Ossa told you ? Ch. That the three monarchs of the 
 world were bent upon one another's destruction with a mortal hatred, 
 and that there was no part of Christendom free from the rage of war ; 
 for these three have drawn all the rest in to be engaged in the war 
 with them. They are all so haughty, that not one of them will in the 
 least submit to the other. Nor are the Danes, the Poles, the Scots, 
 nor the Turks at quiet, but are preparing to make dreadful havoc. 
 The plague rages everywhere, in Spain, Britain, Italy, and France ; 
 and more than all, there is a new fire sprung out of the variety of 
 opinions, which has so corrupted the minds of all men that there is 
 no such thing as sincere friendship anywhere ; but brother is at 
 enmity with brother, and husband and wife cannot agree. And it is 
 to be hoped that this distraction will be a glorious destruction of man- 
 kind, if these controversies, that are now managed by the tongue and 
 the pen, come once to be decided by arms. 
 
 Al. All that fame has told you is very true ; for I myself, having 
 been a constant companion of the Furies, have with these eyes seen 
 more than all this, and that they never at any time have approved 
 themselves more worthy of their name than now. Ch. But there is 
 danger lest some good spirit should start up and of a sudden exhort
 
 CHARON. 311 
 
 them to peace. And men's minds are variable, for I have heard that 
 among the living there is one Polygraphns who is continually, by his 
 writing, inveighing against wars, and exhorting to peace. Al. Ay, 
 ay, but he has a long time been talking to the deaf. He once wrote a 
 sort of hue and cry after peace, that was banished or driven away ; 
 and after that an epitaph upon peace defunct. But then, on the other 
 hand, there are others that advance our cause no less than the Furies 
 do themselves. Ch. Who are they ? 
 
 Al. They are a certain sort of animals in black and white vest- 
 ments, ash-coloured coats, and various other dresses, that are always 
 hovering about the courts of princes, and are continually instilling into 
 their ears the love of war, and exhorting the nobility and common 
 people to it, haranguing them in their sermons, that it is a just, holy, 
 and religious war. And that which would make you stand in admira- 
 tion at the confidence of these men is the cry of both parties. In 
 France they preach it up that God is on the French side, and they can 
 never be overcome that have God for their protector. In England 
 and Spain the cry is, The war is not the king's, but God's ; therefore, if 
 they do but fight like men, they depend upon getting the victory, and 
 if any one should chance to fall in the battle, he will not die, but fly 
 directly up into heaven, arms and all. Ch. And is credit given to all 
 this ? Al. What cannot a well dissembled religion do, when to this 
 there is added youth, inexperiencedness, ambition, a natui'al animosity, 
 and a mind propense to anything that offers itself. It is an easy 
 matter to impose xipon such ; it is an easy matter to overthrow a waggon 
 that was inclining to fall before. Ch. I would do these animals a 
 good turn with all my heart. Al. Prepare a good treat, you can do 
 nothing that will be more acceptable to them. Ch. What, of mallows, 
 and lupines, and leeks, for you know we have no other provision in 
 our territories. Al. N"o, but of partridges, and capons, and pheasants, 
 if you would have them look upon you as a good caterer. 
 
 Ch. But what is it that moves these people to be so hot for war] 
 What will they get by it? AL Because they get more by those that 
 die than those that live. There are last wills and testaments, funeral 
 obsequies, bulls, and a great many other articles of no despicable profit ; 
 and in the last place, they had rather live in a camp than in their 
 cells. War breeds a great many bishops, who were not thought good 
 for anything in a time of peace. Ch. Well, they understand their 
 business. Al. But what occasion have you for a new boat? Ch. 
 None at all, if I had a mind to be wrecked again on the Stygian lake. 
 Al. How came that about 1 ? because you had too large a company? 
 Ch. Yes. Al. But you carry shadows, not bodies. Ch. Let them 
 be water spiders, yet there may be enough of them to overload a boat; 
 and then you know my boat is but a shadowy boat neither. Al- But 
 I remember once upon a time, when you had a great company, so many 
 that yoiir boat would not hold them, I have seen three thousand 
 hanging upon your stem, and you were not sensible of any weight 
 at all. 
 
 Ch. I confess there are such sorts of ghosts ; those are such as pass 
 slowly out of the body, being reduced to little or nothing with con- 
 sumptions and hectic fevers. But as for those that are torn of a 
 sudden out of gross bodies, they bring a great deal of corpulent sub-
 
 312 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 stance along with them, such as are sent hither by apoplexies, qxiinseys, 
 pestilences, and especially by war. A I. I don't think the French or 
 Spaniards bring much weight along with them. Ch. Much less than 
 the rest, but for all that their ghosts are not altogether so light as 
 feathers neither. But as for the Englishmen and Germans that feed 
 well, they come sometimes in such case that I was lately in danger of 
 going to the bottom in carrying only ten, and unless I had thrown 
 some of my lading overboard, I had been lost, boat, passengers, and 
 boat-hire altogether. Al. You were in great danger then, indeed. 
 Ch. But what do you think I must do when so many fat lords, hectors, 
 and bullies shall come to us ] 
 
 Al. As for those that die in a just war, I suppose none of them 
 will come to you, for they say they fly bolt upright into heaven. Ch. 
 I cannot tell where they fly to, but this I am sure of, as often as there 
 is a war there come so many wounded and cripples to me that I wonder 
 that there should be one soul left above ground, and they come over- 
 charged, not only with surfeits and paunch bellies, but with bulls, 
 benefices, and a great many other things. Al. But they don't bring 
 these things along with them, but come naked to you. Ch. True, but 
 at their first coming they bring the dreams of all these things along 
 with them. Al. Are dreams so heavy then 1 Ch. They load my 
 boat load it, did I say 1 nay, they have sunk it before now. And, in 
 the last place, do you think so many halfpence do not weigh anything] 
 Al. Yes, I believe they do, if they bring brass ones. Ch. Therefore I 
 am resolved to look out for a vessel that shall be fit for my cargo. 
 
 Al. You are a happy fellow. Ch. Wherein? Al. Because you 
 will get an estate in a trice. Ch. What, out of a multitude of ghosts? 
 Al. Yes, indeed. Ch. Ay, if they did but bring their wealth along 
 with them. But now they sit in my boat bewailing themselves for the 
 kingdoms, and dignities, and abbacies, and the innumerable talents of 
 gold they have left behind them, and bring me nothing but a poor 
 halfpenny. So that all I have been scraping together for these three 
 thousand years will go for the purchase of a new boat. AL They that 
 expect gain must be at some charge. Ch. But the people in the 
 world have better trading, I hear; for if fortune favour them, they 
 can get an estate in three years' time. Al. Ay, and sometimes turn 
 bankrupts too; though your gain is less it is more certain. Ch. I 
 cannot tell how certain it is ; if any deity should start up and make 
 peace among the princes, all this goodly expectation of mine is knocked 
 on the head at once. Al. As to that matter, I will take upon me to 
 be your security, so that you may set your heart at rest. You have 
 no reason to fear a peace for these ten years ; the pope is the only man 
 that persuades them to come to an agreement among themselves, but 
 he had as good keep his breath to cool his porridge. The cities mur- 
 mur at the load of calamities they lie under, and some there are, I 
 cannot tell who, that whisper it about, that it is an unreasonable thing 
 that the whole world should be turned upside down for the private 
 piques and ambition of two or three persons. But for all this, take my 
 word for it, let these attempts be as promising as they will. 
 
 But what occasion had you to come into this world to get a boat ; 
 have we not workmen enough among ourselves? We have Vulcan, 
 have we not 1 ? Ch. Ay, right, if I wanted a boat of brass, Al. Or
 
 THE ASSEMBLY OF GRAMMARIANS. 313 
 
 you may send for a workman for a small matter. Ch. I might do 
 that, but I want materials. Al. What say you, are there no woods 
 in this country I Ch. All the woods in the Elysian fields are destroyed. 
 AL In doing what? Ch. In burning heretics' ghosts, so that of late 
 for fuel we have been forced to dig for coals in the bowels of the earth. 
 Al. What, could not ghosts be punished at a less charge than that? 
 Ch. Rhadamanthus, the judge, would have it so. Al. If it be so, 
 when you have got a boat where will you get oars? Ch. It is my busi- 
 ness to steer, let the ghosts row themselves, if they have a mind to get 
 over. A L But some of them, never learned to row. Ch. I have no 
 respect for persons kings and cardinals row with me ; every one takes 
 his turn as much as the poorest peasant, whether they have learned to 
 row or not. AL Well, do you see and get a boat as cheap as you can; 
 I will not detain you any longer, I will away to hell with my good 
 news. But, soho, soho, Charon. Ch. What is the matter ? Al. 
 Make haste, and get back as soon as you can, lest you be smothered in 
 the crowd. Nay, you will find at least two hundred thousand upon 
 the bank already, besides those that are paddling in the lake. Ch. I 
 will make what haste I can, and do you tell them I shall be there 
 presently. 
 
 THE ASSEMBLY OF GRAMMARIANS. 
 
 Albinus, Bertulphus, Ctmthelus, Diphilus, Eumenius, 
 fabullus, Gqditanus. 
 
 Al. Is there anybody here that understands arithmetic? Be. For 
 what ? Al. To cast up exactly how many grammarians there are of 
 us. Be. That may be done without a counting- table ; we may count 
 upon our fingers I count you upon my thumb, myself upon my fore 
 finger, Canthelus upon my middle finger, Diphilus upon my ring finger, 
 and Eumenius upon pay little finger ; and now I go to my left hand 
 there I count Fabullus upon my thumb, and Gaditanus on my fore- 
 finger, so that, unless I am out in my account, we are seven of us. 
 But to what purpose is it for us to know that ? Al. Because, as I 
 have heard, the number seven makes up a complete council. Be. 
 What makes you talk of a council ? Al. There is a matter of moment 
 that has puzzled me a long time, and not me alone, but a great many 
 other men of no mean learning ; I will propose it that the question 
 may be decided by the authority of this assembly. Ca. Sure it must 
 be some knotty subject, that you cannot decide it yourself, Albinus; 
 or that it should puzzle you that are of so penetrating a judgment. 
 Therefore we desire to know what this difficult matter is. J speak in 
 the name of all the rest. 
 
 Al. Well, then, do you all be very attentive, applying both your 
 ears and your minds. Two heads are better than one. Is there any 
 one of j r ou all that can explain what is the meaning of this word, antico- 
 marita? Be. That is the easiest thing in the world, for it signifies a 
 kind of a beet, which the ancients called a water-beet, having a knotty- 
 wreathed stalk, very insipid, but of a very stinking smell if you touch 
 it, so that it may vie with the bean-cod tree. Ca. A natatile beet, do
 
 314 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 you say ? Nay, rather a cacatile beast. Who ever heard of, or ever 
 read the name of a swimming beet 1 Be. Yes, Mammotrectus (as he 
 is corruptly called), which should be pronounced Mammothreptos, as 
 though you should say his grandmother's darling, has made this as 
 plain as the nose on a man's face. Al. What sort of a title is that ? 
 Be. This is to give you to understand that there is nothing in the book 
 bxit darling things, because mammas, i.e., grandmothers, are wont to be 
 more fond of their grandchildren than their mothers themselves are of 
 
 O 
 
 their own children. 
 
 Al. You talk of a darling work indeed. I happened lately to dip 
 into this book ; I even burst my sides with laughing. Co,. Where did 
 you get that book ? it is very scarce. Be. Being at dinner at Bruges, 
 LiviniuSj the abbot of Bavo, carried me into his private library, which 
 the old gentleman had furnished with scarce books at a vast expense, 
 being desirous to leave some monument of himself to posterity. There 
 was not a book but what was a manuscript, and upon vellum too, and 
 illuminated with various pictures, and bound in velvet, and embossed 
 ' with gold ; and besides, there being a vast number of them, they made 
 a very stately show. Al. What books were they ] Be. They were 
 all excellent books. There was the Catholicon, Brachylog\is, and Ovid 
 expounded allegorically, and abundance of others ; and among them I 
 found this facetious book Mammothreptus. And among the rest of 
 the curiosities I found also this natatile beet. I will relate to you 
 what I read; as for the truth of it, let the author be answerable for 
 that. Forasmuch-, says he, as it grows in wet stinking places, and 
 thrives nowhere so well as in mud, or a dunghill, saving your reverence, 
 
 sir Al. Therefore it stinks, does it? Be. Ay, worse than a 
 
 turd. 
 
 Al. Is this herb good for anything? Be. Yes, it is accounted a 
 great delicacy. Al. Perhaps by swine> or asses, or Cyprian cows. 
 Be. Nay, by men themselves, and very fine-mouthed ones too. There 
 is a people called the Peligni who make their dinners of an extraordi- 
 nary length, and the parting glass they call a resumpta in their lan- 
 guage, as we call it a dessert or kickshaws. AL Fine desserts, indeed ! 
 Be. The law of the entertainment is, that the entertainer shall have 
 the liberty of having what he will brought to the table; and it is not 
 allowed that the guest should refuse anything, but must take all well. 
 Al. What if they should have henbane, or twice-boiled coleworts, set 
 before them 1 Be. Let it be what it will) they must eat it, and not 
 speak a word against it j but when they come home, they are at liberty 
 to vomit it up again if they please. And in their entertainments one 
 dish is commonly this water-beet, or anticomarita, for it matters not 
 which name you call it by, the thing is the same. They mix a great 
 deal of oak-bark and a' good quantity of garlic with it. And this is 
 the composition of the tansey. Al. Who made this barbarous law 1 
 Be. Custom, the most mighty of tyrants. Al. You tell me a story of 
 a tragical conclusion, which has such a nauseous ending. Be. I have 
 given my solution of the question, not imposing it upon anybody, nor 
 to prevent anybody who has a mind to offer theirs. 
 
 Ca. I have found out that the ancients had a fish that they called 
 anticomarita. Be. What author is that in ? Ca. I can produce the 
 book, but I cannot tell the author's name ; it is written in French
 
 THE ASSEMBLY OF GRAMMARIANS. 315 
 
 words, but in the Hebrew character. Be. What is the shape of this 
 fish called anticomarita ? Ca. The belly is white, but all over every- 
 where else it has black scales. Be. I fancy you have a mind of this 
 fish to make a cynic with a cloak ; what taste has it? Co,. It has the 
 nastiest taste in the world ; and besides that, it is infectious too. It 
 breeds in old lakes, and sometimes in houses of office. It is a good-for- 
 nothing muddy fish ; if you put but a bit of it into your mouth, it 
 causes a certain tough phlegm that you can hardly bring up by taking 
 a vomit. It is very common in the country called Celtithrace ; they 
 esteem it as a delicacy, and at the same time account it a more detesta- 
 ble crime than murder to taste a bit of flesh. Al. A very wretched 
 country with their anticomarita 1 Ca. This is what I have to say, but 
 I would not have anybody to be determined by my opinion. 
 
 Di. What occasion have we to fetch the explanation of this 
 word from Mammothreptus's or Hebrew writings, when the very 
 etymology of the word shews plainly that anticomarita signifies dam- 
 sels unhappily married, that is to say, to old husbands 1 And it is no 
 new thing for writers to write co instead of quo; c, q, and k are cog- 
 nate letters. En. What Diphilus has mentioned carries something 
 of weight with it, if we were sure the word was a Latin one. I take it 
 to be a Greek word, and a compound of these three, aim, which signi- 
 fies against ; tto/ji) which signifies a town ; and 6api%uv, which signi- 
 fies to tattle like a woman ; and so by striking out o by the figure 
 synalsepha, it is anticomarita, one who by clownish prating makes 
 everybody deaf. Fa. My Eumenius has made it out very elaborately; 
 but in my opinion the word is composed of as many words as it has 
 syllables ; for av stands for CLVOVQ, TI for TI\\WV, KU> for KoiSm, a for 
 /uoAa, and pv for pVTrapa (for it is an error to write it with an t) and 
 TCI for raAac; and out of these is formed this sentence, A mad, wretched 
 person, pulling the hairs out of a rotten hide. Al. Indeed, such food 
 as a water-beet was very fit for such a workman as Bertulphus was 
 speaking of just now. Be. That is as much as to say an anticomarita 
 for an anticomarita. 
 
 Ga. You have all spoken very learnedly to the matter, but I am of 
 opinion that a disobedient wife is called anticomarita by the figure 
 syncope, for antidicomarita, because she always crosses her husband, 
 Al. If we allow of such tropes, we might of a turd make a bird, and of 
 a cook a cuckoo. Be. But Albinus, who is the chief of this assembly, 
 has not given his opinion yet. Al. I have, indeed, nothing of my own 
 to offer ; but, however, I shall not think much to acquaint you with 
 what I lately learned from my landlord, who was a very talkative 
 man ; he used to change his discourse oftener than a nightingale does 
 her note. He asserted it was a Chaldee word, compounded of three 
 words. That among the Chaldeans, anti signified cross-grained, or 
 brain-sick ; and comer, a rock ; and ita, belonging to a shoemaker. 
 Be. Who ever said that a rock had brains 1 AL There is no absurdity 
 in that, if you do but change the gender. 
 
 Ga. This synod makes the old proverb good, " So many men, so 
 many minds." But what conclusion are we come to 1 The opinions 
 may be summed up, but cannot be divided, so that the major part may 
 carry it against the minor. Al. Well, then, let the better overcome
 
 316 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. ' 
 
 the worse. Ga. But we must have another assembly to do that ; for 
 every man's own geese are swans. Al. If that proverb held good, we 
 should not have so many adulteries as we have. But I can advise 
 you to an expeditious method. Let us cast lots whose opinion of all 
 of them shall be allowed to be determinative. Ca. That lot will fall 
 upon yourself. Have not I spoken the truth? Al. I approve best 
 of the first and of the last. Ca. If I may speak for the rest, we all 
 agree. Al. Well, then, let it go for authentic. Ca. Let it be so. 
 A I. If anybody shall dissent, what shall be the penalty 1 Ca. Let him 
 be set down in great letters, A HERETIC IN GRAMMAR. 
 
 Al. I will add very fortunately one thing, that in my opinion 
 ought not to be omitted. Having received it from a Syrian physician, 
 I will communicate it to my friends. Be. What is it ? Al. If you 
 pound a water-beet, an oak-gall, and some shoemaker's ink in a mortar, 
 and sprinkle with it six ounces of copper, and make it into a poultice, 
 it will be a present remedy for the mange and measles in hogs. Be. 
 But, hark you, Albinus, you that have helped iis all to this job of the 
 anticomarita, what author did you read it in ? Al. I will tell you, 
 but in your ear, and but one of you. Be. Well, I will receive it, but 
 upon this condition, that I may whisper it in the ear of one person too. 
 A I. But one repeated often enough will make a thousand. Be. You 
 say right, when you have once a couple, it is not in your power to stop 
 it from going farther. A I. That which a few know may be kept a secret, 
 but that which a great many know cannot ; three makes a multitude. 
 Be. Right, he that has three wives at the same time, may be said to 
 have many ; but he that has but three hairs upon his head, or three 
 teeth in his mouth, may be said to have a few or none. Al. Mind, 
 sophist. Be. What strange story is this ? This is as absurd as if the 
 Greeks who earned so many fleets to conquer Troy should not be able 
 to call it by its name, but instead of Troy should say Sutrium. Al. 
 But this is a rabbin that is lately come down from heaven, who, unless 
 he had, like a present deity, lent his assistance in sustaining human 
 affairs, we had long ere now been at a loss to find either men, religion, 
 philosophy, or letters. Be. In troth, he ought to be one of Moria's 
 noblemen of the first rank, and deserves for the future to be called 
 Archirnorita (an arch-fool), with his anticomaritas. 
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 
 
 Petronius and Gabriel. 
 
 Pe. Whence is our Gabriel come with this sour look ? What, is he 
 come out of Trophonius's cave? Ga. No, I have been at a wedding. 
 Pe. I never saw a look in my life that had less of the air of a wedding 
 in it ; for those that have been at weddings use to look cheerfully and 
 airily for a whole week after, and old men themselves to look younger by 
 ten years. What wedding is it that you have been at ? I believe at the 
 wedding of death and the cobbler. Ga. Not so, but of a young 
 gentleman with a lady of sixteen, who has all the accomplishments 
 that you can wish for, whether beauty, good humour, family, or for- 
 tune ; in short, a wife fit for Jupiter himself. Pe. Phoo ! what, so
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 317 
 
 young a girl to such an old fellow as he ? Ga. Kings do not grow old. 
 Pe. But what makes you look so melancholy then? It maybe you 
 envy the happiness of the bridegroom, who has rivalled you. Ga. 
 Pshaw, there is nothing of that in the matter. Pe. Well, then, has 
 anything happened like what is related of the Lapithse's feast ] Ga. 
 No, not so neither. Pe. What then, had you not wine enough ? Ga. 
 Yes, and too much too. Pe. Had you no pipers? Ga. Yes, and 
 fiddlers too, and harpers, and trumpeters, and bagpipers. Pe. What 
 was the matter then ? Was not Hymen at the wedding 1 Ga. They 
 called loudly for him with all this music, but to no purpose. Pe. Were 
 not the Graces there neither? Ga. Not a soul of them, nor bridemaid 
 Juno, nor beautiful Venus, nor Jupiter Gamelius. 
 
 Pe. By my troth, you tell me a story of a dull wedding indeed, an 
 ungodly one, or rather an unmarried marriage. Ga. You would have 
 said so, indeed, if you had seen it. Pe. Had you no dancing at it ? 
 6'. No, but we had wretched limping. Pe. What, had you no lucky 
 godship at all to exhilarate the wedding ? Ga. No, not one there but 
 a goddess that the Greeks called Psora. Pe. Why, you give me an 
 account of a scabby wedding indeed. Ga. Nay, a cankered and a 
 pocky one. Pe. But prithee, friend Gabriel, tell me what makes the 
 remembrance of it fetch tears from your eyes ? Ga. Ah, dear>Petro- 
 nius, it is enough to fetch tears from a flint stone. Pe. I believe so, 
 if a flint-stone had been present and seen it. But, prithee, what 
 extraordinary mischief is this ] Do not hide it from me, nor keep my 
 expectation any longer in suspense. 
 
 Ga. Do you know Lampi'idius Eubulus ? Pe. Yes ; there is not 
 a better nor happier man in the city. Ga. Well, and do you know 
 his daughter Iphigenia too 1 Pe. You have mentioned the very 
 flower of the age. Ga. She is so; but do you know who she is 
 married to ] Pe. I shall know when you have told me. Ga. She is 
 married to Pomponius Blenus. Pe. What, to that Hector that used 
 to talk folks to death in cracking of his b\xllying tricks 1 Ga. To the 
 very man. Pe. He has been for a long time very noted in this town 
 for two things chiefly i.e., lying and the mange, which has no proper 
 name to it, though, indeed, it has a great many. Ga. A very proud 
 distemper, that will not strike sail to the leprosy the elephantine 
 leprosy tetters, the gout, or ringworm, if there was to be an engage- 
 ment between them. Pe. So the sons of Esculapius tell us. 
 
 Ga. What need is there, Petronius, for me to describe to you a 
 damsel that you are very well acquainted with, although her dress was 
 a great addition to her native beauty. My Petronius, you would have 
 taken her for a goddess had you seen her. Everything in her and 
 about her was graceful. In the meantime out comes our blessed 
 bridegroom with his snub nose, dragging one leg after him, but not so 
 cleverly neither as the Switzers do ; itchy hands, a stinking breath, 
 heavy eyes, his head bound up with a forehead-piece, and a running at 
 his nose and ears. Other people wear their rings on their fingers, but 
 he wears his on his thighs. Pe. What was in the mind of the lady's 
 parents to join such a daughter to a living mummy 1 Ga. I cannot 
 tell, except it was with them as it is with many more that have lost 
 their senses. Pe. It may be he was very rich. Ga. He is very rich, 
 indeed, but it is in the debts he owes. Pe. What greater punishment
 
 318 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 could they have inflicted upon the maid if she had poisoned her 
 grandfathers and grandmothers, both of the father's and mother's side ] 
 Ga. Nay, if she had scattered her water upon the grave of her parents, 
 it would have been a punishment bad enough to have obliged her but 
 to have given a kiss to such a monster. Pe. I am of your mind. 
 
 Ga. I look upon it a greater piece of cruelty than if they had 
 stripped their daughter naked, and exposed her to bears, lions, or 
 crocodiles ; for these wild beasts would either have spared her for her 
 exquisite beauty, or put her out of her pain by a quick despatch. Pe. 
 You say right ; I think this is what would have become Mezentius 
 himself, who, as Virgil tells us, bound dead bodies to living ones, 
 hands to hands, and mouths to mouths. But I do not believe Mezentius 
 himself would have been so inhuman as to have bound such a lovely 
 maid to such a carcase as this ; nor is there any dead body you would 
 not choose to be bound to, rather than to such a stinking one j for his 
 breath is rank poison, what he speaks is pestilence, and what he 
 touches mortifies. Ga. Now, Petronius, imagine with yourself what 
 a deal of pleasiire she must needs take in these kisses, embraces, and 
 nocturnal dalliances. 
 
 Pe. I have sometimes heard persons talk of unequal matches ; 
 that may certainly with the greatest propriety be called an unequal 
 match, which is, as it were, setting a jewel in lead. But all this while 
 I stand in admiration at the virgin's courage ' } for such young damsels 
 are frightened out of their wits at the sight of a fairy or a hobgoblin. 
 And can this damsel dare to embrace such a carcase as this in the 
 night-time ? Ga. The damsel has these three things to plead in her 
 excuse the authority of her parents, the persuasion of her friends, and 
 the inexperiencedness of her age. But I am amazed at the madness 
 of her parents. Who is there that has a daughter never so homely 
 that would marry her to a leper 1 Pe. Nobody, in my opinion, that 
 had a grain of sense. If I had a daughter that had but one eye, and 
 but one leg, and as deformed as Thersites was, that Homer speaks of, 
 and I could not give her a penny for her portion, I would not marry 
 her to such a son-in-law as he. Ga. This pox is more infectious and 
 destructive than the worst of leprosies ; it invades on a sudden, goes 
 off, and rallies again, and frequently kills at last, while the leprosy will 
 sometimes let a man live, even to extreme old age. Pe. Perhaps the 
 parents were ignorant of the bridegroom's distemper. Ga. No, they 
 knew it very well. Pe. If they had such a hatred to their daughter, 
 why did they not sew her up in a sack and throw her into the Thames ? 
 Ga. Why, truly, if they had, the madness would not have been so 
 great. 
 
 Pe. By what accomplishments did the bridegroom recommend 
 himself to them 1 Was he excellent in any art 1 Ga. Yes, in a great 
 many; he is a great gamester, he will drink down anybody, a vile 
 whoremaster, the greatest artist in the world at bantering and lying, a 
 notable cheat, pays nobody, revels prodigally, and, in short, whereas there 
 are but seven liberal sciences taught in the schools, he is master of more 
 than ten liberal ones. Pe. Sure, he must have something very extra- 
 ordinary to recommend him to the parents. Ga. Nothing at all but 
 the glorious title of a knight. Pe. A fine sort of a knight that can 
 scarce sit in a saddle for the pox ! But it may be he had a great
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 319 
 
 estate. Ga. He had once an indifferent one; but by his living so 
 fast has little or nothing left, but one little turret from whence he 
 makes incursions to rob passengers j and that is so illy provided for 
 entertainment that you would not accept of it for a hog-stye. And he 
 is always bragging of his castles, and fiefs, and other great things, and 
 is for setting up his coat of arms everywhere. 
 
 Pe. What coat of arms does his shield bear 1 Ga. Three golden 
 elephants in a field gules. Pe. Indeed an elephant is a good bearing 
 for one that is sick of the elephantiasis. He must, without doubt, be 
 a man of blood. Ga. Rather a man of wine ; for he is a great admirer 
 of red wine, and by this means he is a man of blood for you. Pe. 
 Well, then, his elephant's trunk will be serviceable to him. Ga. It 
 will so. Pe. Then this coat of arms is a token that he is a great 
 knave, a fool, and a drunken sot ; and the field of his coat of armour 
 represents wine, and not blood, and the golden elephant denotes that 
 what gold he had has been spent in wine. Ga. Very right. Pe. 
 Well, what jointure does this bully settle upon his bride ? Ga. 
 What ? why, a very great one. Pe. How can a bankrupt settle a 
 large one 1 Ga. Pray, do not take me up so short ; I say again, a 
 very large one a thundering pox. Pe. Hang me if I would not 
 sooner marry my daughter to a horse than to such a knight as he. 
 Ga. I should abundantly rather choose to marry my daughter to a 
 monk, for this is not marrying to a man, but to the carcase of a man. 
 Now, tell me, had you been present where this spectacle was to be 
 seen, could you refrain from teai-s? Pe. How should I, when I can- 
 not hear it without 1 Were the parents so abandoned to all natural 
 affection as to throw away their only child, a virgin of such beauty, 
 accomplishments, and sweet conditions, by selling her for a slave 
 to such a monster for a lying coat of arms ? 
 
 Ga. But this enormous crime, than which you cannot find one more 
 inhuman, cruel, or unlike a parent, is made but a jest on now-a-days by 
 our people of quality; although it is necessary that those that are born 
 for the administration of the affairs of the government should be persons 
 of very sound and strong constitutions : for the constitution of the 
 body has a great influence upon the mind ; and it is not to be doubted 
 but this disease exhausts all the brains a man has, and by this means 
 it comes to pass that our ministers of state have neither sound minds 
 nor sound bodies. Pe. It is not only requisite that our ministers of 
 state should be men of sound judgment and strong constitutions, but 
 men of honour, and goodly personages. Although the principal 
 qualifications of princes are wisdom and integrity, yet it is of some 
 considerable moment what the form of his person is that governs 
 others : for if he be cruel, the deformity of his body will expose him 
 the more to envy. If he be a prince of probity and piety, his virtue 
 will be rendered more conspicuous by the amiableness of his person. 
 Ga. That is very true. 
 
 Pe. Do not people use to lament the misfortune of those women 
 whose husbands soon after their marriage fall into leprosies or 
 apoplexies ? Ga. Yes, and that with very good reason too. Pe. 
 What madness is it, then, voluntarily to deliver a daughter over into 
 the hands of a leper ? Ga. Nay, it is worse than madness. If a 
 nobleman has a mind to have a good pack of hounds, do you think
 
 320 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 he would bring a mangy scoundrel cur to a well-bred bitch 1 Pe. No ; 
 he would with the utmost diligence look for a dog that upon all 
 accounts was of a good breed, to line her, that he might not have 
 a litter of mongrels. Ga. And if a lord had a mind to have a good 
 breed of horses, would he admit a diseased good-for-nothing stallion to 
 leap a most excellent mare 1 Pe. No, he would not suffer a diseased 
 stallion to enter his stable door, lest he should infect other horses. 
 Ga. And yet at the same time they do not matter what sort of a son- 
 in-law they give their daughters to, from whom those children are to 
 be produced that are not only to inherit their estates, but also to govern 
 the state. Pe. Nay, a country farmer will not suffer any bull to leap 
 a young cow, nor every horse his mare, nor every boar to brim his sow ; 
 though a bullock is designed for the plough, a horse for the cart, and a 
 swine for the kitchen. See now how perverse the judgments of man- 
 kind are. If a poor fellow should presume to kiss a nobleman's 
 daughter they would think the affront a foundation enough to go to 
 war upon. Pe. And very hotly too. 
 
 Ga. And yet these persons voluntarily, knowingly, and deliber- 
 ately give up the dearest thing they have in the world to such an 
 abominable monster, and are privately unnatural to their own flesh and 
 blood, and publicly to their country. Pe. If the bridegroom does 
 but halt a little, although as to anything else he is perfectly sound, 
 how is he despised fora husband ! And is the pox the only thing that 
 is no inconvenience in a married life 1 Ga. If any man should marry 
 his daughter to a Franciscan, what an abominable thing would it be 
 accounted ! what an outcry would there be, that he had thrown his 
 daughter away ! But yet, when he has pulled off that dress, he has 
 every way well-made sound limbs ; while the other must pass her days 
 with a rotten carcase, that is but half alive. If any one is married to 
 a priest, he is bantered on account of his unction; but one that is married 
 to one that has the pox has one whose unctions are worse by abund- 
 ance. Pe. Enemies that have taken a maid captive will not be 
 guilty of such barbarity as this ; nor will kidnappers themselves to 
 those they have kidnapped away ; and yet parents will be guilty of it 
 against their only daughter ; and there is no magistrate ordained to 
 prevent the mischief. Ga. How should a physician cure a madman, 
 if he has a spice of the same distemper himself. 
 
 Pe. But it is a wonder to me that princes whose business it is to 
 take care of the commonwealth only in those things which relate to 
 the body, of which nothing is of greater moment than the health of it, 
 should find out no remedy for this evil. This egregious pestilence has 
 infected great part of the earth, and" in the meantime they lie snoring 
 on, and never mind it, as if it were a matter not worth their notice. 
 Ga. Have a care, Petronius, what you say as to princes. But hark you, 
 I will tell you a word in your ear. Pe. Oh, wretched ! I wish what 
 you say were not true. Ga. How many diseases do you think are 
 caused by bad wine, a thousand ways sophisticated ? Pe. Why, if we 
 may believe the physicians, they are innumerable. Ga. Well, and do 
 the ministers of state take any care of the matter. Pe. They take 
 care enough as to the collecting the excise, but no further. Ga. She 
 that knowingly marries a husband that is not sound, perhaps may 
 deserve to suffer the punishment she has brought upon herself;
 
 THE UNEQUAL MARRIAGE. 321 
 
 although if it were my fortune to sit at the helm, I would banish them 
 both from civil society. But if any one married one that was infected 
 with this disease, who told her he was a sound man, and I were chosen 
 pope, I would make this marriage void, although it had been confirmed 
 by a thousand contracts. Pe. Upon what pretence, I wonder ? for 
 marriage legally contracted cannot be disannulled by any human power. 
 
 Ga. What 1 ? Do you think that legally contracted which is 
 contracted treacherously ? A contract is not valid, if a slave palms 
 himself upon a maid for a freeman, and she marries him as such. She 
 that marries such a slave marries an errant slave ; and her slavery is 
 so much the more unhappy, in that the lady Psora never makes any- 
 body free ; that there is no comfortable hope of ever being delivered 
 from this slavery. Pe. Indeed, you have found out a colour for it. 
 Ga. And besides, there can be no such thing as marriage but between 
 those persons that are living ; but in this case a woman is married to 
 a dead man. Pe. You have found out another pretence. But I 
 suppose you would permit pocky folks to marry pocky, that, according 
 to the old proverb, there might be like to like. Ga. If it was lawful 
 for me to act for the good of the public, I would suffer them to be 
 married together, but I would burn them after they were married. 
 Pe. Then you would act the part of a tyrant, not of a prince. 
 
 Ga. Do you account a surgeon to be a tyrant who cuts off some of 
 the fingers, or burns some part to preserve the whole body ] I do not 
 look upon that to be cruelty, but rather mercy. And I wish this had 
 been done when this distemper first appeared in the world ; then the 
 public welfare of mankind had been consulted by the destruction of a 
 few. And we find examples of this in the French histories. Pe. But 
 it would be a gentler way to geld them, or part them asunder. Ga. 
 And what would you have done to the women, pray ? Pe. I would 
 padlock them up. Ga. That is one way, indeed, to prevent us from 
 having more of the breed ; but I will confess it is a gentler way, if you 
 will but own the other to be safer. Even those that are castrated have 
 an itching desire upon them ; nor is the infection conveyed by one way 
 only, but by a kiss, by discourse, by a touch, or by drinking with an 
 infected party. And we find also that there is a certain malicious 
 disposition of doing mischief peculiar to this distemper, that whoso- 
 ever has it takes a delight to propagate it to as many as he can, 
 though it does him no good. Now, if they be only separated, they may 
 flee to other places, and may either by night impose upon persons, or 
 on them that do not know them. But there can be no danger from 
 the dead. Pe. I confess it is the safest way, but I cannot tell whether 
 it is agreeable to Christian gentleness or no. 
 
 Ga. Prithee, tell me, then, from whom is there the most danger, 
 from common thieves or from such cattle 1 Pe. I confess money is of 
 much less value than health. Ga. And yet we Christians hang them, 
 nor is it accounted cruelty, but justice ; and if you consider the public 
 good, it is our duty so to do. Pe. But in this case the person is 
 punished that did the injury. Ga. What, then these, I warrant you, 
 are benefactors to the public 1 But let us suppose that some get this 
 distemper without any fault of their own, though you will find that 
 very few have it that do not get it by their own wickedness : the 
 lawyers will tell you it is sometimes lawful to put the innocent to
 
 322 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 death, if it be very much for the good of the public ; as the Greeks, 
 after the taking of Troy, put Astyauax, the son of Hector, to death, lest 
 he should set a new war on foot : nor do they think it any wickedness 
 to put a tyrant's innocent children to death after they have slain the 
 father. And do not we Christians go to war, though at the same time 
 the greatest share of the calamities falls on those persons that least 
 deserve them 1 He that does the injury is saved, and the greatest part 
 of the calamities falls upon those persons that least deserve them. And 
 it is the same thing in our reprisals or letters of marque; he who did the 
 wrong is safe, and the merchant is robbed, who never so imich as heard 
 one word of it, he is so far from being chargeable with the fault. Now, 
 if we make use of such remedies as these in things of no great moment, 
 what think you ought to be done in a matter of the greatest conse- 
 quence ? Pe. I am overcome by the truth of your arguments. 
 
 Ga. Then take this along with you too. As soon as ever the 
 plague begins to appear in Italy, the infected houses are shut up, and 
 the nurses that look after the sick are forbidden to appear abroad. 
 And though some call this inhumanity, it is the greatest humanity ; 
 for by this prudent care the calamity is put a stop to by the burials 
 of a few persons. But how great humanity is it to take care to preserve 
 the lives of so many thousands ? Some think it a very inhospitable 
 thing for the Italians, when there is but the bare report of a pestilence, 
 to drive travellers from their very gates in an evening, and force them 
 to lie all night in the open air. But for my part, I account it an act of 
 piety to take care of the public good at the inconvenience of a few. 
 Some persons look upon themselves very courageous and complaisant 
 in daring to venture to visit one that is sick of the plague, having no 
 manner of call at all to do it ; but what greater folly can there be than 
 by this courage, when they come home, to bring the distemper to their 
 wives and children, and all their family? What can be more unkind 
 than by this complaisance to a friend, to bring those persons that are 
 the dearest to you in the world into the danger of their lives 1 But 
 then again, how less dangerous is the plague itself than the pox 1 The 
 plague frequently passes by those that are nearest, and seldom affects 
 the old, and as to those that it does affect, it either despatches them 
 quickly or restores them to their health much sounder than they were 
 before. But as for the pox, what is that but a lingering death, or, to 
 speak more properly, burial ? 
 
 Pe. What you say is very true, and at least the same care ought 
 to be taken to prevent so fatal an evil as they take to prevent the 
 spreading of the leprosy; or if this should be thought too much, nobody 
 should let another shave him, but be his own barber. Ga. But what 
 will you say if both of them keep their mouths shut? Pe. They would 
 take the infection in at their nostrils. Ga. But there is a remedy for 
 that too. Pe. What is it? Ga. They may do as the alchemists do, 
 they may wear a mask with glasses for eyes to see through, and a 
 breathing place for their mouths and nostrils through a horn which 
 reaches from their jawbones down to their back. Pe. That contriv- 
 ance might do pretty well if there were no danger from the touch of the 
 finger, the linen, the combs, and the scissors. Ga. But, however, I 
 think it is the best way to let the beard grow, though it be even down 
 to the knees. Pe. Why, I am of that mind too. And then let there
 
 THE IMPOSTURE. 323 
 
 be an act of Parliament that the same person shall not be a barber and 
 a surgeon too. Get. But that is the way to starve the barbers. Pe. 
 Then let them spend less, and be something better paid for shaving. 
 Ga. Let it be so with all my heart. 
 
 Pe. And let there be a law made, too, that nobody shall drink out 
 of the same cup with another. Ga. They will scarce be confined to 
 that in England. Pe. And that two shall not lie in the same bed, 
 unless they be husband and wife. Ga. I like that very well. Pe. 
 And then as to inns, let no stranger sleep in the same sheets that 
 another has lain in before. Ga. But what will you do then with the 
 Germans, who scarce wash them twice a year ? Pe. Let them employ 
 washerwomen. And, besides, let them leave off the custom of salut- 
 ing with a kiss, although it be of an old standing. Ga. But then as 
 to the churches? Pe. Let every one hold his hand before his mouth. 
 Ga. But then as to common conversation 1 Pe. Let that direction of 
 Homer be observed, "Not to come too near the person he talks too, and 
 let he that hears him keep his lips shut." Ga. Twelve tables would 
 scarce contain all these laws, Pe. But in the meantime, what advice 
 do you give for the poor unfortunate girl? Pe. What can 1 give her 
 but this, that unless she likes being miserable (she be so as little as she 
 can), to clap her hands before her mouth whenever her husband offers 
 to kiss her, and to put on armour when she goes to bed with him. Ga. 
 Whither do you steer your course when you go home 1 ? Pe. Directly 
 to my closet. Ga. What are you going to do there? Pe. They have 
 desired me to write an epithalamium ; but instead of it I will write an 
 epitaph. 
 
 THE IMPOSTURE. 
 
 Philip and Livinus. 
 
 Ph. I wish you health, Livinus. Li. I will be well, if that will 
 please you ; but do you be upon your guard, for I design to catch you 
 if you don't watch me very narrowly. Ph. An open enemy is not 
 much to be feared. But come on, deceive me if you can. Li. I have 
 deceived you already, and you have not perceived it; but take care of 
 the second time. Ph. I believe I have to do with a master of leger- 
 demain; I cannot find you have imposed upon me at all. Li. Well, 
 then, be very attentive this time, except you have a mind to be de- 
 ceived, as you have been twice already. Ph. I am prepared for you ; 
 begin. Li. What you bid me do is done already. Ph. What is 
 acted, or what is done ? I perceive nothing of deceit. Li. Well, though 
 I have given you warning so many times already, however, mind this 
 time. Ph. This is a new sort of conjuration. You tell me you have 
 imposed upon me, and I perceive nothing of art in all this, although I 
 watch very narrowly your eyes, your hands, and your tongue. But 
 come, the other touch ; begin again. 
 
 Li. I have begun again and again, over and over so many times, 
 and you cannot see the trap that is laid for you. Ph. Wherein do 
 you lay a trap for me ? Li. This tongue, I say, of mine entraps you, 
 and you neither perceive it with your ears nor see it with your eyes. 
 However, now let your eyes and ears be both attentive. Ph. I can-
 
 324 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 not be more attentive if my life lay at stake ; but, however, try to 
 trick me once more. Li. Why, I have tricked you again already, and 
 you perceive nothing of the artifice. Ph. You make me mad : prithee, 
 tell me, what kind of hocus-pocus is this? Li. Why, all this while I have 
 been speaking to you in verse, and am at this time. Ph. I thought 
 of nothing less than of that. Li. At first I answered you in two 
 trimeter iambics, then in a trochaic tetrameter catalectic, after that in 
 nothing but cretics, after that in a phaulecian hendecasy liable, then 
 again in mere coriambics, then in plain anapsestes, then again in three 
 sapphics, by and by in a sotadic, and last of all in a trochaic tetrameter. 
 Ph. Good God ! I should have guessed a hundred things before I 
 should have guessed that. If I live I will serve you the like trick. 
 Li. Do, if you can. Ph. I have payed you in your own coin twice, 
 and you did nob perceive the trick. Li. What, in this short time 1 ? 
 Ph. I threatened you in an iambic tetrameter catalectic ; after that I 
 added five cretics. Li. Why, then, I find it is according to the old 
 proverb, Set a thief to catch a thief. Ph. Very true ; but I pray this 
 for both of us, that neither of us may have a more injurious cheat 
 put upon us. 
 
 CYCLOPS; OR, THE GOSPEL CARRIER. 
 
 Cannius, Polyphemus. 
 
 Ca. What is Polyphemus hunting after here 1 Po. Do you ask 
 what I am hunting after, when I have neither dogs nor hunting-pole ? 
 Ca. Perhaps some lady of the wood here. Po. You have guessed 
 shrewdly ; lo, here is my hunting-net. Ca. What is this I see ? 
 Bacchus in a lion's skin. Polyphemus, with a book in his hand; 
 yaAij KOOKWTOV, a cat in a laced petticoat. Po. Nay, I have not only 
 painted my book with saffron, but also with vermilion and azure. Ca. 
 I did not speak of crocus, but I spoke Greek, crocoton. It seems to be 
 a military book, for it seems to be armed with bosses and plates, and 
 kings of brass. Po. Look into it. Ca. I see what it is, and truly 
 it is very fine, but not so fine as it should be. Po. What does it 
 want 1 Ca. You ought to put your coat of arms upon it. Po. What 
 arms 1 Ca. The head of Silenus looking out of a hogshead. But 
 what does it treat of, the art of drinking 1 Po. See what it is, that 
 you do not speak blasphemy before you are aware. Ca. Why, then, 
 is there anything in it that is sacred ? Po. What can be more sacred 
 than the gospel ? Ca. Good God ! what does Polyphemus do with the 
 gospel ] Po. Why don't you ask what a Christian has to do with 
 Christ ? Ca. I do not know but that a halbert would become you 
 better ; for if any one should meet you at sea in that figm*e, he would 
 take you for a pirate ; or in the wood, for a highwayman. Po. But 
 the gospel teaches us not to judge of men by outward appearance ; for 
 as a tyrannous disposition often lies hid under a monkish habit, yet 
 sometimes a short head of hair, curled whiskers, a stern brow, a fierce 
 look, and a -feather in the cap, and a buff coat and breeches, cut and 
 slashed, cover an evangelical mind. Ca. And why may it not ? 
 Sometimes a sheep lies hid under a wolf's skin. And if we may give 
 any credit to emblems, an ass lurks under the coat of a lion.
 
 CYCLOPS; OR, THE GOSPEL CARRIER. 325 
 
 Po. Nay, I have known a man cany the sheep in his face and the 
 fox in his heart. And I wish he had as candid friends as he has black 
 eyes, and that he had as well the value of gold as the colour of it. 
 Ca. If he that wears a woollen hat must needs wear a sheep's head, 
 how do you go loaded that carry a sheep and an ostrich too on your 
 head 1 But does not he act more absurdly that carries a bird upon his 
 head, and an ass in his breast ? Po. You bite too close. Ca. But it 
 were very well if that gospel that you have so finely adorned did reci- 
 procally adorn you. You have adorned it with colours, I wish it did 
 adorn you with good manners. Po. I will make that my care. Ca. 
 As you used to do. 
 
 Po. But omitting all reflections, do you really blame those that 
 carry the gospel about them 1 Ca. No, by no means (minime gentium). 
 Po. What, will you say that I am the least man in the world, that am 
 taller than you by an ass's head 1 Ca. I do not think you are so 
 much taller, though the ass should prick up his ears. Po. By an ox's 
 head, I dare say. Ca. I like the comparison, but I said minime the 
 adverb, not minime the vocative case. Po. Pray, what is the differ- 
 ence between an egg and an egg 1 Ca. And what is the difference, 
 say you, between the middle finger and the little finger 1 Po. Why, 
 the middle finger is the longest. Ca. Wittily said. What is the 
 difference between the ears of an ass, and those of a wolf? Po. The 
 ears of a wolf are shorter. Ca. You have hit it. Po. But I used to 
 measure long and short things by the span and by the ell, and not by 
 the ears. Ca. Come on. He that carried Christ was called Chris- 
 topher; and instead of Polyphemus, you, who carry the gospel, shall be 
 called the gospel-bearer. 
 
 Po. Do you not think it a holy thing to carry the gospel 1 Ca. 
 Not at all, unless you will allow me that asses are the greatest saints. 
 Po. Why so ? Ca. Because one ass will carry at least three thousand 
 such books ; and I am persuaded you would be able to carry as many 
 yourself, if you were well hampered. Po. I think there is no absur- 
 dity in attributing holiness to an ass because he carried Christ. Ca. 
 I shall not envy you that holiness ; and if you have a mind to it, I will 
 give you some relics of that very ass that Christ rode upon to kiss. 
 Po. You will give me a very acceptable present ; for that ass was con- 
 secrated by being touched by the body of Christ. Ca. And those 
 persons touched Christ too that smote our Saviour on the face. 
 
 Po. But come, tell me your mind seriously ; is it not a pious thing 
 to carry the book of the gospel about one 1 Ca. It is a pious thing, if 
 it be done sincerely, and without hypocrisy. Po. Talk of hypocrisy 
 to monks; what has a soldier to do with hypocrisy? Ca. But first 
 tell me what hypocrisy is. Po. When a man seems to be one thing, 
 and is really another. Ca. But what does the cai'rying the gospel 
 about you signify ; does it not signify a holy life 1 Po. I suppose it 
 does. Ca. Well, then, where a man's life is not suitable to the book, 
 is not that hypocrisy 1 Po. It seems so to be. But what is it truly 
 to carry the gospel ] Ca. Some carry the gospel in their hands, as the 
 Franciscans do the rules of St. Francis ; and at that rate the Paris 
 porters, asses, and geldings may carry it as well as a Christian. SOILG 
 carry it about in their mouths, and talk of nothing but Christ and the 
 gospel ; this is pharisaical. Others carry it about in their hearts. He 
 
 u
 
 326 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 is the true gospel-bearer that carries it in his hands, in his movith, and 
 in his heart. Po. But where are these 1 Ca. The deacons in the 
 churches, who bath carry the gospel, read it to the people, and have it 
 in their hearts. 
 
 Po. But for all that, they are not all holy who carry the gospel 
 in their hearts. Ca. Do not play the sophist with me. A man does 
 not carry it in his heart that does not love it with all his soul ; and 
 nobody loves it as he ought, that does not conform to it in his life. 
 Po, These subtleties I do not understand. Ca. I will be plainer then, 
 If you were to carry a flagon of wine upon your shoulders, what is it 
 but a burden ? Po. Nothing. Ca. If you hold it in your mouth and 
 spurt it out 1 Po, I should be never the better for it, though I do not 
 often use to do so. Ca. But suppose you take a hearty draught, as 
 your way is 1 Po. There is nothing more divine. Ca. It warms the 
 whole body, brings the blood into the cheeks, and makes a man look 
 with a meriy countenance. Po. Most certainly. Ca. So it is with 
 the gospel ; being received into the veins of the soul, it renews the 
 whole habit of the man. Po. It may be you think, then, that I do 
 not lead my life according to my book. Ca. Nobody can tell that 
 better than yourself. Po. If it indeed were to be resolved after the 
 military manner. 
 
 Ca. Suppose a man should give you the lie to your face, or call 
 you blockhead, what would you do ? Po. What would I do ? I would 
 give him a box on the ear. I woxild make him feel the weight of 
 my fingers. Ca. What if he should give you a box on the ear 1 Po. 
 Why, then, I would cut his throat for it. Ca. But your book teaches 
 you another lesson, and bids you return good (words) for evil ; and if 
 any one strikes you on the right cheek, to turn to him the left also. 
 Po. I have read so, but I had forgot it. Ca. You pray often, I sup- 
 pose. Po. That is pharisaical. Ca. Long -prayers are, indeed, 
 pharisaical, if they be accompanied with ostentation. But your book 
 teaches that you should pray always, but with your mind. Po. Well, 
 but for all that, I do pray sometimes. Ca. When ? Po. Sometimes 
 when I think of it. It may be once or twice a week. Ca. And what 
 is your prayer 1 Po. Why, the Lord's prayer. Ca. And how often 
 do you say it over ? Po. But once. For the gospel forbids vain repe- 
 titions. Ca. Can you go through the Lord's prayer without thinking 
 of anything else ? Po. J never tried that. Is it not enough that I 
 pronounce? I cannot tell that God takes notice of anything in prayer 
 but the voice of the heart. 
 
 Ca. Do you fast often? Po, No, never. Ca. But your book 
 recommends prayer and fasting both. Po. I should approve of it too, 
 but my stomach will not bear it. Ca. But St. Paul says, " that he is 
 no servant of Christ that serves his belly." Do you eat flesh every 
 day 1 Po. Yes, when I can get it. Ca. And you are of a robust 
 constitution, 'that would live upon hay (like a horse) or the barks of 
 trees. Po. But Christ says " that those things that go into a man 
 do not defile him." Ca. Nor do they, if they be taken moderately, 
 and without giving scandal. But St. Paul, who was a disciple of 
 Christ, would rather starve with hunger than offend a weak brother by 
 his eating; and he exhorts us to follow his example, and that we 
 become all things to all men. Po. But Paul is Paul, and Polyphemus
 
 CYCLOPS; OE, THE GOSPEL CARRIER. 327 
 
 is Polyphemus. Ca. But it is ^Egon's office to feed she-goats. Po. 
 But I had rather eat myself. Ca. That is a pleasant wish ; you will 
 sooner be a he-goat than a she one. Po. But I used esse for edere. 
 Ca. Neatly spoken. Do you give liberally to the poor ? Po. I have 
 nothing to give. Ca. But you would have something to give if yoxi 
 lived soberly and took pains. Po. But it is a pleasant thing to live 
 at ease. 
 
 Ca. Do you keep the commandments 1 Po. That is a hard task, 
 indeed. Ca. Do you repent of your sins? Po. Christ has made 
 satisfaction for us already. Ca. How is it, then, that you make it 
 out that you love the gospel ? Po. I will tell you ; there was a 
 certain Franciscan with us, who was perpetually thundering out of the 
 pulpit against Erasmus' New Testament. I caught the fellow once by 
 himself, and took him hold by the hair with my left hand, and nubbled 
 him so well-favouredly with my right, that you coxild see no eyes he 
 had for the swellings. What do you say now ? Was not this done 
 like a man that loves the gospel ? And after all this, I gave him abso- 
 lution with this very book, knocking him over his coxcomb three 
 times, made three bunches upon his crown, in the name of the Father, 
 Son, and Holy Spirit, and so absolved him in form. Ca. This was 
 evangelically done without question. This is, indeed, a defending one 
 gospel with another. 
 
 Po. I chanced to light upon another, a brother of his of the same 
 order, who was still railing against Erasmus without either end or 
 measure. My gospel-zeal moved me once again, and I threatened him 
 so severely that I brought him to beg pardon on his knees, and 
 confess that what he said was by the instigation of the devil. I stood 
 over him with my partisan in my hand, looking upon him like the 
 picture of Mars in a battle, ready to have cut off his head if he had 
 not done it readily ; and this was done in the presence of a great many 
 witnesses. Ca. I wonder the man was not frightened out of his wits. 
 But to proceed, do you live chastely] Po. It may be I shall when I 
 come to be old. But shall I tell you the truth, Cannius 1 Ca. I am 
 no priest, and if you have a mind to confess yourself you must seek 
 somebody else. 
 
 Po. I use to confess to God, but for once I will do it to you. I am 
 as yet no perfect, but a very ordinary Christian. We have four 
 gospels, and we military gospellers propound to ourselves chiefly these 
 four things : 1st. To take care of our bellies ; 2ndly. That nothing be 
 wanting below ; 3rdly. To have wherewith to live on ; and, lastly, To 
 do what we list. And when we have gained these four points, we 
 drink and sing as if the town was oxxr own, Let the gospel live, and 
 Christ reign. Ca. This is the life of an epicure, not of a Christian. 
 Po. I cannot deny that. But you know Christ is omnipotent, and can 
 make us other men in an instant if He pleases. Ca. Yea, and He 
 may make you swine too, and that seems to be an easier change than 
 into good men. Po. I wish there were no worse things in the world 
 than swine, oxen, asses, and camels. You may find a great many 
 people that are fiercer than lions, more ravenous than wolves, more 
 lustful than camels who will bite worse than dogs, and sting worse 
 than vipers. Ca. Exit it is now high time for yoxx to txxrn from 
 a brute to a man. Po, You say well, for I find in the prophecies of
 
 328 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 these times that the world is near at an end. Ca. There is so much 
 the more reason for you to make haste to repent. 
 
 Po. I hope Christ will give nie His helping hand. Ca. But do 
 you see that you render yourself fit matter to work upon. But from 
 whence do they gather that the world is so near an end? Po. 
 Because, they say, people are now doing just as they did before the 
 flood ; they are eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage ; 
 they whore, they buy, they sell, they pawn and lend upon usury, and 
 build ; kings make war, and priests study to increase their revenues ; 
 schoolmen make syllogisms, monks run up and down the world ; the 
 rabble makes mobs, and Erasmus writes Colloquies ; and, in fine, no 
 miseries are wanting hunger, thirst, robberies, hostilities, plagues, 
 seditions ; and there is a great scarcity of all that is good. And do 
 not all these things argue that the world is near an end ? Ca. But of 
 all this mass of mischiefs, which of them is it that troubles you most 1 
 Po. Guess. Ca. That spiders, perhaps, make cobwebs in your empty 
 pockets. Po. As I hope to live you have hit it. I am just now 
 come from drinking hard ; but some other time, when I am sober, if 
 you will, we will have another touch at the gospel. Ca. And when 
 shall I see you sober? Po. When I am so. Ca. And when will 
 you be so 1 Po. When you see me so. And, my dear Cannikin, in 
 the meantime all happiness attend you. Ca. And, by way of requital, 
 I wish you may be what you are called. Po. And that you may not 
 outdo me in courtesy, I wish the can from whence you have borrowed 
 your name may never fail Cannius. 
 
 THE IMPERTINENTS; OR, CROSS- 
 PURPOSES. 
 
 Annius and Lucius. 
 
 An. I was told that you were at Pancratius' and Albina's wedding. 
 Lu. 1 never had a more unhappy voyage in my life than at this time. 
 An. What say you 1 Was there such a power of company then ? 
 Lu. I never would have taken less for my life than at that time. 
 An. See what it is to be rich ; now I had but a few at my wedding, 
 and they were poor folks too. Lu. We were scarce put to sea, but a 
 great storm arose. An. Why, you are talking of an assembly of the 
 deities ; were there so many noblemen and ladies there 1 Lu. Boreas 
 tore the sail in pieces and blew it quite away. An. I know the bride, 
 she is a perfect beauty. Lu. Presently a wave comes and tears off 
 the rudder. An. It is everybody's dpinion. And her bridegroom 
 does not come much short of her in beauty, according to common 
 report. Lu. What do you think we thought of the matter? An. 
 It is very rare now-a-days for any to be maids when they are married. 
 Lu. We were obliged to sail back again. An. You talk of an incre- 
 dible portion. Lu. Presently we had another misfortune befel us. 
 An. Why did they venture such a tender girl to such a boisterous 
 fellow ? Lu. We espied a pirate ship. An. In truth, it is so in 
 many cases ; naughtiness makes amends for want of age. Lu. There 
 we had a double engagement, one with the sea and another with the 
 pirates.
 
 THE FALSE KNIGHT. 329 
 
 An, What, so many services 1 and, in the meantime, nobody gives 
 a farthing to the poor. Lu. What ! should we have struck sail 1 
 Nay, despair made us fight desperately. An. I am afraid it will be 
 but a barren match, if what you say be true. Lu. Nay, we threw 
 our grappling irons. An. This is a novelty indeed ! What, with 
 child before marriage 1 Lu. Had you but seen the conflict, you 
 would have sworn that I fought like a hero. An. Well, I find the 
 marriage was not only made, but consummated too. Lu. We jumped 
 aboard the pirate ship. An. But I admire that they invited you who 
 are a stranger, and did not invite me who am related to the bride's 
 father in the third degree of consanguinity. Lu. We threw them all 
 overboard into the sea. An. You say right. The afflicted have no 
 friends. Lu. We shared all the booty among us. An. I will rally 
 the bride for it the first opportunity I have. Lu. It presently grew 
 very calm ; you would have said it had been the halcyon days. An. 
 If she has money, I have a stomachful spirit. I don't care a fig for her 
 kindness. Lu. And so we brought two ships home instead of one. 
 An. Let him be angry that will. Lu. Where am I going, do you 
 ask 1 ? Why, to church, to make an offering of part of the sail to 
 St. Nicholas. An. I am not at leisure to-day, I expect some friends 
 to dine with me ; at another time I will not refuse. 
 
 THE FALSE KNIGHT. 
 
 Harpalus and Nestor. 
 
 Ha. Can you help me out now with your advice 1 If you can, you 
 shall find I am. neither forgetful nor ungrateful. Ne. I will bring it 
 about that you shall be what you would be. Ha. But it is not in 
 our own power to be born noblemen. Ne. If you are not a noble- 
 man, strive by virtuous actions that yoiir nobility may derive its 
 original from yourself. Ha. That is a long way about. Ne. Then 
 the king will sell it you for a small matter. Ha. But nobility that 
 is purchased with money is ridiculed by the vulgar. Ne. If nobility 
 that is bought be so ridiculous a thing, why are yoxi so fond of being 
 a knight 1 Ha. There are reasons for that, and no slight qnes neither, 
 which I shall freely tell you, if you will but put me in the way of 
 making myself honourable in the opinion of the vulgar. Ne. What 
 signifies the name without the thing ? 
 
 Ha. But as I have not the substance, I would have the reputation 
 of it. But, my Nestor, give me your advice, and when you hear my 
 reasons you will say it is worth my while. Ne. Well, since you will 
 have it I will tell you : In the first place, remove yourself to a place 
 where you are not known. Ha. Right. Ne. Then work yourself 
 into the acquaintance of young men of quality. Ha. I take you in. 
 Ne. First of all, by this means, people will be apt to judge of you by 
 the company you keep. Ha. They will so. Ne. But then you must 
 be sure to have nothing about you that is vulgar. Ha. As to what 
 do you mean 1 Ne. I speak of your clothes, that they be not made of 
 wool, but silk; but if you cannot go to the price of silk, rather fustian 
 or canvass than cloth. Ha. You are in the right.
 
 330 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Ne. And take care not to wear anything that is whole ; but cut 
 your hat and your doublet, your hose and your shoes, and your nails 
 too, if you can. Never talk of anything that is mean. If any traveller 
 comes out of Spain, inquire of him how the king and the pope agree, 
 how your cousin the Count of Nassau does, and all the rest of the 
 officers your old jolly acquaintances. Ha. It shall be done. Ne. 
 Wear a seal-ring upon your finger. Ha. That is if my pocket will 
 speak. Ne. Then you may have a brass ring gilt with a doublet for 
 a small matter; but then you must have your coat of arms upon it too. 
 Ha. What bearing would you have me choose ? Ne. Why, if you 
 will, two milk-pails and a pot of ale. Ha. You joke upon me ; but 
 do tell me seriously. Ne. Were you ever in a battle 1 Ha. I never 
 saw a battle. Ne. But I believe you have beheaded the farmers' 
 geese and capons. Ha. Ay, many a time, and manfully too. Ne. 
 Why, then, let your coat of arms be three goose heads or, and a whin- 
 yard argent. Ha. What must the field be ? Ne. What should it be 
 but gules'? a monument of blood shed plentifully. Ha. Ay, why 
 not ? for the blood of a goose is as red as the blood of a man. But, 
 pray, go on. Ne. Have this coat of arms hung over the gate of every 
 inn you lodge at. 
 
 Ha. What shall be added to the helmet? Ne. That is well 
 thought on ; make that with a mouth slit from ear to ear. Ha. What 
 is your reason for that? Ne. First, to give you air, and then that 
 it may be suitable to your dress. But what must the crest be 1 Ha. 
 I want to know that. Ne. A dog's head with bangle ears. Ha. 
 That is common. Ne. Then add two horns to it this is uncommon. 
 Ha. I like that very well. But what beasts shall I have for sup- 
 porters ? Ne. Why, as for bucks, and dogs, and dragons, and griffins, 
 they have been all taken up already by princes; you shall have two 
 harpies. Ha. Nothing can be better. 
 
 Ne. But then we want the title. In the first place, you must be 
 sure to take care not to suffer yourself to be called Harpalus Comensis, 
 but Harpalus a Como ; the one is noble, the other pedantic. Ha. It 
 is so. Ne. Is there anything you can call yourself lord of? Ha. 
 No, not so much as a hog's stye. Ne. Were you born in any famous 
 city ? Ha. No, in a poor sorry village ; for a man must not lie when 
 he asks counsel. Ne. That is very true; but is there never a moun- 
 tain near that village ? Ha. There is. Ne. And is there any rock 
 near that ? Ha. Yes, a very steep one. Ne. Why, then, you shall 
 be Harpalus, the Knight of the Golden Rock. Ha. But most great 
 men, I observe, have their peculiar mottoes, as Maximilian had, Keep 
 within compass ; and Philip, He that will ; and Charles, Further yet ; 
 some one thing and some another. Ne. Well, do you let yours be, 
 Turn eveiy stone. Ha. Nothing more pertinent. 
 
 Ne. Now, to confirm the world in their esteem of you, you must 
 counterfeit letters sent you from such and such great persons, in which 
 you must frequently be styled the illustrious knight; and there must 
 be mention made of great affairs, as of estates, castles, huge revenues, 
 commands, great offices, rich matches; and you must contrive that these 
 letters shall fall into people's hands, as being dropped by chance or for- 
 gotten. Ha. That will be very easy to me; for I understand letters, 
 and have so used myself to it, that I can counterfeit any man's hand so
 
 THE FALSE KNIGHT. 331 
 
 exactly that he shall not know it from his own. Ne. Either sew 
 them into your garment or leave them iu your pocket, that when you 
 send your clothes to the tailor to mend he may find them, and he will 
 make no secret of it; and when you come to the knowledge of it, put 
 an air of vexation and displeasure on your countenance, as if you were 
 heartily vexed you were so careless as to leave them there. Ha. I 
 have practised that so long that I can as easily change my countenance 
 as I can my dress. Ne. By this means the deceit will not be dis- 
 covered, and the matter will be blazed abroad. Ha. I will be sure to 
 take great care of that. 
 
 Ne. Then you must furnish yourself with companions, or servants, 
 who shall stand cap in hand to you, and call you my young lord at 
 every turn. You need not be discouraged at the chai'ge; there are a 
 great many young men who will act this part for nothing, or for the 
 humour's sake. And besides, there are a great many scribbling blades 
 in this country that are strangely infected with the itch (I was going 
 to say the scab) of writing ; and there are hungry printers that will 
 venture at anything, if there be but any hope of getting money. You 
 must bribe some of these to give you in their pamphlets the title of a 
 nobleman of your country, and let it be repeated every now and then 
 in capital letters. Thus they will celebrate you a nobleman iu 
 Bohemia; and one book spreads more than a hundred talkative 
 tongues or prattling servants. Ha. I do not dislike this way neither; 
 but there will be servants to be maintained. Ne. There will so ; but 
 then you must not keep idle servants that have no hands, they will be 
 unprofitable. You must send one one way, and another another, and 
 so they will lay their fingers on something or other; they will have 
 frequent opportunities of doing that. Ha* Say no more : I under- 
 stand you. 
 
 Ne. And then there are other inventions. Ha. Pray, let me hear 
 them. Ne. Unless you are an expert gamester at cards and dice, a 
 rank whoremaster, a stout drinker, a daring extravagant, and under- 
 stand the art of borrowing and bubbling, and have got the French 
 pox to boot, scarce any one will believe you to be a knight. Ha. I 
 have been trained up to these exercises. But where must I get the 
 money 1 Ne. Hold, I was coming to that : have you any estate i 
 Ha. A very little one. Ne. "Well, but when you are once settled in 
 the reputation of a great man you will easily find fools that will give 
 you credit; some will be ashamed, and others afraid to deny you; and 
 there are a thousand ways to delude creditors. Ha. I am not un- 
 acquainted with them. But they will be very pressing when they 
 find nothing coming but words. Ne. Nay, on the contrary, no man 
 has his creditors more at command than he that owes money to a great 
 many. Ha. How so 1 Ne. First of all, your creditor pays you that 
 observance as if he was the person obliged, and is afraid lest he 
 should give any occasion of losing his money. No man has his 
 servants so much in awe as the debtor his creditor; and if you ever 
 pay them anything, it is more kindly taken than if you gave it them. 
 Ha. I have found it so. 
 
 Ne. But you must take care not to deal with little people, for they 
 will make a great noise for a small matter; those that have a more 
 plentiful fortune are more easy to be appeased ; they will be restrained
 
 332 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 by modesty, led on by hope, or deterred by fear, for they know the 
 danger of meddling with men of power. And last of all, when you are 
 got over head and ears in debt, then upon one pretence or another 
 remove your quarters first to one place and then to another ; and you 
 need not be ashamed of that, for nobody is more in debt than great 
 princes. If you find yourself pressed by a fellow of mean condition, 
 make as if you were provoked by his confidence ; but make a small 
 payment now and then, but never pay the whole sum, nor to all your 
 creditors. But you must always take care that none ever come to 
 know that you have an empty pocket; always make a show of money. 
 Ha. But what can a man make a show of that has nothing? Ne. If 
 any friend has given you anything to lay up for him, shew it as your 
 own, but do it artfully, as if it were done by chance. And it will be 
 good in this case to borrow money and shew it, though you pay it again 
 presently. Pull a couple of guineas, that you have placed by them- 
 selves, out of your pocket, from a whole pocketful of counters. You 
 
 may imagine Ha. I understand you; but at last I must of 
 
 necessity sink under my debts. 
 
 Ne. You know what knights can do with us. Ha. They do just 
 what they please, and there is no redress. Ne. Let those servants 
 you keep be such as are diligent ones, or some of your kindred, such as 
 must be kept however. They will stumble now and then upon some 
 merchant upon the way and rob him; they will find something in an 
 inn, a house, or a boat that wants a keeper ; they will remember that 
 a man's fingers were -not given him for nothing. Ha. Ay, if this 
 could be done with safety. Ne. You must take care to keep them in 
 handsome liveries, and be still sending them with counterfeit letters 
 to this great man or the other. If they steal anything, although 
 they should suspect them, nobody will dare to charge them with it, for 
 fear of the knight their master. If they chance to take a booty by 
 force, it is as good as a prize in war. Ha. Oh, brave counsel ! Ne. 
 This maxim of knighthood is always to be maintained, that it is lawful 
 for a knight upon the road to ease a common traveller of his money ; 
 for what can be more dishonourable than for a pitiful tradesman to 
 have money enough, and a knight at the same time wants it to spend 
 upon his whores and at dice 1 Get as much as you can into the com- 
 pany of great men, though you pin yourself upon them ; and that you 
 may not be ashamed of anything, you must put on a brazen face, but 
 especially to your host. And it will be best for you to live in some 
 public place, as at the Bath, and at the most frequented inns. Ha. I 
 was thinking of that, 
 
 Ne. In such places fortune will oftentimes throw some prey in the 
 way. Ha. How, I beseech you ? Ne. Suppose one drops a purse, 
 another leaves the key in the door of his storehouse, or so, you take 
 
 me in. Ha. But Ne. What are you afraid of? Who will dare 
 
 to suspect a person that goes as you do, talks great, the Knight of the 
 Golden Rock ? If there shall happen to be any saucy fellow impudent 
 enough to dare to suspect you, the suspicion will rather be cast upon 
 somebody that went away the day before. There will be a disorder 
 among the master and the servants, and do you behave yourself as a 
 person wholly unconcerned. If this accident befals either a man of 
 modesty or of brains, he will pass it over without making words of it,
 
 THE FALSE KNIGHT. 333 
 
 lest he lose his credit as well as his money for looking no better after 
 it. Ha. That is very probable, for I suppose you know the Count of 
 the White Vulture. Ne. Why not ? Ha. I have heard of a certain 
 Spaniard, a handsome genteel fellow, that lodged at his house; he 
 carried away a matter of six hundred florins, behaving himself with 
 that state that the count never dared to open his mouth against him. 
 
 Ne. You have a precedent, then. You may now and then send 
 out a servant for a soldier, and he, having rifled churches and monas- 
 teries, will return laden with the plunder that he has got by the law of 
 arms. Ha. This is the safest expedient that we have had yet. Ne. 
 There is yet another way of getting money. Ha. Pray, let me hear 
 what that is. Ne. Pick a quarrel with those that have a good deal of 
 money, especially with monks or priests, for the people generally look 
 very invidiously upon them now-a-days viz., one broke a jest upon 
 you, another spit upon your escutcheon, another spoke dishonourably 
 of you ; one or the other wrote something that might be interpreted 
 scandalous. Send your heralds to declare an irreconcilable war. 
 Breathe nothing but destruction and ruin, and they, being terrified, will 
 come to you to make it up. Then see that you set a great price upon 
 your dignity ; and that is, you must ask out of reason for your bearing 
 that which is reasonable. If you make a demand of three thousand 
 guineas, they will be ashamed to offer you less than two hundred. 
 Ha. And I will threaten others with the law. Ne. That is more like 
 a sycophant ; but yet it may help in some degree. 
 
 But, hark you, Harpalus, I had almost forgot what I should have 
 mentioned first. Some young wench with a good fortune is to be drawn 
 into the noose of matrimony; you have charms in yourself, you are 
 young and handsome, you are a beau, and have a pretty smiling 
 countenance; give it out that you are called away to some great office 
 in the emperor's court. Girls are fond of marrying nobility. Ha. I 
 know some that have made their fortunes this way. But what if the 
 cheat should be discovered, and all my creditors should fall upon me at 
 once 1 Then I, the sham knight, shall become a laughing-stock ; for 
 creditors hate this sort of tricking worse than they do robbing of 
 churches. Ne. Why, in this case you must remember to put on a 
 brazen face, and that impudence never passed so current for wisdom as it 
 does now-a-days. You must betake yourself to invention for some 
 excuse, and you will always find some easy people that will favour it, 
 and some so civil that if they perceive the fallacy they will not discover 
 it. And last of all, if you can do nothing else you must shew them a 
 pair of heels, and run into the army or a riot ; for as the sea hides all 
 mischief, so war hides all sins. And now-a-days he that has not been, 
 trained up in this school is not looked upon fit to be a commander. 
 This must be your last shift, when everything else fails you j but you 
 must turn every stone before you come to it. 
 
 Take care that you are not ruined by being bound for other men. 
 Shun little towns that a man cannot let a fart in but the people must 
 know it. In great and populous cities a man may take more liberty, 
 unless it be in such a place as Marseilles. Make it your business to 
 know what people say of you ; and when you hear the people begin to 
 talk at this rate, What does this man do here so long 1 why does he 
 not go home and look after his castles 1 whence does he take his pedi-
 
 334 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 gree ? whence does he get money to live so extravagantly 1 when yon 
 find that such talk* as this grows rife among the people, it is time for 
 you to think of packing up your awls and be jogging in good time ; 
 but make your retreat like a lion, and not like a hare. Pretend you 
 are called away by the emperor to some great employment, and that 
 you shall return in a short time at the head of an army. Those that 
 have anything they are not willing to lose will not dare to open their 
 mouths against you when you are gone. 
 
 But above all, I advise you to have a care of that peevish, malicious 
 set of men called poets. If anything displeases them they will envenom 
 their papers, and the venom of them will be of a sudden diffused all 
 the world over. Ha. Let me die if I am not wonderfully pleased 
 with your counsel, and I will make it my business to let you see that 
 you have got a docible scholar, and a youth that is not ungrateful ; the 
 first good horse that I shall get into my pasture that is equal to your 
 deserts I will present you with. Ne. Well, all that remains is that 
 you be as good as your word. But what is the reason that you shoiild 
 be so fond of a false opinion of nobility 1 Ha. For no other reason 
 but that they are in a manner lawless, and do what they please. And 
 do you think this a matter of small moment 1 Ne. If the worst come 
 that can come, death is owing to nature, although you lived a Carthu- 
 sian; and it is an easier death to be broken on the wheel than to die of 
 the stone, the gout, or the palsy ; for it is like a soldier to believe that 
 after death there remains nothing of a man but his carcase. Ha. And 
 I am of that opinion. 
 
 THE GAME OF COCKAL. 
 
 Quirinus, Charles, 
 
 Qu. Cato bids us learn of those that are learned, and for that 
 reason, my Utenhovius, I have a mind to make use of you for my 
 master. For what reason did the ancient directors in religious affairs 
 order the clergy to wear ankle-coats that is, vestments reaching down 
 to their ankles? Ch. I am of opinion it was done for these two 
 reasons : first, for the sake of modesty, that nothing of nakedness might 
 be exposed, for in old time they did not wear those sort of trousers 
 that reach from the waist to the feet, nor did they in common wear 
 drawers or breeches. And, for the same reason, it is accounted 
 immodest -for women to wear short coats, long ones being more agree- 
 able to the modesty of the sex. In the second place, not only for the 
 sake of modesty, but also to distinguish them from the common people 
 by their habit ; for the more loose they are in their morals the shorter 
 they wear their coats. Qu. What you say is very probable. But I 
 have learned from Aristotle and Pliny that men have not the tali but 
 only four-footed beasts ; and not all of them neither, but only some of 
 those that are cloven-footed, nor have they them in their hinder legs. 
 How then can the garment be called a talarian garment which a man 
 wears, unless in former days men went upon all-fours, according to 
 Aristophanes's play 1 Ch. Nay, if we give credit to (Edipus, there are 
 some men that are four-footed, some three-footed, and some two-footed,
 
 THE GAME OF COCKAL 335 
 
 and oftentimes they come from a battle one-footed, and sometimes without 
 ever a foot at all. But, as for the word, you would be more at a loss 
 if you were to read Horace, who attributes the tali to plays. For thus, 
 I think, he writes in his Art of Poetry 
 
 Securus cadat, an recto stet fabula talo. 
 
 Being regardless whether or no the comedy fall or stand upon its 
 talus. 
 
 Qu. Poets have a liberty of speaking as they please, who give 
 ears to Tmolus, and make ships speak and oaks dance. Ch. But 
 your own Aristotle could have taught you this, that there are half tali, 
 which he calls ij/imarpaydAoue, that he attributes to those beasts that 
 are of the lynx kind. And he says that lions have that which is 
 instead of the talus, but it is crooked or turned to and fro ; and that 
 which he calls Aa/Bup/v^wSec, Pliny translates tortuosum [full of turn- 
 ings and windings]. And in the last place, bones are everywhere 
 inserted into bones, for the conveniency of bending the joints ; and 
 there are cavities for the receiving the prominences that answer to 
 them, that are defended on each side with a slippery cartilage, the parts 
 being so environed, or kept in, that they cannot hurt one another, as 
 the same Aristotle teaches us. And there is, for the most part, in 
 these something that answers pretty near both in form and use to the 
 talus. In the lower part of the leg, near the heel, where is the bend- 
 ing of the whole foot, there is a prominence which resembles the talus, 
 which the Greeks call atyvpbv. Again, we see in the bending of the 
 knee a vertebra, which, if I am not mistaken, they call ia\iov. And 
 we also see something like this in the hips, in the shoulders, and, 
 lastly, in the joints of the toes and fingers. And, that it may not seem 
 strange to you, the Greeks write that the .word cicrrpayaAoc is, in 
 approved authors, applied to the bones of which the spine is composed, 
 especially in the neck. For they quote you this verse 
 
 'Etc e juot av^riv aorpaydAwv EtiArj. 
 
 My neck-bone was broke on the outside the tali. 
 
 And, as Aristotle says, the fore-legs are given to animals upon the 
 account of swiftness, and for that reason are without the tali; the 
 hind-legs for firmness, because the weight of the body bears upon that 
 part, as also it contribiites to strength in those creatures that kick. 
 Horace, to signify that the play was not cut short but acted quite to 
 the end, says, Stetit fixo talo; and uses the word talus in a play in the 
 same sense as we apply the word calx to a book, and also says the 
 umbilicus voluminis, or navel of a volume. Qu. In troth, you play 
 the part of a grammarian very cleverly. Ch. But to confirm it, the 
 more learned Greeks will have 'AorpayaAoe derived of arpt^w, and 
 the privative particle a, because it is never bended, but is immovable. 
 But others choose to derive aorpayaAoe from aordyaAoCj by inserting 
 the letter p, because it cannot stand by reason of its slippery volubility. 
 Qu. If you go that way to work, you may make a great many 
 more guesses ; but I think it a fairer way to confess ignorance in the 
 matter. Ch. This guess will not seem so very absurd if you consider
 
 336 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 what great obscurity there is in the primitive origin of words. And 
 besides, there is nothing contradictory in the matter, if you look 
 narrowly into it. The talus is voluble, but it is voluble after such a 
 manner that it renders that part to which it is inserted the more firm 
 for standing, and then it joins one bone to another. Qu. I find you 
 can play the part of a sophist when you have a mind to it. Ch. But 
 there is nothing in the word talus that the etymology of it should 
 perplex us, for that which the modern Greeks call aorpayaXoc, the 
 ancients, of which Oallimachus was one, called aorptov, to whom this 
 hemistich is ascribed, At tea 8' aorpta avvro \vrpov ', whence, as the 
 Greeks used the word aarpayaXi^iv, so they also used the word 
 aarptZeiv, to play at cockal. 
 
 Qu. What then is that which is properly the talus ? Ch. It is 
 that which now-a-days the girls play with; it was formerly a boy's 
 play, as cob-nuts was ; concerning which there is this Greek sentence, 
 'Aju^' cicTTpayaAoiai \o\w9tl^ when they would intimate that persons 
 were angry for a trifle. Again, Horace in his Odes has Nee regna vim 
 sortiere tails. And also in his Sermones, Te talos Aule nucesque, &c. 
 And lastly, that saying of the Lacedemonian, if I am not mistaken, 
 Pueros esse fallendos talis, viros jurejurando. They deny that the talus 
 is found in any animal that is ILLOVV\OV } that is, that has a solid hoof, 
 except the Indian ass, that has but one horn ; or that is TroAu^tSfe, 
 that has its foot divided into many toes or claws; of which sort are the 
 lion, the panther, the dog, the ape, a man, a bird, and a great many 
 others. But those animals that are S/^rjAa, that have a hoof divided 
 into two, many of them have the talus, and that, as you said very 
 rightly, in their hinder legs. Man only has not the talus, for two 
 reasons: first, because he is two-footed; and secondly, because his 
 foot is divided into five toes. 
 
 Qu. That I have heard often ; but I should be glad to hear where 
 the talus was situated, and what form it has described ; for that sort of 
 play is quite out of doors with boys now-a-days, and they rather affect 
 dice, cards, and other masculine plays. Ch. That is not to be wondered 
 at, when they affect divinity itself. But if I were a mathematician, or 
 a painter, or a founder, I could not represent it more clearly to you 
 than by shewing you the talus itself, unless you would have me 
 describe it algebraically, as they do. Qu. Have you got ever a talus 1 
 Ch. Here is one out of the right leg of a sheep ; you see it has but 
 four sides, when a cube and a dice has six, four on the sides, one at 
 the top, and one at the bottom. Qu. It is so. Ch. And forasmuch 
 as the upper and lower part of the talus is crooked, it has but four 
 sides, one of which, you see, rises like a ridge. Qu. I see it. Ch. 
 On the opposite side there is a hollow; this Aristotle calls trpovlg, 
 that is, prone ; and this VTTTIOV, that is, supine : as when in the act of 
 copulation, for the sake of procreation, the woman is supine and the 
 man is prone. And the hand, if the palm of it be held towards the 
 ground, is prone, if you turn it up it is supine ; though orators and 
 poets do sometimes confound the use of these words, but that is 
 nothing to the matter in hand, 
 
 Qu. You have demonstrated this very plainly to my sight ; but 
 what is the difference between, the two other sides ? Ch, One of them
 
 THE GAME OF COCK A L. 337 
 
 is hollowed a little, to make it answerable to the bone to which it is 
 joined ; the other has no hollow at all to speak of, and is not so much 
 defended with a cartilaginous coat, but is only covered with a nerve and 
 a skin. Qu. I see it very plain. Ch. The prone side has no nerves 
 at all; but to the concavity of the supine part a nerve adheres to the 
 top of the right side and the bottom of the left. Qu. You make it 
 out very plain; but how must I know the right side from the left? 
 Ch. That is very well minded, for I had instructed you very illy, 
 except you suppose me to mean the talus of the right leg. I will tell 
 you, and at the same time I will shew you the situation of it which 
 you desire to know. The talus is in that bending of the leg beneath 
 the hip. Qu. A great many are of opinion it is near the foot. 
 
 Ch. They are under a mistake. That which is properly called the 
 talus is in the bending of the joints, which the Greeks call KQ^TTOC ; but 
 those of the hinder legs, as I said before, between your foot and your 
 knee, is the tibia. Qu. Why, so I think. Ch. Behind the knee, 
 KajuTTi). Qu. I allow it. Ch. For those bendings which men have 
 in their arms, four-footed beasts have in their hinder legs ; but I except 
 the ape, which is but half man : and so that which is the knee in the 
 leg is the elbow in the arm. Qu. I take it in. Ch. And so one 
 bending answers to another. Qu. You mean of the fore-legs and the 
 hinder legs. Ch. You have it. So that in that bending which 
 answers to the bending which is behind the knee the talus stands, 
 when a four-footed beast stands upright, the upper and lower part of 
 which is a little bended, but not altogether after the same manner ; for 
 the upper part is folded back into a sort of horns, as it were, which 
 Aristotle calls Kfpeu'ae ; Theodorus translates the word antennas, near 
 to which the prone side gives way; the bottom has no such thing. 
 Qu. I perceive it very plainly. Ch. Therefore Aristotle calls that 
 side which is towards the fore-legs supine, and that which is contrary 
 to it prone. Again, there are two sides, one of which inwardly is 
 towards the hinder leg, either the right or left, suppose which you will, 
 the other looks outwards; that which looks inwards Aristotle calls KwAoi', 
 and that which looks outwards \\iov. 
 
 Qu. I see it plainly with my eyes ; but still here is this to be done, 
 to inform me what was the ancient manner of playing with these tali ; 
 for the play, as it is used now-a-days, is quite different from what we 
 find in ancient authors concerning this sort of play. Ch. And truly 
 that is very likely, as we in like manner now pervert the use of cards 
 and dice from the ancient manner of playing with them. Qu. What 
 you say is very probable. Ch. Theodorus Gaza, or, as others rather 
 choose to call him, of Thessalonica, in translating Aristotle's second 
 book of his History of Animals, says, That the side of the talus that 
 looks outwardly transverse, was called canis ; and that which looks 
 inwardly to the other leg, venus : and then he adds to it this of his 
 own, for Aristotle said no more, To ntv rrpavtc; tw TO oe VTTTIOV 
 KCU TO. //tv KwXa tvroc Eorpa/^UEva Trpop a\\fi\a, TU Sc ia^ta 
 o Kai rac fctpcuac avw. But since it is certain that the 
 throw is called venus's by other persons, as often as in four dice the 
 uppermost sides of them all are different one from another, I wonder 
 by what example Theodorus calls one side venus. Our Erasmus, who
 
 338 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 is our common friend, who is no negligent observer of these things, in 
 some of his proverbs upon the authority of the ancients, intimates some 
 things of the play of the tali; as in the proverb, Non chius sed cous, 
 he says, that the cous and the size were the same that the Greeks called 
 t^TjTTjv. He relates the same in the proverb chius ad cous (adding that 
 chius was the same with canis, the ace). That the cast of the cous was 
 a lucky cast, but of the canis an u,nlucky one, according to the testi- 
 mony of Persius : 
 
 Quid dexter senio ferret 
 
 Scire erat in votis, damnosa canicula quantum 
 
 Raderet. 
 
 And likewise Propertius, 
 
 Semper damnosi subsiluere canes. 
 
 And Ovid, in his second book " t de Tristibus," calls them damnosos 
 
 canes. 
 
 And Martial adds, that the size by itself is a lucky cast ; but if 
 an ace comes up with it, unlucky ; for so he speaks, 
 
 Senio nee nostrum cum cane quassat ebur. 
 
 And now as to Yenus's cast, as it is what happens but very 
 seldom, so it is a very lucky throw : as Martial writes in his " Apo- 
 phoreta " ; 
 
 Cum steterit vultu nullus tibi gratus eodem, 
 Munera me dices ruagna me dedisse tibi. 
 
 For they played with as many tali as every one had sides ; for as to 
 dice, they us.ed to play but with three. But that which Suetonius 
 writes of Octavius Augustus comes nearer to the method of play, 
 reciting out of a certain epistle of his to Tiberius : At supper we played, 
 both yesterday and to-day, like old grave men, at tali ; and as any one 
 threw an ace or a size he laid down a piece of money for every talus, 
 and he that threw vemis took up all. Qu. You told me before that 
 it was a very fortunate throw when any one threw four different sides, 
 as at dice-play the most fortunate cast is midas ; but you did not tell 
 me that this cast was called venus. Ch. Lucian will make that 
 matter plain to you : thus, speaking concerning Cupids, KOI /Ba 
 ITTI tTKOTrou, juaXt<rra St tin-ore TTJJV 6eav airr/v evj3o\i]<reie. 
 aorpa-yaXou rreaovrog tcra) ^rj/iari, 7rao-Kuvei T?JC fTTiOv^tag rtveadai 
 vo]Uia>v. He there speaks of venus. Qu. If Theodorus is mistaken, 
 his words only make mention of two sides. Ch. It may be he followed 
 the authority of some author that is out of my memory ; but I have 
 quoted what I find in authors. For there are some that speak of the 
 stesichorian number as to the tali, which they take to be the number 
 eight ; and also of the euripidian, which contained forty. Qu. But it 
 remains that you lay down the rules of the play. 
 
 Ch. I am not of the opinion that boys made use of the same rule 
 that Octaviiis writes he observed. Nor is it probable that this game 
 which he speaks of was a common one ; if that had been so, it had been 
 enough for him to have said, After supper we played at the tali. But 
 he seems by this to hint that it was a new method that they had
 
 THE GAME OF COCKAL. 339 
 
 invented among themselves, as one that was fit for persons of age, not 
 puzzling their minds by a careful thoughtfulness, as a great many of 
 our modern games do, so that it is much less fatigue to the mind to 
 study hard than to play. Qu. Prithee, pull out the rest of the tali, 
 that we may try an experiment with them. Ch, But we have no 
 turret nor box to throw them in. Qu. Why, this table will do well 
 enough to try any experiment with them ; or this cup, or cap, will 
 supply the place of a turret. Ch. Nay, hustling them in the palm of 
 one's hand may do well enough. A throw oftener turns up the supine 
 face than the prone face, and the prone face oftener than a size or an 
 ace. Qu. So it seems. 
 
 Ch. Now, if there be an ace turned up in the four tali, you shall 
 lay down one piece of money ; if there are two, two pieces ; if three, 
 three pieces ; if four, four pieces : and as often as you throw a size you 
 shall take up one piece. Qu. But what if I should throw size ace 1 
 Ch. Why, if you will, both of us shall lay down, and neither of us take 
 up ; and he that throws four different spots shall take up all. Qu. 
 What if we throw upper, or under, blank 1 Ch. That throw shall go 
 for nothing, and either you shall throw again or I will take it. Qu. 
 I had rather the other should take the cast. Ch. Now down with 
 your money. Qu. Let us play for nothing. Ch. Would you learn 
 such an art as this for nothing 1 Qu. But it is an unequal match for 
 one that knows nothing of the game to play with a gamester. Ch. 
 Well, but the hope of winning and the fear of losing will make you 
 mind your game the better. Qu. How much shall we play for ? 
 Ch. If you have a mind to get an estate quickly let us play for 100 
 crowns. Qu. I wish I had them to lay down. But it is the safer 
 way to grow rich gradually. See here is a whole halfpenny. 
 
 Ch. Well, come on, we will add a little to a little, as Hesiod 
 advises, and this will in time make a large heap. Shake them and 
 throw away. A good beginning : yo.u have thrown an ace ; lay down 
 your money, and acknowledge you are on the losing side. Give me 
 the tali. Qu. That is a better beginning, there is three aces ; lay 
 down. Ch. Fortune is laying a trap for you ; throw away, but hustle 
 them first. Oh, good man ! you have got nothing at all, there is an 
 upper blank and an under one. It is my throw, give me the tali. 
 Qu. Well done again, I see three aces. Ch. Well, do not reckon your 
 chickens before they be hatched. Well, fortune has a mind to make a 
 gamester of you ; but mind, this is my way of learning. But I am of 
 the opinion that Octavius played after a different manner. Qu. How 
 was it 1 Ch. He that threw an ace laid down a penny, as we said ; 
 he that threw a size took up nothing, but the other laid down. Qu. 
 But what if he threw doublets 1 Ch. Then the other laid down so 
 many pieces : and when there was a good heap of money down, he that 
 threw venus took up all ; and you may add this, if you will, that he 
 that throws neither size nor ace shall only lose his throw. Qu. I 
 agree to it. 
 
 Ch. But I look upon this to be better, that he that holds the dice 
 shall throw thrice, and then give the throw to the other. Qu. I like 
 that well enough. But how many venus's will you make up ? Ch, 
 Why, three, if you will ; and after that you may make a new bargain, 
 or play who shall take all; for a size conies up bx\t seldom, and but
 
 340 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 to very few neither. Now let us make a lucky beginning. Qu. 
 Well, let it be so j but we had best have the doors shut, lest our queen 
 of the kitchen should happen to see us playing at children's play. Ch. 
 Nay, we rather play at old men's play. But have you got a blab of a 
 servant then '? Qu. So great a gossip, that if she cannot find anybody 
 else to tell what is done at home, she will hold a long discourse with 
 the hens or cats about it. Ch. Soho, boy ! shut the door and lock it, 
 that nobody come and surprise us ; that we may play our bellyful. 
 
 THE ASSEMBLY OR PARLIAMENT OF 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Cornelia, Margaret, Perotta, Julia, and Catherine. 
 
 Co. Since so many of you are assembled here to-day, and in so 
 good humour, for the good and happiness of this convention, and the 
 whole commonwealth of women, it gives me the greatest hope that 
 every one's good genius will suggest to her those things that concern 
 the dignity and advantage of the whole sex. I believe you all know 
 what a prejudice it has been to our affairs, that while the men have 
 had their daily meetings for transacting their affairs, we have been 
 sitting at our spinning-wheels and neglected the management of our 
 own cause. Whence things are now come to that pass that there are 
 not the least footsteps of discipline and government left amongst us ; 
 and the men make a mere jest of us, and scarce allow us the title 
 of rational creatures. So that if we go on as we have done, you may 
 easily foresee what will come of it in a short time ; and, indeed, I am 
 afraid to utter it : and if we should take no care at all of our dignity, 
 yet we ought to have some regard to our safety. And the wisest of 
 kings has left it upon record, that in the multitude of counsellors 
 there is safety. 
 
 The bishops have their synods, and the flocks of monks their con- 
 venticles ; the soldiers their councils of war, and thieves and pick- 
 pockets their clubs ; and even the pismires themselves have their 
 meetings. And we women, of all living creatures, are the only ones 
 that have had no meeting of members at all. Ma. Oftener than is 
 becoming. Co. Do not interrupt there ; let me conclude my speech, 
 and you shall have all time to speak in your turns. That which we 
 now do is no new thing; we only revive an old ciistom. For, if I am 
 not mistaken, about 1300 years ago that most praiseworthy emperor, 
 
 Heliogabalus Pe. Most praiseworthy ! when it is certain he was 
 
 dragged about with a hook, and thrown into a house of office. Co. 
 Here I am interrupted again. If we approve or disapprove of any 
 person by this way of arguing, we must allow Christ was an ill person 
 because he was crucified ; and Domitian a good man because he died 
 in his bed. The worst thing that was laid to the charge of Heliogaba- 
 lus was his flinging down to the ground the sacred fire that was kept 
 by the vestal virgins, and that he had the pictures of Moses and Christ 
 hanging up in his private ( chapel, whom, by way of contempt, they 
 called Chrestus. 
 
 This Heliogabalus published a proclamation, that as he being
 
 THE ASSEMBLY OR PARLIAMENT OF WOMEN. 341 
 
 emperor had a parliament of men to consult of their common affairs, 
 so his mother Augusta should have her parliament of women to trans- 
 act the affairs of their own sex ; which the men, either by way of 
 drollery or distinction, called the little senate. This precedent, which 
 has been omitted for so many years, the present posture of our affairs 
 obliges us to revive. Neither let any one be scrupulous, because the 
 apostle Paul forbids a woman to speak in the assembly that he calls a 
 church ; for he speaks of an assembly of men, and this is an assembly 
 of women. Otherwise, if women must always hold their tongues, to 
 what purpose did Nature give them, which are as voluble as men's, and a 
 voice that is shriller ? although they make a hoarser sound, and thereby 
 resemble asses more than we do. But this ought to be the care of us 
 all, to manage our debates with that gravity, that the men may not call 
 our assembly a conventicle, or by some other more scandalous name, 
 and they are used to be forward enough to be scurrilous in their lan- 
 guage to us ; although, if one might estimate their parliaments accord- 
 ing to truth, they will appear more womanish than the assemblies of 
 women themselves. 
 
 We see monarchs have done nothing but fight for these I do not 
 know how many years. The students of divinity, priests, bishops, and 
 people are at daggers-drawn, and there are as many opinions as there 
 are men in the world, and they are more inconsistent in them than we 
 women ourselves are. One city does not agree with another, nor one 
 neighbour with another. If the supreme administration were entrusted 
 in our hands, I am mistaken if the world would not be managed at a 
 better rate than now it is. Perhaps it may not become our female 
 modesty to charge such noble personages with folly ; but I suppose I 
 may be allowed to recite what Solomon has written in the thirteenth 
 chapter of his Proverbs : " There is always contention among the 
 proud, but they that do everything by counsel are governed, by 
 wisdom." 
 
 But that I may not detain you any longer with a tedious pream- 
 ble, to the end that all things may be carried on decently and without 
 confusion, in the first place it will be necessary to consider who shall 
 be allowed as members, and who shall be excluded. For too great a 
 company will make it look more like a mob and a riot than a grave 
 assembly ; and if we take in too few, it will seem to be something 
 tyrannical. Therefore I humbly conceive that no virgin is to be 
 admitted as a member ; because many things may happen to be debated 
 that are not proper for them to hear. Ju. But how shall we be able 
 to know who are virgins and who are not 1 Will you allow all 
 those to be virgins that pass for such 1 Go. No ; but my meaning is, 
 that none but married women be admitted among us. Ju. But there 
 are virgins among those that are married ; such as have fumblers for 
 their husbands. Co, Well, but this honour shall be allowed to a 
 married state, that all that have been married shall be allowed to be 
 women. Ju. Under your favour, if you exclude none but virgins, we 
 shall still have too great a number. 
 
 Co. Well, then, those shall be excluded that have been more than 
 thrice married. Ju. For what reason 1 Co. Because they ought to 
 have their quietus est, as being superannuated. And I am of opinion 
 that we ought to do the same by those that are upwards of seventy years
 
 342 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 of age. I think also that it ought to be resolved, nemine contradicente, 
 that no woman be allowed particularly to mention her own husband by 
 name too freely. It may be allowed to speak in the general, but that 
 too ought to be done with moderation and decency. Ca. But why 
 may it not be allowed us to talk freely of the men here, when they are 
 always talking about us everywhere ? My Titius, whenever he has a 
 mind to divert his company, tells them what he did with me in the 
 night, what I said to him, and oftentimes affirms what is false. Co. 
 If we would speak the truth, our reputation depends wholly upon that 
 of the men ; so that if we expose them, what else do we do but disgrace 
 ourselves 1 ? And although, indeed, we have a great many just com- 
 plaints against them, yet all things being duly considered, our condition 
 is much preferable to theirs. For they, endeavouring to get a main- 
 tenance for their families, scamper through all the parts of the earth 
 by land and sea. In times of war they are called up by the sound of 
 the trumpet, stand in armour in the front of the battle, while we sit at 
 home in safety. If they transgress the law, they are punished severely ; 
 but our sex is spared. And in the last place, for the most part it is in 
 our own power to make our husbands such as we would have them. 
 
 But it remains that we come to some resolutions about precedency 
 in taking places, lest it should be with us as it often happens among 
 the plenipotentiaries of kings, princes, and popes, who, in their con- 
 gresses, squabble away three months at least in punctilios and cere- 
 mony before they can sit down to business. Therefore it is my opinion 
 that none but peeresses sit in the first bench ; and these shall take 
 their places according to the degrees of their nobility. First, those that 
 have four ; next, those that have three ; after them, those that have 
 two ; then those who have one ; and last of all, those who have but 
 half a one. And in every rank regard shall be had to antiquity. 
 Bastards of every rank shall sit in the lowest place of it. The next 
 bench shall be that of the commons ; and of those, they shall sit in the 
 foremost places who have had the most children ; and between those 
 who have had the same number, age shall decide the difference. The 
 third bench shall be for those who never had any children. 
 
 Ca. Where do you intend to place the widows ? Co. Well 
 remembered. They shall have their seats in the middle of the mothers, 
 if they have children, or ever had any ; those that have been barren 
 shall sit at the lower end of them. Ju. Well, but what place do you 
 design for the wives of priests and monks 1 Co. We will consider of 
 that matter at our next meeting. Ju. What do you determine about 
 those women who get their living by their bodily labour 1 Co. We 
 will not suffer this assembly to be polluted by the mixture of such 
 cattle. Ju. What will you do concerning kept mistresses 1 Co. 
 They are of several ranks ; we will consider that when we are more at 
 leisure. There is another matter to be considered of, how we shall 
 give our votes whether by sci'atching or balloting, or by word of 
 tricks mouth, or holding up our hands, or by dividing. Ca. There are 
 in balloting, and so there are in scratching ; and if we give our 
 vote by dividing, as we wear long petticoats, we shall raise too much 
 dust; so that I am of opinion, it will be the best way for every one to give 
 her vote viva voce. Co. But it will be a difficult matter to number the 
 votes. And then too, great care ought to be taken that it be not
 
 THE ASSEMBLY OR PARLIAMENT OF WOMEN. 343 
 
 rather a Billingsgate than a senate [a place of scolding rather than a 
 place of pleading]. Ca. It will be impossible to do anything without 
 clerks, to take care that nothing be omitted. 
 
 Co. Well, then, we have taken care about numbering ; in the next 
 place, how shall we exclude scolding? Ca. That nobody speak but 
 when she is asked, and in her turn too. She that does otherwise shall 
 be expelled the house. And if any one shall be found to blab out what 
 is transacted here, she shall incur the penalty of a three days' silence. 
 Co. Well, ladies, so far we have settled matters as to the method of 
 proceeding, now let us consider what we shall debate about. In the 
 first place, we ought to take care of our honour ; and that consists 
 chiefly in dress, which matter has been so neglected that now-a-days 
 you can scarce know a duchess from a shopkeeper's wife, a married 
 woman from a maid, or a widow or a matron from a whore. Modesty 
 is removed at that distance, that every one wears what apparel she 
 pleases. You may see those that are scarce one degree on this side 
 beggars, and of a base and soi'did extraction, dressed in their velvets, 
 silks, and watered tabbies, garden satins, sprigged calicoes and chintzes, 
 in gold and silver, sable tippets, &c., whose husbands in the meantime 
 sit at home cobbling shoes. Their fingers are loaded with emerald and 
 diamond rings ; for pearls are now made no account of, not to mention 
 their amber and coral necklaces, their laced shoes. It was formerly 
 thought enough for your ordinary women to be allowed the privilege 
 to wear a silk girdle, and to border their petticoats with a ribbon, in 
 honour of the sex. But now we laboiu- under a double inconveniency ; 
 the family is beggared, and distinction, which is the life and soul of 
 quality, is quite lost. 
 
 If the wives of the commonalty must be dragged about in gilded 
 chariots, adorned with ivory seats, and coffbe linings and coach-seats, 
 what shall duchesses and countesses do 1 And if a squire's spouse 
 shall be allowed to drag a train after her of fifteen ells long, what must 
 a duchess or a countess do 1 But there is one thing that is worse than 
 all this, that by an unaccountable fickleness we are always altering the 
 fashion. Formerly our headdresses were mounted upon wires, and by 
 this dress women of quality were known from ordinary ones. Again, 
 that the difference might be more visible, they wore caps of ermine, 
 powdered with black spots. But the mob had them presently. Then 
 they altered the fashion again, and wore black caps ; but the women of 
 the ordinary sort did not only presume to imitate them, but outdid 
 them, by adding gold embroidery and jewels to them. Formerly it was 
 the custom of ladies of quality to comb up their hair from their fore- 
 heads and temples, and to make a tower of it, but this did not last 
 long ; for every baggage soon fell into that fashion. Then they wore 
 their hair on their foreheads ; but in this too they were soon followed 
 by the ordinary sort. 
 
 Formerly none but ladies of quality had their gentlemen ushers 
 and pages, and out of these they chose some pretty smock -faced fellow 
 to take them by the hand when they arose from their chairs, or to 
 support their left arm with his right when they walked, but this 
 honour was granted to none but gentlemen. But now women in 
 common, following this fashion, admit any mean persons to this office, 
 and also to bear up their train too. And whereas formerly, in primitive
 
 344 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 times, none but persons of high extraction saluted one another with a 
 kiss, and did not permit every one to kiss them, no not so much as their 
 hand; now-a-days a tanner or currier that stinks of the leather shall 
 presume to kiss a lady of the highest quality. Nay, even in marriages 
 there is no regard had to honour noblemen's daughters are married 
 to tradesmen's sons, and tradesmen's daughters to noblemen, so that a 
 sort of mongrels are brought into the world. Nor is there a wench of 
 ever so mean a birth but would presume to use the same paints and 
 washes that the quality use, when ordinary people ought to be satisfied 
 with a little ale yeast, or the fresh juice of a tree that has been barked, or 
 any such thing that costs but little; they ought to leave the fine paints, 
 washes, and cosmetics to women of quality. 
 
 To come now to public entertainments and the park, what con- 
 fusion and disorder is there? A merchant's wife shall oftentimes refuse 
 to give place to a lady of noble descent both by father and mother. So 
 that the present posture of affairs calls upon us to come to some 
 resolution as to these matters, and these things may be easily settled 
 among us, because they belong to none but our own sex. But there are 
 also some affairs that we have to settle with the men too, who exclude us 
 from all honourable employments, and only make us their laundresses 
 and their cooks, while they themselves manage everything according 
 to their own pleasure. We will allow them the management of public 
 offices and military concerns. But is it a sufferahle thing that the 
 wife's coat of arms should be painted on the left side of the escutcheon, 
 although her family is twice as honourable as that of her husband's ? 
 And in the last place, it is but just that a mother's consent should be 
 had in putting out the children. And it may be we shall gain the 
 ascendant so far as to take our turns in the administration of the 
 public offices, but I mean only those that can be managed at home 
 and without arms. These are the chief heads of the matters which, 
 in my opinion, deserve our deliberation. Let every one here deliberate 
 with herself upon these matters, that an act may be passed concerning 
 every one of them; and if any one shall think of anything else that 
 is necessary to be debated, let her communicate it to-morrow, for we 
 will sit de die in diem till we have concluded the session. Let us 
 have four clerks that may take down our speeches, and two chair- 
 women, who shall have the power of giving liberty to speak and of 
 enjoining silence. And let this meeting be a sample of what may be 
 expected hereafter. 
 
 CONCERNING EARLY RISING. 
 
 Jiephalius and Philypnus, 
 
 Ne. I would have been glad to have met with you to-day, Philyp- 
 nus, but your servants denied that you were at home. Ph. They 
 did not tell you altogether false; I was not at home, indeed, to you, but 
 I was never more at home to myself. Ne, What riddle is this 1 Ph. 
 You know the old proverb, I don't sleep to all, nor can you forget that 
 pleasant joke of Nasica, to whom, when he would have visited his old 
 friend Ennius, the maid, by her master's command, denied him to be
 
 CONCERNING EARLY RISING. 345 
 
 at home. Nasica perceived how matters went, and departed. After- 
 wards Ennius, in his turn, entering the house of Nasica, asks the boy 
 whether his master was within or not. Nasica cries aloud from an 
 inner room, saying, I am not at home. Ennius, knowing his voice, 
 cries, Art thou not an impudent fellow? Dost think I don't know 
 thee when thou speakest? Rather you, says Nasica, are the more 
 impudent, who won't give credit to me myself when I believed your 
 servant. 
 
 Ne. Perhaps you were very busy. Ph. JSTo, in troth, I was most 
 pleasantly at leisure. Ne. Again you perplex me with riddles. Ph. 
 Why, then, I will speak plainly, and not call anything out of its name. 
 Ne. Say on. Ph. In short, I was fast asleep. Ne. What sayest 
 thou? what, at past eight, when the sun rises' this month before four? 
 Ph. The sun is very welcome to rise at midnight for me ; truly I love 
 to sleep my bellyful. Ne. But was this by accident, or is it your 
 common custom ? Ph. Why, truly, I am pretty much used to it. 
 Ne. But the habit of evil is most pernicious. Ph. There is no sleep 
 so pleasant as after sunrising. 
 
 Ne. Prithee, at what hour do you use to leave your bed ? Ph. 
 Why, some time betwixt four and nine. Ne. A very pretty space of 
 time, truly ; a woman of quality is scarce so long a dressing. But how 
 came you into this agreeable method ? Ph. Because we used to spend 
 most part of the night in good eating and drinking, play, merriment, 
 and what not, and this expense we repay by a good sound sleep in the 
 morning. Ne. I scarce ever saw a prodigal more undone than thee. 
 Ph. It seems to me rather parsimony than profuseness ; for in the 
 meantime I neither burn my candles nor wear out my clothes. Ne. 
 Ridiculous pai-simony, to destroy jewels that thou mayest preserve 
 glass. The philosopher was of quite another opinion, who, being asked 
 what was the most precious thing, replied time. Moreover, when it 
 plainly appears that the morning is the best part of the whole day, you 
 delight to destroy the most precious part of the most precious thing. 
 Ph. Is that destroyed which is given to the body ? Ne. It is rather 
 taking away from the body, which is then best affected, most lusty and 
 strong, when it is refreshed by timely and moderate sleep, and corro- 
 borated by early rising. 
 
 Ph. But it is a pure pleasant thing to sleep. Ne. What can be 
 pleasant to him who has no sense of anything ? Ph. Why, that alone 
 is pleasing to have no sense of trouble. Ne. At this rate, those are 
 most happy who sleep in their graves, for they are never disturbed 
 with troublesome dreams. Ph. They say the body is fed very much 
 by sleep. Ne. This is the food of dormice and not of men. The 
 beasts who are made only to eat are crammed very fitly, but how does 
 it relate to man to heap up fat, unless that he may trudge on under 
 the greater burden? Tell me now, if you had a servant, would you 
 have him fat and lumpish or gay and spritely, apt for any employ- 
 ment? Pk. But I am no servant. Ne. No matter; it is enough for 
 me that you had rather have one alert and tit for business, than a 
 fellow stoutly crammed. Ph. Certainly I would. Ne. Now, Plato 
 says, The mind of a man is the man, the body nothing more than the 
 mansion or instrument. You will certainly confess, I suppose, the 
 soul to be the principal part of a man, the body only the attendant of
 
 346 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES, 
 
 the mind. Ph. Be it so, if you will. Ne. Since, then, thou wouldst 
 not have a belly-gut for thy servant, but rather one brisk and agile, 
 why, then, dost thou provide for thy mind a minister fat and unwieldy ? 
 Ph. I yield to truth. 
 
 Ne. Now, see another misfortune. As the mind far excels the 
 body, so you will confess that the riches of the mind far exceed the 
 goods of the body. Ph. What you say is very probable. Ne. But 
 amongst all the goods of the mind wisdom holds the chief place. Ph. 
 T confess it. Ne. For obtaining this no time is more n't than the 
 morning, when the new -rising sun gives fresh vigour and life to all 
 things, and dispels those fumes which are exhaled from the stomach, 
 which are wont to cloud the mansion of the mind. Ph. I do not deny 
 it. Ne. Now, do but consider what a share of learning you might 
 obtain in those four hours which you consume in unseasonable sleep. 
 Ph. Truly, a great share. Ne. I have experienced that more may be 
 done at study in one hour in the morning than in three after noon, and 
 that without any detriment to the body. Ph. I have heard as nruch. 
 Ne. Consider this further : if you should bring into a gross sum the 
 loss of each particular day, what a vast deal would it amount to ! Ph. 
 A great deal, indeed. Ne. He who heedlessly confounds money and 
 jewels is deemed a prodigal, and has a guardian appointed him. Now, 
 he who destroys these so much more precious goods, is not he a prodi- 
 gal of a far deeper dye 1 Ph. Certainly it is so, if we rightly weigh 
 the matter. 
 
 Ne. Consider further what Plato writes, That there is nothing 
 fairer, nothing more amiable than wisdom, which, if it could be seen 
 by corporeal eyes, would raise to itself an incredible number of ad- 
 mirers. Ph. But she is not capable of being seen. Ne. I own she 
 is not with corporeal eyes ; but she is to be seen with the eyes of the 
 mind, which is the better part of man. And where the love is in- 
 credible, there must necessarily be the highest pleasure, as often as the 
 mind enjoys so pleasing a mistress. Ph. What you say is very 
 probable. Ne. Go now, if you think good, and barter this enjoyment 
 for sleep, that image of death. Ph. But in the meantime I lose my 
 dear nocturnal sports. Ne. Those things are well lost, which being 
 worst are changed for the best, shameful for honourable, most vile for 
 the most precious. He has happily lost his lead who has changed it 
 into gold. Nature has appointed the night for sleep; the sun arising 
 recals all the animal species, and especially men, to their several offices. 
 They who sleep (saith St. Paul, 1 Thess. 5) sleep in the night, and they 
 who are drunken are drunken in, the night. Therefore, what can be 
 more unseemly than, when all animals rouse with the sun, nay, some 
 even before his appearance, and as it were with a song salute his 
 coming; when the elephant adores the rising sun, man only should lie 
 snoring long after his rising. As often as his golden rays enlighten 
 thy chamber, does he not seem thus to upbraid thee as thou liest 
 sleeping : Fool ! why dost thou delight to destroy the best part of thy 
 life ^ I shine not for this purpose, that you may hide yourselves and 
 sleep, but that you may attend your honest employments. No man 
 lights a lamp to sleep by, but that he may pursue some sort of labour ; 
 and by this lamp, the fairest, the most refulgent of all lamps, wretched 
 thou doat nothing but snore. Ph. You declaim smartly.
 
 CONCERNING EARLY RISING. 347 
 
 Ne. Not smartly, but truly. Come on, you have often heard that 
 of Hesiod, It is too late to spare when all is spent. Ph. Very 
 frequently; for in the middle of the pipe the wine is best. Ph. But 
 in life the first part that is to say, youth, is best. Ph. Verily, so it 
 is. Ne. And the morning is the same to the day as youth is to life. 
 Do not they then act foolishly who spend their youth in trifles and 
 their morning hours in sleep 1 Ph. So it appears. Ne. Is there any 
 possession which may be compared with a man's life 1 Ph. No, not 
 the whole Persian treasure. Ne. Wouldst thou not vehemently hate 
 the man that by evil arts could and would curtail thy years, and shorten 
 thy thread of life 1 Ph. I would rather do my endeavour to destroy 
 his life. Ne. But I deem those far worse, and more guilty, who 
 voluntarily render their own lives shorter. Ph. I confess it, if any 
 such are to be found. Ne. To be found ! It is what all who are like 
 thee do. Ph. Good words, man. Ne. The best. Thus consider 
 with your own self whether Pliny has spoken justly or not, when he 
 says, All life is one continued watching, and he lives most who employs 
 the greatest part of his time in study. For sleep is a kind of death ; 
 therefore the poets feign it to come from the infernal shades ; and it is 
 called by Homer the cousin-german of death ; and so those who sleep 
 can scarce be numbered either amongst the dead or living, but of the 
 two they seem most properly named amongst the dead. Ph. I am 
 entirely of your opinion. 
 
 Ne. Now, tell me fairly how much of life do they cut off who every 
 day destroy three or four hours in sleep 1 Ph. Truly, a vast deal. 
 Ne. Would not you esteem him as a god, if there were an alchemist who 
 could find a way to add ten years to the length of your life, and when 
 you are advanced in years reduce you to youth and vigour? Ph. Ay, 
 why should I not ? Ne. And this so divine blessing thou mayest 
 obtain from thy own self. Ph. Which way ? Ne. Because the 
 morning is the vigorous youth of the day ; this youth flourishes till 
 noon, the evening succeeds by the name of old age, and call sunset the 
 article of death. Frugality is a handsome income, and never more 
 necessary than in this case. Now, has not he been a great gainer who 
 has avoided losing the greatest and best part of life 1 Ph. All these 
 things are too true. 
 
 Ne. How intolerably impudent, then, must they seem who accuse 
 nature, and complain that the life of man is short and little, when they 
 themselves voluntarily cut off so great a part of that little which nature 
 gave 1 Life is long enough, if men would but use it prudently. Nor 
 has he made a small progress who knows how to do everything in 
 season. After dinner we are scarce half men, when the body, loaded 
 with meats, burdens and oppresses the mind ; nor is it safe to excite or 
 draw up the spirits from nature's kitchen the stomach, where they are 
 employed in the business of concoction ; after supper, much less. But 
 in the morning a man is effectually and all a man, when his body is apt 
 and fit for every employment, when the soul is active and in full force, 
 and all the organs of the mind serene and in tranquillity, whilst 
 it breathes a part of that divine flatus (as one says), has a relish of its 
 great original, and is rapt or hurried on to commendable actions. Ph. 
 Truly, you harangue very elegantly. Ne. Agamemnon, in Homer, 
 tells us, It is unbecoming a man of counsel to sleep the whole night.
 
 348 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 How much greater then the fault to spend so much of the day in sleep. 
 Ph. True ; but this has respect to a man of counsel. I am no general 
 of an army. 
 
 Ne. If there is anything more dear to you than yourself, do not 
 be moved or affected by this opinion of Homer. A brasier will rise 
 before it is light, only in hopes of some poor advantage. And has not 
 the love of wisdom power to rouse and stir us up, that we may at 
 least hear the approaching sun calling us forth to profit inestimable ? 
 Physicians rarely give physic but in the morning. They know the 
 golden hours in which they may assist the body; and shall we be 
 ignorant of those precious hours in which we may heal and enrich the 
 mind 1 Now, if these things are of small weight with you, hear what 
 Solomon says ^(Prov. viii. 17). Wisdom, heavenly wisdom herself 
 speaks : "They who seek me early shall find me." So in the holy Psalms, 
 Iviii. and Ixxxvii., what praise and commendation is there of the morning 
 seasons ! In the morning the prophet extols the mercy of the Lord ; 
 in the morning his voice is heard; his prayers come before God in the 
 morning. And, according to Luke the evangelist, chap, vi., the people, 
 seeking from the Lord cure and instruction, flocked together to 
 Him early in the morning. Why dost thou sigh, Philypnus ? Ph. 
 I can scarce refrain weeping when I consider what a waste I have 
 made of life. 
 
 Ne. It is all in vain to torment yourself about those things which 
 cannot be recalled, but may nevertheless be repaired in time to come. 
 Apply yourself to this rather than in vainly deploring what is past ; 
 lose also some part of the future. Ph. You advise well, but long habit 
 has entirely overcome me. Ne. Phy ! One nail drives out another, and 
 custom is overcome by custom. Ph. But it is difficult to forego those 
 things to which we have been long accustomed. Ne. In the beginning, 
 I grant ; but a different habit first lessens the uneasiness, anon changes 
 it into the highest pleasure, so that it will not repent you to have 
 undergone a short discipline. Ph. I am afraid it will never succeed. 
 Ne. Why, truly, if you were seventy years of age, I would not 
 attempt to draw you from your wonted course ; but if I guess right, 
 you are scarce seventeen ; and what is there that that age is not able 
 to overcome, if there be but a willing mind ? Ph. I will attempt it, 
 and endeavour of a Philypnus to be made a Philologus, of a lover of 
 sleep a lover of learning. Ne. If you do this, my Philypnus, I am 
 very well satisfied after a few days you will congratulate yourself, and 
 give me thanks who advised you. 
 
 THE SOBER BANQUET. 
 
 Albert, 'Bartholine, Charles, Dennis, JEmilius, Francis, Gyraldus, Jerom, 
 
 James, Laurence. 
 
 Al. Did you ever in your life see anything more pleasant than 
 this garden 1 Ba. I scarce think that there is a pleasanter spot of 
 ground in all the Fortunate Islands. Ch. I cannot but fancy myself 
 viewing that paradise that God placed Adam in. De. Even a Nestor 
 or a Priam us might grow young again if they were here. Fr. Nay,
 
 THE SOBER BANQUET. 349 
 
 if a man was dead it would fetch him to life again. Gy. If it was 
 possible I would add to your hyperbole. Je. Upon my word, all 
 things look wonderfully pleasant. Ja. In short, this garden ought to 
 be dedicated with a drinking match. La. Our James speaks much 
 to the purpose. Al. This place has been formerly initiated with such 
 ceremonies. But I would have you observe by the way, that I have 
 nothing here to make you a dinner, except you will be content with a 
 collation without wine. I will treat you with lettuces without either 
 salt, vinegar, or oil; here is not a drop of wine but what flows out of 
 this fountain. I have here neither bread (to eat with the salad) nor 
 cup (to drink out of). And the season of the year is such that it is 
 more proper for feeding the eyes than the belly. Ba. But I suppose 
 you have got playing tables or bowls; we will dedicate the garden with 
 playing, if we cannot with feasting. 
 
 Al. Since there is such a set of .jolly fellows of us met together, 
 I have something to propose as to the consecration of the garden that, I 
 am of opinion, you will confess is far before either gaming or banqueting. 
 Ch. What is that] Al. Let every one furnish his quota, and I dare 
 engage we shall have a noble and delicate feast. jEm. What can we 
 furnish, that are come hither itnprovided? Al. Unprovided, who 
 have your intellectuals so well furnished ! Fr. We long to hear 
 what you would be at. Al. Let every one produce the neatest obser- 
 vation that his week's reading has furnished him with. Gy. Very 
 well proposed; nothing can be more agreeable to such guests, such 
 an entertainment, and such a place. Do you begin, we will all 
 follow you. 
 
 Al. If you agree to it I will not stick out. I was mightily pleased 
 to-day to find so Christian-like a sentence in a man who was no Chris- 
 tian; it was that of Phocion, a man than whom there was not a more 
 divine one, nor more regardful of the public utility in all Athens. 
 When he had been invidiously sentenced to death, and was about to 
 drink his poison, being asked by his friends what message he had to send 
 to his children, he answered, he only required of them that they would 
 ever banish this injtiry out of their memories. Ba. You will scarce 
 find an example of such notable patience amongst either the Dominicans 
 or Franciscans. And I will present you with one instance that is 
 something like this, though it does not come up to it. Aristides 
 was very like Phocion for integrity, so that the common people gave 
 him the surname of the Just; which appellation raised him so much 
 envy, that this good man, that deserved so well of the commonwealth, 
 was banished for ten years from his native country. When he under- 
 stood that the people were offended at nothing but that appellation, 
 though that had always been to their advantage, he patiently sub- 
 mitted. Being in banishment, his friends asking him what punish- 
 ment he wished to the ungrateful city, he replied, I wish them 
 nothing, but so much prosperity that they may never once remember 
 Aristides. 
 
 Ch. I wonder that Christians are not ashamed of themselves, that 
 are in a rage upon the occasion of every trifling affront, and will have 
 revenge, cost it what it will. The whole life of Socrates, in my 
 opinion, is but one continued example of temperance and patience. 
 And that I may not be scot-free, 1 will mention one instance that
 
 350 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 pleases me above the rest. As he was going along the king's highway 
 a saucy fellow hit him a slap on the face; Socrates said nothing to 
 him, but his friends that were with him advised him to be revenged 
 on him. To which he replied, What would you have me do to him ? 
 They replied, Arrest him in an action of assaxilt and battery. A 
 foolish story, indeed, says he. What, says he, suppose an ass had given 
 me a kick, must I sue him upon the same action, and subpoena you for 
 evidences of the injury offered ? intimating that that saucy fellow was 
 no better than an ass, and that it was the part of a mean soul not to 
 be able to bear such an affront from a numskull as he would from a 
 brute animal. The Roman history is not so well stored with instances of 
 moderation, nor so remarkable; for, in my opinion, he does not deserve 
 the praise of moderation that strenuously labours to bring haughty 
 persons under subjection, and then spares them when they are in his 
 power. But yet I think it deserves to be related what Cato the elder 
 said when Lentulus spit in his face and threw snot in it. He said 
 nothing to him but this, Hereafter I shall have an answer ready for 
 them that shall say, You are a man that have no mouth (Os); for the 
 Latins used to say, That he that has no shame in him has no Os ; 
 so that the joke depends upon the double meaning of Os (which 
 signifies the mouth and the countenance). 
 
 jEm. One man is pleased with one thing, and another with 
 another. But among Diogenes's sayings, which are all excellent ones, 
 none charms me more than the answer he made to one that asked 
 him what was the best way to be revenged on an enemy ? Says he, 
 By approving yourself an honest good man. I cannot but admire how 
 so divine a thought could ever come into his mind. And, methinks, 
 the saying of Aristotle is agreeable to St. Paul's notion who, being 
 asked by a certain person, What advantage his philosophy afforded 
 him? answered him, That by reason of it he did those things voluntarily 
 which other persons did by constraint and for fear of the law. For 
 St. Paul teaches that those who are endued with the love of Christ 
 are not under the subjection of the law, in that they do more of 
 their own accord than the law can influence them to do for fear of 
 punishment. Fr. Our Saviour, when the Jews murmured against 
 him, because he had communion at the table with publicans and 
 sinners, answered them, The whole have not need of a physician, but 
 those that are sick. That which Phocion in Plutarch wittily answered, 
 when he was reprehended because he had patronised a person infamous 
 and of an ill character, is not very different from this : Why should 
 I not, says he, when no good man stands in need of such a patronage. 
 
 Gy. That is a pattern of Christian goodness, and according to the 
 example of God himself, to do good both to good and bad as much as 
 may be, for He causes His sun to shine upon the just and unjust. And 
 perhaps an example of moderation in a king will be more admirable. 
 When Demochares, the nephew of Demosthenes, was sent ambassador 
 to Philip, King of Macedon; and having obtained of him what he 
 desired, being about to have his audience of leave, was courteously 
 asked by the king if there was anything else he requested of him; he 
 answered, Yes, that he would hang himself. This unhandsome answer 
 was an argument of hatred. He to whom this affront was offered was 
 a king, and a worthy one too; but for all that he did not fall into a
 
 THE NOTABLE ART. 3M 
 
 passion, but only turning to the ambassadoi-'s retinue, said, Do you 
 report this to the people of Athens, and then let them judge which has 
 the greater soul of the two, I who heard this patiently or he who spoke 
 it saucily. Where are now our monarchs who think themselves equal 
 to the gods themselves, and for a single word spoken over a glass of 
 wine will immediately wage war] The thirst of glory is very im- 
 petuous, and many are carried away by the violence of it. One of 
 that number put the question to Socrates, Which was the shortest 
 way to get a good reputation ] To whom he answered, If you shall 
 behave yourself like such an one as you would be accounted to be. 
 
 Ja. In troth, I do not know what could be said more concisely 
 and to the purpose. A good name is not to be obtained by wishing 
 for, but is a concomitant of virtue, as infamy is of improbity. You 
 have been admiring of men; but the Laconian maid charmed me, who 
 being to be sold at a sale, the person who was to buy her came to her 
 and asked her, If I buy you, will you be honest ? She answered, Yes, 
 I will, whether you buy me or not; intimating that she retained an 
 affection to honesty, not upon the account of any other -person, but 
 was honest of her own inclination, and upon this notion, that virtue 
 was its own reward. 
 
 La. A very manly saying, indeed, for a maid ! But after all, this, 
 in my opinion, is an example of constancy against fortune flattering 
 to the utmost degree, that when three extraordinary felicities were 
 related to Philip of Macedon on the same day that he had won the 
 prize in the Olympic Games; that his general, Parmeno, had overcome 
 the Dardans in a battle; and that his wife Olympia was brought to bed 
 of a son, lifting his hands \ip to heaven, he prayed that God would be 
 pleased that so mighty a prosperity might be expiated by a small 
 adversity. 
 
 Al. Now-a-days there is no prosperity so great, that any one fears 
 the invidiousness of fortune; but is so puffed up if any good luck 
 happens to him, as if Nemesis were either dead, or at least deaf. 
 W^ell, if you like this dinner, this garden shall entertain you as often 
 as you will, since you have consecrated it with this conversation that 
 is no less pleasant than profitable. Ba. In short, Apitius himself 
 could not have furnished a more dainty entertainment; so that if you 
 like what we have brought, you may depend upon our company often, 
 which things, indeed, are not worth your hearing, but are such as 
 came into our minds without any premeditation ; but when we have 
 time to think beforehand, we will afford you something more ex- 
 quisite. AL You shall be so much the more welcome. 
 
 THE NOTABLE ART. 
 
 Desiderius, Erasmus. 
 
 De. How do you succeed in your studies, Erasmus 1 ? Er. But 
 very slowly ; but I should make a better proficiency if I could obtain 
 one thing of you. De. You may obtain anything of me, provided it 
 be for your good ; do but tell me what it is. Er. I believe there is 
 nothing of the most hidden arts but what you are acquainted with.
 
 352 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 De. I wish I wera Er. I am told there is a certain compendious art 
 that will help a man to accomplish himself with all the liberal sciences 
 by a very little labour. De. What is that you talk of? Did you ever 
 see the book? Er. I did see it, and that was all, having nobody to 
 instruct me in the use of it. De. What was the subject of the book ? 
 Er. It treated of various forms of dragons, lions, leopards ; and various 
 circles, and words written in them, some in Greek, some in Latin, and 
 some in Hebrew, and other barbarous languages. De. Pray, in how 
 many days' time did the title-page promise you the knowledge of the 
 arts and sciences? Er. In fourteen. De. In truth, a very noble 
 promise. But did you ever know anybody that has become learned by 
 that notable art? Er. No. De. No, nor nobody ever did, or ever 
 will, till we can see an alchemist grow rich. Er. Why, is there no 
 such art then? I wish with all my heart there was. De. Perhaps 
 you do, because you would not be at the pains which is required to 
 become learned. Er. You are right. 
 
 De. It seemed meet to the divine being that the common riches, 
 gold, jewels, silver, palaces, and kingdoms, should be bestowed on the 
 slothful and undeserving ; but the true riches, and such as are properly 
 our own, must be got by labour. Nor ought we to think that 
 labour troublesome by which so valuable a thing is procured ; when we 
 see a great many men run through dreadful dangers, and work their 
 way through unimaginable labours to get temporary things, and such 
 as are really vile too, if compared to learning ; and do not always attain 
 what they strive for neither. But, indeed, the pains that studies cost 
 are mingled with a great deal of sweetness, if you make but a little 
 proficiency in them. And again, it is for the most part in your own 
 power to cut off the greatest part of the tiresomeness of attaining them. 
 Er, How is that to be done? De. In the first place, by bringing 
 your mind to the love of studies ] and secondly, to admire them. 
 Er. How must that be done ? 
 
 De. Consider how many learning has enriched, how many it has 
 promoted to the highest honours. Then again, consider with yourself 
 how great the difference is between a man and a beast. Er. You give 
 very good advice. De. Then you ought to tame and bring your mind 
 to be consistent with itself, and to take pleasure in those things that 
 bring profit rather than pleasure. For those things that are honour- 
 able in themselves, although they are something troublesome in the 
 beginning, yet they grow pleasant by use ; and by that means you 
 will give the master less trouble, and you will more easily make a 
 progress ; according to the saying of Isocrates, which deserves to be 
 written in gold letters on the cover of your book : 'Eav %g ^lAo/uaS'ryc 
 tdtj TToXv/na^riQ, If thou be desirous to learn, thou shalt learn many 
 things well. Er. I am quick enough at apprehension, but I presently 
 forget what I have learned. De. Then you tell me your vessel is 
 leaky. Er. You are much about the matter; but what remedy is 
 there for it ? De. Why, you must stop the chinks, that it do not run 
 out. Er. What must I stop them with ? De. Not with moss, nor 
 mortar, but with diligence. He that learns words and does not under- 
 stand the meaning of them, soon forgets them ; for words, as Homer 
 says, have wings and easily fly away, unless they be kept down by the 
 weight of the meaning. Therefore let it be your first care thoroughly
 
 THE SERMON. 353 
 
 to understand the meaning of them, and then frequently revolve them 
 in your mind and repeat them ; and then, as I have said, you ought to 
 break your mind that it may be able to use application as often as is 
 necessary ; for that mind that is so wild, that it cannot be brought to 
 this, is not lit for learning. Er. I know too well how hard a matter 
 that is. 
 
 De. Whosoever has so voluble a mind that it cannot fix itself 
 upon any thought, he neither can attend long on the person teaching, 
 nor fix what he has leai-ned in the memory. An impression may be 
 made even upon lead, because it is fixed ; but no impression can be set 
 upon water or quicksilver, because they are fluid. But if you can but 
 bring your mind to this, if you converse constantly with men of learn- 
 ing, whose discourses do daily produce so many things worthy of notice, 
 you may learn a great deal with but little pains. Er. That is very 
 right. De. For besides the table-talk, their daily conversation after 
 dinner, you hear eight fine sentences collected out of the most approved 
 authors, and after supper as many. Now do but reckon up what a 
 sum this will amount to in a month, and how many more in a year. 
 Er. A very large sum, if I could lout remember them all. De. And 
 then, again, when you hear nothing but true Latin spoken, what hinders 
 you but that you may learn Latin in a very few months, when lads who 
 have no learning do learn the French or Spanish tongue in a very 
 little time 1 Er. I will take your course and try whether I can bring 
 this mind of mine to submit to the yoke of the muses. De. I know 
 no other notable art but industry, delight, and assiduity. 
 
 THE SERMON. 
 
 Hilary and Levimis. 
 
 Hi. Good God ! what monsters there are in the world ! What, 
 men in holy orders to be ashamed of nothing ! why certainly they 
 think they are talking to mushrooms, and not to men. Le. What is 
 that which Hilary mutters to himself 1 ? I fancy he is making verses. 
 Hi. What would I give had I but the stopping of that babbler's nasty 
 mouth with a turd 1 Le. I will speak to him. How now ? what, 
 Hilary not merry ! Hi. You are come in very good time, Levinus, 
 for me to discharge myself of this uneasiness too. Le. If you discharge 
 your stomach, I had rather you should do it into a bason than upon 
 me. But, prithee, what is the matter, and where have you been 1 Hi. 
 Been ! I have been hearing a sermon. Le. But what should a poet 
 concern himself with sermons for 1 ? Hi. I have no aversion to holy 
 duties, but I have happened to drop into this performance, which is to 
 be called so in the sense that Virgil calls avarice so ; but it is such sort 
 of Billingsgate parsons as these that are the occasion that I seldom go 
 to church. 
 
 Le. But where was this sermon preached ] Hi. In the cathedral. 
 Le. What, in the afternoon? Men commonly take a nap after dinner. 
 Hi. I wish all that were hearing that babbler had been asleep, for he 
 was scarce fit to preach to a flock of geese. Le. A goose is a noisy 
 creature. But they say St. Francis once preached to a sisterhood of
 
 354 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 little birds, who heard him with a great deal of attention. But, prithee 
 tell me do they use to preach on Sat\irdays 1 Hi, Yes, they do in 
 honour of the Virgin Mary ; for Christ's day is on Sunday, and it is 
 meet the mother should be served first. Le. What was the text 1 
 Hi. He went through the song of the Virgin Mary. Le. That is a 
 very common argument. Hi. The fitter for him that preached upon 
 it, for I believe he never learned any argument but this ; as they say, 
 there are some priests who can say no part of the common prayer but 
 the service for the dead. Le. Well, then, let him be called the 
 magnificat preacher, or, if you will, the magnificatarian. But what sort 
 of a fellow is he ? what habit does he wear 1 Hi. He is a wolf in 
 sheep's clothing. 
 
 Le. What house did he come out of? Hi. The Franciscans. Le. 
 How say you, a Franciscan 1 what, one of that holy order 1 It may be 
 he is one of those that are called Gaudentes, that wear garments of a 
 brown colour, whole shoes, a white girdle, and make no scruple (I 
 tremble to speak it) to touch money with their bare fingers. Hi. Nay, 
 none of them, I will assure you ; but of those that call themselves 
 Observants, that wear ash-coloured garments, hempen girdles, cut and 
 slashed shoes, and would rather commit murder than touch money 
 without gloves. Le. It is no strange thing for a nettle to grow in a 
 rose-bed ; but who brought this fool upon the stage ? Hi. You would 
 say so the rather if you were but to see the buffoon. He was a swing- 
 ing great fellow, with a red face, a paunch gut, and a hopper arse. You 
 would take him to be a master of the science, and one that I verily 
 believe drinks more than one pint of wine at a meal. Le. But how 
 can one come by so much wine that has no money to buy it 1 Hi. 
 King Ferdinand allows- them four pints a day out of his cellar. Le. 
 A bounty, indeed, very ill bestowed. But it may be he was a man of 
 learning. Hi. Nothing in the world but impudence and noise. 
 
 Le. But how came Ferdinand to be so much out of the way as 
 to bestow his bounty upon a blockhead 1 Hi. Why, to tell you in 
 brief, his pious inclination and bounteous disposition led him aside ; 
 he was recommended to him, and he was one of them that carried his 
 head upon his right shoulder. Le. So Christ hung upon the cross ? 
 But was there a great auditory ? Hi. How could it be otherwise at 
 Augsburg, in the great church there, where there was so great a con- 
 course of sovereign princes, whom the Emperor Charles had drawn 
 together from all parts of Germany, Italy, Spain, and England ? And 
 besides, there were a great many men of learning present at the sermon, 
 especially of the courtiers. Le. I should wonder if such a swine should 
 produce anything worthy of such an auditory. Hi. I will assure you 
 he did produce a great many things worthy of himself. Le. What 
 were they, prithee I but first, pray tell me his name. Hi. That is 
 not convenient. Li. Why so, Hilary ] Hi. I do not love to gratify 
 such fellows. Le. Prithee, hold thy tongue. Is that a gratifying of 
 them to expose them 1 He. It is the greatest gratification in the 
 world to them to become noted, be it by what means it will. Le. 
 Well, do but tell me the name ; I will not mention it again. Hi. He 
 is called Merdardus. Le. Merdardus ! phoo, I know him very well ; 
 he is the very same man that lately at an entertainment called our 
 Erasmus a devil. Hi. He did so ; but however, he was taken up for
 
 THE SERMON. 355 
 
 it ; for those that were the most favourable to him took it to be the 
 effect of his wine, and looked upon it accordingly. Le. But what 
 excuse had he when he was reproved for it 1 Hi. He said he did not 
 speak it seriously. Le. Seriously ] how should he, when he had 
 neither seriousness nor sense in him 1 
 
 Hi. But it is, in my opinion, and also of all learned men, an 
 insufferable thing that this nasty fellow should set forth his nasty 
 ware so publicly in so venerable a place, before such an auditory, and 
 in the hearing of so many great princes. Le. I am with child to hear 
 what it was he said. Hi. He foolishly raved against our Erasmus, 
 saying a great many scurvy things of him, the substance of which was 
 as follows : There is, says he, in our days a new upstart doctor called 
 Erasmus. My tongue failed me, I would have said Asinus. Then he 
 informed the people what Asinus signified in the German tongue. Le. 
 A very comical fancy ! Hi, Was it so very comical, do you think ? I 
 think it was rather very foolish. Le. Was it not very comical that 
 such an ass as he should call anybody ass, and much less Erasmus ? I 
 am confident had Erasmus been there he would not have forborne 
 laughing. Hi. In truth, he resembles an ass as much by his stupidity 
 as he does by the colour of his clothes. Le. I believe all Arcadia does 
 not produce an ass that is so much of an ass, or better deserves to be 
 fed with hay than he does. Hi. In short, he is Apuleius turned inside 
 out ; for Apuleius hid a man under the form of an ass, but this fellow 
 hides an ass under the shape of a man. Le. In short, we make so 
 many of these asses pampered with wine and dainties, that it is no 
 wonder if they bite and kick all that come near them. 
 
 Hi. This doctor ass, says he. presumes to correct the Magnificat, 
 notwithstanding it is a song of the Holy Spirit's own inditin^, pro- 
 nounced by the mouth of the most holy Virgin herself. Le. I know 
 the proverb of the brothers. Hi. And then he sets it out in words as 
 though it was the utmost pitch of blasphemy. Le. Now my heart 
 aches for fear of the crime committed. Hi. Why, he said Erasmus 
 had translated that which the church uses in the litany in these 
 words : Quia respexit Dominus humilitalem ancillce sute, thus, Qui 
 respexit vilitatem ancillce suce Because the Lord hath regarded the low- 
 liness of his handmaid ; he has translated it, The Lord hath regarded 
 the vileness of his handmaid. And that word sounds worse in hih 
 Dutch than it does in Latin. Le. Who will not own that it were a 
 horrid blasphemy for any one to call the most holy mother of Christ 
 (who was higher in dignity than the angels themselves) a vile hand- 
 maid 1 Hi. Why, suppose any one should call the apostles them- 
 selves unprofitable servants? Le. I would find faggots to burn such a 
 blasphemer. Hi. What if any one should say that famous apostle 
 Paul was unworthy the name of an apostle 1 Le. I would have him 
 burned for a heretic. " Hi. And yet Christ himself, that teacher who 
 cannot be refuted, taught His apostles to speak after this manner : 
 " When you have done whatsoever is commanded you, say, we are 
 unprofitable servants." And St. Paul, not unmindful of this command, 
 says of himself, " I am the least of all the apostles, and not worthy the 
 name of an apostle." Le. Ay, but when godly men say such things of 
 themselves, it is their modesty, than which nothing is more well- 
 pleasing to God. But if anybody else should say such things of them,
 
 356 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 especially such as are gone to heaven, it would be blasphemy. HI. 
 You have made out the matter finely; then, if Erasmus has said that 
 the adorable Virgin was a vile handmaid of the Lord's, there is nobody 
 but would say this was impiously spoken. But inasmuch as she speaks 
 of herself after that manner, it is for her glory, and furnishes us with 
 an example of modesty ; because as whatsoever we are, we are by the 
 grace of God; so the greater any person is, the more humbly he ought 
 to behave himself. 
 
 Le. I agree with you so far. But those persons when they say 
 they correct, intend to corrupt or falsify. But then we ought to see 
 whether the word vilitas answers to the Greek word that Luke 
 made use of. Hi. For that very purpose I made haste from the ser- 
 mon to consult the text. Le. Pray, let me hear what you gathered 
 thence. Hi. The words which Luke, by the inspiration of the Holy 
 Spirit, writ with his holy fingers, are thus, ort iir&Xfipsv twi rr\v 
 TairiivMcriv re EovXovg O.VTOV', our Erasmus has translated, Quia respexit 
 ad humilitatem ancillce suce. He only adds the preposition, which Luke 
 himself did not leave out ; which is no inelegant Latin, nor is super- 
 fluous as to the sense. Terence in Phormio speaks in the same form, 
 Respice ad me. But in the annotations we find Luke rather said, 
 aspice ad me, than respice ad me. Le. Why, then, is there any differ- 
 ence between respicere and aspicere? Hi, Not very much; but there 
 is some. He respioit, who, turning his head, looks at those things that 
 are behind him; he aspicit, who simply looks upon. As in Terence, 
 Phaedra looks upon Thais coming out of doors, saying, Totus, Parmeno, 
 tremo horreoque postquam aspexi hanc. But the brother Chserea speaks 
 thus, Cum hue respicio ad virginem ; for he had turned himself toward 
 the old man, and when he had done, turned his body back again to the 
 maid. But yet sometimes respicere is used for to have regard to, or 
 care of anything, either coming on us, or that is present. So the 
 satirist uses it 
 
 Respicere extremse jussit spatia ultima vitse. 
 
 For death follows us as pressing upon our backs, at which we look back 
 as often as we think of it. And Terence says, Respice senectutem suam. 
 Therefore, he that being intent upon anything else, does not take care 
 of his children, is said non respicere illos ; and on the other hand, he 
 that throwing off other cares, turns his thoughts this way, is very 
 elegantly said respicere. But God at one view sees all things past, 
 present, and to come ; but yet in the holy scriptures he speaks to us 
 after the manner of men. He is said aversari those whom He rejects, 
 respicere those whom He bestows His favour upon, after having seemed 
 to neglect them for some time. But Luke had expressed this more 
 fully, if he had said aTrcSXt^Ei' ; now we read it tTrt&Xtifrtv ; but read 
 which you will, the sense is much the same. Le. But then the pre- 
 position repeated seems to be superfluous. 
 
 Hi. It is certain" the Latins speak in this manner, Accessit ad me 
 appulit animum ad scribendum. I do not think the preposition is 
 superfluous in this sentence ; for he may be said respicere who happens 
 to look back, directing his sight to no particular object ; but when it is 
 expressed respexit ad me, there is a peculiar favour of the person's being
 
 THE SERMON. 357 
 
 willing to succour tins or that person expressed. So aspicirmis, 
 things sometimes that come in the way by chance, that we have no 
 certain care of, nay, even those things that we have no mind to see. 
 But whosoever ad aliquem aspicit, is in a peculiar manner attent to that 
 which he beholds. And then again, aspicimus, we behold many things 
 at once ; but not aspicimus, we have regard to many things at once. 
 Therefore, the Holy Spirit designing to signify to us. a singular favour 
 toward the holy Virgin, thus expresses it by her own mouth, Quia 
 respexit ad humilitatem ancillce suce. He turns away his eyes from 
 those that are lifted up, and great in their own opinions, and fixes 
 them upon her who is very low in her own eyes. Nor is it to be 
 doubted but there were a great many learned, mighty, rich, and 
 noble persons who hoped for the Messiah to come of their stock ; 
 but, God despising them, turned the eyes of His most merciful favour 
 upon a virgin of an obscure character, mean in the world, married to a 
 carpenter, and not enriched with any offspring. 
 
 Le. But I hear nothing all this while of vilitas (vileness). Hi. 
 That was the sycophant's own word, and none of Erasmus's. Le. But 
 perhaps he uses the word vilitas in the annotations. Hi. No ; not at 
 all. Indeed, upon the word rcnrtiviiHnv he very modes.tly observes 
 thus, Ut intelligas parvitatem, non animi virtutem ; sitque sensus, etsi sim 
 infima ancilla, tamen non est aversatus me Dominus, that thou mayest 
 understand it of meanness, not of the virtue of the mind ; and the 
 meaning must be, although I be a very mean handmaid, yet the Lord 
 hath not disdained me. Le. If this is true, and so pious, what is it 
 that these wild asses bray at 1 
 
 Hi. Why, it is ignorance of the Latin tongue that makes them 
 cause this disturbance. Humility with the ancients, who spoke most 
 correctly, did not signify that virtue of the mind that is opposite 
 to arrogance, and is called .modesty, but a meaner sort of con- 
 dition ; in that sense that we call ignoble, poor, private, and despised 
 persons, humiles, as if we should say humi repentes. And as when 
 speaking to great personages we say, We entreat your highness to do 
 me the favour, so they who, speaking of themselves, would extenuate 
 their own circumstances, use to say, We pray that out of your humanity 
 you would assist our humilitatem (low estate). For the emphasis of 
 pronouns primitive carries in it oftentimes a sort of arrogancy; as I 
 say, I will cause. So that the maiden two ways very modestly both 
 extenuates her own condition and extols the munificence of the Divine 
 Being, not being content to style herself a handmaid, but also a 
 humile one, one of the meanest circumstances. According to the old 
 proverb, there is difference in servants ; so in maid-servants, one is 
 better than another as to the dignity of their office a waiting- 
 gentlewoman is more honourable than a laundrymaid. 
 
 Le. But I wonder that Merdardus should not be acquainted with 
 that form of expression, seeing I myself have often heard the Francis- 
 cans thus speaking, mea parvitas (my meanness) gives you thanks for 
 this noble entertainment. Hi. Some of them would not be out of the 
 way if they said mea pravitas (my naughtiness). But because the 
 Greek word Tcnruvotfrgoavvr) seems to express something more than 
 the Latin word modestia, Christians have chose rather to iise the word 
 humilitas (humility) than modestia (modesty), that is, they had rather
 
 358 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 speak significantly than elegantly; for he is said to be modest that 
 thinks moderately of himself, arrogating nothing to himself more than 
 he deserves. But the commendation of TairfivoQpOGvvri (humility) 
 belongs only to him that ascribes less to himself than he hath. 
 
 Le. But then there is danger, while we affect to be modest we 
 happen to be vain. Hi. How so 1 Le. Why, if Paul spoke truth in 
 saying, I am not worthy to be called an apostle, and if Mary said truly 
 that she was a mean handmaid, that is, one of the meanest circum- 
 stances, then they run the hazard of lying who set them out in so 
 magnificent titles. Hi. My good friend, here is no great danger in that, 
 for when we set out good men or women with praises, in that we speak 
 forth the goodness of God to them; but when they debase themselves 
 they have an eye to what their own strength and merits are, if it were 
 not for the grace of God. Nor is it of necessity a lie if any one does 
 not lay claim to what he has; if he speaks as he thinks it can at most 
 be but a mistake; it cannot be called a downright lie, and God is 
 pleased when we are in this error. 
 
 Le. Paul, who denies that he was worthy to be called an apostle, 
 in another place speaks very magnificently of himself, recounting his 
 performances: "I have," saith he, " laboured more than all, and those 
 who seem to be something have added nothing to me." Whereas we 
 do not read the holy Virgin said anything of this nature. Hi. But 
 Paul calls these performances his infirmities by which the power of 
 God was manifested, and likewise calls the mention of them folly, to 
 which he was compelled by the wickedness of some false apostles, who 
 had rendered it necessary for him to lay claim to his apostolical 
 authority ; not that he delighted in human glory, but because it was 
 expedient for the gospel, the dispensation of which was committed to 
 him. The Virgin had not the same reason, she had not the office of 
 preaching the gospel committed to her. Besides, the utmost decency 
 and modesty became her as a woman, as a virgin, and as the mother 
 of Jesus. 
 
 Now I come to the original of this error. They that do not under- 
 stand Latin think humility signifies nothing but a notable modesty, 
 when it is often made use of as to place or condition, and not as to 
 any virtue of the mind; and sometimes it is so applied to the mind as 
 to signify that which is blameworthy. Le. What, in the holy scrip- 
 tures? Hi. Yes; here is a place for you in the Epistle of Paul to the 
 Colossians, chap. ii. ver. 18, "Let no man seduce you in a volun- 
 tary humility and worshipping of angels." Nor is it in this place 
 fv Tairstvwcrei, which is the word that is in the Virgin's song, but 
 iv rairfiivofypoavvr]. The place, I confess, has something of difficulty 
 in it, but I take that to be the genuine sense of it that learned men 
 have accurately given it : Be ye not of so low and abject a mind, as, 
 having once dedicated yourselves to Christ, the only author of salvation, 
 to suffer yourselves to hope for salvation from angels, whom some pretend 
 to have appeared to them. Be ye of so high a mind as that if any 
 angel, who really came from heaven, should preach any other gospel 
 than that which Christ hath delivered, let him be accursed as a wicked 
 angel and an enemy to Christ. Much less is it fit that you should be 
 of such abject minds as to suffer yourselves to be led away from Christ 
 by their feigned apparitions. To hope for salvation from Christ alone
 
 THE SERMO&. 359 
 
 is religion, to expect it from angels or saints is superstition. Paul, 
 therefore, means that it is the part of an abject mind, and not that 
 exalted mind of Christ, to swerve aside to the fictitious apparitions of 
 angels, and it is the part of a mean mind to be led about by every- 
 body's persuasion. Here you see that Tairtivofypoavvri is used in a 
 bad sense. Le. I see it. 
 
 Hi. Again, in the same chapter, " After the commandments and 
 doctrines of men, which things have indeed a show of wisdom in will- 
 worship and humility." Here again raTrtivotypocrvvri is used in a bad 
 sense. Le. It is plain. Hi. Again, in 1 Peter v. it is used for that 
 virtue which is contrary to pride, rr/y rairtivofypocrvviiv ijKOfjifiwaaaOE, 
 for which we read " be clothed with humility." And again, in Philip- 
 pians ii., ry raTravo^pocruvrj aAA/;Aouc fiyov/uevot UTrep^oi/rae laurwi/, 
 " In lowliness of mind let every one esteem another better than him- 
 self." Le. You have made it out that rcnrfivotypoavvri is used both 
 ways, when the Romans use modestia only by way of commendation ; 
 but can you prove that Tcnrei voxrte is used for modesty ] Hi. There 
 is no absurdity in using of it so. There is nothing hinders but that 
 we may attribute submission and lowliness to the mind; but whether 
 or no it be so used in the holy scriptures I cannot tell. Le. Consider if 
 St. James uses it in that sense or not, James L 9, 10, "Let the 
 brother of low degree rejoice in that he is exalted, but the rich in that 
 he is made low." 
 
 Hi. In that place it is ev Tcnreivutcrei, not TaTrsivot^pocriivr]. And 
 if you will needs have it, that here humility is taken for modesty, it 
 follows of consequence that we must take exaltation for pride, and 
 then arises a twofold absurdity. For as he is no modest man that 
 boasts of his modesty and brags of himself, so also he is doubly arro- 
 gant that glories in his pride. Le. What, then, does the apostle 
 mean ? Hi. He commands equality among Christians. The poor 
 man is said to be low, in that he is of a meaner fortune ; the rich man. 
 is said to be high in the eye of the world, because of the splendour of 
 his fortune. This rich man debases himself to the condition of a poor 
 man, and the poor man is raised to be equal with the rich man. They 
 have both of them something to glory in the one rejoices in his helping 
 the necessity of the poor with his riches; the other glories in the name 
 of Christ, that He has inspired such a spirit into the rich. Le. But all 
 this while the rich man enjoys the commendation of his modesty too. 
 
 Hi. Perhaps he may, but it does not thence follow that TaTriivwaig 
 signifies modesty. For there are some persons who bestow a great deal 
 upon the poor that they may gain a good name among men. But, 
 indeed, both of them may be modest if they are truly pious: the rich 
 man, when it is not burdensome to him, for Christ's sake, to be made 
 equal with the poor; and the poor man, that he does not become 
 puffed \\p with the honour conferred upon him, but, giving thanks to 
 Christ, glories in Him. It is beyond dispute that Tcnriivwaic; is fre- 
 quently used in the holy scriptures to signify that lowliness of mind 
 or dejection which proceeds from affliction or infirmity. Thus Paul, in 
 Philippians iii., " Who shall change our vile bodies," TairtivtsHJiwQ. Jn 
 like manner in Psalm ix. 13, "Consider my trouble which I suffer of 
 them that hate me," Tcnrtivajaiv. And again, in Psalm i. 28, " This ,
 
 SCO FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 hath comforted me in mine humility," lv Tairfivwati, that is to say, in 
 affliction. There are a great many texts of the like kind too many 
 to be mentioned here. Therefore, as rairtivog may be metaphorically 
 expressed TairtivfMppovwv, that is, of a modest mind, and not puffed 
 up; so it will be no strange thing for any one to use Tcnrtivwaif; for 
 .Tairiivo<ppoavvri, if we speak according to the scripture phrase. But 
 as for those who will have it that rairilvwat^ signifies modesty of mind 
 in the song of the Virgin Mary, and at the same time do in like 
 manner interpret what we read, Gen. xxix., " The Lord hath looked upon 
 my affliction," rcnrttvwaiv ', Leah does not boast of her modesty, but 
 in that, by reason of her deformity, she was less pleasing to her 
 husband, she calls her affliction. After the same manner in Deuter- 
 onomy xxvi., " And looked on our affliction, and our labour, and our 
 oppression." Does he not call rairtivwaiv affliction? 
 
 Le. What is in their minds, then who in the song of the Vii-gin 
 interpret rairtivwaiQ modesty of mind ? Hi. I can give no reason 
 for it, but that our divines neglect the knowledge of language, and the 
 study of the Latin tongue and the ancient fathers, who cannot be 
 thoroughly understood without these helps. And add to this, it is a 
 hard matter to remove prejudice when once it is fixed in the mind, 
 And, besides, you see some persons attribute so much to the maxims 
 of schools, that they will rather reduce the scripture to them, than 
 correct their human notions by it. Le. But that is more absurd than 
 what we read of the Lesbian rule ? Hi. Bede, the monk, no very 
 grave author, whensoever he departs from the received opinions in 
 relation to the word rcnrtivwaii; makes mention of pride. But Theo- 
 phylact, a Greek writer, who formed his notions chiefly from the most 
 approved Greek writers, denies that TwrilvtoaiQ is here to be taken for 
 a virtue. But what need is there to have recourse to authority, when 
 the common opinion of men rejects that interpretation ? 
 
 Hi, You say very well, for inasmuch as modesty is, as it were, 
 the perfection and defendress of all virtues, it would be immodesty in 
 any one to praise himself for it. I will allow that this virtue was 
 most perfect and incomparable in the holy Virgin (I mean Christ 
 excepted) ; but in this very thing she is the more commendable for 
 modesty, in that she does not praise herself, but acknowledging her 
 own meanness, ascribes the greatness of the mystery to divine mercy. 
 Mary, say they, for her modesty deserved to be the mother of God. I 
 will allow this to be true in a sense; but pray what modesty is it for 
 the Virgin to say this of herself? Le. Nay, more than that, the very 
 tenor of the song declares that she speaks of her own unworthiness, 
 and therefore thus begins, " My soul doth magnify the Lord." But 
 she that shall say, I deserve to be the mother of God for my modesty, 
 magnifies herself and not the Lord, and therefore anon she adds, " For, 
 behold, from hencefoi'th all generations shall call me blessed." Behold 
 signifies the thing was sudden and unexpected. He does not expect 
 to have the highest of honours that does not judge himself worthy of 
 any honour at all. She does not say, He hath done to me great things 
 because He judged me worthy, but, because He is mighty, and doeth 
 whatsoever He will, and maketh them meet for His favour who are 
 unworthy. Nor is that said to be a happiness that is obtained by
 
 THE SSSMOJf. 361 
 
 merit, for Horace denies that himself was to be called happy in that 
 he was adopted into the number of Maecenas's friends. Hi. Why so ] 
 Le. Because it was the effect of judgment, and not mere favour. 
 Maecenas rendered this to him because he adjudged it due to his merit. 
 
 Hi. And to the same purpose is that which follows : " For He that 
 is mighty hath done to me great things, and holy is His name." She 
 has said holy instead of glorious. By how much we arrogate to our 
 own merits, by so much we detract from the glory of the divine beingi 
 For, as St. Paul says, " His power is made perfect in our weakness." And 
 immediately, in the same verse, "He hath deposed the mighty from their 
 seats, and exalted the men of low degree." Not Tairtiv6<ppova.t;, but 
 raireivovf; i.e., that He may oppose the despised in the eye of the 
 world to men of power. The sequel explains this verse after the 
 manner of the prophet's speaking, " The hungry hath He filled with 
 good things, but the rich hath He sent empty away." Those who just 
 now were called men of low degree, here are called hungry that is> 
 poor ; those who in one place are called mighty, are here called rich 
 men. In the next verse there is mention made of mercy diffusing 
 itself through all the nations of the world. In the last verse she 
 makes mention of her confidence in God's promises, " As He hath 
 spoken," &c. Throughout the whole song there is a setting forth the 
 glory that is, the power, the goodness, and truth of God. There 
 is no mention at all made of merits. 
 
 Le. But as pride commonly accompanies power and riches, so 
 poverty teaches modesty. Hi. I do not deny that it sometimes so 
 falls out; but you may oftentimes see poor men that are very proud. 
 If you deny that, I shall instance to you the many Merdards that there 
 are in the world. But, for once, suppose I allow it, though it is not 
 always so. The question is not here, what sort of person the most 
 holy mother of Christ was, but what she says of herself in this song? 
 Le. I admire at the obstinacy of those persons who have been so often 
 refuted and laughed at for their folly, and that they are not brought 
 to a recantation. Hi. How often have they been told that declama- 
 tion is the treating on a fictitious theme wont to be made use of to 
 exercise the faculty of speaking, and yet their sermons are nothing else 
 but declamations 1 How often have they been told that he is a 
 bachelor that has no wife, though he keeps six hundred concubines ? 
 and yet they will have it that celibacy is only continency and chastity. 
 It is the same as to humility, and a great many other things. 
 
 Le. Whence proceeds this obstinate stupidity ? Hi. 1 answer 
 you, I say it proceeds from the Merdards that are in the world. They 
 never would be at the pains to learn when they were young, nor have 
 they any books nor opportunity to learn ; and if they have wherewithal 
 to furnish themselves with learning, they had rather lay it out upon 
 their bellies. They think the sanctity of their garment is enough in 
 conscience to gain them a reputation for piety and learning. And, in 
 the last place, they think it is some part of religion to know as little 
 Latin as St. Francis did himself. Le. In truth, I know a great many 
 that are like their patron in that, who say cape.ro for galerus, and, as I 
 think, vestimenta for vestes. But St. Francis always refused the honour 
 of a presbyter, and so I think St. Benedict and Dominic did likewise. 
 But now-a-days they, with their vestimenta at their arse, will not refuse
 
 362 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 a cardinal's hat, if it be offered them. Hi. A cardinal's hat, say you? 
 no, nor a triple crown neither. And those humble sons of poor St. 
 Francis will put forth their slippers to be kissed by the greatest 
 monarchs in the world. Le. And then if you should use the term 
 vilitas to them, it would be an unpardonable crime. Hi. Unpardon- 
 able, indeed, if by vile you mean that which is of small account among 
 men, or seems contemptible to itself. But what need is there to make 
 an excuse for that which was not said ? 
 
 Le. But was not Merdardus ashamed to tell that lie, and at church 
 too, and in one of the most famous ones, and in the hearing of a great 
 assembly of monarchs, a great many learned men that had read over 
 Erasmus's writings ? Hi. Ashamed, say you ? no, the buffoon thought 
 he deserved the laurel for it ; for this is the fourth vow of the Merdar- 
 dians, that they observe more religiously than the other three, not to 
 be ashamed of anything. Le. There are, indeed, a great many that 
 are very studious of that. Hi. But this was not a single lie neither; 
 for, in the first place, the song of Mary as Luke wrote it remains 
 untouched. How can he be said to correct anything that makes no 
 alteration in it ? And then the word humilitas is not altered, nor is 
 there any mention made of vilitas. And, in the last place, he does not 
 correct the song who translates faithfully what Luke wrote, but only 
 explains it. Le, I perceive a threefold lie, very like such a buffoon. 
 
 Hi. But hold, you have not heard the greatest piece of impudence 
 yet. Le. What, have you any more then? Hi. He exclaimed 
 against that ass as the head, author, and ringleader of all the tunmlts 
 that are in the Christian world. Le. Say you so ? Hi. And that 
 it is to be charged upon him that the church is torn in pieces by so 
 many sectaries, that the clergy are despoiled of their tithes, that the 
 bishops are set light by, and the sacred authority of the pope himself 
 is everywhere disregarded ; that ploughmen play the part of the old 
 gigantic race. Le. Does he say these things publicly? Hi. Pub- 
 licly ? ay, and makes a mighty clamouring too. Le. But they are 
 quite of another mind that have attentively read over the writings 
 of Erasmus. A great many of them will acknowledge that they have 
 from his performances collected the seeds of true piety. And this fire 
 that lias been kindled by the monks is got to that height that all 
 the endeavours they use to put it out are but just as if you should pour 
 oil into a fire. Hi. You see what an evil beast the belly is. Le. 
 You have hit the nail on the head. It is, indeed, for the interest of 
 such fellows that there be a great deal of superstition in the Christian 
 world, and but a very little true religion. But what said the auditory? 
 could they bear to hear such an ass bray in the pulpit ? 
 
 Hi. Some wondered what was come to the man. Those that were 
 of a choleric temper went out of the church murmuring, saying, We 
 came to hear the praises of the holy Virgin set forth, and this drunken 
 fellow is vomiting out his mere calumnies upon us. And there were a 
 great many women present, Le. This sex used to be mighty admirers 
 of this order of men. Hi. You say right ; but the women perceived 
 what sort of a fellow he was. And some that were women of reading 
 were uneasy, and some hissed him. Le. But an ass does not mind 
 hissing ; such a railing fellow ought to have been pelted out of his 
 pulpit with rotten eggs and brickbats. Hi. There were some that
 
 THE SERMON. 363 
 
 thought he deserved it, and would have done it had it not been for 
 respect to the place. Le. The reverence of a place ought not to pro- 
 tect such as profane it by their impiety. As he that within the verge 
 of the court murders a man, it is not meet the church should be a 
 sanctuary to him ; so in like manner, he that in sacred discourses abuses 
 not only people's patience but also the sanctity of the place, ought not 
 to be screened by the place that he has by his temerity profaned. He 
 was commended by the ancients that would not permit any person to 
 be consul who had not been a senator ; so it is not meet that he should 
 be a clergyman that knows not how to preach a sermon. 
 
 Hi. Folks are afraid of the bishops' thunderbolts, si quis instigante 
 diabolo, &c. You know the law. Le. The bishops ought rather to 
 level their thunderbolts at such railers. Hi. They themselves are 
 afraid of these fellows. Le. Who are they afraid of? Hi. Why, of 
 these bawling fellows. Le. Why so ? Hi. Because they are bawling 
 fellows. Le. The apostles were not afraid of the menaces of kings and 
 rulers, and are they afraid of a single beggar ? Hi. For that very 
 reason they are the more to be feared, because they are beggars ; they 
 have nothing to lose, but they have tongues to hurt. Go but to a 
 wasp's or hornet's nest, and do but touch one of them with your finger, 
 and if you come off well come to me again, and then call the bishops 
 drones that are afraid of irritating one of these beggars. Do not the 
 most powerful monarchs of the Christian world revere the pope, nay, 
 and perhaps are afraid of him too 1 Le. That is no wonder, inasmuch 
 as he is the vicar of Christ. Hi. Well ; but it is reported of pope Alex- 
 ander VI., who was no fool, nor blockhead neither, that he used to say 
 he had rather offend one of the greatest monarchs than the least 
 brother of the order of Mendicants. 
 
 Le. Well, let us not meddle with popes. -But when the princes 
 that were at Augsburg heard it, did they not punish him for it ? Hi. 
 They were all highly provoked at him, but especially King Ferdinand 
 and his sister Mary, the ornament of her sex in this age, and Bernard, 
 Cardinal of Trent, and Balthasar, Bishop of Constance; and this preacher 
 was severely chid, but by nobody more severely than by John Faber, 
 Bishop of Vienna. Le. What signifies chiding 1 an ass minds nothing 
 but a cudgel. Hi. Especially if you give him belly-timber. But 
 what should princes trouble their heads about such a silly fellow as he 
 for 1 ? they had things of far greater consequence to mind. Le. They 
 should at least have silenced him from preaching, and taken away his 
 pension. Hi. But the cunning rogue put off the spitting his venom 
 till just at the breaking up of the diet, and they were just going away. 
 Le. They say the devil goes away so, leaving a stink behind him. 
 Hi. He was dismissed by King Ferdinand, but was in very good case 
 as to his corpus, for the chiding he met with did not make him abate 
 of his flesh. It is reported of St. Francis that he preached a sermon to 
 his sisters the birds, but he seems only fit to preach to his brethren 
 the asses and hogs. 
 
 Le. But whither went he when he had done 1 Hi. Whither 
 should he go but to his cell, where he was received with applause by 
 his comrades for having acted his part so bravely and successfully; 
 and when they got over their cups, instead of lo triumphe, they sung 
 Te Deum, Le, This Merdardus deserves to wear his rope about his
 
 364 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 neck rather than his waist. But what can we wish bad enough to that 
 foolish society that maintains such cattle as this is? Hi. You can 
 scarce think of anything to wish them worse than what they bring 
 upon themselves, for by such doings as these especially, they make 
 themselves odious to all goad men, and bring themselves into contempt 
 more effectually than an enemy can do. But it is not a Christian 
 spirit to wish ill to any one ; but we ought rather to wish that the 
 most merciful Creator and Reformer of all things who made Nebuchad- 
 nezzar an ox of a man, and again turned him from an ox to a man, 
 and gave the tongue of a man to Balaam's ass would amend all who 
 are like this Merdardus, and give them understanding and utterance 
 becoming men that profess the gospel. 
 
 THE LOVER OF GLORY, 
 
 Philodoxus, Symbulus. 
 
 Ph. I promise my'self happiness that I have met with you, 
 Symbulus. Sy. I wish, Philodoxus, it were in iny power to make 
 you happy in anything. Ph. What can be more felicitous than for 
 God to meet a man? Sy. Indeed, I should account that much more 
 lucky than the flight of a thousand night-owls ; but what god is it you 
 mean 1 Ph. Why, it is yourself I mean, Symbulus. Sy. What, me ! 
 Ph. Even yourself. Sy. I always thought that those gods that did their 
 business backwards were not worth a straw. Ph. If the proverb be 
 true, That he is a god that helps a man, then you are a god to me. 
 Sy. I leave the proverb to be made out by other people ; but as for me, 
 I would do any service I 'can to my friend with all my heart. Ph. 
 Well, Symbultis, don't be in pain, I am no't about to borrow any money 
 of you : 'counsel is a sacred thing, only give me your assistance with 
 that. 'Sy. That is only demanding what is your own, since this office 
 ought to be mutual among friends, as indeed should everything else. 
 But what is it you want my counsel in 1 
 
 Ph. I am weary of living in obscurity, I have a great mind to 
 become famous ; prithee, tell me how I may become so. Sy. Oh, here 
 is a short way for you imitate Erostratus, who set Diana's temple on 
 fire; or Zoilus, who carped at Homer; or do some memorable villainy 
 or other, and then you will be as famous as Cecrops or Nero. Ph. 
 They that like it may get themselves a name by impiety; I am ambi- 
 tious of a good name. Sy. Then, be such a one in fact as you would 
 be in name. Ph. But a great many persons have been virtuous that 
 were never famous. Sy. I question that; but, however, if it be as 
 you say, virtue is a sufficient reward to itself. Ph. You speak very 
 true, and mxich like a philosopher. But for all that, as times go, in my 
 opinion glory is the chief reward belonging to virtue, which delights 
 to be known as the sun does to shine ; for this very reason, that it may 
 benefit a great many and draw them to an imitation of itself. And 
 then, lastly, I do not See how parents can leave a fairer fortune to their 
 children than the immortal memory of a good name. 
 
 Sy. Then, as I understand you, you would have glory got by 
 Virtue. Ph. That is the very thing. Sy. Then set before you for
 
 THE LOVER OF GLORY. 365 
 
 imitation the men that have been celebrated by the pens of all men, 
 such as Aristides, Phocion, Socrates, Epaminondas, Scipio Africanus, 
 Cato Senior, and Cato of Utica, and Marcus Brutus, and the like, who 
 both by war and peace studied to deserve as well as possible of the 
 commonwealth. This is the fertile field of glory. Ph. But among 
 those famous men, Aristides suffered banishment for ten years, Phocion 
 and Socrates drank poison, Epaminondas was accused of treason, and 
 so was Scipio ; Cato the Elder being accused was obliged to plead forty 
 times in his own defence ; Cato of Utica killed himself, and so did 
 Brutus. But I would have glory without envy. Sy. Ay, but that is 
 more than Jupiter granted even to Hercules himself ; for after he had 
 tamed so many monsters, last of all he had Hydra to engage with, and 
 that was the longest engagement of them all. Ph. I would neither 
 envy Hercules the glories of his labours ; I only account them happy 
 men that obtain a good name not sullied with envy. 
 
 Sy. I perceive you would have a pleasant life, and for that reason 
 are afraid of envy ; nor are you in the wrong, for that is one of the 
 worst of monsters. Ph. It is so. Sy. Then live a private life. 
 Ph. But that is to be dead, and not to live. Sy. I understand what 
 von would be at ; you would walk in the sun and have no shadow. 
 Ph. That is impossible. Sy. And so it is equally impossible to obtain 
 glory and be free from envy ; glory accompanies well-doing, and so does 
 envy glory. Ph. But the old comedian tells us that glory may be with- 
 out envy, saying, Ita ut facillime sine invidia laudem invenias et amicos 
 pares. Sy. If you will be content with that praise which young 
 Pamphilus gained by obsequiousness and agreeableness of humour, you 
 may from the same place fetch the method of obtaining what you desire 
 so earnestly. Remember in everything, ne quid nimis [not to overdo 
 anything] but yet mediocriter omnia [all things with moderation] ; be 
 easy in bearing with the manners of other persons, taking no notice of 
 small faults ; and do not be obstinate and tenacious of your own 
 opinion, but be conformable to the tempers of others ; do not contradict 
 any one, but be obliging to all. 
 
 Ph. Many persons have a mighty affection for youth, and so it is 
 no hard matter to obtain such praise as that. That which I would 
 have is a certain gloriousness of name that should ring all the world 
 
 . ~ 
 
 over, that should increase in illustriousness as I do in age, and be most 
 renowned after my death. Sy. I commend the greatness of your 
 mind, Philodoxus ; but if you are ambitious of a glory that proceeds 
 from virtue, it is the chiefest virtue to be regardless of glory, and the 
 highest commendation not to aspire after praise, which follows them 
 most that endeavour to shun it. Therefore you ought to take care, 
 lest the more strenuously you pursue it, the more you be frustrated of 
 it. Ph. I am not an insensible Stoic ; I am subject to human affec- 
 tions. Sy. If you acknowledge yourself to be a man, and do not 
 refuse to submit to those things that are human, why do you pursue 
 those things which are denied even to God himself ? for you know that 
 saying of Theociitus, that was as truly as it was wittily said, Jovem 
 nee pluvium, nee serenum, placere omnibus, that Jupiter does not please 
 all men, either when he sends rain or fair weather. 
 
 Ph. Perhaps there is no fire but there is some smoke; but yet there 
 are some things that are without smoke. Although it be impossible for
 
 366 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 a man to obtain a glory that shall not be obscured with some cloud or 
 other of ill-will, yet I believe there are some methods to be taken that 
 there shall be but very little of enmity mixed with it. Sy. Shall I 
 tell you what those methods are 1 Ph. I should be very glad to know 
 them. Sy. Shew your virtue but sparingly, and you shall be the less 
 troubled with envy. Ph. But glory is no glory unless it be notable. 
 Sy. Well, 1 will tell you a sure way, do some noble exploit and die, 
 and then you shall be renowned without envy, as the Codri, the 
 Iphigenii, the Decii, and Ourtii were. 
 
 Pascitur in vivis livor, post fata quiescit. 
 " Envy is maintained among the living, but ceases after death." 
 
 Ph. Indeed, to confess ingenuously, I would leave the inheritance 
 of a good name to my children and grandchildren, but I would have 
 some enjoyment of it myself while I am alive. Sy. "Well, come, I 
 will not keep you any longer in suspense. The surest way to obtain 
 an illustrious name is to deserve well, as well in a private capacity of 
 every particular person as in a public capacity of the whole community, 
 and that is to be done partly by good offices and partly by bounty. 
 But bounty is so to be moderated as not to be obliged to take 
 away forcibly from one what you bestow upon another; for from such 
 bounty as this there arises more ill-will from the good than good- will 
 from the bad. And besides, to be commended by the bad is rather an 
 infamy than a reputation. Moreover, the fountain of bounty will be 
 drawn dry by frequent donations; but that bounty that consists in 
 good offices has no bottom ; the more it is drawn the more it springs. 
 But there are a great many things that mitigate envy and illustrate 
 glory, which nobody can give to himself, but they happen purely from 
 the bounty of God himself. 
 
 Gratior est pulchro veniens e corpore virtus. 
 " That virtue is the more lovely that comes from a beautiful body." 
 
 But no man can bestow upon himself comeliness of person. No- 
 bility carries along with it much of dignity, but this is the gift of 
 fortune. The same opinion we ought to have of riches, which, being 
 justly got by grandfathers or great-grandfathers, descend to xis by 
 inheritance. Nor can any one bestow this upon himself. Of the same 
 kind are quickness of wit, a grace in speaking, pleasantness and cour- 
 teousness that is not acquired, but inbred ; and in the last place, a 
 certain internal beauty and felicity, the effect of which we see daily in 
 a great many, but can give no reason of it ; so that we often see the 
 same things to be said and done by different persons, and he that 
 acted and said the worst obtained favour, when he who did and said 
 best, instead of thanks gained ill-will. The ancients, indeed, ascribed 
 this effect to men's genius ; for they said that every one was fortunate 
 in that which he was born to ; and, on the other hand, whatsoever any 
 one attempted against the grain, and the consent of his genius, would 
 never succeed. Ph. Then, here is no room for advice in this case. 
 
 Sy. Very little. But yet persons of penetration do discover in 
 children and youth some secret marks by which they can conjecture 
 what studies, what sort of life, and what actions they are fitted for. So
 
 THE LOVER OF GLORY. 367 
 
 also as to those things that are good, there is a certain secret instinct 
 of nature in us, that we have an aversion for some things without any 
 apparent cause, and are carried on with a wonderful propensity to 
 others. Hence it is that one is an expert soldier, another a good 
 politician, and another you would say was born to be a student. And 
 in these things too there is an admirable variety as great as is the 
 diversity of employments. Nature has framed one for a general, 
 another for a good common soldier ; and where nature has been most 
 bountiful, there the same person may be fit to command or obey, as 
 Homer says. So likewise in civil affairs, one is a good counsellor, 
 another a good barrister, another is made for an ambassador, and 
 performs that office with great success. What need is there to mention 
 the variety of inclinations 1 There are some who are so strongly 
 inclined to a monastic life, and yet not every one neithei*, but to this 
 or that particular order, that they take no pleasure of their lives if 
 they do not attain it ; when, on the other hand, others have so strong 
 an aversion for that sort of life, that they had rather die than be made 
 monks. Nor is this because they hate that way of living, or can give 
 any reason for it but by some secret instinct in nature. Ph. As you 
 say, I have often found many such instances, and have admired at them. 
 
 Sy. In these gifts that nature liberally bestows upon us, a person 
 shall be nmch less liable to envy, if a man be not proud and osten- 
 tatious. Beauty, nobility, wealth, eloquence appear the most lovely 
 in those persons that seem not to know they are endowed with them. 
 Courtesy and modesty do no way lessen these advantages ; but as they 
 add a grace to them, so they drive away envy. And this courtesy and 
 sweetness of temper ought to go along with all the actions of our lives, 
 unless it be contrary to our nature ; for in my opinion, Xenocrates 
 would have attempted in vain that which Socrates and Diogenes 
 succeeded in ; Cato the Censor would in vain have endeavoured after 
 that which gained Laelius so much good will. Yet Demea in Terence 
 being altered so on a sudden, is a sufficient instance of what efficacy it 
 is in gaining good will to suit ourselves with persons' inclinations and 
 humours; but as often as men deviate from right, they degenerate 
 from true glory to the temporary favour of man ; but that glory only 
 is lasting which is founded upon honesty, and comes from the judg- 
 ment of reason. For the affections make their temporary efforts, and 
 when they have once spent themselves, we begin to hate what before we 
 loved vehemently, and hiss what before we clapped, and condemn what 
 before we commended. But though the disposition cannot be wholly 
 altered, yet it may in part be corrected. Ph. I want to hear what 
 you aim at. 
 
 Sy. He that is of a complaisant temper ought to be careful lest, 
 while he labours to ingratiate himself with all persons, he deviates from 
 honesty ; and lest, while he endeavours to accommodate himself to all 
 company, he changes his shape so often that none can tell what to 
 make of him. Ph. I know a great many such slippery blades, at 
 whose vanity one cannot forbear blushing. Sy. But then, again, they 
 who are of a rugged temper ought to endeavour so to affect courtesy 
 as that what they do may not seem to be counterfeit"; or by ever and 
 anon falling into their natural propensity, instead of commendation get 
 a double disgrace, first for acting rigidly, and then for being inconsistent
 
 368 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 with themselves. For constancy has so great an efficacy that they who 
 are naturally of a bad temper are the easier borne with for this reason, 
 because they always act like themselves ; for as soon as the disguise is 
 seen through, even things that have been well acted become displeasing. 
 And besides, that which is done under a colour cannot be kept always 
 concealed ; it will come out one time or other, and whenever it does, 
 all the gay appearance drops off and becomes a mere jest. 
 
 Ph. If I take in your intention, you would have one depart as 
 little as may be from nature, but not at all from integrity (that which 
 is honest is honourable). Sy. You are right ; and besides, you know 
 very well that whatsoever grows famous on a sudden lies exposed to 
 envy. And thence comes the odious name of an upstart, called by the 
 Greeks vtoirXovTOQ ; and by the Romans, novus homo ; and by both 
 terras filii [sons of the earth] and ccelo delapsi [dropped out of the clouds]. 
 But that reputation that springs up gently, and grows gradually, as on 
 the one side it is less liable to envy, so on the other it is commonly more 
 durable; as the witty poet Horace intimates, saying, Crescit occulto velut 
 arbor evo fama Marcelli (Marcellus's fame grows insensibly like a tree). 
 So that if you would obtain glory that is true, lasting, and as little as 
 may be obnoxious to envy, mind what Socrates says, that it often 
 happens that they who make the most haste at first setting out come 
 latest to their journey's end. 
 
 Ph. But the life of man is very short. Sy. For that reason we 
 should use expedition towards good deeds, and not glory ; and that will 
 follow necessarily of its own accord. For I suppose what you inquire 
 after is not how you may live long, for that is in the breasts of the 
 destinies, who draw out and cut off the thread of life at their pleasure. 
 Ph. I wish you could do that too. Sy. O Philodoxus ! God has 
 never been so bountiful as to give all to one man : what one wants in 
 years is often made up in honour. There are, indeed, some, but those 
 very few, to whom he is so bountiful that while they are alive and as 
 it were in being, they enjoy the fruits of posterity; though they are but 
 few that the just God loves. Perhaps some of a divine descent have 
 attained this ; but this felicity does not fall under our consideration. 
 
 Ph. I have often admired whether it is by the malignity of nature 
 or fortune, that no conveniencies happen to mankind without being 
 alloyed with some inconvenience. Sy. My friend, what then have we 
 to do but, as we are of human race, to endeavour to bear our human 
 condition with a contented mind 1 And it will not a little conduce to 
 moderate envy, if you do but look thoroughly into the dispositions of 
 nations, of bodies of men, and single persons ; as they do who make it 
 their business to tame and feed beasts ; for such persons make it their 
 chief study to find out by what things the animal is made fierce or 
 becomes tame. I do not at present speak of the difference between a 
 bird and a four-footed beast, between a serpent and a fish, or between 
 the eagle and the vulture, between the elephant and the horse, between 
 the dolphin and the porpoise, between a viper and an asp ; but of the 
 innumerable variety that is between all kinds of animals. Ph. I 
 would fain hear what you drive at. Sy. All dogs are contained under 
 one species, but this species is divei-sified into innumerable forms, so 
 that you would say they were so many distinct genera, rather than 
 one species : for in the same species, what a great variety is there of
 
 THE LOVER OF GLORY. 369 
 
 manners and tempers ? Ph. A very great one indeed ! Sy. That 
 which is said of dogs you may understand of all other living creatures ; 
 but it is not visible in any other creature so much as in horses. Ph. 
 'Tis true, but what do yo mean by all this ? 
 
 Sy. Whatsoever variety there is in the different kinds or forms of 
 living creatures or in individuals, suppose the same to be in man. 
 Among them you will find wolves of varioiis kinds, dogs in an unspeak- 
 able variety, elephants, camels, asses, lions, sheep, vipers, apes, dragons, 
 eagles, vultures, osti'iches, swallows, and what not. Ph. But what of 
 all that ? Sy. There is no living creature so fierce but, being managed 
 by art, it may be made useful, or at least not hurtful. Ph. I cannot 
 for my life see what you drive at. Sy. There is a difference between a 
 Spaniard, an Italian, a German, a Frenchman, and an Englishman. 
 Ph. There is so. Sy. Besides, there is in every single man of these 
 several nations a certain temper peculiar to himself. Ph. I confess 
 it. Sy. If you shall nicely observe this variety, and accommodate 
 yourself to each of their manners, you will easily bring it about that 
 they will either all be your friends, or at least that none of them will be 
 your enemies. Ph. What, would you have me to be a Polypus 1 
 Where is honesty and sincerity in the meantime? 
 
 Sy. There is in all common affairs a certain obsequiousness that 
 does in nowise entrench upon honesty ; as, for instance, in Italy men 
 kiss one another, which would be looked upon very absurd to do in 
 Germany ; but instead of that, they give you their right hand. Again, 
 in England it is the custom for men to kiss the women, even at church ; 
 but if you should do this in Italy, it would be accounted a high crime. 
 Again, it is accounted a piece of civility to give the cup to one that 
 comes in when you are at dinner ; but in France it is looked upon as 
 an affront. In these and the like cases persons may be complaisant 
 without any detriment to honesty. Ph. But it is a very hard matter 
 to be acquainted with the manners and tempers of every man of all 
 nations. Sy. It is true, Philodoxus ; but if you would obtain a con- 
 siderable reputation, and that by virtue, you must of necessity exercise 
 no common virtue. You know virtue is conversant in difficulties, as 
 old Hesiod taught before the peripatetics; and therefore, if you have a 
 mind to eat honey, you must be content to bear with the trouble 
 of bees. 
 
 Ph. I know that, and remember it very well; but that we are in 
 quest of is, how to moderate envy. Sy. Then do you endeavour that 
 in the camp you rather choose to be a common soldier than a general, 
 and in such a war as is against enemies who are foreigners rather than 
 your fellow-citizens and countrymen. In government rather choose 
 those offices which are popular and ingratiating, as to defend is more 
 popular than to accuse, to honour than to punish. But if any case 
 happen, as it sometimes necessarily will, that is troublesome in its 
 nature, if you cannot avoid acting in it, make it as easy as you can by 
 moderation. Ph. How must that be done 1 Sy. Suppose you are a 
 judge or an arbitrator, you must bear something hard upon one party 
 or another; but be sure to manage the matter with so much equity 
 that, if it be possible, he that you give the cause against may give you 
 thanks. 
 
 Ph. How must that be managed 1 Sy. Suppose the action be to be
 
 370 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 laid for theft or sacrilege ; if it be in your power mitigate it, and let it 
 be laid for a trespass, and by this means you may ease the defendant 
 and do no injury to the plain tiff. In short, moderate every cause so 
 that without injuring the plaintiff you may seem to act justly to the 
 defendant ; and lastly, make the condemned person's sentence as easy 
 aa may be. And all the while take care to avoid surly looks, or sour 
 or morose words, for they often are the cause that some persons will 
 owe you more ill-will for doing them a courtesy than others shall for 
 denying them one. Sometimes you ought to admonish a friend ; but if 
 there are no hopes of his being the better by it, it is better to be silent. 
 If it be a weighty case, and there be any hope of doing good, then it is 
 of great moment what the admonition is ; for it often falls out that 
 admonition, being either unhandsome or unseasonable, exasperates the 
 disease, and makes a friend an enemy. But this dexterity is most 
 necessary if you admonish a prince, for sometimes it falls out that their 
 humours must be contradicted ; and if it be done pleasantly and wittily, 
 afterwards they that contradicted have greater thanks given them than 
 they that soothed them. For that which is grateful to the passion is 
 of short continuance, but what is done with reason is approved always ; 
 for the far greater part of ill-will arises from the unruliness of the tongue. 
 How much mischief does sometimes a single word bring upon some 
 persons'? how many has an ill-timed jest brought to ruin 1 ? Therefore, 
 when you commend any person, let it be those that are worthy and 
 sparingly ; but be more sparing in reflecting on any one, if you do reflect 
 at all. And then, again, you must avoid talkativeness, for it is a very 
 hard matter to talk much, and to the purpose. 
 
 Ph. I agree to all these things ; but, in my opinion, the chief way 
 of making one's name famous is to write books. Sy. You say very 
 light; it is, were it not that there are so many authors. But if you are 
 for doing it that way, take care you write with a great deal of exactness 
 rather than much; and, in the first place, choose some argument that 
 is not common, that has been touched on but by very few, and such a 
 one that is not of an invidious nature ; and bestow upon it all the 
 curious observations that you have been collecting for many years, and 
 then treat on it in such a manner that may be both profitable and 
 pleasant. Ph. You give me very prudent advice, and such as would 
 be to my satisfaction, if you went one step farther, and told me how I 
 might attain this glory quickly too; for I see a great many that do not 
 grow famous till they are going out of the world, and othei's not till 
 they are gone out of it. Sy. As to that I have no better advice to 
 give you than that which the fiddler gave his fellow, See that you 
 approve yourself to those that have already attained such a glory as 
 has repelled envy. Let yourself into the familiarity of such persons 
 whose good word will gain you esteem with the populace. 
 
 Ph. But if, notwithstanding all this, I be attacked with envy, what 
 remedy do you prescribe 1 Sy. Then do as they do who boil pitch : 
 if it catch fire they pour water upon it, and then it will rage and 
 crackle more if you do not keep on doing so. Ph. What sort of riddle 
 is that 1 Sy. When you perceive envy arising, rather overcome it by 
 benefits than revenge. Hercules was never the better for cutting off 
 the hydra's heads; it was by the Greek fire that he overcame the 
 destroying monster. Ph. But what is that you call the Greek fire 1
 
 THE RICH MISER. 371 
 
 Sy. That which burns in the middle of the water. He applies that 
 who, being provoked by the injuries of ill men, nevertheless does 
 not give over doing good to all that deserve it. Ph. What is that 
 you mean ? Is beneficence sometimes water and sometimes fire 1 Sy. 
 Why not ! when Christ by way of allegory is sometimes a sun, some- 
 times a fire, sometimes a stone. I said so for the purpose; if you know 
 anything better, make use of it, and do not follow my advice. 
 
 THE RICH MISER. 
 
 James atid Gilbert. 
 
 Ja. How comes it about that you are so lean and meagre ? You 
 look as if you had lived upon dew with the grasshopper ; you seem to 
 be nothing but a mere skeleton. Gi. In the regions below the ghosts 
 feed upon leeks and mallows; but I have been these ten months where 
 I could not come at so much as them. Ja. Where is that, prithee I 
 What, have you been in the galleys? Gi. No, I have been at 
 Synodium. Ja. What, starved to death almost in so plentiful a 
 country ] Gi. It is true as I tell you. Ja. What was the occasion 
 of it ? what, had you no money 1 Gi. I neither wanted money nor 
 friends. Ja. What the mischief was the matter then 1 Gi. Why, 
 you must know I boarded with Antronius. Ja. What, with that 
 rich old cuff 1 ? Gi. Yes, with that sordid hunks. Ja. It is very 
 strange, methinks. Gi. Not strange at all; for by this sordid way of 
 living they that have little or nothing to begin the world with scrape 
 together so much wealth. Ja. But how came you to take a fancy to 
 live so many months with such a landlord ? Gi. There was a certain 
 affair that obliged me to it, and I had a fancy so to do likewise. Ja. 
 But, prithee, tell me after what manner he lives. 
 
 Gi. I will tell you, since it is a pleasure to recount the hardships 
 one has sustained. Ja. It will certainly be a pleasure to me to hear 
 it. Gi. Providence so ordered it that the wind sat full north for 
 three months together, only it did not blow from the same point above 
 eight days together; but I cannot tell the reason of it. Ja. How 
 then could it blow north for three months together 1 ? Gi. Why, upon 
 the eighth day, as if by agreement, it shifted its station ; where, after 
 it had continued some seven or eight hours, then it veered to the old 
 point again. Ja. In such a place as that your callico body had need 
 have a good fire to keep it warm. Gi. We had had fire enough if we 
 had but had wood enough. But our landlord Antronius, to save 
 charges, used to grub up old stumps of trees in the common, that 
 nobody thoiight worth while to get but himself, and would get them 
 by night. And of these, green as they were, our fire was commonly 
 made, which used to smoke plentifully, but would not flame out ; so 
 that though it did not warm us at all, yet we could not say there was 
 no fire. One of these fires would last us a whole day, they burnt so 
 deliberately. 
 
 Ja. This was a bad place for a man to pass the winter in. Gi. 
 It was so ; but it was a great deal worse to pass a summer in. Ja. 
 Why so ? Gi. Because there was such a multitude of fleas and bugs
 
 372 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 that there was no being quiet in the day-time, nor sleeping in the 
 night. Ja. What a wretched wealth was here? Gi. Few were 
 wealthier in this sort of cattle. Ja. Sure your women were lazy sluts. 
 Gi. They were mewed up in an apartment by themselves, and seldom 
 came among the men ; so that you have nothing of them but the name 
 of women ; and the men are forced to go without those services which 
 properly belong to that sex in other families. Ja. But how could 
 Antronius away with all this nastiness ? Gi. Pshaw, he was used to 
 it from his cradle, and minded nothing in the world but getting of 
 money. He loved to be anywhere but at home, and traded in every- 
 thing you can think of. You know that city is a great town of the 
 greatest commerce and business, What is his name, the famous painter, 
 who thought that day was lost wherein he did not employ his pencil ; 
 and our Antronius looked upon himself undone if one single day 
 passed over his head without some profit. And if such a disaster 
 happened to him, he did not fail one way or other to make it up 
 at home. 
 
 Ja. What did he do 1 Gi. Why, he had a cistern of water in the 
 house, as most people in that city have, whence he used to draw so 
 many buckets of water, and put into his hogsheads of wine. This was 
 a most certain profit. Ja. I suppose the wine was something of the 
 strongest then 1 Gi. Far from that, for it was as dead as ditch water; for 
 he never bought any but what was decayed to his hand, that he might buy 
 it at an easier rate. And that he might not lose a drop of this, he used 
 to mix and jumble the grounds of at least ten years standing, and set 
 them a fermenting, that it might pass for new wine upon the lees, and 
 would not lose a drop of the dregs neither. Ja. If we may believe 
 the physicians, such wine will certainly breed the stone. Gi. There 
 were no doctors there, I will assure you ; and in the most healthful 
 years two or three at least of the family died of that distemper ; but 
 he never troubled his head about that, how many burials went out of 
 the house. Ja. No ! Gi. He made a penny even of the dead. 
 And there was no gain he was ashamed to take, though it was never 
 so small. Ja. Under your favour, that was downright theft though. 
 Gi. Your merchants term it turning an honest penny. 
 
 Ja. But what sort of liquor did Antronius drink all the while 1 
 Gi. Almost the very same nectar that I told you of. Ja. Did he find 
 no harm by it \ Gi. He was as hard as a flint, he could have lived 
 \ipon chopped hay ; and, as I told you before, he had been used to fare 
 hard from his infancy. And he looked upon this dashing and brewing 
 to be a certain pi'ofit to him, Ja. How so, I beseech you 1 Gi. If you 
 reckon his wife, his sons, his daughters, his son-in-law, his men-servants, 
 and his maid-servants, he had about thirty-three mouths in the family 
 to feed. Now the more he corrected his wine with water the less of it 
 was drunk, and the longer it was drawing off; so then if you compute 
 a large bucket of water thrown in every day it will amount to no small 
 sum, let me tell you, at the year's end. Ja. A sordid fellow ! Gi. 
 This was not all, he made the same advantage of his bread too. Ja. 
 How could he do that? Gi. He bought musty wheat, such as nobody 
 else would buy but himself. Now, in the first place, here was a pre- 
 sent gain, because he bought it so much cheaper, and then he had an 
 art to cure the mustiness. Ja. But, prithee, how did he do that 1
 
 THE RICH MISER. 373 
 
 Gi. There is a sort of chalk, not altogether unlike to corn, which you 
 may see horses are delighted with when they gnaw it out of the walls, 
 and drink more freely out of that pond-water where this chalk is to be 
 found. He mixed one-third part at least of this earth with his bread. 
 Ja. And do you call this curing of it 1 
 
 Gi. This is certain, that it made the mustiness of the corn be not 
 altogether so perceivable ; and now, was not this a considerable profit 1 
 He had another sti-atagem besides that, for he baked his own bread at 
 home, which, in the very midst of summer, he never did oftener than 
 twice in a month. Ja. Sure it must be more like stones than bread 
 for hardness. Gi. Nay, harder than a stone, if possible ; but we had 
 a remedy for that too. Ja. What was that ? Gi. We used to soak 
 slices of this bread in bowls of wine. Ja. The devil a barrel the 
 better herring. But how did the servants like this treatment 1 Gi. 
 I will first tell you how the top folks of the family were served, and 
 then you may easily guess how the servants fared. Ja. I long to hear 
 it. Gi. There was not a word to be mentioned about breakfast, and 
 as for dinner that was generally deferred till one o'clock in the after- 
 noon. Ja. Why so 1 Gi. We waited for the master of the family's 
 coming home, and then we seldom went to supper before ten. 
 
 Ja. But how did you bear it 1 you used to be very impatient for 
 your victuals. Gi. I called ever and anon upon Orthrogonus, our 
 landlord's son-in-law, who lay upon the same floor with myself : Soho, 
 monsieur, said I, do you make no dining to-day at Synodium 1 He 
 answered, Antronius will be here in a minute. Then finding not the 
 least motion towards dinner, and my guts very mutinous, Hark you, 
 Orthrogonus, said I, do you design to starve us to-day ! Then he 
 would persuade me it was not so late, or put me off with some such 
 pretence. Then, not being able to bear the bawling my bowels made, 
 I interrupted him again : What, do you mean, said I, to starve us to 
 death 1 When he found he had no more excuses to make, he went 
 down to the servants and ordered them to lay the cloth. But at last, 
 when no Antronius came, and dinner seemed to be as far off as ever, 
 Orthrogonus, wearied with the noise I made in his ears, went to the 
 apartment where his wife, and mother, and children were, bidding 
 them get dinner ready. 
 
 Ja. Well, now I expect to hear of the dinner. Gi. Pray do not 
 be so hasty. Then there came a lame fellow, just such another as 
 Vulcan, who laid the cloth, for that it seems was his province ; this 
 was the first hope we had of dinner ; and at last, after I had bawled a 
 long time, a glass bottle of fair water is brought in. Ja. Well, now 
 there is more hope. Gi. But I tell you, do not be too hasty. Again, 
 not without a great deal of knocking and calling, in comes a bottle of 
 the wine I spoke of, as thick with dregs as puddle-water. Ja. That is 
 well, however. Gi. But not a bit of bread came along with it, though 
 there was no great danger we should touch it, for scarce anybody would 
 had they been ever so hungry. Then I fell to calling till I was hoarse 
 again ; and at last the bread comes, but such as a bear could scarce bite 
 of. Ja. Well, now there was no danger of starving. 
 
 Gi. Late in the aftei-noon home conies Antronius, and generally 
 with this unlucky pretence, that his belly ached. Ja. But what was 
 that to you? Gi. This much, that we were to go suppei'less to bed, for 
 
 z
 
 374 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 what could you expect when the master of the house is out of order ? 
 Ja. But was he sick in good earnest? Gi. So sick that he would 
 have devoured your three capons to his own share, if you would have 
 treated him. Ja. I am impatient to hear your bill of fare. Gi. First 
 of all there is a plateful of grey peas brought in, such as old women 
 cry aboxit the streets, and this was for our landlord's own eating ; he 
 pretended that this was his remedy against all diseases. Ja. How 
 many guests were there of you at table? Gi. Sometimes eight or nine ; 
 among whom was one Verpius, a learned gentleman, to whose character 
 I suppose you are no stranger, and our landlord's eldest son. Ja. 
 What was their mess? Gi. Why, the same that Melchisedek offered 
 to Abraham, after he had conquered the five kings; and was not that 
 enough for any reasonable man ? 
 
 Ja. But was there no meat? Gi. There was meat, but there was 
 but a very little of it. Ja. What was it? Gi. I remember we were 
 once nine of us at table, when there were no more than seven small 
 lettuce leaves swimming in vinegar, but not a drop of oil to make them 
 slip down. Ja. But did your landlord eat all his grey peas himself? 
 Gi. You must know there was scarce a farthingworth of them ; how- 
 ever, he did not absolutely forbid those that sat next him to taste them, 
 but it looked uncivil to rob a sick man of his victuals. Ja. But were 
 not your lettuce leaves split to make the greater show ? Gi. Why, 
 truly, they were not ', but when those that sat at the upper end of the 
 table had eaten up the leaves, the rest sopped their bread in the vinegar. 
 Ja. But what, I pray, came after these lettuce leaves? Gi. What ! 
 what should come but cheese, the last dish at dinner? 
 
 Ja. But was this your daily fare ? Gi. Generally speaking, it 
 was; but now and then, if the old gentleman had the good luck to get 
 money in the way of trade that day, he would be a little more generous. 
 Ja. How did you fare then ? Gi. Why, then he would send out to 
 buy a pennyworth of fresh grapes, at nine bunches a penny; this made 
 the whole family sing O be joyful. Ja. Why not? Gi. But then 
 you must understand too, that this was never but when grapes were 
 dog-cheap. Ja. What, then, did he never launch oiit but in autumn ? 
 Gi. Yes, he will thus launch out at some other times too ; for you 
 must know that there are fellows that catch a small sort of shell-fish 
 most commonly on the shores, and cry them about the streets, and he 
 would now and then buy an halfpennyworth of these ; then you would 
 swear there had been a wedding-dinner in the family. There \vas a 
 fire made in the kitchen, though not very much of it neither, for these 
 do not ask much boiling ; and these dainties come always after the 
 cheese instead of a dessert. Ja. A very fine dessert, indeed ! But 
 do you never use to have any flesh or fish 1 
 
 Gi. At last the old gentleman being overcome by my clamouring, 
 began to live a little more nobly ; and whenever he had a mind to 
 shew his generosity in good earnest, this was our bill of fare. Ja. 
 I long to hear what that is. Gi. Imprimis, we had a dish of soup 
 which they call a service, but I do not know why. Ja. A very rich 
 one, I suppose. Gi. Very high seasoned with the following spices : 
 They took you a large kettle of water, and set it over the fire ; into 
 this they fling a good quantity of skimmed-milk cheese, grown as 
 hard as a brickbat, that you can scarce cut it with a hatchet ; and
 
 THE RICH MISER. 37 5 
 
 when these fragments of cheese grow a little softer by soaking and 
 seething, they alter the property of the liquor that it is not then fair 
 water. Now this soup is served in as a preparative for the stomach. 
 Ja. This was a soup for saws. Gi, And the next course is a piece of 
 stale tripe that has been boiled a fortnight. Ja. Why, then, it must 
 needs stink. Gi. It does stink, but they have a remedy for that too. 
 Ja. What is that, pray ? Gi. I would tell you, but I am afraid you will 
 put it into practice. Ja,. Ay, marry, sir ! Gi. They would take an 
 egg and beat it up in warm water, and daub the tripe over with the 
 liquor ; and so they put the cheat upon the eye, indeed, but cannot 
 cheat the nose, for the stink will force its way through all. If it hap- 
 pened to be a fish-day, we had sometimes three whitings, and but small 
 ones neither, although there were seven or eight of us at table. Ja. 
 What, nothing else 1 Gi. Nothing bvit that cheese as hard as a stone. 
 
 Ja. The oddest epicure I ever heard of. But how could so slender 
 provision be enough for so many guests of you, and especially not hav- 
 ing ate any breakfast 1 Gi. Well, to satisfy you, I tell you that the 
 remainder fed the mother-in-law, the daughter-in-law, the youngest son, 
 a servant-maid, and a litter of children. Ja. Nay, now instead of 
 lessening, you have heightened my admiration. Gi. It is scarce pos- 
 sible for me to explain this difficulty to you, unless I first represent to 
 you in what order we sat at table. Ja. Pray, represent it then. Gi. 
 Antronius, he sat at the upper end of the table, and I sat at his right 
 hand, as being principal guest; over against Antronius sat Orthrogonus; 
 next Orthrogonus, Yerpius ; next to Yerpius, Strategus, a Grecian ; 
 Antronius's eldest son sat at his left hand. If any stranger came to 
 dine with us, he was placed according to his quality. As for the soup, 
 there was no great danger of its being eaten up, nor no great difference 
 in the messes, but only that in the dishes of the principal guests there 
 were some bits of this cheese floating up and down. And besides, 
 there was a sort of barricade made betwixt this soup by bottles of Avine 
 and water, that none but three, before whom the dish stood, could 
 participate, unless he would be impudent indeed, and go beyond his 
 bounds. Nor did this dish stay long there, but was soon taken away, 
 that something might be left for the family, 
 
 Ja. What did the rest eat all this while 1 Gi. They regaled 
 themselves after their own fashion. Ja. How was that 1 ? Gi. Why 
 they sopped the chalky bread in that sour, dreggy wine. Ja. Sure 
 your dinner used to be over in a minute. Gi. It oftentimes held 
 above an hour. Ja. How could it be 1 Gi. The soup being taken 
 away, which, as I told you before, might have stood without any great 
 danger, cheese was brought to table, and that ran no great risk, for it was 
 so hard it would bid defiance to a carving-knife. Every man's portion 
 of that dreggy wine and bread stood before him still ; and over these 
 dainties they diverted themselves with telling stories, and in the mean- 
 time the women eat their dinner. Ja. But how did the servants fare 
 in the meantime? Gi. They had nothing in common with us, but 
 dined and supped at their own hours. But this I can tell you, they 
 scarce spent half an hour's time in a whole day at victuals. Ja. But 
 what sort of provision had they ? Gi. You may easily guess that 
 Ja. Your Germans think an hour little enough to breakfast in, and they 
 commonly take as much time to their beaver, an hour and a half at
 
 376 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 their dinner, and at least two hours at supper ; and unless their bellies 
 are well filled with good wine, flesh, and fish, they run away from their 
 masters, and go into the army. 
 
 Gi. Every nation has its peculiar customs ; the Italians lay out 
 but very little upon their bellies ; they love money better than plea- 
 sure ; and this temperance they owe rather to nature than custom. 
 Ja. Now, truly, I do not wonder you are come home so lean, but rather 
 that you are come home alive, especially since you were so used to 
 capons, partridges, pigeons, and pheasants. Gi. Why, in truth, I had 
 very fairly trooped off, unless I had found me out a remedy. Ja. It 
 is but poor living where such frequent recourse must be had to reme- 
 dies. Gi. I brought matters about so that I had the fourth part of a 
 boiled pullet allowed to every meal, to keep up my languishing spirits. 
 Ja, Ay, marry, now you begin to live ! Gi. Not altogether so well 
 as you imagine ; for old Gripe bought the least he could lay his hands 
 on, to save expenses, such that six of them would not serve a Polander 
 of a tolerable stomach for a breakfast ; and when he had bought them, 
 he would give them no corn, because he would not put himself to 
 extraordinary charges ; so a wing or a leg of the fowl that was half 
 starved before it was put into the pot, was boiled for my dinner, and 
 the liver always went to Orthrogonus's little son ; and as for the broth, 
 the women were perpetually lapping it up, and every now and then 
 they put in fresh water ; so that by that time it came to me it was as 
 dry as a chip, and no more taste in it than the foot of a joint-stool. 
 And as for the broth, it was nothing but a little water bewitched. Ja. 
 And yet I hear tha,t you have all sorts of fowl there in great plenty, 
 very good and very cheap. Gi. They are so, but money is hard to 
 cOme by. Ja. You have done penance enough, one would think, if you 
 had murdered the pope, or pissed against St. Peter's tomb-stone. 
 
 Gi. But hear the rest of the farce out. You know there are five 
 days in a week that we may eat flesh on. Ja. What then 1 Gi. He 
 only bought two pullets for the whole week. On Thursday he would 
 pretend he forgot to go to market, lest I should either have a whole 
 pullet on that day, or any should be left. Ja. In shoi't, I think your 
 landlord was a greater miser than Eulio in Plautus. But what course 
 did you take to keep yourself alive upon fish-days 1 Gi. I employed 
 a certain friend to buy me every day three eggs with my own money 
 two for my dinner, and one for my supper. But here also the women 
 put their tricks upon me ; for instead of my new-laid eggs that I paid 
 a good price for, they would give me rotten ones, that 1 thought I came 
 well off if one of my three eggs proved eatable. I also at last got a 
 small cask of good wine bought for my own drinking, but the women 
 broke open my cellar-door, and in a few days di*ank it all up, and 
 my landlord, Antronius, did not seem to be much displeased at the 
 matter. 
 
 Ja. But was there nobody in the family that took pity on you ? 
 Gi. Take pity on me, say you ? No; they thought me a glutton and 
 a cormorant, who by myself devoured so much victuals. And upon that 
 account Orthrogonus would ever and anon give me good advice, that I 
 should consider the climate where I lived, and therefore have regard 
 to myself; telling me of several of my countrymen who had by their 
 over-eating in that country either procured their own deaths, or brought
 
 THE RICH MISER. 377 
 
 upon themselves very dangerous distempers. But when he found me 
 supporting my outward tabernacle, that was fatigued, starved, and dis- 
 tempered, with some knick-knacks that were sold at the confectioners, 
 he sets a physician, a friend and acquaintance of mine, to persuade me 
 to live moderately. The doctor took a great deal of pains with me. I 
 soon perceived he had been set on to do it, so I made him not a word 
 of answer ? 
 
 But when he was still urging me very hard, and was always harp- 
 ing on the same string, I said to him, Worthy doctor, pray tell me, are 
 you in jest or in earnest ? Oh, in earnest, said he. Well then, replied 
 I, what would you have me to do 1 Why, to leave off suppers for good 
 and all, and to mix at least one-half water with your wine. I could 
 not forbear laughing at this excellent advice, and said to him, If you 
 want to see me decently laid in a churchyard, you propose a ready way 
 for it ; for I am sure it would be present death to me, in the circum- 
 stances of this poor, lean, dispirited body, to leave off suppers ; and I 
 have tried that so often, that in short I have no mind to make the 
 experiment again. What, pray, do you think would become of me, if, 
 after such dinners as we have here I should go supperless to bed ? 
 And then to bid me mingle water with such weak insipid wine ! pray, 
 tell me, is it not much better to drink clear water from the spring 
 than to debauch it with this sour dreggy stuff? I do not doubt but 
 Orthrogonus put you upon giving me this advice. 
 
 At this the doctor smiled, and allowed me better terms. Most 
 learned Gilbert, said he, I did not say this to you, that you should 
 totally leave off eating suppers ; you may eat an egg and drink a glass 
 of wine, for this is my own manner of living. I have an egg boiled for 
 my supper one-half of the yolk I eat myself, and give the other half to 
 my son; then I drink half a glass of wine, and by the help of this 
 refreshment I study till late in the night. Ja. But did this doctor 
 speak the truth 1 Gi. Yes, the very truth ; for as I was once coming 
 home from church, a gentleman that bore me company told me the 
 doctor dwelt there ; I had a mind to see his quarters, so I knocked at 
 the door, and in I went. I remember it was on a Sunday; I found the 
 doctor, his son, and servant at dinner ; the bill of fare was a couple of 
 eggs, and nothing at all else. Ja. Why, sure they must be mere skele- 
 tons. Gi. No ; really they were both plump and in good liking, fresh 
 coloured, their eyes brisk and lively. Ja. I can scarce believe it. Gi. 
 I tell you nothing but what I know to be true. Nay, he is not the only 
 man that lives after this manner, but many others, men of fashion and 
 substance in the world, do the same. Take my word for it, much eat- 
 ing and drinking is rather an effect of custom than that of nature. If 
 a person acciistom himself by little and little, he may come in time to 
 do as much as Milo to eat up an ox in a day's time. Ja. Good God ! 
 if it be possible for a man to preserve his health with so little susten- 
 ance, what a great deal of unnecessary expense are the Germans, 
 English, Danes, and Poles at upon their bellies 1 Gi. A great deal 
 without doubt, and that to the apparent prejudice of their health and 
 understanding. 
 
 Ja. But what is the matter that you could not content yourself 
 with that way of living ] Gi. Because I had accustomed myself to 
 another mannei*, and it was too late to alter my way of living then.
 
 378 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 But besides, I did not so much dislike the quantity of our provision as 
 the quality of it. Two eggs had been enough for a meal for me, if they 
 had been fresh-laid ; one glass of wine had been enough, if we had not 
 had nasty lees given us instead of wine ; half the bread would have 
 served me, if it had not been mixed with chalk. Ja. Lord ! that 
 Antronius should be such a sordid wretch amidst so much wealth ! 
 Gi. I believe verily he was worth 80,000 ducats ; and to speak within 
 compass, he never got less than 1000 ducats a year besides. Ja. But 
 did those young sparks for whom he scraped all this together live at 
 the same sparing rate 1 Gi. Yes, at home they did, but it was only 
 there ; for when they g6t abroad they would eat, drink, whore, and 
 game notably ; and while their old father thought much to spend six- 
 pence at home to treat the best friend he had, these sparks would make 
 nothing to lose sixty ducats in a night at gaming. Ja. This is the 
 usual fate of estates that are got by miserly living ; they are commonly 
 thus spent. But now you are got safe out of these great difficulties, 
 whither are you steering your course ? Gi. I -am going to an old club 
 of merry cocks, to endeavour to fetch up what I have lost. 
 
 THE SERAPHIC FUNERAL. 
 
 Philacous and Theotimus. 
 
 Ph. Why, where have you been, Theotirnus, with that new- 
 fashioned religious look ? Th. Why so 1 Ph. You look so stern, 
 methinks, with your eyes fixed upon the ground, your head lying upon 
 your left shoulder, and your beads in your hand. Th. Why, my friend, 
 if you must'needs 'be made acquainted with that which does not concern 
 you, I have been at a show. PA. What, have you been seeing the 
 rope-dancers, 'or high German artist, or something of that nature ? 
 Th. Something pretty like them. 'Ph. In short, you are the first man 
 I ever saw come from a show with such a countenance. Th. But let 
 me tell you, this was such a spectacle that if you yourself had been a 
 spectator, perhaps you had been more melancholy than I am. Ph. 
 But, prithee, tell me what has made you so religious all on a sudden 1 
 Th. I come from the funeral of a seraph. 
 
 Ph. What say you ? why, do the angels die 1 Th. No, but angels' 
 fellowfc do. But not to keep you any longer in suspense, I suppose you 
 know that famous learned man Eusebius of Pelusium. Ph. What, do 
 you mean him that was degraded of his authority from a prince to the 
 state of a private man, and of a private man made an exile, and of an 
 exile made little better than a beggar I had like to have said some- 
 thing worse 1 Th. You have hit very right, that is the man. Ph. 
 Why, what is come to him? Th. He was buried to-day, and I am 
 just come from his funeral. Ph. Stire it must have been a very dole- 
 ful sight indeed, to put you into this dismal mood. Th. I am afraid I 
 shall never be able to telljyou what I have seen without weeping. Ph. 
 And I am afraid I shall not be able to hear it without laughing. But, 
 however, let us have it. 
 
 Th. You know that Eusebius has been in a very weak condition a 
 long time. Ph. Yes, yes, I know that his body has been worn out
 
 THE SERAPHIC FUNERAL. 379 
 
 for this many a year. Th. In this sort of slow and consumptive diseases 
 physicians frequently foretell the time of a man's death to a day. Ph. 
 They do so. Th. They told the patient that all the art of man could 
 do towards his preservation had been done for him already : that God, 
 indeed, could do what was beyond the power of physic to effect, but 
 according to human conjecture he had not above three days to live. 
 Ph. Well, what did he do then 1 ? Th. The excellent Eusebius 
 immediately stripping himself stark-naked, puts on the habit of the 
 most holy Francis, has his head shaved, is dressed in an ash-coloured 
 cowl and gown, an hempen knotted girdle, and cut and slashed shoes. 
 Ph. What, when he was departing this life ? Th. Even so ; and with 
 a dying voice professed that if it should please God to restore him to 
 the health that the physicians despaired of, he would serve under Christ 
 according to the rule of St. Francis; and there were several holy men 
 called in to be witnesses to this profession. In that habit dies the 
 famous man, at the very time that the physicians had foretold he would. 
 There came a great many of the fraternity to assist at his funeral 
 solemnity. Ph. I wish I had been present at this sight. Th. It 
 would have fetched tears from your eyes to have seen with what tender- 
 ness the seraphic fraternity washed the body, fitted the holy habit to it, 
 laid his hands one over another in the form of a cross, uncovered and 
 kissed his naked feet, and according to the precept of the gospel 
 cheei'ed up his countenance with ointment. Ph. What a prodigious 
 humility was this for the seraphic brethren to take upon them the 
 office of washers and bearers ? Th. When this was done, they laid it 
 upon the bier, and according to the doctrine of St. Paul, " bear ye one 
 another's burdens," the brethren took the brother upon their shoulders, 
 and carried him along the highway to the monastery, and there they 
 interred him with the usual songs and ceremonies. As this venerable 
 pomp was passing along the way, I observed a great many people that 
 could not forbear weeping to see a man that used to go in silk and 
 scarlet now wrapped in a Franciscan's habit, girded about with a rope's 
 end, and the whole body disposed in siich a posture as must needs 
 move devotion; for, as I said, his head was laid upon his shoulder, and 
 his arms across, and everything else carried a wonderful appearance of 
 holiness. And then the inarch of the seraphic brethren themselves, 
 with their heads hanging down, their eyes fixed upon the ground, and 
 their mournful looks, so mournful that I can scarce think that in hell 
 itself there can be anything beyond it, drew sighs and tears in 
 abundance from the beholders. 
 
 Ph. But had he the five wounds of St. Francis too ] Th. I dare 
 not affirm that for a certainty, but I saw some bluish scars in his hands 
 and feet, and there was a hole in the left side of his gown ; but I did 
 not dare to look too narrowly, for they say many people have been 
 undone by being too curious in these matters. Ph. But did you not 
 see some that laughed too ? Th. Yes, I did take notice of some ; but 
 I believe they were heretics there are too many of them in the world 
 now-a-days. Ph. Well, my Theotimus, to deal honestly with you, if 
 I had been there, in my conscience, I believe I should scarce have been 
 able to forbear laughing too for company. Th. Pray God you have 
 not got a spice of that leaven too ! Ph. Good Theotimus, there is no 
 danger of that ; for I have had a great veneration for St. Francis from
 
 880 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 a child, who, according to the world, was neither wise nor learned, but 
 very acceptable to God and man for the strict mortification of his worldly 
 affections ; and not only for him, but for all who following his footsteps 
 endeavour from their hearts to be dead to the world and to live to 
 Christ, But as to the habit itself, I value it not ; and I would fain 
 know of you what a dead man is the better for a garment ? Th. You 
 know it is the Lord's precept, " not to cast pearls before swine, nor to 
 give holy things to dogs." Besides, if you ask questions to make your- 
 self merry with them, I will tell you nothing at all ; but if you do it 
 with an honest desire of being informed, I will very freely communi- 
 cate to you what I have learned from them. Ph. I profess myself 
 willing to learn, and promise to be an attentive, teachable, and thank- 
 ful scholar. 
 
 Th. In the first place, you know that there are some persons that 
 are so ambitious, that it is not enough for them to have lived proudly 
 and insolently, but they must be buried pompously too when they are 
 dead ; not that the dead are sensible, but yet while they are alive they 
 take some pleasure, by the force of imagination, to think of the pomp of 
 their funerals. Now I suppose you will not deny but it is some degree 
 of piety to renounce this vain affectation. Ph. I will own it, if there 
 be no other way to avoid the vanity of pompous funerals. But in my 
 opinion it is more modest for a prince when he is dead to be wrapped 
 in a coarse winding-sheet, and to be carried by the common bearers, and 
 interred in the common burying-place among the common sort of 
 people ; for they that were cai-ried as Eusebius was carried do rather 
 seem to have changed their pride than avoided it. Th. It is the inten- 
 tion of the mind that God accepts, and it is His province only to judge 
 of men's hearts. But what I have told you is but a small matter, there 
 are greater things behind. Ph. What are they ? Th. They pi*ofess 
 themselves of the order of St. Francis's rule before their death. Ph. 
 What, that they will observe it in the Elysian fields ? Th. No, but in 
 this world if they happen to recover, and it oftentimes has happened 
 that they that have been given over by the physicians have by God's 
 blessing recovered as soon as ever they have put on this holy robe. 
 Ph. Ay, and it often happens so to those that never put it on at all. 
 
 Th. We ought to walk with simplicity in the way of faith. If 
 there were no extraordinary advantage in this case, certainly so many 
 learned and eminent persons, even among the Italians themselves, would 
 not be so desirous of being buried in this holy habit. But lest you 
 should object against the examples of strangers, I will tell you that one 
 whom you very deservedly had an high esteem for was thus buried 
 Rudolpius Agricola, and so was Christopher Longolius too. Ph. I do 
 not regard what men do being delirious at the point of death. I would 
 fain have you tell me what good professing, or being clothed, does a man 
 when he comes to be tei'rified with the fears of death, and discomposed 
 with despair of life. Vows are of no force unless they be made in 
 sound sense and sobriety, with mature deliberation, without either 
 force, fear, or guilt. Nay, if nothing of all this were required, such a 
 vow is not binding till after the expiration of the year of probation, at 
 which time they are commanded to wear the coat and hood. This is 
 what St, Francis himself says ; so that if they recover, they are at 
 liberty in two respects, because a vow is not binding that is made by a
 
 THE SERAPHIC FUNERAL. 381 
 
 man under an astonishment betwixt the hope of life and the fear of 
 death, and because profession does not oblige a man before the wearing 
 of the hood. 
 
 Th. Whether it be an obligation or no, it is certain they think it 
 one ; and the resignation of the whole mind is acceptable to God. And 
 this is the reason that the good works of monks, if we allow them to be 
 but equal with other persons, are more acceptable to God than those of 
 other men are, because they spring from the best root. Ph. I shall 
 not here enter into the examination of the merit of a man's dedicating 
 himself wholly to God when he is no longer in his own power. I take 
 it that every Christian delivers himself up wholly to God in his baptism, 
 when he renounces all the pomps and vanities of Satan, and lists him- 
 self a soldier to fight under Christ's banner all his life after. And St. 
 Paul, speaking of those that die with Christ " that they may live no 
 longer to themselves, but to Him that died for them," does not mean 
 this of monks only, but of Christians universally. 
 
 Th. You have very seasonably put me in mind of baptism ; for in 
 times past, if they were but dipped or sprinkled at the last gasp, there 
 was hope given them of eternal life. Ph. It is no great matter what 
 the bishops promise ; but it is a matter of great uncertainty what God 
 will do ; for if it were certain that such men were presently made 
 citizens of heaven by having a little water sprinkled in their faces, 
 what greater gap could be laid open, that worldly men might all their 
 life-long serve their filthy lusts and appetites, and then get two or three 
 drops of water sprinkled upon them when they were not able to sin any 
 longer ? Now, if the same rule holds in your profession and this 
 baptism, it is very well provided for the wicked, that they may not be 
 damned ; that is, that they may live to the devil, and die to Christ. 
 
 Th. If it be lawful to divulge the seraphic mysteries, the profes- 
 sion of a Franciscan is more efficacious than baptism. Ph. What is 
 that you say 1 Th. In baptism our sins are only washed away, and 
 the soul, though it be ptirged, is left naked ; but he that is invested 
 with this profession is presently enriched with the egregious merits of 
 the whole order, by being grafted into the body of the most holy 
 fraternity. Ph. Well, and pray is he that is engrafted into the body 
 of Christ never the better neither for the head nor the body 1 Th. He 
 is never the better for the seraphic body, unless he deserves it by some 
 special bounty or favour. Ph. Pray, from what angel had they this 
 revelation 1 Th. Let me tell you, not from any angel, but Christ him- 
 self with His own mouth revealed this, and a great deal more to St. 
 Francis face to face. Ph. I entreat you, if you have any kindness for 
 me, and I adjure you, tell me what the discourses were. Th. These 
 are deep, profound mysteries, nor is it meet to commit them to profane 
 ears. Ph. Why profane, my friend I I never wished better to any 
 order than to the seraphic. Th. But you give them shrewd wipes 
 sometimes. Ph. This is a sign of love, Theotimus. The greatest 
 enemies of the order are those professors of it, that by their 01 lives 
 bring a scandal upon it. And whosoever wishes well to the order can- 
 not but be offended with the corrupters of it. 
 
 Th. But I am afraid St. Francis will be angry with me if I blab 
 any of his secrets. Ph. What can you be afraid of from so harmless 
 a person 1 Th. What, why lest he should strike me blind, or cause
 
 382 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 me to run mad, as I am told he has done to many who have denied 
 the print of the five wounds. Ph. Why, then, the saints are worse in 
 heaven than they were upon earth. I have heard that St. Francis 
 was of so meek a disposition that, when boys out of roguery would be 
 throwing cheese, milk, dirt, and stones into his homely cowl as it hung 
 down at his back, he was not at all moved at it, but walked on his way 
 cheerful and pleasant; and what, is he now become so angry and 
 revengeful? And at another time, when one of his companions called 
 him thief, sacrilegious murderer, incestuous sot, and all the rogues he 
 could think on, he thanked him, confessing himself guilty. But one 
 of the company wondering at such an acknowledgment, I had done 
 worse than all this, says he, unless God's grace had refrained me. How, 
 then, comes St. Francis now to be so vindictive 1 Th. It is so ; the 
 saints, now they are in heaven, will take no affront. Was ever any 
 man gentler than Cornelius, milder than Antony, or more patient than 
 John the Baptist, while they lived xipon earth 1 But now they are in 
 heaven what dreadful diseases do they send among us, if we do not 
 worship them as we should do? Ph. I am of opinion that they 
 rather cure our diseases than cause them. But, however, assure your- 
 self that what you say to me you say to a man that is neither 
 profane nor a blab. 
 
 Th. Well, come on then^ depending upon your secrecy, I will tell 
 you something relating to this matter. Good St. Francis, I entreat 
 thee and the society that I may have your leave to relate what I have 
 heard. St. Paul, you know, was endowed with a hidden wisdom which 
 he did not communicate openly, but in private to such as were perfect. 
 So have the seraphics also certain mysteries which they do not make 
 common, but only communicate them in private to certain blessed 
 widows, and other choice and godly people, that are well-wishers to the 
 seraphic society. Ph. I am impatient to hear this triple holy revela- 
 tion. Th. In the first place, the Lord foretold the seraphic patriarch 
 that the more the seraphic society increased, the more abundantly He 
 would make provision for them. Ph. So then, at first dash, here are 
 those people's mouths stopped who complain that those people grow more 
 numerous every day that are a burden to the public. Th. And secondly^ 
 he discovered this, that annually, upon St. Francis's day, all the souls 
 not only of the brotherhood who wear the holy habit, but also of those 
 who wish well to that order and are benefactors to the brotherhood, 
 should be discharged from the fire of purgatory. Ph. Why did 
 Christ talk so familiarly with him ? Th. Why not 1 Yes, He did, 
 as familiarly as one friend or companion would with another. God 
 the Father conversed with Moses, and Moses communicated the law so 
 delivered to him to the people; Christ published the evangelical law, 
 and St. Francis delivered two copies of His law that had been written 
 by the hand of an angel to the seraphic fraternity. 
 
 Ph. I want to hear the third revelation. Th. The worthy 
 patriarch was in fear lest the evil one should corrupt by night the 
 good seed which had been sown, and the wheat should be rooted up 
 with the tares. The Lord likewise freed him from this scruple, pro- 
 mising him that he would take it into his care that none of the half- 
 shod, rope-girded tribe should ever miscarry, even till the day of judg- 
 ment. Ph. Oh, the kindness of God ! If it were not so the Church
 
 THE SEEAPHIC FUNERAL. 383 
 
 of God wotild be undone; but go on. Th. And then, fourthly, He 
 discovered to him that none that lived impiously should long per- 
 severe in that order. Ph. Why, does not he that lives wickedly fall 
 from the order 1 Th. No more than he that lives wickedly denies 
 Christ, altho'ugh in a sense they may be said to deny God who profess 
 Him in words, but in works deny Him. But whosoever has cast off 
 the holy habit, he irreparably falls from the order. Ph. What shall 
 we say, then, of so many monasteries of conventuals who have money, 
 drink, game, whore, and keep concubines publicly, not to mention 
 anything else. Th. St. Francis never wore a garment of that colour 
 I mean a grey, nor a girdle of white linen; and therefore, when they 
 come to knock at heaven's gates, it will be said to them, " I never knew 
 you," for that they have not on the wedding garment. 
 
 Ph. Well, what, have you any more 1 Th. You have heard 
 nothing yet to what is behind. In the fifth place, He made known to 
 him that those who were enemies to the seraphic order, such as there 
 are but too many, the more is the pity, should never live half the time 
 God had appointed them without making away with themselves, and 
 that, unless they anticipated their fate, they shoiild suddenly come to 
 a miserable end. Ph. We have, among abundance of other instances, 
 seen that made good in Matthew, Cardinal of Sedunum, who had a 
 very ill opinion, and spoke ill of the half-shod fraternity; for he died, 
 I think, before he was full fifty years of age. Th. You say Very right; 
 then lie had done injury to the cherubic order likewise. For they 
 say it was brought about chiefly by his management that the four 
 Dominicans were burnt at Berne, when otherwise they would have 
 overcome the pope's resentment by money. Ph. But they say they 
 had begun to act a piece of most monstrous impiety. They attempted 
 by false visions and miracles to persuade people that the Virgin Mary 
 was polluted with original sin, and that St. Francis had not the genuine 
 marks of Christ's wounds, and that Catharina Senensis had them more 
 authentically, but had promised the most perfect of them all to the 
 layman they had converted and suborned to act this farce, and had 
 abused the body of the Lord, to carry on the imposture, and afterwards 
 with clubs and poisons. And in the last place, they say that this pro- 
 ject was not carried on by one university only, but by all the heads of 
 the whole order. Th. Let that be as it will, it was not without 
 reason that God said, " Touch not mine anointed." 
 
 Ph. I want to hear what is to come. Th. The sixth revelation 
 is behind, in which the Lord sware to him that those that were 
 favourers of the seraphic order, how wickedly soever they lived, should 
 one time or other obtain mercy from the Lord, and end their wicked 
 life with a blessed death. Ph. What if they should be caught and 
 killed in the very act of adultery 1 Th. What God has promised 
 cannot fail of being performed. Ph. But what is it that they inter- 
 pret favour and good-will by 1 Th. Oh, do you doubt of that ? He 
 that gives them presents, that clothes them, furnishes their kitchen, he 
 loves them long ago. Ph. But does he not love those that give them 
 admonitions and instructions 1 Th. They have enough of those things 
 at home; and it is their profession to bestow these benefits on other 
 persons, and not to receive them from them. Ph. Then the Lord has 
 promised more to the disciples of St. Francis than He has to His own.
 
 384 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 He indeed suffers it to be imputed to Him, if anything be done for His 
 sake to a Christian, but He never promised salvation to such as Uve 
 wickedly. Th. That is no wonder, my friend, for the transcendent 
 power of the gospel is reserved for this order. But you shall now hear 
 the seventh and last revelation. Ph. I am ready to hear it. 
 
 Th. The Lord sware to him that none should make an ill end who 
 died in a Franciscan's habit. Ph. But what is it that you call an ill 
 end ? Th. Why, he makes an ill end that when his soul leaves the 
 body it goes down directly into hell without any redemption. Ph. 
 But what, then, does not the habit deliver from the fire of purgatory] 
 Th. No, unless a person dies in it upon St. Francis's day. But don't 
 you think it is a great thing to be freed from hell 1 ? Ph. Yes, I think 
 it is the greatest of all. But what must we think of those persons 
 who are put into the habit after they are dead, and don't actually die 
 in it ? Th. If they desire it in their life-time, the will is taken for 
 the deed. Ph. When I was at Antwerp, I was present in the com- 
 pany of the relations of a woman that was just giving up the ghost. 
 There was a Franciscan by, a very reverend man, who, observing the 
 woman to yawn, put one of her arms into the sleeve of his garment so 
 that it covered that arm and part of the shoulder; and there was a 
 dispute raised upon it, whether the whole woman should be safe from 
 the gates of hell, or that part only which had been covered. Th. Why, 
 the whole woman was secured, as it is in baptism, but part of the 
 person is dipped in the water, but the whole person is made a 
 Christian. 
 
 Ph. It is wonderful what a dread the devils have of this habit. 
 Th. They dread it more than they do the cross of Christ. When 
 Eusebius was carried to the grave, I saw, and so did many others 
 besides me, swarms of black devils like flies buzzing about the body and 
 striking at it, but not one of them durst touch it. Ph. But in the 
 meantime his face, his hands, and his feet were in danger, because they 
 were bare. Th. As a snake will not come near the shadow of an ash, 
 let it spread ever so far, so the devils are sensible of the venom of the 
 holy garment at a great distance. Ph. Why, then, I believe such 
 bodies do not putrefy; if they do, the worms have more courage than 
 the devils. Th. What you say is very probable. Ph. How happy 
 are the lice which always live in that holy garment ! But when the 
 garment is going to the grave what becomes of the soul 1 Th. Why 
 the soul carries away with it the influence of the garment, and renders 
 it secure ; so that a great many will not allow that any of that order 
 do go at all to purgatory. Ph. In truth, if this revelation were true, 
 I would esteem it at an higher rate than that of St. John, for this 
 shews us an easy and a ready way, without labour, trouble, or repent- 
 ance, to escape eternal misery, and yet to live all our life-long merrily. 
 Th. It is so. Ph. From henceforth I shall leave off admiring at the 
 great deference that so many pay to the seraphic fraternity. But I 
 stand in great admiration that any man should dare to open his mouth 
 against them. Th. You may observe, wherever you see them, that 
 they are persons given over to a reprobate mind and blinded in their 
 wickedness. 
 
 Ph. I will for the future be more cautious than I have been, and 
 take care to die in a Franciscan habit. But there are some risen up in
 
 THE SERAPHIC FUNERAL. 385 
 
 our age who will have it that a man is justified only by faith, without 
 the help of good works; but it is the greatest privilege in the world to 
 be saved by a garment without faith. Th. Do not mistake me, Phila- 
 cous ; I do not say simply without faith, but with this faith of believ- 
 ing, that the things I have told you were promised by our Saviour to 
 the patriarch St. Francis. Ph. But will this garment save a Turk 1 
 Th. It would save the devil himself if he would but suffer it to be put 
 on him, and could but believe this revelation. Ph. Well, thou hast 
 won me for ever ; but I have a scruple or two more that I would desire 
 you to clear up for me. Th. Let me hear them. Ph. I have heard 
 that St. Francis has said his order was of evangelical institution. Th. 
 True. Ph. Now, I thought that all Christians had professed the rule 
 of the gospel ; but if the Franciscans' order be a gospel one, then all 
 Christians ought to be Franciscans, and Christ himself, his apostles, 
 and the Virgin-mother at the head of them. Th. It would be so, 
 indeed, unless St. Francis had added some things to the gospel of 
 Christ, Ph. What things are they 1 Th. An ash-coloured garment, 
 an hempen girdle, and naked feet. Ph. Well, then, by these marks 
 we may know an evangelical Christian from a Franciscan, may we ? 
 
 Th. But they differ too in the point of touching money. Ph. But, 
 as I am informed, St. Francis forbids the receiving of it, not the touching 
 of it ; but the owner, or the proctor, the creditor, the heir, or the 
 proxy does commonly receive it ; and though he draws it over with his 
 glove on, and does not touch it, nevertheless he is said to receive it. 
 Whence, then, came this new interpretation, that not to receive it is 
 not to touch it 1 Th. This was the interpretation of pope Benedict. 
 Ph. But not as a pope, but only as a Franciscan. And then, again, do 
 not the most strict of the order take money in a clout, when it is given 
 them in their pilgrimages 1 Th. They do in a case of necessity. Ph. 
 But a man should rather die than violate so superevangelical a rule. 
 And then, do they not receive money everywhere by their officers ] 
 Th. Why should they not, and that thousands and thousands too, as 
 they do frequently 1 Ph. But the rule says, not by themselves nor by 
 anybody else. Th. Well, but they do not touch it. Ph. Oh, ridicu- 
 lous ! if the touch be impious they touch it by others. Th. But that 
 is the act and deed of the proctors, not their own. Ph. Is it not so ? 
 Let him try it that has a mind to it. 
 
 Th. We never read that Christ touched money. Ph. Suppose 
 it, though it is very probable that when he was a youth he might buy 
 oil, and vinegar, and salads for his father; but Peter and Paul, without 
 all controversy, touched it. The virtue consists in the contempt of 
 money, and not in the non-touching of it. It is much more dangerous 
 to touch wine than to touch money; why are they not afraid of that ? 
 Th. Because St. Francis did not forbid it. Ph. Do they not readily 
 enough offer their hands, which they keep soft with idleness and white 
 with washes, to pretty wenches ] But, bless me ! if you offer them a 
 piece of money to look upon and see if it be good, how do they start 
 back and cross themselves ! Is not this an evangelical nicety 1 In 
 truth, I believe St. Francis, as illiterate as he was, was never so silly 
 as to have absolutely forbidden all touching of money. And if that 
 were his opinion, to how great a danger did he expose his followers in 
 commanding them to go barefoot 1 for it is scarce possible but that one
 
 386 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 time or another- they might unawares tread upon money lying on tVe 
 ground. Th. Well, but then they do not touch it with their hands. 
 Ph. Why, pray is not the sense of touching common to the whole 
 body ? Th. But in case any such thing should fall out, they do not 
 officiate after it till they have been at confession. PA. It is con- 
 scientiously done. 
 
 Th. But, without cavilling, I will tell you how it is. Money ever 
 was and ever will be the occasion of very great evils to many persons. 
 Ph. I allow it ; but then, on the other hand, it is an instrument of as 
 much good to others. I find the inordinate love of money to be con- 
 demned, but I nowhere find money itself to be so. Th. You say very 
 well ; but that we may be kept at greater distance from the disease of 
 covetousness, we are forbid to touch money as we are forbid by the 
 gospel to swear at all, that we may be kept from perjury. Ph. Why, 
 then, is not the sight of money forbidden too,? Th. Because it is 
 easier to govern our hands than eyes. Ph. And yet death itself 
 entered into the world at those windows. Th. And therefore your 
 true Franciscans pull their cowls over their eyebrows, and walk with 
 their eyes covered and fixed upon the ground, that they may see 
 nothing but their way, just like carriers' horses that have winkers on 
 each side of their head-gear, that they may see nothing but what is 
 before them and at their feet. 
 
 Th. But tell me, is it true, as I hear, that they are forbidden by 
 their order to receive any indulgences from the pope 1 Th. They are 
 so. Ph. But, as I am informed, there are no men in the world that 
 have more of them than they have; so that they are allowed either to 
 poison or bury alive those that they themselves have condemned, with- 
 out any danger of being called to account for it. Th. What you have 
 heard is no fiction ; for I was told once by a Polander, and a man of 
 credit too, that he, having got drunk, fell fast asleep in the Franciscans' 
 church, in one of the corners where the women sit to make their con- 
 fessions through a lattice ; and being awakened by the singing of their 
 nocturns, according to custom, he did not dare to discover himself; and 
 when the office was over, the whole fraternity went down into the 
 vault, where there was a large deep grave ready made, and there stood 
 two young men with their hands tied behind them. There was a 
 sermon preached in praise of obedience, and a promise of God's pardon 
 for all their sins, and some hope given them that God would incline the 
 minds of the brotherhood to mercy, if they would voluntarily go down 
 into the grave and lay themselves upon their backs there. They did 
 so, and as soon as they were down the ladders were drawn up, and the 
 brethren altogether flung the dirt upon them. 
 
 Ph. Well, but did the Polander say nothing all the while ? Th. 
 No, not a word ; he was afraid if he had discovered himself he should 
 have made the third person. Ph. But can they justify this? Th. 
 Yes, they may, as often as the honour of the order is called in ques- 
 tion ; for he, as soon as he had made his escape, told what he had seen 
 in all the companies he came into, to the great scandal of the whole 
 seraphic order. And had it not been better now that this man had 
 been buried alive 1 Ph. It may be it had ; but omitting these nice- 
 ties, how comes it that when their patriarch has ordered them to go 
 barefoot, they now go commonly half-shod? Th. This injunction was
 
 THE SERAPHIC FUNERAL. 387 
 
 moderated for two reasons, the one for fear they should tread upon 
 money unawares, the other lest cold, or thorns, or snakes, or flint, or 
 any such thing should hurt them, since they are obliged to travel bare- 
 foot all the world over. But, however, that that might be, and the 
 dignity of the rule preserved inviolable, the slashes in the shoes shew 
 the naked foot, and so fulfil the rule by synedoche. 
 
 Ph. They value themselves much upon their professing evangelical 
 perfection, which, they say, consists in evangelical precepts; but about 
 those precepts the learned themselves have hot disputes. And in 
 every state of life there is room for evangelical perfection. But now 
 which do you reckon the most perfect of the gospel precepts 1 Th. I 
 believe that you find in the fifth of Matthew, which ends thus, " Love 
 your enemies, do good to them that hate you, and pray for those that 
 persecute you and revile you, that you may be the children of your 
 Father who is in heaven, who maketh His sun to shine upon the o-ood 
 and the evil, and sendeth rain upon the just and the unjust : therefore 
 be ye perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect." Ph. You have 
 answered very pertinently ; but then our Father is rich and munificent 
 to all people, asking nothing of any man. Th. And so are they 
 bountiful too ; but it is of spiritual things, of prayers, and good works, 
 in which they are very rich. Ph. I would there were among them 
 more examples of that evangelical charity that returns blessings for 
 cursings, and good for evil. 
 
 What is the meaning of that celebrated saying of pope Alexander, 
 It is safer to affront the most powerful prince than any one single 
 Franciscan or Dominican 1 Th. It is lawful to avenge an injury offered 
 to the dignity of the order, and what is done to the least of them is done 
 to the whole order. Ph. But why not rather the good that is done to 
 one is done to the whole order 1 And why shall not an injury done to 
 one Christian engage all Christendom in revenge ? Why did not 
 St. Paul, when he was beaten and stoned, call for succour against the 
 enemies of his apostolical character ] Now if, according to the sayin^ 
 of our Saviour, it be more blessed to give than receive, certainly he that 
 lives and teaches well, and gives of his own to those that are in want, 
 is much perfecter than he that is only on the receiving hand, or other- 
 wise St. Paul's boast of preaching the gospel gratis is vain and idle. It 
 seems to me to be the best proof of an evangelical disposition that 
 persons are not angry when reproached, and have a Christian charity 
 for those that ill deserve it. What great matter is it for a man to 
 relinquish something of his own, to live better upon that which is 
 another body's, and to reserve to himself a desire of revenge 1 The 
 world is full everywhere of this half-shod, rope-girt sort of people ; but 
 there is scarce one of them to be found that presses after that which 
 Christ calls perfection, and the apostles constantly practised. 
 
 Th. I am no stranger to the stories that wicked persons tell of 
 them; but, for my own part, wherever I see the sacred habit I think 
 the angels of God are by, and count that a happy house whose threshold 
 is most worn by their feet. Ph. And I am of opinion that women are 
 nowhere more fruitful than where these men are most familiar. But I 
 beg St. Francis's pardon, Theotimus, for being so much out of the way. 
 I really took their habit to be no more than a garment, nor one jot 
 better than a sailor's jacket or a shoemaker's coat, setting aside the
 
 388 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 holiness of the person that wears it. As the touch of our Saviour's 
 garment cured the woman with the bloody issue ; or else I could not 
 satisfy myself whether I was to thank the weaver or the tailor for the 
 virtue of it. Th. Without doubt, he that gives the form gives the 
 virtue. Ph. Well, then, for time to come I will live more merrily, 
 and not torment myself with the fear of hell, the tediousness of con- 
 fession, or the torment -of repentance. 
 
 CONCERNING FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Ephorinus and John. 
 
 Ep. I often wonder with myself what god nature consulted when 
 it intermixed certain secret amities and enmities in all things, for 
 which there is no probable reason to be given, unless for her own 
 entertainment, as we set cocks and quails a fighting to make us diver- 
 sion. Jo. I do not very well take in what you aim at. Ep. Well, 
 then, I will tell you in familiar instances. You know that serpents 
 generally are enemies to mankind. Jo. I know there is an old enmity 
 betwixt them and us, and an irreconcilable one, which will be so as long 
 as we remember that unlucky apple. 
 
 Ep. Do you know the lizard 1 Jo. Why not ? Ep. There are 
 very large green ones in Italy. This creature is by nature very friendly 
 to mankind, and an utter enemy to serpents. Jo. How does this 
 appear ? Ep. Which way soever a man turns his face they will gather 
 about him, turn their heads toward him, look stedfastly in his face, and 
 view him a long time. If he spits they will lick up his spittle ; nay, 
 I have seen them drink up a boy's piss. They suffer themselves to be 
 handled by boys, and will suffer themselves to be hurt by them with- 
 out doing them any harm ; and if you put them to your mouth, they 
 love to lick your spittle ; but if you catch them, and set them a fight- 
 ing together, it is wonderful to see how fierce they are, and will not 
 at all meddle with him that set them a fighting. If any one is walking 
 in the fields in a hollow way, by rustling the bushes sometimes in one 
 place and sometimes in another, they will make him take notice of 
 them. One that is not acquainted with it would think they were 
 serpents ; when you look at them they turn their heads to look at you 
 till you stand still ; if you go on they follow you ; and if a man be 
 doing anything, they will make him take notice of them. You would 
 think they were sporting, and mightily delighted with the sight of a 
 man. Jo. It is very admirable. 
 
 Ep. I saw once a very large and charming green lizard fighting 
 with a serpent at the entrance of a hole. I wondered at first what was 
 the meaning of it, for I could not see the serpent. An Italian told me 
 that the serpent was within ; by and by the lizard comes to us, as if it 
 were shewing us her wounds, and begging a remedy, and did not only 
 suffer herself to be touched, but as often as we stood still, she stood 
 still, viewing us very earnestly. The serpent had almost gnawed away 
 one of her sides, and of green had made it red. Jo. Had I been 
 there, I should have had a mind to avenge the lizard's quarrel. Ep. 
 But her enemy had hid herself in the bottom of the hole. But some
 
 CONCERNING FRIENDSHIP. 389 
 
 (]?.ys after, we had the pleasure to see her revenge herself. Jo. I am 
 gla.d a^ my heart ; but prithee, how was it ? 
 
 Ep. We happened to be walking near the same place, and the ser- 
 pent had been drinking at a spring hard by, for. it. was so violent hot 
 weather, that we were like to perish with thirst. A boy of about thirteen 
 years old, the man's son where we lodged, having fled' from Bononia for 
 fear of the pestilence, happened very luckily to come by with a hay- 
 rake upon his shoulder ; as soon as he saw the serpent he cries out. 
 Jo. Perhaps for fear. Ep. No ; for joy, rejoicing that he had found 
 the enemy. The boy strikes him with the rake, the serpent rolls him- 
 self up, but he laid on, till having broke his head, the serpent stretched 
 himself out, which they never do but when they are dying ; that is 
 the reason, that you have heard the apologist concerning a crab-fish, 
 who killing a serpent that was his enemy, when he saw him stretched 
 out, says thus, You ought to have gone so when you were alive. Jo. 
 That was bravely done ; but how then? Ep. The boy takes him upon 
 his rake, and hangs him upon a shrub over the cave, and in a few days' 
 time we saw the leaves tinctured with the blood of the serpent. The 
 husbandmen of that place related to us a wonderful strange thing for 
 a certain truth ; that the countrymen being weary sometimes, sleep in 
 that field, and have sometimes with them a pitcher of milk, which 
 serves both for victuals and drink ; that serpents are great lovers of 
 milk, and so it often happens that, they come in their way. But they 
 have a remedy for that. Jo. Pray, what is it? Ep. They daub the 
 brims of the pitcher with garlic, and the smell of that drives away the 
 serpents. 
 
 Jo. What does Horace mean, then, when he says garlic is a poison 
 more hurtful than henbane, when you say it is an antidote against 
 poison ? Ep. But heaj a little, I have something to tell you that is 
 worse than that. They often creep slily into the mouth of a man that 
 lies sleeping with his mouth open, and so wind themselves into his 
 stomach. Jo. And does not a man die immediately that has enter- 
 tained such a guest ? Ep. No, but lives most miserably ; nor is there 
 any remedy but to feed the man with milk, and other things that; the 
 serpent loves. Jo. What, no remedy against such a calamity ? Ep. 
 Yes, to eat abundance of gai'lic. Jo. No wonder, then, mowers love 
 garlic. Ep. But those that are tired with heat and labour have their 
 remedy another way ; for, when they are in danger of this misfortune, 
 very often a lizard, though but a little creature, saves a man. Jo. 
 How can he save him ? Ep. When he perceives a serpent lying per- 
 due in wait for the man, he runs about upon the man's neck and face, 
 and never gives over till he has waked the man by tickling him, and 
 clawing him gently with his nails ; and as soon as the man wakes, and 
 sees the lizard near him, he knows the enemy is somewhere not far off 
 in ambuscade, and looking about seizes him. Jo. The wonderful 
 power of nature ! 
 
 Ep. Now, there is no living creature that is so great an enemy to 
 man as a crocodile, who oftentimes devours men whole, and assists his 
 malice by an artifice ; having sucked in water, he makes the paths 
 slippery where they go to the Nile to draw water, and when they fall 
 down, there swallows them up. Nor can you be ignorant that dolphins 
 that live in a quite different element are great lovers of men. Jo. 
 
 2 A
 
 390 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 I have heard a very famous story of a boy who was beloved by one ; 
 and a more famous one than that, about Arion. Ep. Besides that, in 
 catching mullets the fishermen make use of the assistance of dolphins 
 instead of dogs, and when they have caught their prey, give them part 
 for their pains. Nay, more than that, they suffer themselves to be 
 chastised if they commit any fault in their Imnting them. They fre- 
 quently appear to mariners at sea, rejoicing and playing upon the top 
 of the waves ; sometimes swimming to the ship sides, and leaping over 
 the spread sails, they are so delighted with the conversation of men. 
 
 But again, as a dolphin is so very great a lover of men, so he is a 
 mortal enemy to the crocodile. He goes out of the sea, and dares to 
 venture into the River Nile, where the crocodile domineers, and attacks 
 the monstrous animal that is defended with teeth, claws, and scales, 
 more impenetrable than iron, when he himself is not very well framed 
 for biting neither, his mouth inclining to his breast. Yet, for all that, 
 he runs violently upon his enemy, and coming near him, diveth down 
 on a sudden, gets under his belly, and setting up his fins, pricks him in 
 the soft part of his belly, which is the only place he can be wounded in. 
 Jo. It is a wonderful thing that an animal should know his enemy, 
 though he never saw him before in his life ; and to know both why he 
 should be attacked, and where he can be hurt, and how to defend him- 
 self, when a man has not that faculty, who would not have sense enough 
 to be afraid of a basilisk, unless he were warned beforehand, and taught 
 by having received harm. 
 
 Ep. A horse, you know, is a creature devoted to the service of 
 man ; and there is a capital enmity between him and a bear, that is an 
 enemy to man. He knows his enemy, though he has never seen him 
 before, and presently prepares himself to engage him. Jo. What arms 
 does he fight with ? Ep. Rather with art than strength. He leaps 
 over the enemy, and strikes his hind legs on his head. The bear, on the 
 other hand, claws at the soft part of the horse's belly. The poison of an 
 asp is incurable to a man ; and the ichneumon makes war with the asp, 
 and is likewise a mortal enemy to the crocodile. An elephant is also 
 very well affected towards mankind ; for they very kindly shew the 
 way to a traveller that has happened to lose it, and they know and 
 love their teacher. There are likewise examples of an extraordinary 
 love toward mankind ; for one of them fell in love with an Egyptian 
 maid that sold garlands, and another loved Menander of Syracuse so 
 affectionately that he would not eat his victuals when he was out of 
 sight. 
 
 But not to mention any more of this nature, though there is 
 abundance related : When King Bacchus had a mind to exercise his 
 cruelty toward thirty persons, he determined to expose them, bound to 
 stakes, to so many elephants ; but they that were sent out among the 
 elephants to provoke them could never bring them to be executioners 
 of the king's cruelty. There is likewise a very destructive antipathy 
 between this creature so friendly to mankind, and the Indian dragons, 
 which are reported to be the largest that are, so that they oftentimes 
 both perish in the engagement. There is the like disagreement between 
 the eagle and the lesser dragon, although it is harmless towards men, 
 as it has been reported to have borne amorous affections towards certain 
 maidens. There is likewise a deadly enmity between the eagle and
 
 CONCERNING FRIENDSHIP. 391 
 
 the cymindis, or night-hawk. And also an elephant hates a mouse, 
 a troublesome creature to mankind, and will not touch a bit of 
 provender that it sees a mouse in, nor is there any manifest cause why 
 it hates him so. It is with good reason it hates the horse-leech, because 
 if it happens to sup it up in its drink it torments him miserably. 
 
 There is scarce any animal that is more friendly to man than a 
 dog is, nor a greater enemy to him than a wolf, so that a man loses his 
 speech if he sees him, and between these two there is the utmost dis- 
 cord ; as a wolf is the most bitter enemy to sheep, which have their 
 dependence merely upon the providence of mankind, whose care it is to 
 defend this harmless creature made for the nourishment of man. They 
 are all in arms against the wolf, as against the common enemy of man- 
 kind, especially the whole army of dogs ; so that it is grown into a 
 proverb, " I will give you no more quarter than a dog does to a wolf." 
 The sea-hare is an incui-able poison to mankind, if anybody taste it 
 unawares ; again, on the other hand, the touch of a man is death to that 
 hai-e. A panther is a very fierce beast towards a man, and yet is so 
 afraid of a hyaena that it does not dare to engage him ; and hence they 
 say, that if anybody carry a piece of hyeena skin about him, a panther 
 will not set upon him, there is such a sagacity in their natural sense ; 
 and they add also, that if you hang their two skins one over against 
 the other, the panther hair will fall off. 
 
 A spider is an animal that is one of a man's own family, but is 
 very destructive to a serpent; so that if he happen to see a serpent 
 sunning himself under a tree, it will spin down and fix his sting so 
 sharply in his forehead that the serpent will roll himself up, and die 
 at last. I have heard it told by those that have seen it, that there is 
 the like enmity between a toad and a spider ; but that the toad cures 
 himself when he is wounded by biting of a plantain leaf. I will tell 
 you an English story : I suppose you know it is the custom there to 
 strew the floor with green rushes; a certain monk had carried some 
 bundles of these rushes into his chamber, to strew them at his leisure, 
 and happening to take a nap after dinner a great toad creeps out and gets 
 upon his mouth while he lay asleep, fixing his feet, two upon his upper 
 and two upon his under lip. To draw off the toad was certain death, 
 to let him be there was worse than death itself. Some persuaded that 
 the monk should be carried and laid upon his back in the window 
 where a great spider had his web. It was done: the spider presently 
 seeing her enemy, spins down, darts her sting into the toad, and runs 
 up again to her web; the toad swelled, but was not got off. The 
 spider spins down a second time and gives him another wound; it 
 swells more, but still is alive. The spider repeats it a third time, then, 
 the toad takes off his feet and drops off dead. This piece of service 
 the spider did her landlord. Jo. You tell me a wonderful strange 
 story. 
 
 Ep. I will tell you now not what I have heard, but what I have 
 seen with my own eyes. An ape has an unmeasiirable aversion to a 
 tortoise; a certain person gave me a specimen of this when I was at 
 Rome. He set a tortoise upon the head of his servant, and put his hat 
 upon it, and then brought him to the monkey; the ape presently, with 
 much alacrity, leaps upon the lad's shoulders to catch lice in his head, 
 and taking off his hat spies the tortoise. It was amazing to see with
 
 S9 2 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 what horror he leaped away, how frightened he was, and with what 
 tearfulness he looked back to see whether the tortoise followed him or 
 not. There was likewise another specimen : the tortoise was tied to 
 the monkey's chain that he could not avoid seeing him. It is incred- 
 ible how much he was tormented; he was almost dead with fear : some- 
 times turning his back, he would endeavour to beat off the tortoise 
 with his hinder feet; at last, he pissed and shit towards him all that 
 was in his belly, and with the fright fell into such a fever that we 
 were forced to let him loose, and put him into a bath made of wine 
 and water. Jo. There was no reason that the monkey should be 
 afraid of the tortoise. 
 
 Ep. There may, perhaps, be something natural in it that we are 
 not acquainted with. Why a linnet should hate an ass is easily 
 accounted for; because he rubs himself against the thorns, and eats off 
 the flowers of the hedge where she makes her nest; and she is so 
 affrighted at the sight of an ass, that if she hear him bray, though it 
 be a great way off, she throws down her eggs, and her young ones fall 
 out of the nest for fear. But, however, she does not suffer him to pass, 
 unrevenged. Jo. How can a linnet do any hurt to an ass 1 ? Ep. 
 She pecks his foreback, that is galled with blows and burdens, and the 
 soft part of his nose. We may also guess at the cause why there is a 
 mutual grudge between the fox and the kite, because the ravenous 
 fowl is always lying in wait to catch the fox's whelps; and very likely, 
 on the other hand, that the fox does the same by her young ones, 
 which is the cause of the dissension between the rat and the heron. 
 And the same reason may be given for the enmity between the little 
 bird called a merlin and the fox : the merlin breaks the crow's eggs ; 
 the foxes persecute them, and they the foxes, pecking their whelps, 
 which the crows seeing, join their assistance as against a common 
 enemy. 
 
 But I cannot find out any reason why the swan and the eagle, 
 the raven and the green-bird, the rook and the owl, the eagle and the 
 wren should hate one another, unless it be that the latter hates the 
 eagle because he is called the king of birds. Why should an owl be 
 an enemy to small birds, a weasel to a crow, a turtle-dove to a candle- 
 fly, the ichneumon (Indian rats) wasps to the spiders called jrftalangice, 
 clucks to sea-gulls, the harpe to the buzzard-hawk, the wolf to the lion ? 
 And besides, why should rats have an aversion to a tree where ants 
 a: % e 1 Why is there so irreconcilable an enmity between a beetle and 
 an eagle? for the fable was framed from the nature of that animal. 
 Hence it is that near to Olynthus, in a certain place beetles will not 
 live if they are brought into it. And then, again, between creatures 
 that live in the water; what reason is there why the mullet and the 
 pike mutually hate one another, as the conger and the lamprey, that 
 gnaw one another's tails'? The lobster has such an hatred to the 
 polypus that if it chance to see it near him he dies with fear. 
 
 On the contrary, a certain hidden affection of goodwill has united 
 other creatures, as peacocks and doves, turtles and parrots, blackbirds 
 and thrushes, crows and herons, who mutually assist one another 
 sigainst the fox; the harpe and kite against the triorche, which is a 
 kind of hawk, and a common enemy to them. The musculus, a little 
 fibii swimming before the whale, is a guide to him; nor does it appear.
 
 . COXCEZXIXG FRIENDSHIP. 303 
 
 why he is thus serviceable to him. For that the crocodile opens his 
 jaws for the little wren is not to be attributed to friendship, when 
 either creature is led by its own advantage. The crocodile loves to 
 have his teeth cleansed, and therefore embraces the pleasure of having 
 them picked; and the wren seeks her food, feeding upon the fragments 
 of fish that stick in the other's teeth, and for the same reason a crow 
 rides upon a sow's back. There is such a stubborn enmity between 
 the anthus and segythus, that it is affirmed their blood will not 
 mingle one with the other; just as it is related of other birds, that 
 their feathers will consume away if they be mingled with those of 
 the eagle. 
 
 A hawk is a deadly enemy to the dovekind, but the little bird the 
 kestrel defends them, for a hawk is wonderfully afraid either to see or 
 hear that bird. Nor are the pigeons ignorant of this; wheresoever 
 the kestrel has her nest, they will never leave that place, relying upon 
 their defenders. Who can give a reason why a kestrel should be so 
 friendly to pigeons, or why a hawk should be so afraid of a kestrel ? 
 And as a very little animal is sometimes a safeguard to a great beast, 
 so, on the contrary, a very little one is often a destruction to a great 
 one. There is a little fish in the form of a scorpion, and of the size of 
 the fish quaquiner; he sometimes sticks his sting into the fin of 
 tunnies, that often are bigger than a dolphin, and puts them to that 
 torture that they sometimes leap into ships, and the same he does to 
 the mullet. What should be the reason that a lion, that is terrible to 
 all anim-als, should be struck with fear at hearing a cock crow ? 
 
 Jo. That I may not be altogether scot-free in this entertainment, 
 I will tell you what I saw with my own eyes in the house of that 
 famous Englishman Sir Thomas More : He kept in his house a large 
 monkey, who, that he might the sooner get well of a wound he had 
 received, was suffered to go loose. At the end of the garden there 
 were rabbits kept in hutches, and a weasel used to watch them very 
 narrowly. The monkey sitting aloof off quietly, as though uncon- 
 cerned, observed all his motions till he saw the rabbits were in no 
 danger from him. But perceiving the weasel had lodsened a board in 
 the back part of the hutch, and that now they were in danger to be 
 attacked in the rear, and so be made a prey to their enemy, the ape 
 runs, jumps up on the plank and put it into its former place with as 
 much dexterity as any man could have done ; from whence it is plain 
 that apes are great lovers of this animal. So the coneys, not knowing 
 their own danger, that used to kiss their enemy through the grate, 
 were preserved by the monkey. Apes are mightily delighted with all 
 young whelps, and love to hug them and carry them about in their 
 arms. Ep. But that good-natured monkey did really deserve to be. 
 made amends for his kindness. Jo. And he was too. Ep. How ? 
 Jo. He found there a piece of bread that had, I suppose, been thrown 
 there by the children, which he took up and ate. 
 
 Ep. But it seems most admirable to me that this kind of sympathy 
 and antipathy, as the Greeks call a natural affection of friendship and 
 enmity, should be found even in things that have neither life nor 
 sense. I omit to mention the ash tree, the very shadow of which a 
 serpent cannot endure; so that how far soever it spreads, if you make 
 a circle of fire of the same bigness, the serpent will sooner go iuto
 
 394 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. . 
 
 the fire than into the shadow of the tree ; for there are examples 
 innumerable of this kind. Moths included in parchment are trans- 
 formed into butterflies by some secret workmanship of nature, though 
 they seem as if they were dead, and stir not if you touch them, xmless 
 a spider creep near them; then only they appear to be alive. They 
 cannot feel the touch of a man's finger; but they feel the feet of 
 a very small animal crawling. Jo. An insect, before it is alive, can 
 be sensible of his capital enemy. That which is related concerning 
 persons mvirdered is very like this, to whom if other persons approach, 
 there is no alteration; but if he that killed them comes nigh, presently 
 blood flows fresh out of the wound; and they say that by this token 
 the author of a murder has been often discovered. 
 
 Ep. What you have heard as to that matter is no fiction. But, 
 not to mention democritical stories, do we not find by experience that 
 there is a mighty disagreement between an oak and an olive tree, that 
 they will both die if they be planted into the ground of each other 1 ? 
 And that an oak is so opposite to a walnut tree that it will die though 
 it be set at a good distance from it; and, indeed, a walnut tree is 
 hurtful to most sorts of plants and trees. Again, though a vine will 
 twine its sprigs round all other things else, yet it shuns a colewort; 
 and, as though it were sensible of it, turns itself another way, as if 
 some person gave the vine notice that his enemy was near at hand. 
 The juice of cole worts is a thing contrary to, wine, and they are 
 used to be eaten against drunkenness. But the colewort has its enemy 
 too ; for if it be set near the herb called sow-bread, or wild marjoram, 
 it will wither presently. There is the like disposition between hemlock 
 and wine; as hemlock is poison to a man, so is wine to hemlock. What 
 secret commerce is there between the lily and the garlic, that growing 
 near to one another they seem as it were mutually to congratulate 
 one another ? The garlic is the stronger, but the lily flower smells the 
 sweeter. Why should I speak of the marriage of trees one "with 
 another, the females being barren unless the male grows near them ? 
 
 Oil will only mix with chalk, and both of them have an antipathy 
 to water. Pitch attracts oil, though they are both fat things. All 
 things but gold swim in quicksilver, and that only draws it to itself 
 and embraces it. What sense of nature is that which seems to be in a 
 diamond that will resist everything that is hard, but grow soft in a 
 goat's blood 1 Nay, you may see an antipathy even in poisons them- 
 selves. A scorpion, if it chance to creep through henbane, grows pale 
 and benumbed. And the herb cerastis is so noxious to a scorpion, that 
 he that handles the seed of it may take a scorpion into his hand. 
 There are abundance of things of this kind, b.ut the consideration of 
 them more properly belongs to physicians. 
 
 What a mighty power of either sympathy or antipathy is there 
 between the steel and the loadstone, that a matter heavy by nature 
 should run to and cleave to a stone, as though it kissed it, and with- 
 out touching it should fly backward 1 And as to water, which readily 
 mingles with all things, but most of all with itself, yet there are some 
 waters which, as though they hated one another, will not mix ; as for 
 instance, the river flowing into the Lake Fucinus runs over it, as Addua 
 does to Larius, as Ticinus to Verbanus, Mincius to Benacus, Ollius to 
 Rhodanus to Lemanus : some of which for many miles only
 
 CONCERNING FRIENDSHIP. 395 
 
 carry their hospitable streams through them, and go put just as much 
 and no more than they came in. The River Tigris flows into the Lake 
 Arethusa, and is carried through it like a passenger, that neither the 
 colour, the fish, nor the nature of the water intermixes one with the 
 other. And besides, whereas other rivers generally seem as it were in 
 haste to flow into the sea, yet some rivers, as though they had an 
 aversion to it, before they come at it hide themselves in the earth. 
 There is something of a like nature to be obs.erved concerning the 
 winds : the south wind is pestilential to mankind ; the north wind, on 
 the contrary, healthful; one collects the clouds, the other scatters them. 
 And if we may believe astrologers, there is a certain sympathy 
 and antipathy in the very stars themselves ; some are friendly to man- 
 kind, and others hurtful ; and some are helpful to a man against the 
 influences of the noxious ones : so that there is nothing in nature but 
 by these sympathies and antipathies brings a man injuries and remedies. 
 Jo. And perhaps you may find something aboye the skies too ; for if 
 we believe the magi, there are two genii, a good and a bad, that 
 attend every man. Ep. I think it is very well, and enough for us 
 that we are got so far as heaven, without passing over the limits of it. 
 But let us return to oxen and horses. Jo. In truth, you make a very 
 fine transition. Ep. It is the more admirable to us that in the same 
 species of animals we find ma.nifest footsteps of sympathy and antipathy, 
 no cause of it appearing : for so your horse- coursers and herdmen 
 endeavour to persuade us, that in the same pastures and the same 
 stable one horse shall desire to have one horse nigh him, and will not 
 endure another. Indeed, I am of opinion that there is the like affec- 
 tion in all kind of living creatures, besides the favour of sex, but is in 
 no kind so evident as it is in man. For what Catullus expresses of his 
 Volusius concerning his afiectiqn of inind is manifest in a great many 
 others : 
 
 I love thee not, "Volusius ; and if thou askest why ? | 
 I love thee not, Volusius, is all I can reply. 
 
 But in adult persons, a person may conjectxire another cause. In chil- 
 dren, that are only led by the sense of nature, what can it be that makes 
 a child love one so dearly, and have such an aversion to another ] I 
 myself, when I was a boy not eight years of age, happened to fall into 
 the acquaintance of one of my own age, or perhaps a year older, of so 
 vain a humour that upon every occasion he would invent, without 
 study, most monstrous lies. If he met a woman, he would say to me, 
 Do yoii see that woman I I answered, Yes, I see her. Why, says he, I 
 have lain with her ten times. If we went over a narrow bridge nigh a 
 mill, when he perceived me shocked at the sight of the water looking 
 black by reason of the depth, he would say, I fell into this place once ; 
 what say you to that ? and there I found the dead body of a man, 
 with a purse tied about him, and three rings in it. And thus he would 
 do continually. And though it is common for others to be delighted 
 with such romances as these, I abhorred him more than a viper, and 
 knew no reason for it, lout only a certain hidden instinct in nature. 
 
 Nor was this only temporary ; but to this very day I so naturally 
 hate those vain lying persons, that at the very sight of them I perceive 
 my whole constitution to be shocked. Homer" takes notice of something
 
 393 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 of the like nature in Achilles, when he says he hated lies as much as 
 the gates of hell. But though I was born with this natural disposition, 
 yet contrary to it I seem to have been born to have to do with liars 
 and impostors through the whole course of my life. Jo. But I do not 
 take in what this tends to. Ep. I will tell you in a few words : there 
 are some that fetch their felicity from magical arts, others from the stars. 
 I think there is no surer way of coming at it, than if every one would 
 abstain from that sort of life that he has a natural aversion to, and be- 
 take himself to that he has a natural inclination to, always excluding 
 those things that are dishonest ; and that he would withdraw himself 
 from the conversation of those whose disposition he perceives does not 
 agree with his own, and join himself with such as he finds he has a 
 natural propensity to. Jo. If that were done there would be friend- 
 ship between some few. Ep. Christian charity extends itself to all ; 
 but familiarity is to be contracted with but few : and he that does no 
 hurt to anybody, though he be bad, and would rejoice if he would grow 
 better, in my opinion, loves all as becomes a Christian to do. 
 
 CONCERNING CERTAIN PROBLEMS. 
 
 Curio and AlpMus. 
 
 'Cu. I should be glad to learn something of you who are well 
 skilled in many things, if it would not be troublesome to you to inform 
 me. Al. Well, Curio, go on then, propose what questions you have a 
 mind to,' and be in fact what you are in name. Cu. I shall not take 
 it amiss to be called Curio, so you do not put that monosyllable sus'(& 
 sow) to it, that is hateful both to Venus and Minerva, and makes it 
 Curiosus. Al. Speak out then. Cu. I have a mighty mind to know 
 what we call heavy and light. Al. I may as well ask you what hot 
 and cold is too : you should rather put that question to a porter than 
 to me; or rather to an ass, who will tell you when the burden is heavy 
 by hanging his ears. Cu. I expect a solution, not such a one as an 
 ass can give, but such as becomes a philosopher, an Alpheus himself. 
 Al. Heavy is that which naturally tends downwards, and light that 
 which mounts upwards. Cu. How comes it about then that the 
 antipodes, who are under us, do not fall into the sky that is under 
 them ? Al. They may as well wonder why you do not fall into the 
 heaven that is not under you but over you ; for the heaven is above 
 all that are comprehended within it: nor are the antipodes under you 
 any more than you above them. Nay, you might rather wonder why 
 the rocks that the earth of the a'ntipodes sustains do not break and 
 fall into heaven. 
 
 Cu. What then is the natural centre of heavy bodies ? and, on the 
 other hand, of light bodies'? Al. All heavy things are by a natural 
 motion carried towards the earth, and light things towards heaven : I 
 do not speak of a violent or animal motion. Gu. Why, is there then 
 a motion that is called an animal one ? Al. Yes, there is. 'Cu. What 
 is it ? Al. It is that which is carried according to the four situations 
 of the body forward, backward, to the right and left, and in a circle ; 
 and in the beginning and end is swifter, and slowest in the middle ; for
 
 CONCERNING CERTAIN PROBLEMS. 397 
 
 in the beginning vigour adds alacrity, and near the end the hope of 
 coming to what the animal aims afc. Cu. I cannot tell how it is with 
 other animals ; but I have got a maid-servant who is weary before she 
 begins, and tired before she ends. But return to what you begun. 
 
 Al. I say, heavy things are carried downward by a natural motion; 
 and by how much the heavier anything is, by so much a swifter 
 motion it is carried towards the earth, and by how much the lighter it 
 is, by so much the swifter motion it is carried toward heaven. It 
 is quite otherwise in a violent motion, which, being swift at first, 
 grows slower by degrees; and contrary in a natural motion, as an arrow 
 shot into the air, and a stone falling from on high. Cu. I used to 
 think that men ran about upon the globe of the earth like little ants on 
 a great ball; they stick upon it everywhere, and none fall off. Al. 
 That is to be attributed to the ruggedness of the globe, and a certain 
 roughness in the feet of the ants, which, indeed, is common to all 
 insects in a manner ; and lastly, to the lightness of their bodies. If 
 you do not believe me, make a glass globe very smooth and sleek; you 
 will see that only those ants do not fall that are at the upper part of 
 it. Cu. If any god should bore through the centre of the earth, quite 
 down to the antipodes, in a perpendicular line, and as cosmographers 
 use to represent the situation of the globe of the earth, and a stone 
 were let fall into it, whither would it go? Al. To the centre of the 
 earth ; there all heavy bodies rest. Cu. What if the antipodes 
 should let fall a stone on their side 1 Al. Then one stone would meet 
 the other about the centre, and stop there. 
 
 Cu. But hark you, if what you said just now be true, that a 
 natural motion by its progress grew more and more strong, if nothing 
 hindered a stone or lead cast into the hole, by reason of the vehemence 
 of its motion it would pass beyond the centre, and having got beyond the 
 centre, the motion would grow more violent. Al. Lead would never 
 come to the centre unless it were melted ; but a stone, if it did pass 
 the centre with so violent a motion, would go at first more heavily and 
 return to the centre again, just as a stone thrown up into the air 
 returns again to the earth. Cu. But returning back again by its 
 natural motion, and again recovering force, it would go beyond the 
 centre, and so the stone would never rest. Al. It would lie still at 
 last by running beyond, and then running back again till it came to an 
 equilibrium. Cu. But if there be no vaciium in nature, then that 
 hole must be full of air. Al. Suppose it to be so. 'Cu. Then a body 
 that is by nature heavy will hang in the air. Al. "Why not ? as steel 
 does, being borne up by the loadstone. What wonder is it that one 
 stone hang in the very middle of the air, when the whole earth laden 
 with so many rocks hangs after the same manner ? 
 
 Cu. But where is the centre of the earth? AL Where is the 
 centre of a circle ? Cu. That is a point that is indivisible ; if the 
 centre of the earth be so small, whosoever bores through the centre 
 takes it away, and then heavy bodies have nowhere to tend to. Al. 
 Xow you talk idly enough. Cu. Pray, do not be angry ; what I say 
 is for the sake of information. If any one should bore through the 
 globe of the earth, and not through the centre itself, as suppose one 
 hundred furlongs aside of it, where would a stone fall then? Al. It 
 would not pass straight through the hole. It would, indeed, go
 
 398 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 straight, but to the centre ; and so when it came to the middle it 
 would rest in the earth on the left hand, if the centre were at the 
 left hand. 
 
 Cu. But what is H that makes a body heavy or light ? Al. That 
 is a question fit for God to answer, why He made fire the lightest of 
 all things, and air next to that ; the earth the heaviest, and water next 
 to that. Cu. Why, then, do watery clouds hang in a lofty air? Al. 
 Because by the attraction of the sun they conceive a fiery nature, as 
 smoke being forced by a violent motion out of green wood. Cu. Why, 
 then, do they sometimes fall with such a weight that they level moun- 
 tains into, a plain ? Al. Concretion and density add a weight to 
 them, and they may be imagined so to be borne up by the air under 
 them, as a thin plate of iron is borne up upon the surface of the water. 
 Cu, Do you think, then, that whatsoever has most of a fiery quality in 
 it is lightest, and that which has most of an earthy quality heaviest 1 
 Al. You are right. Cu. But air is not all of a lightness, nor earth all 
 of a heaviness, and it is the same as to water. Al. Nor is that 
 strange, since those things you have mentioned are not pure elements, 
 but tempered of various elements ; so that it is probable that earth is 
 the lightest that has the most fire or air mixed with it, and that 
 water heaviest that has earth, which is heaviest, mixed with it, as, I 
 think, sea-water is, and that whereof salt is made. And, in like manner, 
 that air that is nearest to water or earth is the heaviest, or, at least, 
 it is certainly not so light as that which is farther from the earth. 
 
 Cu. Which has most of an earthy quality in it, a stone or lead 1 
 Al. A. stone: Cu. And yet lead is heavier than a stone in proportion. 
 A I. (The density is the cause.) That proceeds from its solidity ; for a 
 stone is more porous, and so contains more air in it than lead does. 
 Hence it is that we see some sort of dry earth, which if you cast into 
 water will swim and not sink; so we see whole fields floating, being 
 borne up by hollow roots of reeds and other marshy herbs, interwoven 
 one with another. Gu. Perhaps it is from this cause that a pumice- 
 stone is so light. Al. Because it is full of pores, and very much burnt 
 in the fire ; they are thrown out of burning places. Cu. Whence is 
 it that cork is so light. Al. That has been answered already ; the 
 spongy hollowness of it is the cause. 
 
 Cu. Which is heaviest, lead or gold 1 Al. Gold, in my opinion. 
 Cu. But yet gold seems to have more of a fiery nature than lead. Al. 
 What, because, as Pindar says, it shines by night like fire 1 Cu. Yes. 
 Al. But gold has the greater solidity. Cu. How is that found 1 Al. 
 Goldsmiths will tell you that neither silver, lead, nor copper, nor any 
 such kind of metal, can be hammered out so thin as gold can. And, 
 for the same reason, philosophers gather that there is nothing more 
 liquid than honey and oil ; that if any one spread this, or daub anything 
 with it, it will spread the widest and be longest in drying of anything. 
 
 Cu. But which is heaviest, oil or water 1 ? Al. If you speak 
 of linseed-oil, I take oil to be the heaviest. Cu. Why, then, does 
 oil swim upon water ? Al. The lightness is not the cause, but 
 the fiery nature of oil, and a peculiar natiire in all fat things that is 
 contrary to water; as it is in the herb that is called "A/3a7TTpc- Cu. 
 Why, then, does not iron swim when it is red hot 1 Al. Because the 
 heat is not a natural one, and therefore the sooner penetrates the
 
 CONCERNING CERTAIN PROBLEMS. 399 
 
 water, because the intenseness of the heat dispels the resisting water ; 
 so an iron wedge sinks sooner to the bottom than a thin plate. Cu. 
 Which is the most unbearable, hot iron or cold 1 ? Al. Hot. Cu. 
 Then it is heavier. Al. It is, if it be better to carry burning straw 
 in your hand than a cold flint. Cu. What is the cause that one wood 
 is heavier or lighter than another ? Al. The solidity or hollownes.s. 
 Cu. But I knew one of the King of England's household who, when we 
 were at table, shewed us some wood which, he said, was the wood of an 
 aloes tree, so solid that it seemed to be a stone, and so light, if you poised 
 it in your hand, that it seemed a reed ; being put into wine (for he was 
 of opinion that so it would expel poison), it presently sunk to the 
 bottom as swiftly as lead would. 
 
 Al. Neither solidity nor hollowness is always the cause, but a 
 peculiar occult agreement between things, which is the cause that some 
 things embrace or shun other things of a cognate or different quality, 
 as a loadstone attracts steel, and a vine avoids a colewort ; and flame 
 will reach toward naphtha set in a lower place, although it be at some 
 distance, and yet naphtha is naturally heavy and flame light. Cu. All 
 sorts of money swim in quicksilver, and gold only sinks and is inclosed 
 in it, yet quicksilver is very liquid. Al. I can give no sohition to 
 that, but a peculiar cognate quality ; and quicksilver was made for the 
 refinement of gold. Cu. Why does the River Arethusa run under the 
 Sicanian Sea, and not rather swim upon it, when you say that sea- 
 water is heavier than river-water? Al. A natural disagreement is the 
 cause, but it is a secret one. Cu. Why do swans swim, when men 
 going into the same water sink? Al. The cause is not only the 
 hollowness and lightness of their feathers, but also a dry ness that the 
 water shuns. And hence it comes to pass that if you put water or wine 
 into a cloth or linen that is very dry, it contracts itself into a globular 
 form; but p\it it into a wet one, it spreads itself presently. And, in 
 like manner, if you pour any liquid thing into a dry cup, or whose 
 brims are greased with fat, and pour a little more than the cup will 
 hold, the liquor presently gathers itself into a round before it will run 
 over the brim. 
 
 Cu. Why cannot ships carry so much in rivers as in the sea ? 
 A I. Because river-water is of a thinner consistence ; and for the same 
 reason birds poise themselves with more ease in a thick air than in a 
 thin one. Cu. Why does not the fish called flota sink? Al. Because 
 its skin being dried in the sun is made lighter, and resists moisture. 
 Cu. Why does iron drawn out into a large plate swim, but being con- 
 tracted in a narrow compass sink ? Al. It is dryness is the cause in 
 part, and partly because there gets in an air between the plate and the 
 water. Cu. Which is the heaviest, wine or water ? AL I believe 
 wine will not give place to water. Cu. How comes it about, then, that 
 they that buy wine of the vintners sometimes find water in the bottom 
 of the cask ? Al. Because there is in wine a certain fat substance like 
 oil that resists the water; the reason is plain, by how much richer the 
 wine is, so much the more difficiiltly does it mingle with water; and 
 being set on fire, it burns the fiercer. Cu. What is the reason that no 
 living creature will sink in the Lake Asphaltus ? Al. I cannot give a 
 solution to all the miracles in nature ; nature has some arcana that she 
 will have us admire but not understand.
 
 400 FAMILlAn COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Cu. Why is a lean roan heavier than a fat man, supposing them 
 both of an equal size? AL Because bones are more solid than flesh, 
 and therefore the more weighty. Cu. Why is the same man heavier when 
 he is fasting than after lie has ate his dinner, and so added a weight to 
 his body. AL Because by meat and drink the spiiits are increased, 
 and they add a lightness to the body ; and hence it is that a merry 
 man is heavier than a sorrowful one, and a dead man than a living one. 
 Cu. But how is it that the same man can make himself heavier or 
 lighter when he pleases? Al. By holding, in his breath he makes 
 himself lighter, and by breathing it out heavier ; so a bladder when 
 blown, and close tied, swims ; but when it is burst, sinks. But when 
 will Curio have done asking questions ? 
 
 "Cu. I will leave off if you will tell me but a few things more ? Is 
 the heaven heavy or light? Al. I cannot tell whether it be light or 
 no, but I am sure it cannot be heavy, it being of the nature of fire. 
 Cu. What then does the old proverb mean, What if the sky should 
 fall? Al. Because the ignorant ancients, following Homer, believed 
 the heaven to be made of iron ; but Homer called it iron from the 
 similitude of colour, not of weight, as we call that ashy that is of the 
 colour of ashes. Cu. Is there any colour in the sky? Al. There is 
 not really any colour in it; but it appears so to us, because of the air 
 and water that is betwixt us and it ; as the sun sometimes appears to 
 us to be red, sometimes yellow, sometimes white, when of itself it 
 admits of no such mutations. In like manner the colours of the rain- 
 bow are not in the sky but in the moist air. 
 
 Cu. But to make an end ; you confess there is nothing higher than 
 the heaven, which way soever it covers the orb of the earth* Al. I do 
 confess so. Cu. And nothing deeper than the centre of the earth. A L 
 No. Cu. Of all things in the world what is the heaviest? Al. Gold, in 
 my opinion. [Cu. I differ very much from you in this point. Al. Why, 
 do you know of anything that is heavier than gold ? Cu. Yes, I do, 
 and by many degrees too. Al. Then now do you take your turn and 
 teach me ; for I profess I do not know anything that is. Cu. Must 
 not that needs be the heaviest thing in the world that forced down 
 the fiery spirits from the very vortex of heaven to the bottom of hell ? 
 and that (you know) is placed in the centre of the earth. Al. I confess 
 it ; but what is that? Cu. Sin, which plunges the souls of men> that 
 Virgil calls sparks of pure ether, to the same place. Al. If you have 
 a mind to pass to that sort of philosophy, I confess both gold and lead 
 to be as light as feathers compared to it. Cu. How then can they 
 that are laden with this sort of luggage mount up to heaven? Al. In 
 truth I cannot tell. Cu. They that prepare themselves for running 
 or leaping do not only lay aside all heavy things, but make themselves 
 light by holding in their breath; when as to the race and leap that we 
 take to heaven we do not endeavour to throw aside that which is 
 heavier than stone or lead. Al. Ay, but we should do it if we had 
 but one grain of sound judgment.
 
 THE EPICUREAN. 401 
 
 THE EPICUREAN. 
 
 Hedonius and Spudceus. 
 
 He. What is my Spiidseus hunting after, he is so intent upon his 
 book, muttering I know 2iot what to himself? Sp. Hedonius, I was 
 indeed hunting, but that was all, for I can catch nothing. He. What 
 book is that in your bosom 1 Sp. Tully's " Dialogues of the Ends of 
 Good Things." lie. But is it not better to inquire after the beginning 
 of them than the end ? Sp. Mark Tully calls a perfect good the end 
 of good, such as whosoever obtains can desire nothing more. He. It 
 is, indeed, a very eloquent and learned piece ; but have you done any- 
 thing to the purpose as to the attainment of the knowledge of the truth 1 
 Sp. Indeed I seem to have got this good by it, that I am more in 
 uncertainty as to the ends of good than I was before. It is commonly 
 the case of farmers to be at uncertainty as to the ends of lands. He. 
 I wonder very much that there is so great a disagreement in the 
 opinions of so many great men concerning so great a matter. Sp. 
 No wonder at all, for ei-ror is very fertile, but ti'uth simple ; and they 
 being ignorant of the head and fountain of the whole affair, they all 
 make absurd and doting guesses. But which opinion do you think 
 comes neai-est to the truth? 
 
 He. When I meet with M. Tully opposing them, I like none of 
 them ; again, when I find him. defending them, I have not a word 
 to say against it. But to me the Stoics seem to be the least out of the 
 way, and next to them the Peripatetics. I like no sect so well as the 
 Epicureans. Sp. There is no sect amongst them all that is so much 
 condemned by a universal consent. He. Let us set prejudice aside, 
 and let Epicurus be what he willj let us consider the thing in itself. 
 He places the happiness of man in pleasure, and judges that life to be 
 most blessed that has most pleasure and least pain. Sp. He does so. 
 He. What can be more divine than this sentence? Sp. Everybody 
 cries out, this is the saying of a brute, rather than of a man. He. I 
 know they do, but they are mistaken in the names of things. If we 
 will speak the truth none are greater Epicureans than those Christians 
 that live a pious life. Sp. They come nearer to it than the Cynics; 
 for they make their bodies lean with fasting, bewail their own weak- 
 nesses, either are poor or else make themselves so by their liberality to 
 the poor, are oppressed by the powerful, and derided by the populace. 
 And if pleasure be that which makes happy, I think this kind of life 
 is as distant from pleasure as can well be. 
 
 He. Will you admit of Plautus for an author? Sp. Yes, if he 
 says that which is right. He. Then I will present you with one 
 sentence of a naughty servant, that has more wisdom in it than all the 
 paradoxes of the Stoics. Sp. Let me hear it. He. Nihil est miserius 
 fjUam animus sibi tnali conscius, nothing can be more wretched than a 
 guilty conscience. Sp. I approve the saying; but what do you infer 
 from it? He. If nothing be more wretched than a guilty conscience, 
 it follows of consequence that nothing is more happy than a clear 
 conscience. Sp. A very good inference; but in what part of the 
 world will you find a conscience that is clear from all that is evil 'I
 
 402 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 He. I call that evil that breaks the friendship between God and man. 
 Sp. But I believe there are very few that are clear of evil of this kind. 
 He. And I take those that are cleansed to be pure ; such as by the 
 lather of tears, and soap of repentance, and fire of charity have washed 
 away their pollutions. The sins of such persons are not only not 
 hurtful to them, but oftentimes turn to a greater good. Sp. I know 
 what soap and suds is; but I never heard that pollutions were purged 
 away by fire. He. But if you go to the refiner's shop you will see 
 gold purged by fire ; and there is a certain sort of flax which, being 
 put into the fire, is not burnt, but shines brighter, and is as clear as 
 water, and therefore is called living flax. 
 
 Sp. In truth, thou bringest us a paradox that is more paradoxical 
 than all the paradoxes of the Stoics. Do not they live a pleasant life 
 of whom Christ has said, " Blessed are they that mourn?" He. They 
 seem to mourn to men of the world, but in reality they live deliciously, 
 and, as the old saying is, .being anointed with honey, live sweetly ; so 
 that, compared to them, Sardanapalus, Philoxenus. Apicius, or the 
 most noted voluptuary lived but a miserable life. Sp. What you say 
 is new, but it is scarce credible. He. Do but once make a trial, and 
 you will say over and over that what I say is true. I do not question 
 but I can make you sensible that it is not incredible. Sp. Go about 
 it then. He. I will, if you will grant me something by way of pre- 
 liminary. Sp. I will, if what you require be just. He. If you 
 grant them me I will return them with interest. I suppose you will 
 allow that there is a difference between the soul and the body ? Sp> 
 There is so, and as much as between heaven and earth, immortal and 
 mortal. He. And again, that false goods are not to be taken for true 
 goods? Sp. No more than the shadows are to be taken for the 
 bodies themselves, or the delusions of magicians, or the fancies of 
 dreams are to be accounted for truth. 
 
 He. So far you have answered me well ; I suppose you will likewise 
 grant me this, that there can be no real pleasure but in a sound mind. 
 Sp. Why not? A person cannot take pleasure in the sun if his eyes are 
 sore, or relish wine in a fever. He. Nor can I think Epicurus himself 
 would embrace a pleasure that has more pain in it, and of longer con- 
 tinuance than the pleasure itself. Sp> In my opinion, neither he nor 
 anybody else that has any sense would. He. I will presume you will 
 grant me this, that God himself is the chiefest good, than which nothing 
 is more glorious, more lovely, and more pleasant, Sp. Nobody would 
 deny that but one that is more brutish than a Cyclops* But what 
 then ? He. Well, then, now yo\i have granted me that nobody lives 
 more pleasantly than they that live piously > and nobody more miser- 
 ably and afflictedly than they that live wickedly. Sp. Then I granted 
 you more than I was aware of. He. But> as Plato says, that which 
 lias been fairly granted ought not to be denied. Sp. Well, go on. 
 He. A little puppy that is kept for pleasure is fed daintily, lies softly, 
 plays and wantons continually; does not she live pleasantly then? 
 Sp. Yes. He. Would you wish for such a life then ? Sp. No, by no 
 means, unless I should wish to be a dog. 
 
 He. Then you confess that true pleasures proceed from the mind 
 as from a fountain. Sp. It is plain they do. He. So great is the 
 force of the mind that it often takes away the sense of outward pain,
 
 THE EPICUREAN. 403 
 
 and sometimes makes what of itself is bitter to be sweet. Sp. We 
 see that daily in those who are in love, who take a pleasure in watching 
 and waiting all a cold winter's night at their mistress's door. He. 
 Well, then, consider with yourself, if human love have such a power, 
 which bulls and dogs have as well as we, how much more prevalent 
 will that heavenly love be that proceeds from the spirit of Christ, the 
 power of which is so great that it can render death amiable, than which 
 there is nothing in the world more terrible] 
 
 Sp. I cannot tell what others feel within themselves, but I think 
 that they want a great many pleasures that adhere to true piety. He. 
 What pleasures do they go without 1 Sp. They do not get riches, 
 attain honours, junket, dance, sing, perfume themselves, laugh and 
 play. He. You should not have mentioned riches and honours in 
 this case, for they do not make a life pleasant, but rather full of cares 
 and anxiety. Let us consider the other things, which are what they 
 hunt after that have a desire to live a pleasant life. Do you not see 
 every day drunkards, fools, and madmen laughing and dancing 1 Sp. 
 I do so. He. Do you think that they live pleasantly? Sp. I would 
 wish that pleasure to those I hate. He. Why so? Sp. Because their 
 mind is out of order. He. Then had you rather fast and study than 
 live after that manner 1 Sp. Nay, I had rather dig. He. There is 
 no difference between a rich man and a drunken man, saving that sleep 
 will cure a drunken man, but doctors cannot cure a covetous man. A 
 natural fool differs from a brute only in the form of his body; but they 
 are less miserable whom nature has made brutes, than they that have 
 made themselves so by their beastly lusts. Sp. I confess that. 
 
 He. Do you think that they are sober or in their right mind who, 
 for the sake of delusions and shadows of pleasure, neglect the true 
 pleasures of the mind, and bring upon themselves real torments? 
 Sp. They do not seem to be so. He. Such persons are not drunk 
 with wine, but with love, with anger, with avarice, with ambition and 
 other filthy lusts, which is a drunkenness more dangerous than to be 
 drunk with wine. Cyrus, in the comedy, after he had slept away his 
 debauch spoke sober things, but a mind drunk with vicious lust, how 
 hardly does that come to itself? How many years does love, anger, 
 hatred, lust, luxury, and ambition torment the mind? How many do 
 we see that never wake out of the sleep of drunkenness, ambition, 
 avarice, lust, and luxury, and repent of them even from their youth to 
 decrepit old age ? Sp. I know a great many such as those. He. 
 You have granted likewise that persons should not take false pleasures 
 for true ones. Sp. I have so, and I shall not eat my words. He. 
 That is no true pleasure that does not spring from true causes. Sp. 
 I own that. 
 
 He. Then they are no true pleasures that mankind generally 
 pursue, right or wrong. Sp. I do not think they are. He. If they 
 were true pleasures they would only happen to good men, and render 
 them happy whose share they fall to. But as to pleasure, can that be 
 thought to be true that proceeds not from true good, but from the 
 false shadows of good ? Sp. By no means. He. But pleasure is that 
 which makes us live sweetly. Sp. It does so. He. Well, then, none 
 lives truly pleasantly but he that lives piously i. e., that enjoys true 
 good. It is only piety that gains the favour of God, the fountain of
 
 4ft t FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 the chiefest good, that makes a man happy. Sp. I am almost con- 
 vinced. He. Now do but mind how vastly wide they are from 
 pleasure who, as is commonly accounted, follow nothing but pleasures. 
 First of all, their minds are polluted and vitiated with the leaven of 
 lusts, that if anything that is pleasant happens, it presently grows 
 bitter; for when a fountain is muddy the stream will not run clear. 
 Again, that pleasure ia no true pleasure that is received with a dis^ 
 ordered mind, for there is nothing more pleasant to an angry man 
 than revenge; but that pleasure is turned into pain as soon as the 
 disease has forsaken the mind. Sp. I do not deny that. 
 
 He. But lastly, these pleasures proceed from false goods, whence 
 it follows that they are but cheats; for what would you say if you saw 
 a man under a delusion by magical arts, to drink, dance, clap his 
 hands, when there was nothing really there that he thought he saw 1 
 Sp. I should say he was- both mad and miserable. He. I was once 
 present at such a spectacle; there was a certain priest skilled in magic. 
 Sp. He did not learn that from the Holy Scriptures. He. From the 
 most unholy ones. Some ladies of the court paid a visit to this, priest, 
 inviting themselves to dine with him, and upbraiding him with covet- 
 ousness and niggardliness; at last he consented and gave them an 
 invitation. They came without a breakfast, that they might eat the 
 heartier dinner. The table seemed to be plentifully furnished, and no 
 dainties wanting ; and they fed heartily, and returning their host 
 thanks for his entertainment, went home. But immediately they 
 perceived themselves very hungry, and wondered that they should be 
 so when they had just come from eating so plentifully. At length the 
 matter came out, and they were soundly laughed at. Sp. And they 
 deserved it too; they had better have staid at home and fed upon 
 ordinary fare, than have gone abroad to be feasted with imaginary 
 dainties. He. But, in my opinion, it is far more ridiculous for men 
 in common to grasp at the mere empty shadows of good, instead of the 
 true and substantial goods, and to take a pleasure in those deceits that 
 do not only end in a jest, but in everlasting sorrows. Sp. The 
 more I consider it, the more I am convinced I have spoken to the 
 purpose. 
 
 He. Well, let it be allowed for the present that things are called 
 pleasures that really are not so. But would you call that metheglin 
 sweet that has more aloes than honey in it? Sp. No, I should not if 
 there were a third part as much. He. Or would you wish to have 
 the itch, that you might have the pleasure of scratching 1 Sp. No, if 
 I were in my senses. He. Well, then, do but reckon with yourself 
 how nmeh bitterness is mixed with those pleasures falsely so called, 
 which a dishonest love, an unlawful hist, gluttony, and drunkenness 
 produce. At the same time I take no notice of the torment of 
 conscience, enmity with God himself, and the expectation of eternal 
 torment, which are the chiefest things of all. For, pray, do but con- 
 sider what is in these pleasures that does not bring with it a whole 
 troop of eternal evils? Sp. What are they? He. Not to mention 
 covetousness, ambition, wrath, pride, envy, which of themselves are 
 troublesome enough, let iis only compare those things that are in a 
 special manner accounted pleasures. 
 
 When hard drinking throws a man into a fever, the headache,
 
 THE EPICUREAN. 405 
 
 the gripes, dizziness, a bad name, decay of memory, vomiting, loss 
 of appetite, and the palsy, would Epicurus himself think this was u 
 pleasure worth seeking after] Sp. He would say it were to be 
 shunned rather. He. When young men by whoring, as it commonly 
 falls out, get the pox, which, by way of extenuation, they call the 
 common garden gout, by which they are so often brought to death's 
 door iii their life-time, and carry about a dead carcase, do they not 
 epicurise gloriously? Sp. Yes, if coming often to the powdering tub 
 be doing so. He. But now, suppose the pain and pleasure to be 
 equal, would you be willing to bear the pain of the toothache as long as 
 the pleasure of whoring or a drunken bout lasted 1 ? Sp. In truth, I 
 had rather go without both, for to buy pleasure with pain is penance 
 without gain. In this case, in my opinion, an utter avoXyco'/a, which 
 Cicero calls an indolency, is much better. He. Bilt besides that, the 
 titillation of unlawful pleasure, as it is much less than the pain it brings, 
 so it is of shorter continuance. But when a man has once got the pox 
 he is plagued with it all his life-time, and forced to suffer a sort of 
 death a great many times over before his time comes to die. Sp. 
 Epicurus himself would not own such persons for his disciples. 
 
 He. Poverty is commonly the attendant of luxury, and that is a 
 miserable and heavy burden to bear ; and a palsy, weakness of the 
 nerves, sore eyes, and the pox, the consequents of immoderate venery ; 
 and this is not all neither. Is it not a notable way of merchandising, 
 to purchase a pleasure, neither real, solid, nor of long continuance, with 
 s > many evils, greater and longer-lasting 1 Sp. If there were nothing 
 of pain in the matter, I should think him a foolish trader who should 
 barter jewels for bits of glass. He. And will you not say the same 
 of them that lose the real enjoyments of the mind for the counterfeit 
 pleasures of the body 1 ? Sp. Indeed, I think so. 
 
 lie. But let us come closer to the matter. Suppose that neither 
 a fever nor poverty sjjould always accompany luxury ; nor a pox, nor 
 palsy, whoring ; yet a guilty conscience, that you allow to be by far 
 more wretched, is the inseparable companion of unlawful pleasure. 
 tip. Nay, sometimes it goes before it, and galls the mind in the very 
 fruition of it. But there are some, perhaps, you will say, that have no 
 feeling in their conscience. He. Such are the more miserable; for 
 who would not rather feel his pain, than have his body so stupefied as 
 to have no sense of feeling ? But as some persons in their youth, by 
 the exorbitancy of their lusts, are as it were drunk, and habituated to 
 them, and like a callous grown insensible of their calamity ; yet when 
 they come to old age, besides the innumerable evils they have treasured 
 up in the time of their past life, death, the inevitable fate of mankind, 
 starr ; them in the face with a terrible aspect ; and then the conscience is 
 so mi:ch the more tormenting, by how much the more stupefied it has 
 been all their life before. Then the soul is awakened, whether it will 
 or no; old age, which of itself is a melancholy thing, as being obnoxious 
 to many incommodities of nature ; how much more miserable and 
 wretched is it, if a guilty conscience adds to its infelicity? Entertain- 
 ments, club feasts, balls, amours, concerts of music, and those things 
 that are delightful to them when young, will be burdensome to them 
 when old. 
 
 Old age has nothing to support itself with, but the remembrance
 
 406 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 of a life innocently passed, and the hope of a better to come. These 
 are the two crutches upon which old age is borne up ; therefore if you 
 take these away, and in the stead of them put a double burden upon 
 their shoulders, the remembrance of a life ill spent and despair of 
 happiness to come, pray what living creature can be imagined more 
 afflicted and more miserable 1 Sp. Indeed, I cannot see what, unless 
 it be the old age of a horse. He. Then, indeed, is the stable-door shut 
 when the steed is stolen ; and the old saying is a true one, " The end 
 of mirth is heaviness," and " there is no delight equal to a glad heart." 
 And again, " A merry heart doth good like a medicine, but a broken 
 spirit drieth the bones." And again, " All the days of the afflicted are 
 evil," i.e., afflicted and wretched. " A contented mind is a continual 
 feast." Sp. Then they act wisely that get wealth betimes, and provide 
 a viaticum for old age against it comes. 
 
 He. The holy scripture has not so low a sense as to measure man's 
 happiness by outward enjoyments. He is poor, indeed, that is divested 
 of all virtue, and owes both soul and body to the devil. Sp. And he, 
 indeed, is a very severe creditor. He. He is truly rich who has God 
 for his friend ; for what should he fear that has such a protector ? 
 Should he be afraid of men ? The united power of all the men in the 
 world is less to God than that of a gnat against an Indian elephant. 
 Should he fear death 1 To godly men that is the way to eternal hap- 
 piness. Should he fear hell ? A godly man says with confidence to 
 God, " Though I walk in the region of the shadow of death, I will fear 
 no evil, for thou art with me." Why should he be afraid of devils that 
 carries Him in his breast at whom the devils tremble ? The scripture, 
 which cannot be contradicted, in many places says, that the breast of 
 a godly man is the temple wherein God dwells. /Sp. Indeed, I do not 
 see how these things can be refuted, though they seem contrary to 
 common sense. He. How so ? Sp. For, according to your way of 
 reasoning, any Franciscan lives a life more pleasant than he that 
 abounds with honours and, in a word, all kinds of delight. 
 
 He. Nay, you may add the sceptre of a king, and the pope's triple 
 crown too, and of a threefold crown make a hundredfold one, and 
 except only a good conscience, and I will be bold to say that this bare- 
 footed Franciscan, girt about with a rope full of knots, in a mean and 
 ragged coat, worn to a skeleton with fasting, watching, and labours, 
 and that is not worth a penny in the world, if he has but a good con- 
 science, lives more deliciously a thousand times than Sardanapalus him- 
 self? Sp. What is the reason, then, that we commonly see poor men 
 look more melancholy than rich men? He. Because a great many 
 are doubly poor. Indeed, diseases, want, watching, labour, and naked- 
 ness do weaken the habit of the body. But the alacrity of the mind 
 does not exert itself in these cases alone, but also in death itself. For 
 the mind, although it is tied to a mortal body, yet it being of a more 
 powerful nature, does after a sort transform the body into itself, espe- 
 cially if the efficacy of the Spirit be added to the power of its nature. 
 Hence it comes to pass that we frequently see men that are truly pious 
 die with greater cheerfulness than others live. Sp. I have often 
 wondered at that myself. 
 
 He. It is not at all to be wondered at that there should be an 
 invincible joy where God the fountain of all joy is. What new thing
 
 THE EPICUREAN. 407 
 
 is it that the mind of a pious man should always be cheerful in a mor- 
 tal body, when the same man, if he should be plunged down to the 
 lowest part of hell, would suffer nothing as to his felicity] Wheresoever 
 is a good conscience, there is God ; wheresoever God is, there is para- 
 dise ; where heaven is, there is happiness ; where happiness is, there is 
 true joy and sincere alacrity. Sp. But for all that, they would live a 
 more pleasant life if they were freed from some incommodities, and 
 enjoyed some pleasures which they either set light by or cannot attain 
 to. He. What incommodities are those you speak of ? Do you mean 
 those things that are concomitants of humanity, as hunger, thirst, dis- 
 tempers, weariness, old age, death, thunder, earthquakes, inundations, 
 and wars 1 Sp. These among the rest. He. But now we are talking 
 of immortal ones. And yet also in these calamities the condition of the 
 godly is much more tolerable than that of those who hunt after bodily 
 pleasures right or wrong. Sp. How so ? 
 
 He. Because their minds are inured to temperance and bearance, 
 and therefore undergo those things which are inevitable more moder- 
 ately than other persons. And lastly, in that they understand that all 
 those things are sent by God, either for the purgation of their faults 
 or the exercise of their virtue ; and therefore they take them not 
 only patiently, but also willingly, as obedient children from the hand 
 of a kind father, and are thankful either for His favourable correction 
 or for the great advantage got by them. Sp. But there are a great 
 many persons who bring bodily afflictions upon themselves. He. But 
 more make use of physical medicines, either to preserve the health of 
 the body or to recover it ; but to bring troubles upon themselves, viz., 
 want, sickness, persecution, or reproach, unless Christian charity oblige 
 to it, is not piety, but folly. But as often as they are inflicted for the 
 sake of Christ or righteousness, who is he that dares to call them 
 miserable, when the Lord himself calls them blessed, and bids them 
 rejoice on account of them ? Sp. But for all that, they carry some- 
 thing of torment in them. 
 
 He. They do so, but it is such a one that the fear of hell on the 
 one side and the hope of heaven on the other easily overcomes. But, 
 prithee, tell me if you did firmly believe that you should never feel any 
 sickness or bodily pain all your life long, if you would but once suffer 
 your skin to be pricked with a pin, would you not willingly and gladly 
 suffer that little pain 1 Sp. If I were but sure I should never feel the 
 toothache all my life, I would suffer my skin to be pricked deeper, and 
 both my ears to be bored through with an awl. He. But whatsoever 
 affliction happens in this life is more light and short, in comparison to 
 eternal torments, than the momentary prick of a needle to the life of 
 man, the longest that ever any man lived ; for there is no comparison 
 between that which is finite and that which is infinite. Sp. You say 
 very well. He. Now, suppose if you could be persuaded that you 
 should live without trouble all your life long, if you did but dividfe 
 the flame with your hand (which Pythagoras forbade to be done), would 
 you not readily do it ? Sp. Yes, I would do it an hundred times, if 
 he that promised me would be as good as his word. 
 
 He. God cannot be worse than His word ; but that sense of the 
 flame is of longer continuance, if compared to the life of man, than 
 all his life is compared to the happiness of heaven, though the life of
 
 408 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 that man should be three times as long as that of Nestor. For that 
 putting the hand into the flame is some part of the life of man, let it 
 be never so small a one ; but the whole life of a man is no part of 
 eternity. Sp. I have nothing to say against it. He. Besides, they 
 that hasten forwards with all their heart and a certain hope, when the 
 way is so short, do you believe they are tormented with the troubles 
 of this life ? Sp. I do not think they are, if they have a certain belief 
 and firm hope of attaining to it. 
 
 He. I come now to those delights you took notice of : they 
 abstain from balls, banquets, and plays ; they so despise them that 
 they enjoy those that are much pleasanter. They do not take less 
 pleasure, but they take it after another manner. " The eye has not 
 seen, nor the ear heard, nor has it entered into the heart of man to 
 conceive what comforts God has prepared for those that love Him." 
 Blessed Paul was acquainted with the songs, dances, exultations, and 
 banquets of pious minds in this life. Sp. But there are some lawful 
 pleasures which they abridge themselves of. 
 
 He. The immoderate use of such pleasures as are in themselves 
 lawful is unlawful, if you except that they who seem to live this 
 austere life exceed others in enjoyment. What can be a more noble 
 spectacle than the contemplation of this world 1 Men that are in God's 
 favour take far more pleasure in that contemplation than other men ; 
 for while they, out of curiosity, contemplate this wonderful fabric, 
 they are perplexed in their minds because they cannot attain to the 
 knowledge of the causes of many things. And in some cases, like 
 Momus's, some murmur against the workman, often calling nature, 
 which is indeed a mother, a stepmother, which reflection, though in 
 word it be levelled against nature, yet rebounds on Him that is the 
 author of nature, if indeed there is any such thing as nature. But a 
 godly man, with religious and pure eyes, beholds the works of God his 
 father with great pleasure of mind, admiring everything, finding fault 
 with nothing, but giving thanks for all things, when he considers that 
 all these things were made for man, and so in everything adores the 
 omnipotence, wisdom, and goodness of the Creator, the footsteps of 
 which he perceives in the things created. Imagine for once that there 
 were really such a palace as Apuleius feigned for Psyche, or something 
 more magnificent and fine, if it can be ; and suppose two spectators, 
 one a stranger, who only came to see it, the other a servant, or a son 
 of him that built it, which of them will take the greatest pleasure in 
 the sight 1 the stranger who has nothing to do with the house, or the 
 son who beholds the genius, wealth, and magnificence of a dear father 
 in that building with great pleasure, especially when he reflects that 
 all this fabric Was made for his own sake 1 
 
 Sp. Your question needs no answer ; but the greatest part that 
 are not religious know not that heaven, and what is contained therein, 
 was made for the sake of man. He. They all know it, but they do 
 not all consider it ; and if it does come into their mind, yet he takes 
 the most pleasure that loves the workman best, as he looks most 
 cheerfully upon heaven that breathes after eternal life. /Sp. There 
 seems to be a great deal of truth in what you say. 
 
 He. Now, as to banquets, the sweetness of them does not consist 
 so much in the having a dainty palate, or in the seasonings of the cook,
 
 TUB EPICUREAN. 409 
 
 as the good state of the health of the body and the goodness of tho 
 appetite. Therefore, do not think that any Lucullus sups more 
 pleasantly upon his partridges, pheasants, turtledoves, hares, gilt- 
 heads, sturgeons, or lampreys, than a godly man does upon brown 
 bread, a salad, or pulse and water, or small-beer, or a little wine mixed 
 with a great deal of water, because he receives them as sent from a 
 kind Father. Prayer seasons them all, and the preceding thanksgiving 
 sanctifies, and being accompanied with the reading of the Word of 
 God, refreshes the mind more than meat does the body. And having 
 returned thanks, at last he rises from the table, not stuffed, but 
 recreated ; not loaded, but refreshed in mind as well as body. Do 
 you think the contriver of any of those vulgar delicacies can fare more 
 deliciously 1 
 
 Sp. But the highest pleasure is in venery, if we give credit to 
 Aristotle. lie. Well, in this particular too, the advantage is on the 
 pious man's side, as well as in feasting ; consider it thus : by how much 
 the more ardent his love is toward his wife, by so much the more 
 pleasurable are his conjugal embraces. And none love their wives 
 better than those that love them as Christ loved His church; for they 
 that love them for the sake of concupiscence do not love them in reality. 
 But, besides, the seldomer is the enjoyment the pleasanter it is. The 
 profane poet was not ignorant of this who said, Voluptatem commendat 
 rarior usus. Although, indeed, that is the least part of the pleasure 
 that consists in coition ; the far greater part of the pleasure is in their 
 cohabiting and dieting together, which cannot be more pleasant be- 
 tween any persons than between those who sincerely love one another 
 with a Christian love. In other persons commonly pleasure growing 
 old, so does love too ; but Christian Jove grows the more flourishing 
 by how much carnal love decreases. 
 
 Well, have I not convinced you yet, that nobody lives more 
 pleasantly than those that live piously ? Sp. I wish yon had so much 
 convinced all persons as you have me. He. Well, then, if they are 
 Epicureans that live pleasantly, none are more truly Epicureans than 
 those that live holily and religiously. And if we are taken with 
 names, nobody more deserves the name of an Epicurean than that 
 adorable Prince of Christian philosophers, fpr tiriKOvpog in Greek 
 signifies as much as an helper. Therefore, when the law of nature was 
 almost erased by vice, and the law of Moses rather incited than cured 
 lusts, when the tyrant Satan ruled without control in the world, He alone 
 afforded present help to perishing mankind. So that they are mightily 
 mistaken that foolishly represent Christ, as by nature, to be a rigid 
 melancholic person, and that He invited us to an unpleasant life, when 
 He alone shewed the way to the most comfortable life in the world, 
 and fullest of pleasure, and so vastly distant from that Tantalean 
 pleasure. 
 
 Sp. What is the meaning of that riddle ? lie. You will laugh at 
 the romance ; but this jest will lead us on to something serious. Sp. 
 Well, then, I expect to hear a serious jest. lie. Those who formerly 
 made it their business to wrap up precepts of philosophy in the folds of 
 fables tell us that one Tantalus was once admitted to the table of tin- 
 deities, which, they tell you, is wonderfully stored with delicacies. 
 When Jupiter was about to dismiss his guests, he thought it agreeable
 
 410 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 to his generosity to let none of them go away without some Loon ; 
 thei'efore he bid Tantalus ask what he pleased, and it should be 
 granted. And Tantalus being so foolish as to measure man's happiness 
 by the pleasures of gluttony, wished that he might all his lifetime sit 
 at a table so plentifully furnished. Jupiter consented, and granted 
 him what he desired. Tantalus sits at a table furnished with all sorts 
 of dainties : nectar is set before him ; neither roses nor odours are 
 wanting, such as may delight the noses of the gods themselves ; Gany- 
 mede stands by him to be his cup-bearer, or somebody like him ; the 
 Muses stand about him singing sweetly; Silenus dances before him 
 with ridiculous gestures, and likewise there are good store of jesters ; 
 and, in short, there is whatsoever may delight the senses of a man. 
 But in the midst of all these he sits melancholy, sighing and anxious, 
 neither being moved by their merriment nor touching the provision 
 i efore him. Sp. What is the reason of that ? 
 
 He. Because a great stone hangs over his head as he sits at supper, 
 ready to fall upon him every moment. Sp. I would get away from 
 such a table. He. But what he wished for is made necessary to him. 
 Nor is Jupiter so placable as our God is, who rescinds the hurtful 
 wishes of mortals if they repent of them. But the same stone that 
 hinders Tantalus from feeding, frightens him from going away ; for he 
 is afraid if he offer to stir lest the stone should fall upon him and crush 
 him to pieces. Sp. A ridiculous story ! 
 
 He. But now hear what you will not laugh at : the common people 
 se^k for a pleasant life from external things, when nothing will produce 
 that but a good conscience ; for a heavier stone hangs over the heads of 
 those that have a guilty conscience than hangs over the head of Tan- 
 talus himself ; nay, it does not only hang over their heads, but vexes 
 and presses their minds ; nor is their mind tormented with a vain fear, 
 but expects every hour when they shall be cast into hell. Pray, what 
 can there be so pleasant in earthly things that can possibly cheer a 
 mind that is pressed down with such a stone 1 Sp. Nay, nothing in 
 the world but madness or incredulity. He. If youth did but consider 
 this, who, being bewitched with pleasures like the cup of Circe, embrace 
 sweetened poisons instead of things truly pleasant, how carefully would 
 they beware lest by incogitancy they should do that which would 
 perplex their mind all their lifetime ? What would they not do that 
 they might provide this viaticum against old age which is drawing on, 
 a good conscience and an untainted reputation ? What can be more 
 miserable than that old age which, when it looks back, sees with great 
 horror what beautiful things it has neglected, and what foul things it 
 lias embraced 1 And again, when it looks forward, sees the last day 
 hanging over its head, and immediately upon this the torments of hell. 
 
 Sp. I think they are the happiest men who have preserved the 
 first part of their age undefiled, and improving in the study of piety 
 have arrived to the goal of old age. He. And the next place is due to 
 those who have early repented of their juvenile follies. Sp. But what 
 advice will you give to that wretched old man 1 He. While there is 
 life there is hope ; I would bid him fly to the arms of mercy. Sp. But 
 by how much the longer a man has continued in an evil course of life, 
 by so much a greater mass of iniquities is heaped up, that exceeds even 
 the sands on the sea-shore. He. But then the mercies of God exceed
 
 CONFLICT LET1TEEX THALIA AND BARBARISM. 411 
 
 them ; though man cannot number the sand, yet the number of them 
 is finite, but the mercy of God knows neither bound nor end. tip. 
 But there is but little time to one that is at the point of death. He. 
 The less time he has the more ardently he ought to call upon God. 
 That time is long enovigh with God that can reach from earth to heaven ; 
 and a short prayer can penetrate heaven if it be but sent with a strong 
 force of spirit. Mary Magdalene is recorded to have spent her whole 
 life in repentance ; but the thief got a grant of paradise from our 
 Saviour even at the point of death. If he shall but cry with his whole 
 heart, My God, have mercy on me, according to the multitude of thy 
 mercies, the Lord will remove that Tantalean stone, and make him hear 
 that sound of joy and gladness ; the bones broken by contrition shall 
 rejoice for the pardon of sins. 
 
 THE CONFLICT BETWEEN THALIA AND 
 BARBARISM. 
 
 ( Written during Soy hood.) 
 
 Thalia and her Companions, Calliope and Melpomene ; 
 Barbarism and her Companions. 
 
 Tli. O good God ! what sort of monster is that which I see rising 
 out of the ground yonder? I beseech you, look upon it. Oct. Oh, 
 admirable ! what a vast body it has, the top of its head readies almost 
 up to the stars. Th. In truth, I cannot tell what it is ; but it is 
 coming nearer to me. A new sort of a composition, do you see it ? It 
 has a face like a virgin ; from the breast downwards it is like an ass. 
 Ca. It is so, as I hope to be saved. But, madam, do you observe what 
 monstrous horns grow out of the forehead of it 1 Th. They are huge 
 ones indeed. But do you take notice what ears there are by the horns ? 
 Ca. I do mind them, they are- like asses' ears, and they are whitish, and 
 full of motion ; and I perceive it approaches neai-er and nearei', but I 
 cannot tell what is in the mind of it to do. Alas ! I am in pain, lest 
 it has some mischief in its head. Th. May God our father prevent it. 
 
 Me. If my memory do not fail me, I have some knowledge of this 
 monster. Th. Prithee, tell us what it is. Me. There is no danger 
 in it. Th. But I am cruelly afraid it is an enemy to us ; is it or not '? 
 Me. It is ; this is our only and most cruel adversary. Th. God con- 
 found it. Me. It never ceases envying and assaulting us. They sav 
 it has its residence in the western climates : there it brings all things 
 under its yoke, is worshipped, loved, and honoured. What need is 
 there of a great many words? In short, it expects to be appeased with 
 suppliant presents, like a goddess. Th. If I mistake not, I have heard 
 so. But what is the name of the city where she reigns ? Me. Why, 
 it is Zwoll, I think. Th. Very right, that is it. Me. Her name is 
 Barbarism. Th. It is she, in truth, I know her very well ; but see, 
 she is coming hither at a great pace ; let us halt till she comes up. 
 
 Ba. Companions, is this Thalia herself that I see hard by ? Why 
 I thought she had been dead long enough ago. It is certainly she, I 
 espy her laurel ; she is come to life again, and has the impudence
 
 412 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 presumptuously to come into my presence, without any fear of me ; I 
 will advance up to her and make her know who I am. A mischief 
 take you, you impudent jade. Th. You salute me very roughly ; 
 pray, forsooth, take that to yourself that you wish to me. Ba. Why, 
 Thalia, are not you, that have been routed so long ago, ashamed to 
 come into my presence? Th. Do you ask me such a question? you 
 are not worthy to lay your eyes upon me ; and it is beneath me to cast 
 my eyes upon such a nasty beast as you are. Ba. Heyday ! What, 
 a poor beggarly wretch to dare to affront me ! What, do not you 
 know me better than that comes to ? Take care you do not provoke 
 me. Th. A fart for your menaces, I do not mind them, nor nobody 
 else ; should I be afraid of you, you nasty wretch ? Ba. Take care 
 whom you throw your reflections upon. 
 
 Th. You may thank your companions there for your grandeur. 
 Ba. What, these ? Th. Yes, them, and none but them. Ba. What 
 am I indebted to them for? pray tell me. Th. It is their opinion of 
 you, or rather their error, that has raised you to the pitch of a goddess, 
 and not your noble birth. Ba. But (if time would permit) I could 
 authentically derive my pedigree from the divinity itself. Th. A rare 
 pedigree, I will warrant you ! Pray let us have it, there is time 
 enough ; and no doubt but the sun will stand still while you are telling 
 such sti-ange stories. Ba. You make a mighty bragging of your being 
 Jupiter's daughter, and triumph in Apollo's being your conductor. 
 My father was one who would not knock under to him, either for 
 valour, archery, or music. When at any time he had a mind to divert 
 himself with singing like Orpheus, he made the very woods dance after 
 his music ; and as for racing, he would outstrip even the east wind 
 itself. Th. I have heard these stories a thousand times over. Ba. 
 What have you to say to that ? Do you take me in ? Th. When you 
 first started up in the world you pretended Chiron was half man. Ba. 
 It is like your manners to break in upon me before I have said what I 
 was about ; have you not patience to hold your tongue till I have said 
 what I had to say ? Th. I have, if you will keep to the truth. But 
 if I do hold my tongue I shall not mind you much. Ba. What, do 
 you make a liar of me too ? Th. No ; but if you take it upon your- 
 self, it really belongs to you. 
 
 Ba. Do you speak the truth when you say I was Chiron's 
 daughter? Th. Why, here are witnesses of it. Ba. Where are 
 they, pray ? Th. Why, this great tail that hangs down to your heels 
 is one, and these bristles on your back, and these whitish ears on your 
 head, all these plainly shew you are one of Chiron's offspring; he 
 begat you upon an ass; a very fine pedigree to brag of! Ba. I see 
 you set yourself to be as abusive as you can. You make a mighty to 
 do about shape; but let us come to virtue, argue about that, about 
 fame, and glory, and adorers : what signifies the body ? Th. No great 
 matter, indeed, saving that a deformed mind usually accompanies a 
 deformed body. But come on, we will come to those things. Ba. 
 Take this in the first place; there are but few that adore you, the whole 
 world adores me; you being hardly known by anybody lie incognito ; 
 I have extended my name all over the world, I am well known and 
 famous everywhere. Th. I own that. Ba. Yoii would not own it 
 if you had anything to say against it.
 
 CONFLICT BETWEEN TH1LIA AND BARBARISM. 413 
 
 Th. Yes, I have something to say against it : yon knew Cacus ? 
 Ba. Who does not know Cacus? Th. That Cacus whom Virgil 
 speaks of. Ba. I knew him. Th. I believe you did, for he was* a 
 famous fellow; and as he was famous, just so are you. And then 
 again, whei-eas you take it to your praise that the world follows you, 
 I interpret it rather to your dishonour; for everything that is scarce 
 is valuable. There is nothing valuable that is common to the vulgar. 
 Although my admirers are but few, yet they are persons of figure and 
 gravity. But, pray, what great reputation is it to you that you are 
 admired by the ignorant mobility 1 Ba. Silly wench ! the thinw is 
 quite different, for I do not leave those persons unlearned that I find 
 so; but I rather improve them and instruct them, and make them 
 persons of learning and gravity. Th. Ha, ha, ha, loaded with books, 
 but not with science. Ba. You are a poor scrub, and I am as well 
 able to make my followers leai-ned as you are yours. Th. Yes like 
 yourself; for, being barbarous yourself, you make barbarians of them 
 too : what can you do else 1 
 
 Ba. Now I find by experience the character is true that I heard 
 of you long ago, that you are a prating, impertinent baggage. Leave 
 off, simpleton, you know nothing at all; this I am sure off, that if you 
 knew but half I know, you would not have the impudence to talk at 
 this rate. In my academy at Zwoll, what glory, discipline, and im- 
 provement is there ! If 1 should but begin to enumerate you would 
 burst with envy. Th. Yes, forsooth; and so I believe you would 
 make the very post and pillars burst with your braggadocia talking 
 But, hoAvever, begin and burst me if you can. Ba. It is too loner. 
 Th. Well, make short of it then, you know how. Ba. Well, then, I 
 will speak in brief as to what 1 was saying before : nobody is able to 
 number the great confluence of students that flock from all parts of 
 the spacious world to that famous school. Th. Phoo; what, does that 
 great ass at Zwoll (I mean the great bell of the school) bray so loud as 
 to call them together in crowds 1 Ba. Silly ton, forbear railing, and 
 hear what is said to you. They are there instructed and rendered 
 learned in a trice. Th. Wonderfully learned, indeed ! Ba. In the 
 best glosses, vocabularies, arguments, and innumerable other notable 
 matters. Th. That is rightly spoken. 
 
 Ba. What do you grin at ? I improve them to that degree that 
 there is nothing they are ignorant of. Th. Ay, of nothing that is 
 novelty. Ba. As they grow in statui-e so they do in experience ; and 
 being become perfect masters they are made instructoi-s of others : 
 then I discharge them that they may live happily and die blessedly. 
 Th. Ha, ha, ha, I envy them so much, I can hardly forbear bursting 
 my sides with laughing. Ba> Fool, what do you laugh at? Do you 
 think what I say deserves to be laughed at ? Th. I can give you a 
 better account of the matter. Ba. What, you? Th. Yes, I; and 
 if you please you shall hear it too. Ba. Well, begin then. 
 
 Th. As to the number of your followers, I grant it; and if they 
 have learned anything right in schools before, they must be forced to 
 unlearn it again. And then, as to thos3 dispensations (of which you 
 have reckoned up a great many), they are not so much instructed as 
 confounded by them, till at last they know nothing at all : you im- 
 prove them till they do not know so much as themselves. Their horns
 
 4H ' FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 grow on their foreheads, and then they seem very cunning fellows, and 
 are more fit to rule than to be ruled. And at last you send them away 
 in a condition to live merrily and die blessedly. Ba. I find you can- 
 not keep your tongue from railing; but have a care you do not raise 
 my indignation. If you do not foi'bear throwing your squibs at me, 
 I will throw them, at you again; I have something to hit you in the 
 teeth of. Th. And nothing but slanders. Ba. You poor wretch you, I 
 say I send them back such (whether you know it or no) that they will 
 not strike sail to your poets for versification (that is the chief thing 
 you have to boast of). 
 
 Th. For number, I confess ; but we do not so much regard the 
 number of verses as the goodness of them. But you, on the contrary, 
 only take notice of the number, and not the goodness ; you count the 
 pages, but pass by the barbarisms that are in them. So they do but 
 hang together, that is the only thing that you regard, it is no matter 
 for the goodness of them. Ba. You senseless creature, you make a 
 mighty to do about goodness; I do not think anything is so empty of 
 goodness as your poems ; for what are they but gilded lies, full of old 
 women's tales 1 Th. You commend them sufficiently. Ba. I com- 
 mend such ridiculous stuff ! Th. You commend, and do not know 
 you do it. Ba. What, such lying ones ; I rather ridicule them than 
 praise them. Th. You praise them against your will. Ba. How so ? 
 Th. While thou enviously railest at them; for the way to displease those 
 that are bad is to commend them. Ba. Great and elaborate lies that 
 anybody may envy. 
 
 Th. You shew your ignorance as plainly as the sun at noonday. 
 Unhappy wretch, you are not sensible how much you commend the 
 industry of those poets by your foolish talking, who think it unfit to 
 cast roses before swine in mire and dirt ; and therefore they wrap up 
 and hide the truth in ambiguous words and enigmatical expressions, 
 that though all may read them, yet all may not understand them. 
 They read them, and go away as ignorant as if they never had seen 
 them. A man of learning reads them, and searches into the meaning 
 of the words (for they are transparent), and finds that under them is 
 couched a vast treasure of wholesome truth that the other passed over 
 unobserved. Ba. Very fine, very fine ; a comical piece of roguery, to 
 mingle truth and falsehood together ! to corrupt truth with feigned 
 fables ! is this that you give such great encomiums of? Th. Shall I 
 give you an answer to this in a few words ? But first answer me this ; 
 pray, which do you look upon to be the best, to pick up jewels out of 
 dung, or to admire them set in gold ? Ba. The last is the best. 
 
 Th. You mean to yourself, and so it is. As for you, if there is 
 any truth in a poem, you obscure it so with trifling words, that it 
 rather makes it look dim, than gives it a lustre. On the contrary, we 
 (not as you reproachfully say) do not corrupt the truth by an elegancy 
 of words ; but we put a lustre upon it, as when a jewel is set in gold. 
 We do not take the lustre from it, but add to it ; we do not make it 
 more dark, but shine the brighter. And last of all, this we do, we 
 labour that that truth, which is of its own nature profitable, be made 
 more grateful by industry. As for your partisans, they being ignorant 
 of these things, reproach, carp at, and are envious at them. If they 
 were wise, how much more would they cry me up 1 have stopped your
 
 CONFLICT BETWEEN THALIA AND BARBARISM. 415 
 
 mouth now ; I will break this silence. Ba. I might have said that 
 more justly of your partisans. 2h. I have broken it. Ba. Those 
 that do not understand our poetry do not know how to do anything, 
 but to laugh and scoff. Th. They are such, that if a man understands 
 them he will be never the wiser; and if he does not, he will know never 
 the less. 
 
 Ba. There is no need of a great many words, the thing proves itself. 
 Th. The thing prove itself ! I should be glad to see that. Ba. I mean 
 those persons which the knowledge of things has rendered famous. Th. 
 Is there any one such person 1 Ba. Yes, without number. Tit. 
 That is well said, as if nobody could number them ; for nobody can 
 number that which is but one, and not that neither. However you 
 may begin, though you should not be able to go through with it. Ba. 
 In the first and chief place, Florista, that took his name from flowers. 
 Th. But not sweet-smelling ones. Ba. Then here is Papias. Th. A 
 very learned man, indeed ! you ought to have named him first. Ba. 
 Then here is Huguitio. Th. A very famous man ! Ba. And Michael 
 Modista. Th. An excellent one ! Ba. Then here is James Glosarius. 
 Th. A wonderful man ! Ba. And him that I esteem above them all, 
 John de Garlandia, who excels in such an elegancy of words, and such 
 a majesty of style, that there are but very few that can understand him . 
 Th. Nay, nobody at all, unless they are barbarians as well as he ; for 
 how can anybody easily understand him who did not well understand 
 himself ] 
 
 Ba. There is no end in talking with you ; you outdo me in words, 
 but I do not think victory consists in them. If you have a mind to it, 
 let us each of us try what we can do. Do you make verses with me. 
 Come, do not stand shivering and shaking, nor shilly-shally ; I am 
 ready for you ; then it will appear whether of us gets the better. Th. 
 I like it very well. Come on, let us try. But, Mistress Poetess, do 
 you begin first. Ba. These are verses that I have often repeated in 
 the presence of very learned men, and not without the great admiration 
 of all of them. Th. I believe so ; now begin. 
 
 Ba. Zwollenses tales, quod eorum Theutonicales 
 
 Nomen per partes ubicunque probantur et artes, 
 Et quasi per mundum totum sunt nota rotundum, 
 Zwollensique solo proferre latinica solo 
 Discunt clericuli nimium bene verba novelli. 
 
 These verses are a demonstration how elegant a poet I am. Th. Ha, 
 ha, ha ; they contain as many barbarisms as words. This, to be sure, is 
 certainly your father's speech, I mean Chiron's ; a poem excellently 
 composed ; I will not defer giving it its just due. 
 
 Tale sonant insulsa mihi tua carmina, vates, 
 Quale sonat sylvis vox irrudentis onagri ; 
 Quale boat torvus pecora inter agrestia taurus ; 
 Quale testiculis gallus genitalibus orbus 
 Concinit haud vocem humanam, sed dico ferinam. 
 Hanc celebres laudate viri, et doctissime florum 
 Auctor ades; gratos in serta nitentia flores 
 Colligito, meritseque coronam nectito divae :
 
 415 FAMILIAR COLLOQUIES. 
 
 Urticaj viridi graveolentem junge cicutam ; 
 Talia iiarn tali debentur pneniia vatL 
 Aimue, Barbaries, tuque hanc sine cornua circuni 
 Inter candidulas laurum tibi nectier aures. 
 
 Jia. This makes me ready to spue ; I cannot bear to hear such silly 
 stuft'. Do I loiter away my time here, and do not go to Z \voll to see 
 what my friends are doing there ? Th. Make haste, and let a block- 
 head visit the blockheads; your coming to them will be very acceptable : 
 I see I spend my breath upon you in vain : you will never be a change- 
 ling. I very aptly applied to you that verse of Virgil, 
 
 Non ilium nostri possunt mutare labores. 
 " \Ve do but endeavour to wash a blackamoor white." 
 
 Me. At the beginning of this contention, as soon as ever we espied this 
 monster, we all grew sick at the stomach. Th. I believe so truly. 
 Ca. Mistress, let us leave this beastly creature, and betake ourselves to 
 the airy top of Parnassus hill, and the Heliconian fountain. Th. Lot 
 us do so. 
 
 FINJS. 
 
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