in this version [~e] and so forth indicate scribal abbreviations over letters. ¶ one dialogue, or colloquye of erasmus (entituled diuersoria) translated oute of latten into englyshe: and imprinted, to the ende that the judgem[~e]t of the learned maye be hadde before the translator pro cede in the reste. e. h. [illustration] ¶ imprinted at london in fleetstreete, at the signe of the faucon by william griffyth, and are to be solde at his shop in s. dunstons churchyard in the west. 1566 * * * * * ¶ the translator to the indifferent reader. if i were throughlye perswaded (g[~e]tle reader) y^t mine attempt of the learned were in all points allowed and the order in my translation correspondent thereunto, i woulde at this present proceede in mine enterprise, with entent by gods helpe to finishe the translation of the whole boke: but because i am vnlearned & therfore must not be mine owne iudge therein, i geue the here a tast of my store for proofe of mine abilitie: desiring the at the least wise not to be offended at the same so boldly attemted and simplye perfourmed. for sithe mine entent is good, & my good wil not small i dare at this present yelde it to thy curtesye. fare wel. ¶ thine in will (though not in power) e.h. * * * * * _diuersoria._ ¶ the speakers. _bertulphe._ _william._ why haue men taken suche pleasure and felicity (i pray you) in tariynge ii. or iii. dayes at lions together, when they trauaile through the contrey? if i fall to trauailinge once, be fore suche time as i be come vnto my iourneyes ende, me thinks i am neuer at quiet in my mind. william. ¶ say ye so indeede? and i put you out of doubt, i wonder howe men can bee withdrawen thence againe after they be once come thether. bertulphe. ¶ yea doe? and how so i pray you? william. ¶ mary sir because that is the verye place from whence ulisses companions coulde in no wise be gotten by perswasion. there are the sweet mermaides (that are spoken of) i warrant ye. assuredlie, no man is better vsed at home at his own house then a guest is entertained there in a common inne. bertulphe. ¶ why? what is their order and vsage there? william. ¶ some woman or other did alwayes attende vpon the table to cheere the company with pleasaunt talke and prety conceites. and i tell you the women are meruailous bewtiful and wel fauoured there. firste of all the good wife of the house came & welcomed vs, praying vs all there to bee merye, and to take well in woorthe suche poore cheere as shee hadde prouided: when shee was gone, in commeth her daughter (beeinge a verye proper woman) and tooke her roome: also whose behauioure and tongue were so pleasaunt and delectable, that she was able to make euen the grimme sire cato to bee merye and laugh, and besyde that they doe not talke wyth theyr guestes as with men whome they neuer sawe before, but euen so famylyarlye and freendlye, as if they were menne that were of their olde acquaintaunce. bertulphe. ¶ yea, thys is the ciuilytye of fraunce in deede. william. ¶ and because the mother and the daughter coulde not bee alwayes in the waye (for that they muste goe aboute theyr houssholde businesse, and welcome their other guestes in other places) a pretye little minion girle stode forthe there by and by (hauinge learned her liripuppe and lesson alreadye in all pointes i warraunte you) to make all the pastime that mighte be possible, and to aunswere (at omnia quare) all such as shoulde be busye to talke and dally with her, so shee didde prolonge or vpholde the enterlude, till the goodwifes daughter came vnto vs againe. for as for the mother she was somewhat striken in yeres. bertulphe. ¶ yea but tell vs what good cheere yee had there (i praye you) for a manne cannot fill his bellye with pleasaunte talke you knowe well inoughe. william. ¶ i promise you faithfullye wee had notable good chere there, in so much that i wonder how they can entertaine their guestes so good cheape as they doe. and then when our table was tak[~e] vp, they fedde oure mindes wyth their merye deuises, leaste wee shoulde thinke the time werysome. me thought i was euen at home at mine owne house, and not a trauayler abroade in a straunge co[~u]try. bertulphe. ¶ and what was the facion in your bed chambers there? william. ¶ why? some wenches went in euerye corner giggelinge there, playing the wantons, and dalying with vs, of their owne motion they would aske whether we had any foule gere to washe or no. that they washed and brought vs cleane againe, what should i make a longe proces or circumstance, we sawe nothinge els there but wenches and wemen sauinge in the stable. and yet many times they would fetche their vagaries in thether also. when the guestes be going awaye, they embrace them, and take their leaue sweetlye with suche kindnes and curtesye, as if they were all brethern, or (at least) nighe a kinne the one to the other. bertulphe. ¶ this behauiour doth well beseme frenchmen peraduenture, how be it the fashions of duche lande[1] shall go for my monye when all is done, which are altogether manlike. william. ¶ yt was neuer my chaunce to see the contreye yet: and therfore i pray you take so muche paine as to tell in what sorte they entertaine a straunger with them. bertulphe. ¶ i am not sure whether it be so in euerye place or no, but i will not sticke to reherse that whiche i haue sene with mine owne eyes. there no man biddeth him welcome that comes, lest they shuld seme to go about to procure a guest. and that of all sauces, they accompt a dishonest and beggarly thing, and vnmete for their demurenes & grauetie. after you haue stoode cryinge oute at the doore a good while, at the length some one or other pereth out his hed at the stoue[2] window like as a snaile should pepe out of his shell: for they liue ther in stoues, til the somer be almoste in the tropick of cancer. then must you aske of him, whether you may haue a lodging there or no? yf he do not geue a contrary beck with his hed, you may perceiue, that you shall haue entertainment. to those whiche aske where aboutes the stable standes, he pointes vnto it with the wagging of his hand. there maye you vse youre horse after your own diet, for no seruaunt of the house shall once lay handes vnto it to help you. but if it bee an inne some what occupied or haunted, th[~e] the seruaunt sheweth there which is the stable, & telleth you also a place where your horse shal stãd, full vnhansomely for that purpose god knoweth for they reserue the better romes for the after commers, specially for the noble men, yf you finde any fault with any thinge, by an by they snub you with this: sir, if mine inne please you not, goe seeke an other elsewhere in the name of god in cities, it is longe ere they wil bring you hay forthe for your horse, and when they do bring it, it is after a niuer facion[3] i warraunt you, and yet will they aske asmuch mony of you for it (in a maner) as if it were otes. after your horse is once dressed you come with all your cariage into the stoue with bootes, male, or packe, and with dirte, bag and baggage and all. euery man is vsed to this generally. william. ¶ in fraunce they haue certaine chaumbers for the nonce, where guests may put of their clothes may wipe or make clean th[~e] selues, may warme them selues: yea may take their ease to, if they bee so disposed. bertulphe. ¶ yea, but here is no suche facions i tel you. in the stoue, you pul of youre bootes, you pull on youre shooes, you chaunge youre shirt if you bee so minded, you hange vp youre clothes all weate, with raine harde by the chimney, and to make youre selfe drye doe stande by the same your selfe, you haue also water sette readye for your handes, which moste commonly is so clenlye, that you muste after seeke other water, to washe of that water againe. william. ¶ i commende them as menne not corrupted with to much finenesse or daintinesse. bertulphe. ¶ thoughe it be youre chaunce to come thether about iiii. of the clocke at afternoone, yet shall you not go to supper for all that vntill it be nine of the clocke at night, and sometime not before tenne. william. ¶ how so? bertulphe. ¶ they make nothinge ready til they see all their guestes come in, that they may serue them all vnder one without more adoe. william. ¶ these men seeke the neerest way to woorke, i see wel. bertulphe. ¶ you say true in deede: they doe so, and therfore often times there come all into one stooue, lxxx. or xc. footemen, horsemen, marchauntmen, mariners, carters, plowemen, children, wemen, hole and sicke. william. ¶ marye this is a communitye of lyfe in deede. bertulphe. ¶ one kembes his head there. an other doth rubbe of his sweat there. an other maketh cleane his startops[4] or bootes there. an other belcks out hys garlicke there. what needes manye wordes? there is as muche mingle mangle of parsons there, as was in the old time at the towre of babell. and if they chaunce to see a straunger amonge them, whiche in his apparell semeth somewhat braue, galaunt and gentlemanlike, they all stand prying vpon him with their eyes, gasing and gapinge as if some straunge beaste were brought them out of aphrick, in so much as after they are once set, they be eye him stil an end and neuer looke of, as men forgetting th[~e] selues that they be now at supper. william. ¶ at rome, at parise, and at venice, no mã maketh any such wonderment at all. bertulphe. ¶ nowe it is a sore matter i tell you to call for ought there al this while: when it is farre night and they looke for no more guestes at that time, then commeth forthe an olde stager of the house, with a gray beard, a polled hed, a frowning co[~u]tenaunce, clad in il fauored apparaile. william. ¶ yea mary suche fellowes as these you speak of, should fill the cardinals cups at rome. bertulphe. ¶ he casting his eyes about, reckeneth vnto him selfe howe manye therebe in the stoue at all, the moe he seeth there, the greater he maketh his fire, though the sonne beside doth greatly annoy with his perching heat. among them, this is accoumpted the principallest pointe of good entertainment, if they all sweat like bulles, that they doe euen drop again. but if one not vsed to this choking and smotheringe ayre, should chaunce to open but a chinke of the window to keepe him self from stifeling, he should by and by haue this saied vnto him: shut it i pray you, if you aunswere that you canne not abide it, ye haue this in your nose for your labor, why? then go seeke you an other inne, on gods name. william. ¶ but me thinkes there can be no greater daunger for health, then that so many should drawe in and out all one vapour: specially when the body is in a sweat, and in this same place to eat meate together, and to tarye together a great while in company, for now i wil not speak of belchinges that sauour of garlick, nor of fistinge, or fisseling[5] nor of stinking breths, many there be (i tel you) that haue priuy diseases, and euery desease hath his proper infection. and surely the moste of th[~e] haue the spanishe scabbe, or as some terme it the frenche pockes: thoughe now adaies one nation hathe it commonlye asmuche as an other. i suppose (i tel you) that there is as great ieobardye in companyinge with these as it is with lepers, and nowe gesse you howe muche difference is betwene this and the pestilence? bertulphe. ¶ tushe man they bee stoute fellowes: they doe scorne theise thinges, and make as it were no accompt of them. william. ¶ but yet they are stout with hazardinge of many a mannes helth i tell you plainely. bertulphe. ¶ why? what should a man do? they haue thus vsed them selues euermore, and it is a token of constancy and stabilitie neuer to varye or geue ouer that whiche they haue once taken in hand. william. ¶ but aboue twentye yeeres agone, there was nothinge more vsed amonge the brabanders, then the common bathes. and now adaies, the same are laied a side euery where: for this stra[~u]g scabbe (i speake of) hathe taught men to come no more thether. bertulphe. ¶ but go toe? harken to the rest of my tale that is behind. that grim bearded ganimede coms to vs afterwardes againe, and layeth as many tables as he then thinkes will serue for the nomber of his guestes, but lord, what baggage are the table clothes? if you saw them i dare say you would think them h[~e]pen cloths, that are taken from the sailes of ships: they be so course, for he hath apointed that viii. guests shall sit at one table at the least. nowe those that are acquainted with the facion of the country, doe sit downe euery man, where he listeth him selfe, for there is no diuersitie or cursye i tell you there, betweene the poore man and the riche, betweene the master and his seruaunt. they are all one. one as good as an other, there is heere (as they say) no difference betwene the shepherd and his dog. william. ¶ yea marye: this is the olde facion when all is done, that tiranny hath now abolished and put away from amõg vs: i think christ liued iump[6] after this maner on the earth when he was here conuersaunt with his apostles. bertulphe. ¶ after they be all set, in commeth the frowning minion againe, and once more falleth to recken what company he hathe there: by and by retourning he layeth euery one a trenchar, and a spone of the same siluer: and then after that, hee setteth downe a drinkinge glasse and within a while bringes in bread which euery manne (at leysure) chippeth and pareth for him selfe, whiles the potage is a sethinge. they sit mopinge after thys manner, otherwhiles a whole houre together, ere they can get any thinge to eate. william. ¶ why? doe none of the guestes call earnestlye vpon them to haue in the supper all this while? bertulphe. ¶ no, none of them all that knowes the facion of the countrye. at the laste they are serued with wyne: but youe woulde wonder to see what small geare it is, scoolemen or sophisters shoulde drinke none other by myne aduise, because it is so thinne and tarte: how bee it if a guest shoulde chaunce (beside his shotte) to offer monye to one, and desyre him to gette some better wyne thenne that some other where, because he lykes it not: they firste make as though they hearde him not: but yet they bee eye hym with suche a bigge an frowning countenaunce as if the deuyl should loke ouer lincoln (as they doe saye) if you will not linne[7] callinge vppon them, thenne they make youe this aunswere. so many earles and marqueses, haue lodged here in our house, & yet the time is yet to come, that euer they founde any fault with our wine. and therefore if ye fancy it not, get ye packing in the name of god, and seeke an other inne where ye liste. for they accompt great men and noble men for men onely in their contrye i tell you, setting their armes abroade in euery corner of their house for a shewe. now by this time they are serued with a soupe, to alay and pacify their pore hongry and crookling stomackes, well nigh loste for meat, hard at the heeles of that comes forthe the dishes with greate ceremonie, pompe or solemnitie. for the firste course they haue soppes or slices of bread, soaked in fleshe brothe, or if it be a fishe day, in the broth of pulce. then nexte they haue an other brothe: and after that they are serued wyth fleshe twise sod[8], or fishe twise het. and yet, after this, they haue potage once againe, immediatly after, they haue some stiffer meate til suche time as they world beinge well amended with them, they set roste on the table, or sodde[8] freshe fishe, whiche a man can not all together mislike. but when it comes to that once they make spare and whip it away at a sodaine i warraunt you, they facion out euery thinge in his dew time & place. and as the players of enterludes or comedies, are wonte in their scenes, to entermedle theyr chories, so doe these duche men serue forthe to their guests, soppes and potage enterchañgeably or by course. but they prouide that the latter inde of the feast be best furnished. william. ¶ and this (i tell you) is the poynte of a good poet. bertulphe. ¶ besides this it were a sore offence for one all this while to say: away with this dishe, no man doth eat of it, here you must sit out your time appointed, being so euen and iumpe, that i thinke they measure it oute by some water clockes. at l[~e]gth that bearded grimson[9] comes forth againe or els the inholder him selfe, litle or nothing differing from his seruauntes in his apparaile and brauery. he asketh what cheere is with vs: by & by some stronger wine is brought, and they caste a great loue to him that drinketh lustely: wheras he payes no more money that drinketh moste then he, that drinketh least. william. ¶ i put you out of doubt, it is a wonderful nature of the countrey. bertulphe. ¶ yea, this doe they in deede: whereas there bee sometime there, that drink two times somuche in wine, as they paye in all for the shot. but before i doe make an end of this supper, it is a wonderful thing to tell what noise and iangeling of tongues there is, after they begin all to bee well whitled with wine. what shoulde i neede manye wordes? all things there haue lost their hearing and are becom deafe. and many times disguised patches or coxecomes doe come amonge them to make sporte: whiche kinde of men, althoughe of all other it be most to be abhorred, yet you wil scant beleue howe muche the germaines are delighted with them. they keepe sike a coile with their singinge, theire chatting, their hoopinge and hallowinge, theire praunsinge, theire bounsinge, that the stooue seemeth as if it woulde fall downe vpon their heds, and none can heare what an other saith. and yet all thys while they, perswade them selues, that they liue as well as hearte canne thinke, or, as the day is broad and longe to. william. ¶ wel nowe make an ende of this supper, i pray: for i am weary of so tedious a supper my selfe to. bertulphe. ¶ so i will. at the laste when the cheese is ones taken vp, whiche scantly pleaseth their aptite, onlesse it craule ful of magots, that old siuicoxe[10] comes forth againe, bringinge with hym a meate trenchoure in his hande, vppon the whiche with chalke he hath made certaine rundelles and halfe rundelles: that same he layeth downe vpon the table, loking very demurelye & sadlye all the while. they that are acquainted with those markes or skoares, doe laye downe their monye, after them an other, then another, vntill suche time as the trenchoure bee couered, then markinge those whiche layed downe anye thinge, he counteth or maketh reckening softely vnto him selfe: if he misse nothing of that which the reckening comes to, hee maketh a becke or dieugard with his hed. william. ¶ what if theer be any ouerplus there? bertulphe. ¶ peraduenture he woulde giue it them againe, and some whiles they doeso, if it strike in their braines. william. ¶ and is there none that speaketh againste this vnegall reckening? bertulphe. ¶ no, none that hathe any witte in his head, for by and by they woulde saye thus vnto hym. what kinde of man arte thou? i tell thee thou shalt paye no more for thy supper heere, then other men do. william. ¶ marye this kinde of people is franke and free i see wel. bertulphe. ¶ but if one (beeinge werye with trauaile) should desire to go to bed as soone as supper is done, they will him tarye, till all the other go to bed to. william. ¶ me thinkes i se platoes common welth heere. bertulphe. ¶ then euerye mannes cabin is shewed him, & in deede, nothinge elles but a bare chaumber for all that is there, is but beddes, and the deuill a whit there is else beside there, eyther to occupye or els to steale. william. ¶ there is neatnesse or clenlinesse i warraunt you. bertulphe. ¶ yea by roode, euen suche as was at the supper. the sheetes peraduenture were washed halfe a yeere before. william. ¶ and how fayres your horses all this while. bertulphe. ¶ they are vsed after the same rate that the m[~e] bee. william. ¶ but is this maner of entertainement in eueryplace there? bertulphe. ¶ in some place it is more curteous, in some place againe, it is more currishe then i haue made rehersall, howbeit generallye it is euen after this order. william. ¶ what would you say if i should now tell you how strañgers are entreated in that part of italy which they call lõbardy, and again in spaine howe they be vsed, and how in englande and in wales for englishe men in conditions are halfe frenche, halfe dutche as men indifferente betweene both. of theise two contries, welche men say that they are the right brittaines first inhabiting the land. bertulphe. ¶ mary i pray thee hartely tell me, for it was neuer my fortune to trauaile into them. william. ¶ nay, i haue no laysure nowe at this time, for the mariner bad me bee with him at three of the clock, except i would be left behinde, and he hath a packette of mine. another time wee shall haue laysure enough to tell of these thinges our bellies full. [illustration] * * * * * proofreading team. [transcriber's note: with the exception of hyphenation at the end of lines, the text version preserves the line breaks of the original; the html version has been treated similar to drama and starts a new paragraph for each change of speaker. an illustration of the title page is included to give an impression of the original.] a mery dia logue, declaringe the propertyes of shrowde shrewes, and ho nest wyues, not onelie verie pleasaunte, but also not a lytle profitable: made by ye famous clerke d. erasmus. roteroda mus. translated into englyshe. anno. m.ccccc. lvii. eulalia. god spede, & a thousand mine old acqueintance. xantippa. xan. as many agayn, my dere hert. eulalia. me semets ye ar waren much faire now of late. eula. saye you so? gyue you me a mocke at the first dash. xan. nay veryly but i take you so. eula. happely mi new gown maketh me to loke fayrer then i sholde doe. xan. sothe you saye, i haue not sene a mynioner this many dayes, i reken it englishe cloth. eu. it is english stuff and dyed in venis. xan. it is softer then sylke what an oriente purpel colore here is who gaue you so rich a gift. eu. how shoulde honeste women come by their gere? but by their husbandes. xan. happy arte thou that hathe suche an husband, but i wolde to god for his passyon, that i had maryed an husband of clowts, when i had maried col my good man. eula. why say ye so. i pray you, are you at oddes now. xan. i shal neuer be at one with him ye se how beggerly i go. i haue not an hole smock to put on my backe, and he is wel contente with all: i praye god i neuer come in heuen & i be not ashamed oftimes to shewe my head, when i se other wiues how net and trim they go that ar matched with farre porer men then he is. eula. the apparell of honest wiues is not in the aray of the body, nor in the tirements of their head as saynte peter the apostle teacheth vs (and that i learned a late at a sermon) but in good lyuynge and honest conuersacion and in the ornamentes of the soule, the common buenes ar painted up, to please manye mennes eies we ar trime ynough yf we please our husbands only. xan. but yet my good man so euyll wylling to bestow ought vpon his wyfe, maketh good chere, and lassheth out the dowrye that hee hadde with mee no small pot of wine. eulaly, where vpon? xantipha, wheron hym lykethe beste, at the tauerne, at the stewes and at the dyce. eulalia peace saye not so. xan. wel yet thus it is, then when he commeth home to me at midnight, longe watched for, he lyeth rowtyng lyke a sloyne all the leue longe nyght, yea and now and then he all bespeweth his bed, and worse then i will say at this tyme. eulali. peace thou dyshonesteth thy self, when thou doest dishonesteth thy husband. xantip. the deuyl take me bodye and bones but i had leuer lye by a sow with pigges, then with suche a bedfelowe. eulali. doest thou not then take him vp, wel favoredly for stumbling. xantip. as he deserueth i spare no tonge. eulalia. what doth he then. xantip. at the first breake he toke me vp vengeably, trusting that he shoulde haue shaken me of and put me to scilence with his crabid wordes. eula came neuer your hote wordes vnto handstrokes. xantip. on a tyme we fel so farre at wordes that we wer almost by ye eares togither. eula what say you woman? xan. he toke vp a staffe wandryng at me, as the deuill had bene on hym ready to laye me on the bones. eula. were thou not redye to ron in at the bench hole. xanti. nay mary i warrant the. i gat me a thre foted stole in hand, & he had but ones layd his littell finger on me, he shulde not haue founde me lame. i woulde haue holden his nose to the grindstone eulalia. a newe found shelde, ye wanted but youre dystaffe to haue made you a speare. xantip. and he shoulde not greatlye a laughed at his parte. eulali. ah my frynde. xantyppa. that way is neither good nor godly, xantippa what is neither good nor godly. yf he wyll not vse me, as hys wyfe: i wil not take him for my husbande. eulalya. but paule sayeth that wyues shoulde bee boner and buxome vnto their husbandes with all humylytye, and peter also bryngethe vs an example of sara, that called her husbande abrahame, lorde. xantippa. i know that as well as you then ye same paule say that men shoulde loue theyr wyues, as christ loues his spouse the churche let him do his duete i wil do myne. eula. but for all that, when the matter is so farre that the one muste forber the other it is reason that the woman giue place vnto the man, xan. is he meete to be called my husbande that maketh me his vnderlynge and his dryuel? eula. but tel me dame xantip. would he neuer offre the stripes after that xantip. not a stripe, and therin he was the wyser man for & he had he should haue repented euery vayne in hys harte. eulali. but thou offered him foule wordes plentie, xantip. and will do. eula. what doth he ye meane season. xantip. what doth he sometyme cowcheth an hogeshed, somtime he doth nothing but stande and laughe at me, other whyle takethe hys lute wheron is scarslie three strynges layenge on that as fast as he may dryue because he would not here me. eula. doeth that greue thee? xantippa. to beyonde home, manie a tyme i haue much a do to hold my handes. eula. neighbour. xantip. wylt thou gyue me leaue to be playn with the. xantippa good leaue haue you. eula. be as bolde on me agayne our olde acquayntaunce and amite, euen from our chyldhode, would it should be so. xantippa. trueth you saie, there was neuer woman kinde that i fauoured more elaly whatsoeuer thy husband be, marke well this, chaunge thou canst not, in the olde lawe, where the deuill hadde cast aboone betwene the man and the wife, at the worste waye they myght be deuorsed, but now that remedie is past, euen till death depart you he must nedes be thy husbande, and thou hys wyfe, xan. il mote they thryue & thei that taken away that liberty from vs eulalia. beware what thou sayest, it was christes act. xan. i can euil beleue that eula. it is none otherwyse, now it is beste that eyther of you one beyng with an other, ye laboure to liue at reste and peace. xantyppa. why? can i forgeue him a new, eu. it lieth great parte in the women, for the orderinge of theyr husbandes. xan. leadest thou a mery life with thine. eula now all is well. xan. ergo ther was somwhat to do at your fyrste metying eula. neuer no greate busynes, but yet as it, happeneth now and than betwene man & woman, there was foule cloudes a loft, that might haue made a storme but that they were ouer blowen with good humanitie and wyse handlynge. euery man hath hys maner and euery man hath his seueral aptite or mynde, and thinkes hys owne way best, & yf we list not to lie there liueth no man without faulte, which yf anie were elles, ywis in wedlocke they ought to know and not vtterly hated xan, you say well, eulalya. it happeneth many times that loue dayes breketh betwene man and wife, before ye one be perfitly knowen vnto the other beware of that in any wife, for when malice is ones begon, loue is but barely redressed agayne, namely, yf the mater grow furthe unto bytter checkes, & shamfull raylinges such things as are fastened with glew, yf a manne wyll all to shake them strayght waye whyle the glew is warme, they soone fal in peces, but after ye glew is ones dried vp they cleue togither so fast as anie thing, wherefore at the beginning a meanes must be made, that loue mai encrease and be made sure betwene ye man & the wife, & that is best brought aboute by gentilnesse and fayre condycions, for the loue that beautie onelie causeth, is in a maner but a cheri faire xan. but i praye you hartelye tell me, by what pollycy ye brought your good man to folow your daunce. eula. i wyll tell you on this condicyon, that ye will folowe me. xan. i can. eula, it is as easy as water if ye can find in your hart to do it, nor yet no good time past for he is a yong man, and you ar but agirle of age, and i trowe it is not a yere ful sins ye wer maried. xan all thys is true eulalia. i wyll shew you then. but you must kepe it secret xantip. with a ryght good wyl. eula. this was my chyefe care, to kepe me alwayes in my housbandes fauoure, that there shulde nothyng angre him i obserued his appetite and pleasure i marked the tymes bothe whan he woulde be pleased and when he wold be all byshrwed, as they tameth the elephantes and lyons or suche beastes that can not be wonne by strength xantyppa. suche a beaste haue i at home. eula. thei that goth vnto the elephantes weare no white garmentes, nor they that tame wylde bulles, weare no blasynge reedes, for experience teacheth, that suche beastes bee madde with those colours, like as the tygers by the sound of tumbrels be made so wode, that thei plucke theymself in peces. also thei that breake horses haue their termes and theyr soundes theyr hadlynges, and other knackes to breake their wyldnes, wyth all. howe much more then is it oure duetyes that ye wyues to use suche craftes toward our husbandes with whom all our lyfe tyme wil we, nyl we is one house, and one bed. xantip. furthwith your tale. eula, when i had ones marked there thynges. i applied my selfe unto hym, well ware not to displease him. xantip. how could thou do that. eulalya. fyrste in the ouerseynge my householde, which is the very charge and cure of wyues, i wayted euer, not onely gyuynge hede that nothing shoulde be forgotten or undoone, but that althynges should be as he woulde haue it, wer it euer so small a trifle. xan. wherin. eulalia. as thus. yf mi good man had a fantasye to this thynge, or to that thyng, or if he would haue his meate dressed on this fashion, or that fashion. xan. but howe couldest thou fashyon thye selfe after hys wyll and mynde, that eyther woulde not be at home or elles be as freshe as a saulte heryng. elali. abyde a while. i come not at that yet, yf my husband wer very sad at anye tyme, no time to speake to him. i laughed not nor tryfled him as many a woman doth but i looked rufully and heauyly, for as a glasse (if it be a true stone) representeth euer ye physnamy of hym that loketh in it, so lykewyse it becommeth a wedded woman alway to agre vnto the appetite of her husbande, that she be not mery when he murneth, nor dysposed to play when he is sad. and if that at any time he be waiward shrewshaken, either i pacyfye hym with faire wordes, or i let hym alone, vntyll the wynd be ouerblowen gyuing him neuer a word at al, vntil the time come that i may eyther excuse my faute, or tell hym of hys. in lyke wyse when he commeth home wel whitled, i gyue hym gentyll and fayre woordes, so with fayre entreatynge i gette hym to bed. xantyppa, o careful state of wyues, when they muste be gladde and fayne to followe their husbandes mindes, be thei eluyshe, dronken, or doying what myschiefe they liste. eula. as whoe saieth this gentill dealynge serueth not for bothe partyes, for they spyte of theyr berdes muste suffre many thynges in our demeanor, yet a time ther is, when in a weighty matter it is laufull that the wyfe tell the good man his faute, if that it be matter of substaunce, for at lyght trifles, it is best to play byll under wynge. xantyp. what tune is that eula. when he is ydle, neither angry, pensife, nor ouersen, then betwixt you two secretly he must be told his faute gently, or rather intreated, that in this thynge or that he play the better husbande to loke better to his good name and fame and to his helth and this tellyng must be myxt with mery conceites and pleasaunt wordes many times i make a meane to tel my tale after this fashyon, that he shall promise me, he shal take no displeasure wyth my thynge, that i a foolyshe woman shall breake vnto hym, that pertayneth eyther to hys helthe worshyppe or welth. when i haue sayde that i woulde, i chop cleane from that communication and falle into some other pastime, for this is all our fautes, neyghbour xantippa, that when we begyn ones to chat our tounges neuer lie. xantip. so men say eulalia. thus was i well ware on, that i neuer tell my husband his fautes before companie, nor i neuer caried any complaynte furthe a dores: the mendes is soner made when none knoweth it but two, and there were anie suche faute that myght not be wel borne nor amended by ye wyues tellige, it is more laudable that the wife make complaynte vnto the parentes and kynsfolke of her husband, then vnto her own, and so to moderate her complaynte that she seme not to hate hym but hys vice nor let her play all the blabbe, that in some poynt vnutered, he may know & loue his wiues curteysy. xantip. she had nede be aswellerned woman, that would do all this. eu. mary through suche demeanoure, we shall sterre our husbandes vnto lyke gentylnesse. xan: there be some that cannot be amended with all the gentyll handlynge in the worlde. eula: in faith i thyncke nay, but case there be, marke this wel the good man must be for borne, howe soeuer the game goeth, then is it better to haue him alwayes at one point or ells more kinde and louing throw oure gentill handlinge, then to haue him worse and worse throwe our cursednesse, what wyll you say and i tell you of husbandes that hath won theyr wiues by suche curtesie, howe muche more are we bounde to use the same towarde our husbandes. xantip. than shall you tell of one farre vnlyke vnto thyne husband. eula. i am aquented with a certayne gentelman well lerned and a veri honest man, he maried a yonge wyfe, a mayden of. xvii. yeare olde brede and brought vp of a chylde in the countre vnder her fathers and mother wing (as gentilmen delite to dwel in the countre) to hunt & hawke this yong gentilman would haue one that were unbroken, because he might the soner breake her after hys owne mind, he began to entre her in learning syngynge, and playinge, and by lytle and lytle to vse here to repete suche thynges as she harde at sermons, and to instruct her with other things that myght haue doone her more good in time to come. this gere, because it was straunge vnto this young woman which at home was brought vp in all ydelnesse, and with the light communication of her fathers seruantes, and other pastimes, began to waxe greuouse & paynfull, vnto her. she withdrew her good mynde and dylygence and when her husband called vpon her she put ye finger in the eye, and wepte and many times she would fal downe on the grounde, beatynge her head agaynst the floure, as one that woulde be out of thys worlde. when there was no healpe for this gere, the good man as though he hadde bene wel asked his wyfe yf she woulde ryde into the countre with him a sporting vnto her fathers house, so that she graunted anone. when they were commen thyther, the gentilman left his wyfe with her mother & her sisters he went furth an huntynge with his father in lawe, there betwene theym two, he shewed al together, how that he hadde hoped to haue had a louynge companion to lead his lyfe withall, now he hath one that is alwaies blubberynge and pyninge her selfe awaye withoute anye remedie, he prayeth him to lay to hys hande in amendinge his doughters fautes her father answered that he had ones giuen hym his doughter, and yf that she woulde not be rewled by wordes (a goddes name take stafforde lawe) she was his owne. then the gentylman sayd agayne, i know that i may do but i had leuer haue her amended eyther by youre good counsell or commaundement, then to come vnto that extreme waies, her father promised that he would fynde a remedye. after a dai or two, he espied time and place when he might be alone with his doughter. then he loked soureli vpon his doughter, as though he had bene horne woode with her, he began to reherse how foule a beaste she was, how he feared many tymes that she neuer haue bestowed her. and yet sayde he much a doe, vnto my great coste and charg, i haue gotten the one that moughte lye by any ladyes syde, and she were a quene and yet thou not perceiuying what i haue done for the nor knowynge that thou hast suche a man whiche but of his goodnes myghte thynke thee to euill to be stoye in his kytchen, thou contrariest al his mind to make a short tale he spake so sharpely to her, that she feared that he wold haue beaten her. it is a man of asubtyll and wylye wytte, whyche wythout a vysarde is ready to playe anye maner of parte. then this yonge wife what for feare, and for trouthe of the matter, cleane stryken oute of countenaunce, fell downe at her fathers fete desyryng hym that he wolde forgette and forgiue her all that was past and euer after she woulde doe her duetye her father forgaue her, and promised that she shoulde finde him a kynd and a louynge father, yf so be that she perfourmed her promyse. xantippa. how dyd she afterwarde? eulalya, when she was departed from her father she came backe into a chaumber, and there by chaunce found her husband alone she fel on her knees to hym and said. man in tymes paste, i neyther knewe you nor my selfe, from this daye froward ye shall se me cleane chaunged, onelye pardon that is past, with that her husbande toke her in his armes & kyssed her sayinge she should lacke nothyng yf she woulde holde her in that mind. xantip. why did she continue so. eulalya. euen tyll her endynge daye, nor there was none so vyle a thynge but that she woulde laye handes on it redely with all her herte, if her husband wolde let her, so great loue was begon and assured betwene them and many a daye after, shee thanked god that euer she met with such a man. for yf she had not she sayd she had ben cleane caste awaye. xan. we haue as greate plentie of suche housbandes, as of white crowes. eulalya. now, but for werieng you? i coulde tell you a thynge that chaunced a late in this same citye. xantyppa. i haue litell to doe, and i lyke your communicacyon very well. eulalia. there was a certaine gentilman he as suche sort of men do, vsed much huntyng in the cuntre, where he happened on a younge damoysell, a very pore womans child on whom he doted a man well stryken in age, and for her sake he lay often out of his owne house his excuse was hunting. this mans wife an exceding honest woman, halfe deale suspecte the mater, tried out her husbandes falshed, on a tyme when he had taken his iourney fourth of the town vnto some other waies, she wente vnto that poore cotage and boulted out all the hoole matter, where he laye on nights, wheron he dranke, what thyng thei had to welcom him withall. there was neither one thyng nor other, but bare walles. this good woman returned home, and sone after came againe brynginge with her a good soft bed, and al therto belongyng and certain plate besydes that she gaue them moneye, chargynge them that if the gentilman came agayne, they shold entreate him better not beyng knowen al this while that she was his wyfe, but fayued her to be her sister. not long after her husband stale thether againe, he sawe the howse otherwyse decked, and better fare then he was wounte to haue. he asked, frome whence commeth al this goodly gere? they sayde that an honeste matrone, a kynsewoman of hys hadde broughte it thyther and commaunded thenm that he should be well cherished when so euer he came, by and by his hart gaue him that it was hys wiues dede, whan he came home he demaunded of her yf she hadde bene there or nay, she sayd yea. then he asked her for what purpose she sente all that housholde stuffe thyther. man (said she) ye haue ben tenderly brought vp. i perceiued that ye were but corslie handled there, me thought that it was my part, seing it was your wyll and pleasure to be there ye shoulde be better loked to. xantippa. she was one of goddes fooles. i woulde rather for a bed haue layd vnder him a bundel of nettels: or a burden of thistels. eula. but here the end her husbande perceyuyng the honeste of her great pacience neuer after laye from her, but made good cheare at home with his owne. i am sure ye knowe gilberte the holander. xan. very well. eu. he (as it is not vnknowen maried an old wife in his florishing youth. xan. per aduenture he maried the good and notthe woman. eulalia. there sayde ye well, setting lytell stoore by hys olde wife, hunted a callette, with whom he kept much companie abrode, he dined or supped litell at home. what wouldest thou haue sayd to ye gere. xantip. what woulde i a said? i wolde haue flowen to the hores toppe and i wolde haue crowned myne husbande at hys oute goinge to her with a pysbowle, that he so embawlmed might haue gon vnto his souerayne ladie. eula. but how much wiselier dyd this woman? she desyred that yonge woman home vnto her, and made her good chere, so by that meanes she brought home also her husband without ani witchraft or sorserie, and yf that at anye season he supped abrode with her she would sende vnto them some good dayntie morsel, and byd him make good chere xantippa. i had leuer be slayne then i woulde be bawde vnto myne owne husbande. eulalia. yea, but consyder all thynges well, was not that muche better, then she shoulde be her shrewyshnesse, haue putte her husbandes minde cleane of from her, and so haue ledde all her life in trouble and heuynesse. xantippa. i graunte you well, that it was better so but i coulde not abyde it. eulalya. i wyll tell you a prety story more, and so make an ende one of oure neyghboures, a well disposed and a goddes man, but that he is some what testie, on a day pomeld his wife well and thriftely aboute the pate and so good a woman as euer was borne, she picked her into an inner parler, and there weepynge and sobbynge, eased her heuye harte, anone after, by chaunce her husbande came into the same place, and founde hys wyfe wepyng. what sitest thou heare sayth he seighing & sobbing like a child then she like a wise woman sayde. is it not more honesty for me to lamente my dolours here in a secret place, then to make wondering and on oute crye in the strete, as other women do. at so wyfely and womanly a saing his hart melted, promysynge her faythfullye and truelie that he woulde neuer laye stroke on her afterwarde, nor neuer did. xantippa. no more wil mine god thanke my selfe. eulalya. but then ye are alwaies one at a nother, agreinge lyke dogges and cattes. xan. what wouldest thou that i should do? eu. fyrst & formest, whatsoeuer thy husbande doeth sayde thou nothinge, for his harte must be wonne by lytell and litel by fayre meanes, gentilnesse and forbearing at the last thou shalte eyther wynne him or at the least waie thou shalt leade a better life then thou doest now. xantippa. he his beyonde goddes forbode, he wil neuer amende. eulalia. eye saye not so, there is no beest so wild but by fayre handling be tamed, neuer mistrust man then. assay a moneth or two, blame me and thou findest not that my counsell dooeth ease. there be some fautes wyth you thoughe thou se them, be wyse of this especyall that thou neuer gyue hym foule wordes in the chambre, or inbed but be sure that all thynges there bee full of pastyme and pleasure. for yf that place which is ordeined to make amendes for all fautes and so to renew loue, be polluted, eyther with strife or grugynges, then fayre wel al hope of loue daies, or atonementes, yet there be some beastes so wayward and mischeuous, that when theyr husbandes hath them in their arms a bed, they scholde & chyde making that same plesure their lewd condicions (that expelseth all displeasures oute of their husbandes mynde unpleasaunt and lytell set bi corrupting the medecine that shuld haue cured al deadly greifes, & odible offences. xantip. that is no newes to me. eula. though the woman shulde be well ware and wyse that she shulde neuer be disobedient vnto her husband yet she ought to be most circumspect that at meting she shew her selfe redy and pleasaunt unto him. xantyppa. yea vnto a man, holde well withall but i am combred with a beast. eula. no more of those wordes, most commonly our husbandes ar euyll through our owne faute, but to returne againe vnto our taile they that ar sene in the olde fables of poetes sai that venus whome they make chiefe lady of wedlocke (hath a girdle made by the handy worke of vulcan her lorde, and in that is thrust al that enforceth love and with that she girdeth her whan so ever she lyeth wyth her housbande xantippa. a tale of a tubbe. eulalya. a tayle it is, but herken what the taile meaneth. xantippa. tell me. eulalia that techeth us that the wyfe ought to dyspose her selfe all the she maye that lieng by her husband she shew him al the plesure that she can; wherby the honest love of matrimony may reuiue and be renewed, & that there with be clene dispatched al grudges & malice xant. but how shall we come by the thys gyrdle? eula. we nede neyther wytchraft nor enchauntment, ther is non of them al, so sure as honest condicions accompayned with good feloshyp. xan. i can not fauoure suche an husbande as myne is. eula, it is moste thy profyt that he be no longer suche. if thou couldest by thy circes craft chaunge thin husband into an hogge, or a bore wouldest thou do it? xantip. god knoweth. eu. art thou in dout? haddest thou leauer marye an hogge than a man. xantip. mary i had leauer haue a manne. eulalia. wel, what and thou coudest by sorcery make him of a dronkarde a soober man, of a vnthrifte a good housbande of an ydell losell a towarde body, woldest thou not doe it? xantip. yes, hardely, woulde i doe it. but where shoulde i learne the cunnyng? eula. for soth that conning hast thou in the if thou wouldest vtter it, thyn must he be, mauger thy head, the towarde ye makest him, the better it is for the, thou lokest on nothing but on his leude condicions, and thei make the half mad, thou wouldest amende hym and thou puttest hym farther oute of frame, loke rather on his good condicions, and so shalt thou make him better. it is to late calagayne yesterdaie before thou were maryed unto hym. it was tyme to consyder what his fautes were for a women shold not only take her husbande by the eyes but by the eares. now it is more tyme to redresse fautes then to fynd fautes. xantt. what woman euer toke her gusband by the eares. eulali. she taketh her husbande by the eyes that loketh on nothyng, but on the beautye and pulcritude of the body. she taketh him by the eares, that harkeneth diligently what the common voice sayth by him xantip. thy counsaile is good, but it commeth a day after the faire. eula. yet it commeth time ynough to bringe thyne husbande to a greate furtheraunce to that shall bee yf god sende you anie frute togither. xantippa. we are spede alredy of that. eulaly. how long ago. xantip. a good whyle ago eulalia. how many monethes old is it. xantip. it lacketh lytle of. vii. eula what a tale is this, ye reken the monethes by nightes and dayes double. xantippa. not so. eula. it can not be none other wyse, yf ye reken from the mariage day. xantippa. yea, but what then, i spake with him before we were maried. eulalia. be children gotten by speakinge. xantip. it befell so that he mette me alone and begon to ticke at me, and tickled me vnder the arme holes and sydes to make me laugh. i might not awaie with ticklynge, but fell downe backewarde vpon a bedde and he a lofte, neuer leuinge kyssynge on me, what he did els i can not saye, but by sayncte marie within a while after my bely beganne to swell. eula. go now and disprayse thine husbande whiche yf he gette children by playe, what wyll he do when he goeth to it in good ernest. xantippa, i fere me i am payed agayin. eula. good locke god hath sent a fruitfull grounde, a good tylman. xantip. in that thing he might haue lesse laboure and more thanke. eula. few wyues finde at theyr husbandes in that behalf but were ye then sure togither. xanti. yea that we were eula. the offence is the lesse. is it a man chylde. xantip. yea. eula. he shal make you at one so that ye wil bow & forbere. what saieth other men by thin husband, they that be his companions, they delite with him abrode xan, they say that he is meruelous gentyl, redy to do euery man pleasure, liberal and sure to his frende. eula. and that putteth me in good comfort that he wyll be ruled after our counsayll. xantip. but i fynde him not so. eula. =order thy selfe to him as i haue tolde thee, and cal me no more true sayer but a lier, if he be not so good vnto the as to anie creature liuinge again considre this he is yet but a childe, i thinke he passethe not. xxiiij. the blacke oxe neuer trode on hys fote, nowe it is but loste laboure to recken vpon anye deuorse. xantippa. yet manye a tyme and ofte i haue troubled my braynes withal eulalia. as for that fantasye whensoeuer it commeth into your mynd first of all counte how naked a thynge woman is, deuorsed from man. it is the hyghest dignitie that longethe to the wyfe to obsequyous vnto her spouse. so hath natyre ordeined so god hath appoynted, that the woman shoulde be ruled al by the man loke onely vppon this whiche is trouth, thine husbande he is, other canste thou none haue. againe forgette not that swete babe be gotten of both your bodies what thin beste thou to do with that, wilte thou take it awaye with thee? thou shalte bereue thyne husband his ryght wylt thou leue it with hym? thou shalt spoile thy self of thy chefeste jewell thou haste. beside all this tell me trueth hast thou none euyll wyllers, besyde all thys tell me trueth, hast thou none euyll wyllers. xan. i haue a stepdame i warrant you, and myne husbandes mother euen such another. eula. do they hate the so deadly. xantip. they woulde se me hanged. eula. then forget not then what greater plesure couldest thou shew them then to se the deuorsed from thine husband and to led a wydowes lyfe. yea and worse then a wydow, for wydowes be at their choise. xantippa. i holde well with youre counsell, but i can not awaye with the paynes. eulalia. yet recken what paines ye toke or ye colde teache your paret to speake. xantippa. exceadynge much. eu. and thinke you much to labour a lytel in reforming your husband with whom you may liue merely all the dayes of your lyfe. what busines doe men put them self to be wel & easly horsed & shal we think our selues to good to take paines that we mai haue our husbandes gentil & curteise vnto vs. xantip. what shal i do. eu. i haue told you al redy, se that al thing be clene & trim at home, that no sluttysh or vnclenlye syghtes dryue hym oute a dores. be your selfe alwayes redy at a becke, berynge continuali in minde what reuerence the wife oweth vnto her husband. be neyther in your dumpes, nor alwayes on your mery pinnes go nether to homely nor to nycely. let your meat be cleane dressed, you know yourhusbandes diet. what he loueth best that dresse. moreouer shewe your selfe louinge and fayre spoken vnto them where he loueth, call them now and then vnto your table. at meate, se that al thinges be well sauored, and make good there, and when that he is toppe heuy playing on his lute, sytte thou by and singe to him so shalte thou make hym keepe home, and lessen hys expences this shall he thynke at length, in faythe i am a fonde felowe that maketh suche chere with a strumpet abroode with greate lossee bothe of substance and name, seyng that i haue a wyfe at home bothe muche fayrer, and one that loueth me ten times better, with whome i may be both clenlyer receiued and dayntelier cherisshed xantip. beleuest thou that it will take and i put it into a profe. eulali. looke on me. i warrante it or ought longe i wyll in hande with thyne husbande, & i will tell hym his part. xantippa. ye marie that is well sayde. but be wyse that he espie not our casle, he would plaie his fages, all the house should be to lytle for hym. eulalia. take no thoughte. i shall so conuey my matters, that he shall dysclose all together hym selfe, what busynesse is betwene you, that done i wyll handell him pretelie as i thinke beste, and i truste to make him a new man for the and when i se my time i wyl make a lie for thee, how louinge thou hast spoken of him. xantippa. chryst spede vs and bringe our pupose well aboute. eulalia. he will not fayle the so thou do thy good wyll. there was a man that maried a woman whiche hadde great riches and beawtye. howe bee it she hadde suche an impedyment of nature that she was domme and coulde not speake, whiche thynge made him ryghte pensyfe, and sayd, wherfore vpon a daye as he walked alone ryght heuye in hearte thynkynge vpon his wyfe. there came one to hym and asked him what was the cause of his heuynesse whiche answered that it was onely bycause his wife was borne domme. to whome this other said i shal shewe the soone a remedy and a medicyne (therfore that is thus) go tak an aspen leafe and lay it vnder her tonge this night shee beinge a sleape, and i warrant the that shee shall speake on the morowe whiche man beyng glad of thys medycyne prepared therfore and gathered aspen leaues, wherfore he layd thre of them vnder her tonge whan shee was a sleape. and on the morow when he him selfe awaked he desyrous to know how hys medicine wrought being in bed with her, he demaunded of her how she did, and sodenly she answered and sayd, i beshrewe thy harte for waking me so early, and so by the vertue of that medycyne she was restored to her speche. but in conclusion her spech encresed day by day and she was so curst of condycyon that euery daie she brauled and chyd with her husbande, so muche at the laste he was more weped, and had much more trouble and disease wyth her shrewed wordes then he hadde before when she was dumme, wherfore as he walked another time alone he happened to mete agayne with the same personne that taught hym the sayde medycine and sayde to hym thys wyse. syr ye taught me a medicin but late to make my domme wyfe to speake, byddynge me lay an aspen leafe vnder her toung when she sleapte, and i layde three aspen leaves there. wherfore nowe she speaketh. but yet she speaketh soo much & so shrewdlye that i am more werier of her now, then i was when she was domme: wherfore i praie you teache me a medycine to modyfye her that she speake not so muche. this other answered and sayd thus. sir i am a deuyl of hel but i am one of them that haue least power there. al be yet i haue power to make a woman to speake, but and yf a woman begin ones to speake, i nor al the deuyls in hel that haue the mooste power be not able to make a woman to be styll, nor to cause her to leue speakyng. the end of this pleasant dialogue declaryng the seueral properties of ye two contrary disposers of the wyues aforesayde. imprinted at london in paules church yearde, at the sygne of the sunne, by antony kytson. proofreading team [transcriber's note: the original text has no page numbers. page breaks have been marked with double lines || like this. three apparent typographic errors were corrected and are listed at the end of this text. all other spelling and punctuation are as in the original.] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * [c]two dyaloges wrytten in laten by the famous clerke. d. eras mus of roterodame/ one called polyphemus or the gospeller/ the other dysposyng of thynges and names/ translated in to englyshe by edmonde becke. and prynted at cantorbury in saynt paules paryshe by johñ mychell. [+] * * * * * the preface to the reader. lucius anneus seneca amonge many other pratie saienges (gentle reder) hathe this also, whiche in my iudgement is as trew as it is wittie. rogãdo cogit qui rogat superior. and in effecte is thus moch to say, yf a mãnes superior or his better desyre any thige, he might aswell cõmãde it by authoritie as ones to desyre it. a gentleman a nere cosyn of myne, but moch nerer in fryndshyp, eftesones dyd instant and moue me to translate these two dyaloges folowynge, to whose getlenes i am so moch obliged, indetted and bounde, that he myght well haue cõmaunded me to this and more paynes: to whome i do not onely owe seruyce, but my selfe also. and in accõplysshynge of his most honest request (partly by cause i wolde not the moost inhumane fawte of ingratitude shuld wor||thely be imputed to me, & that i might in this thynge also (accordynge to my bounden dutie) gratifie my frende) i haue hassard my selfe in these daungerous dayes, where many are so capcyous, some prone and redy to malygne & depraue, and fewe whose eares are not so festidious, tendre, and redy to please, that in very tryfles & thynges of small importaunce, yet exacte dylygence and exquisite iudgement is loked for and requyred, of them whiche at this present wyll attempte to translate any boke be it that the matter be neuer so base. but what diligence i have enployed in the translaciõ hereof i referre it to the iudgement of the lerned sort, whiche cõferynge my translacion with the laten dyaloges, i dowte not wyl condone and pardone my boldnesse, in that that i chalenge the semblable lybertie whiche the translatours of this tyme iustlie chalenge. for some heretofore submytting them selfe to seruytude, haue lytle ||respecte to the obseruaciõ of the thyng which in translacyõ is of all other most necessary and requisite, that is to saye, to rendre the sence & the very meanyng of the author, not so relygyouslie addicte to translate worde for worde, for so the sence of the author is oftentimes corrupted & depraued, and neyther the grace of the one tonge nor yet of the other is truely observed or aptlie expressed. the lerned knoweth that euery tonge hathe his peculyer proprietie, phrase, maner of locucion, enargies and vehemêcie, which so aptlie in any other tõg can not be expressed. yf i shal perceyue this my symple doinge to be thankefully taken, and in good parte accepted, it shall encorage me hereafter to attempte the translaciõ of some bokes dysposing of matters bothe delectable, frutefull, & expedient to be knowen, by the grace of god, who gyuynge me quyetnes of mynde, lybertie, and abylytie, shall not desyste to communicat the frute of my ||spare howers, to such as are not lerned in the laten tonge: to whome i dedycat the fyrste frutes of this my symple translacyon. * * * * * a declaracion of the names. poliphemus sygnifieth, valyant or noble, and in an other sygnifi cacion, talcatyfe or clybbe of tong. the name of a gyant called cyclops, ha uynge but one eye in his forhed, of a huge stature and a myghtie personage. and is aplyed here to sygnifie a great freke or a lubber, as this poliphemus was, whiche beynge a man of warre or a courtyer, had a newe testament in his hande, and loked buselie for some sentence or text of scrypture and that cannius his companyõ espyed and sayd to hî as fo loweth. * * * * * [c]the parsons names are cannius and poliphemus. cannius. what hunt polipheme for here? poliphemus. aske ye what i hunt for here, and yet ye se me haue neyther dogges, dart, jauelyn, nor huntyng staffe. cannius. paraduenture ye hunt after some praty nymphe of the couert. poliphemus. by my trouth and well coniectured, be holde what a goodly pursenet, or a hay i haue here in my hande. cannius. benedicite, what a straunge syght is this, me thinke i se bachus in a lyons skin, poliphemus with a boke in his hande. this is a dogge in a doblet, a sowe with a sadle, of all that euer i se it is a non decet. poliphe. i haue not onely paynted and garnyshed my boke with saffron, but also i haue lymmed it withe sinople, asaphetida, redleed, vermilõ, and byse. can. it is a warlyke boke, for it is furnished with knottes, tassils ||plates, claspes, and brasen bullyons. poliphe. take the boke in your hand and loke within it. canni. i se it wery well. truly it is a praty boke, but me thynkes ye haue not yet trymmed it sufficiently for all your cost ye have bestowed upon it. poliphe. why what lackes it? canni. thou shuldest haue set thyne armes upon it. poliphemus. what armes i beseche the? cãnius. mary the heed of silenus, an olde iolthed drunkard totynge out of a hoggeshed or a tunne, but in good ernest, wherof dothe your boke dyspose or intreate? dothe it teache the art and crafte to drynke a duetaunt? poli. take hede in goddes name what ye say lest ye bolt out a blasphemie before ye be ware. cãnius. why bydde ye me take hede what i saye? is there any holy matter in the boke? poli. what mã it is the gospell boke, i trow there is nothynge can be more holye. cannius. god for thy grace what hathe poliphemus to do withe the gospell? ||poli. nay why do ye not aske what a chrysten man hathe to do with christe? cannius. i can not tell but me thynkes a rousty byll or a halbard wold become such a great lubber or a slouyn as thou arte a great deale better, for yf it were my chaûce to mete such one and knewe him not upon seeborde, and he loked so lyke a knaue and a ruffyã as thou dost i wolde take hym for a pirate or a rouer upon the see/ and if i met such one in the wood for an arrante thefe, and a man murderer. poli. yea good syr but the gospell teache vs this same lesson, that we shuld not iudge any person by his loke or by his externall & outwarde apparaunce. for lyke wyse as many tymes vnder a graye freers coote a tyrannous mynde lyeth secretly hyd, eue so a polled heed, a crispe or a twyrled berde, a frowninge, a ferse, or a dogged loke, a cappe, or a hat with an oystrich fether, a soldyers cassocke, a payre of hoose all to cut and manglyd, may co||uer an euangelycall mynde. cannius. why not, mary god forbyd elles, yea & many tymes a symple shepe lyeth hyd in a wolfes skynne, and yf a man maye credite and beleue the fables of aesope, an asse maye lye secretely unknowen by cause he is in a lyons skynne. poliphe. naye i knowe hym whiche bereth a shepe vpon his heed, and a sore in his brest, to whome i wold wysshe with al my hart that he had as whyte and as fauorable frendes as he hathe blacke eyes. and i wolde wisshe also that he were as well guylt ouer and ouer as he hathe a colour mete to take guyltynge. canni. yf ye take hym to were a shepe vpon his heed, that weareth a cappe of woll, howe greuously than art thou lodyn, or what an excedynge heuy burdê bearest thou then i praye the whiche bearest a hoole shepe and an ostryche to vpon thy heed? but what saye ye to hî doth not he more folyssly which beareth a byrd vpon his heed, and an asse in his ||brest. poliphemus. there ye nypped & taunted me in dede. cannius. but i wolde saye this geere dyd wonderous wel yf this gospel boke dyd so adourne the with vertue as thou hast adourned lymmed, and gorgiously garnysshed it with many gay goodly glystryng ornamentes. mary syr thou hast set it forth in his ryght colours in dede, wolde to god it might so adourne the with good cõdiciõs that thou myghtest ones lerne to be an honest man. poli. there shall be no defaute in me, i tell you i wyll do my diligence. can. naye there is no doute of that, there shall be no more faute in you now i dare say then was wonte to be. poli. yea but (youre tarte tauntes, and youre churlysshe checkes, and raylynges set asyde) tell me i pray the this one thynge, do you thus disprayse, condempne, or fynde faute with them whiche caryeth aboute with them the newe testament or the gospel boke? canni. no by my fayth do i not good ||praty man. poliphe. call ye me but a praty one and i am hygher then you by ye length of a good asses heed. can. i thynke not fully so moche yf the asse stretch forth his eares, but go to it skyllis no matter of that, let it passe, he that bare christ vpon his backe was called christofer, and thou whiche bearest the gospell boke aboute with the shall for poliphemus be called the gospeller or the gospell bearer. polip. do not you counte it an holy thynge to cary aboute with a man the newe testament? cãni. why no syr by my trouth do i not, except thou graunte the very asses to be holy to. poli. how can an asse be holy? cannius. for one asse alone is able to beare thre hundreth suche bokes, and i thynke suche a great lubber as thou art were stronge inoughe to beare as great a burden, and yf thou had a hansome packesadle sette vpon thy backe. poliphe. and yet for all your iestynge it is not agaynst good reason to saye ||that ye asse was holy which bore christ. cannius. i do not enuye you man for this holynes for i had as lefe you had that holynes as i, and yf it please you to take it i wyll geue you an holy & a religious relyke of the selfe same asse whiche christ rode vpon, and whan ye haue it ye may kysse it lycke it and cull it as ofte as ye lyst. poli. mary syr i thanke you, ye can not gyue me a more thanckefull gyfte nor do me a greatter pleasure, for that asse withouten any tayle was made as holye as any asse could be by the touchynge of christes body. cannius. undouted they touched christes body also whiche stroke and buffeted christ. poliphe. yea but tell me this one thynge i praye the in good ernest. is it not a great sygne of holynes in a man to cary aboute the gospel boke or the newe testament? cannius. it is a token of holynes in dede if it be done without hypocrysie, i meane if it be done without dissimulacion/ and for ||that end, intent & purpose, that it shuld be done for. poliphe. what the deuyl & a morten tellest thou a man of warre of hypocrisie, away with hypocrisie to the monkes and the freers. cannius. yea but bycause ye saye so, tell me fyrste i praye you what ye call hypocrisie. po. when a man pretendis another thyng outwardly then he meanis secretly in his mynde. cannius. but what dothe the bearynge aboute of the newe testament sygnyfie. dothe it not betoken that thy lyfe shulde be conformable to the gospell which thou carryest aboute with the. poli. i thynke well it dothe. cannius. wel then when thy lyfe is not conformable to the boke, is not that playne hypocrisie. poliph. tell me thê what you call the trewe carienge of the gospell boke aboute with a man. cãni. sõme men beare it aboute with them in theyr hãdes (as the gray freers were wonte to beare the rule of saynt fraunces) and so the porters of londõ, asses ||& horses may beare it as well as they. and there be some other that carry the gospel in theyr mouthes onlie, and such haue no other talke but al of christ and his gospell, and that is a very poynt of a pharysey. and some other carrye it in theyr myndes. but in myne opynion he beares the gospell boke as he shuld do whiche bothe beares it in his hande, cõmunes of it with his mouth whan occasyon of edyfyenge of his neyghboure whan conuenyent oportunytie is mynystred to him, and also beares it in his mynde and thynkes vpon it withe his harte. poli. yea thou art a mery felow, where shall a man fynde suche blacke swãnes? cannius. in euery cathedrall church, where there be any deacons, for they beare the gospel boke î theyr hãde, they synge the gospell aloude, somtyme in a lofte that the people may heare thê, althoughe they do not vnderstand it, and theyr myndes are vpõ it when they synge it. polphe. and yet for all your ||sayenge all suche deacons are no saynttes that beare the gospell so in theyr myndes. cannius. but lest ye play the subtyle and capcious sophystryar with me i wyll tell you this one thynge before. no man can beare the gospell in his mynde but he must nedes loue it from the bothum of his harte, no man loueth it inwardly and from the bothû of his harte but he must nedes declare and expresse the gospell in his lyuinge, outwarde maners, & behauour. poli. i can not skyll of youre subtyle reasonynges, ye are to fyne for me. can. thê i wyll commune with you after a grosser maner, and more playnly. yf thou dyddest beare a tankard of good reynyshe wyne vpon thy shulders onelye, what other thynge were it to the then a burden. poliphe. it were none other thynge truly, it is no great pleasure so beare wyne. cannius. what and yf thou dranke asmoche as thou coudest well holde in thy mouthe, after the manner of ||a gargarisme & spyt it out agayne. po. that wolde do me no good at all, but take me not with suche a faute i trow, for the wyne is very bad and if i do so. canni. but what and yf thou drynke thy skynne full as thou art wont to do, whê thou comest where good wyne is. poliphe. mary there is nothyng more godly or heuynly. cannius. it warmes you at the stomacke, it settes your body in a heate, it makes you loke with a ruddy face, and setteth your hart vpon a mery pynne. poliphe. that is suerly so as ye saye in dede. canni. the gospell is suche a lyke thynge of all this worlde, for after that it hathe ones persed & entered in the veynes of the mynd it altereth, transposeth, and cleane changeth vpsodowne the whole state of mã, and chaungeth hym cleane as it were into a nother man. polip. ah ha, nowe i wot wherabout ye be, belyke ye thîke that i lyue not accordynge to the gospell or as a good gospeller shulde do. ||cannius. there is no man can dyssolue this questiõ better then thy selfe. poli. call ye it dissoluynge? naye and yf a thynge come to dyssoluynge gyue me a good sharpe axe in my hande and i trow i shall dyssolue it well inoughe. canni. what woldest thou do, i praye the, and yf a man shulde say to thy teth thou lyest falsely, or elles call the by thy ryght name knaue in englysshe. poli. what wolde i do quod he, that is a question in dede, mary he shulde feele the wayghte of a payre of churlyshe fystes i warrant the. canni. and what and yf a man gaue you a good cuffe vpon the eare that shulde waye a pounde? poliphe. it were a well geuen blowe that wolde aduauntage hym. xx. by my trouthe and he escaped so he myght say he rose vpon his ryght syde, but it were maruayle & i cut not of his head harde by his shulders. canni. yea but good felowe thy gospell boke teacheth the to geue gentle answers, and fayre wordes ||agayne for fowle, and to hym that geueth the a blowe vpon the ryght cheke to holde forth the lyfte. poliphe. i do remembre i haue red suche a thinge in my boke, but ye must pardone me for i had quyte forgotten it. can. well go to, what saye ye to prayer i suppose ye praye very ofte. poli. that is euyn as very a touche of a pharesey as any can be. cannius. i graunt it is no lesse thê a poynte of a pharesey to praye longe and faynedly vnder a colour or pretêce of holynes, that is to saye when a man prayeth not frõ the bothum of his hart but with the lyppes only and from the tethe outward, and that in opyn places where great resort of people is, bycause they wold be sene. but thy gospel boke teacheth the to praye contynually, but so that thy prayer come from the bothu of the hart. poli. yea but yet for all my sayenge i praye sumtyme. can. when i beseche the when ye art a slepe? poli. when it cometh in to my mynde, ones ||or twyse may chaunce in a weke. can. what prayer sayst thou? poliphe. the lordes prayer, the pater noster. canni. howe many tymes ouer? poli. onis, & i trowe it is often inoughe, for the gospell forbyddeth often repetynge of one thynge. canni. can ye saye your pater noster through to an ende & haue youre mynde runnynge vpon nothynge elles in all that whyle? poli. by my trouthe and ye wyll beleue me i neuer yet assayed nor proued whether i coulde do it or no. but is it not sufficient to saye it with my mouthe? can. i can not tell whether it be or no. but i am sure god here vs not excepte we praye from the bothum of our harte. but tell me another thyng i wyll aske the. doest thou not fast very often? poli. no neuer in all my lyfe tyme and yf it were not for lacke of meate. can. and yet thy boke alowes and commendes hyghly bothe fastynge and prayer. polip. so coulde i alowe them but that my belly can ||not well affare nor a way with fastyng. cannius. yea but paule sayth they are not the seruauntes of iesus christe whiche serue theyr belly & make it theyr god. do you eate fleshe euery day? po. no neuer when i haue none to eate, but i neuer refuse it when it is set before me, and i neuer aske question not for cõscience but for my belly sake. can. yea but these stronge sturdy sydes of suche a chuffe and a lobbynge lobye as thou arte wolde be fed well inoughe with haye and barke of trees. poliphe. yea but chryste sayd, that which entereth in at the mouthe defyleth not the man. canni. that is to be vnderstand thus yf it be measurably taken, and without the offendinge of our christian brother. but paule the disciple of chryst had rather peryshe & sterue with hunger then onys to offende his weyke brothren with his eatynge, and he exhorteth vs to followe his example that in all thynges we maye please all men. poli. what tel ||ye me of paule, paule is paule and i am i. cannius. do you gladly helpe to releue the poore and the indygent with your goodes? poli. howe can i helpe them whiche haue nothynge to gyue them, and scant inoughe for my selfe. cannius. ye myght spare somthynge to helpe thê with yf thou woldest playe the good husband in lyuynge more warely, in moderatynge thy superfluous expenses, and in fallynge to thy worke lustely. poliphemus. nay then i were a fole in dede, a penyworth of ease is euer worth a peny, and nowe i haue found so moch pleasure in ease that i can not fall to no labour. canni. do you kepe the commaundementes of god? polip. nowe ye appose me, kepe the cõmaundementes quod he, that is a payne in dede. cannius. art thou sory for thy synnes and thyne offences, doest thou ernestly repent the for thê. poliphemus. christ hath payed the raunsome of synne and satisfied for it alredy. cannius. howe ||prouest thou then that thou louest the gospell and fauoris the word of god as thou bearest men in hande thou doest. poliphemus. i wyll tell you that by & by, and i dare saye you wyl confesse no lesse your selfe then that i am an ernest fauorer of the worde then i haue told you ye tale. there was a certayne gray frere of the order of saynt fraunces with vs whiche neuer ceased to bable and rayle agaynste the newe testament of erasmus, i chaunsed to talke with the gêtylman pryuatly where no man was present but he and i, and after i had communed awhyle with hym i caught my frere by the polled pate with my left hande and with my right hãde i drew out my daggar and i pomelled the knaue frere welfauardly aboute his skonce that i made his face as swollen and as puffed as a puddynge. cannius. what a tale is this that thou tellest me. poliphemus. how say you is not this a good and a sufficient proue that i fa||uer the gospell. i gaue hym absolucion afore he departed out of my handes with this newe testament thryse layde vpon his pate as harde as i myght dryue yt i made thre bunches in his heed as bygge as thre egges in the name of the father, the sone, & the holy goost. can. now by my trouth this was well done & lyke a ryght gospeller of these dayes. truly this is as they saye to dyffende the gospell with the gospell. poliphe. i met another graye frere of the same curryshe couent, that knaue neuer had done in raylynge agaynst erasmus, so sone as i had espyed hym i was styrred and moued with the brenninge zele of the gospell that in thretenyng of him i made hym knele downe vpon his knees and crye erasmus mercie and desyred me to forgyue hym, i may saye to you it was hyghe tyme for hym to fall downe vpon his marybones, and yf he had not done it by and by i had my hal||barde vp redy to haue gyuen hym betwyxt the necke and the heade, i loked as grymme as modie mars when he is in furyous fume, it is trewe that i tell you, for there was inoughe sawe the frere and me yf i wolde make a lye. cannius. i maruayle the frere was not out of his wyt. but to retourne to oure purpose agayne, dost thou lyue chastly? poliphemus. peraduenture i maye do here after when i am more stryken in age. but shall i confesse the trouthe to the? canni. i am no preest man, therfore yf thou wylt be shryuen thou must seke a preest to whome thou maye be lawfully confessed. poliphe. i am wont styl to cõfesse my selfe to god, but i wyl confesse thus moche to the at this tyme i am not yet become a perfyte gospeller or an euangelical man, for i am but yet as it were one of ye cõmune people, ye knowe wel perde we gospellers haue iiii. gospels wrytten by the .iiii. euange||lystes, & suche gospellers as i am hunt busely, and chefely for .iiii. thynges that we may haue. unde. to prouyde dayntie fare for the bellie, that nothynge be lackynge to that parte of the body whiche nature hath placed vnder the belly, ye wote what i meane, and to obtayne and procure suche liuinge that we may lyue welthely and at pleasure without carke & care. and fynally that we maye do what we lyst without checke or controlment, yf we gospellars lacke none of all these thynges we crye and synge for ioye, amonge our ful cuppes io io we tryumphe and are wonderfull frolycke, we synge and make as mery as cup and can, and saye the gospell is a lyue agayne chryst rayneth. cannius. this is a lyfe for an epycure or a god belly and for no euangelicall persone that professeth the gospell. poli. i denye not but that it is so as ye saye, but ye knowe well that god is omnipotent and can do al thynges, he can turne vs ||whê his wyll is sodenly in to other maner of men. cannius. so can he transforme you in to hogges and swyne, the whiche maye soner be done i iudge thê to chaunge you into good men for ye are halfe swynyshe & hoggyshe alredy, your lyuynge is so beastlie. poliphe. holde thy peas mã wolde to god there were no men that dyd more hurt in the world then swyne, bullockes, asses, and camelles. a mã may se many men now adayes more crueller then lyons, more rauenynge thê wolues, more lecherous then sparous, and that byte worse then mad dogges, more noysom thê snakes, vepers and adders. cannius. but nowe good polipheme remembre and loke vpon thy selfe for it is hyghe tyme for the to laye a syde thy beastly lyuynge, and to be tourned from a brute and a sauage beast in to a man. poliphemus. i thanke you good neyghbour cannius for by saynt mary i thynke your counsayle is good/for the prophetes of this ||tyme sayth the worlde is almost at an end, and we shall haue domes daye (as they call it) shortely. cannius. we haue therfore more nede to prepare our selues in a redines agaynst that day, and that with as moche spede as maye be possible. poliphemus. as for my part i loke and wayte styll euery day for the myghty hande and power of christ. cannius. take hede therfore that thou, when christ shall laye his myghty hande vpon the be as tendre as waxe, that accordynge to his eternall wyll he maye frayme & fashyon the with his hande. but wherby i praye the dothe these prophetes coniecture & gather that the worlde is almost at an ende. poliphe. bycause men (they saye) do the selfe same thinge nowe adayes that they dyd, and were wont to do which were lyuynge in the worlde a lytle whyle before the deluge or noyes floode. they make solempne feastes, they banket, they quaffe, they booll, they bybbe, they ryot men mary, ||wome are maryed, they go a catterwallynge and horehuntinge, they bye, they sell, they lend to vserie, and borowe vpon vserie, they builde, kîges keepe warre one agaynst another, preestes studie howe they maye get many benefyces and promociõs to make them selfe riche and increase theyr worldly substaunce, the diuynes make insolible sillogismus and vnperfyte argumêtes, they gather conclusyons, monkes and freers rûne, at rouers ouer all the world, the comyn people are in a mase or a hurle burle redy to make insurrections, and to conclude breuelie there lackes no euyll miserie nor myschefe, neyther hõger, thyrst fellonie, robberie, warre, pestilence, sediciõ, derth, and great scarsytie and lacke of all good thynges. and howe say you do not all these thynges argue and sufficientlie proue that the worlde is almost at an ende? cannius. yea but tell me i praye the of all thes hoole hepe of euyls and miseries whiche greueth the ||moste? poliphemus. whiche thynkes thou, tell me thy fansie and coniecture? cannius. that the deuyll (god saue vs) maye daunce in thy purse for euer a crosse that thou hast to kepe hî for the. poliphe. i pray god i dye and yf thou haue not hyt the nayle vpon the head. now as chaunceth i come newly from a knotte of good companye where we haue dronke harde euery man for his parte, & i am not behynde with myne, and therfore my wytte is not halfe so freshe as it wyll be, i wyll dyspute of the gospell with the whan i am sobre. canni. when shal i se the sobre? poli. when i shall be sobre. cannius. whê wyll that be? poliph. when thou shalt se me, in the meane season god be with you gentle cannius and well mot you do. cannius. and i wyshe to you a gayne for my parte that thou ware in dede as valiaunt or pusaunt a felowe as thy name soundeth. poliphe. and bycause ye shall lose nothynge at my ||hande with wyshynge i pray god that cannius maye neuer lacke a good can or a stoope of wine or bere, wherof he had his name. f i n i s * * * * * [c]the dialoge of thynges and names. a declaracion of the names. beatus, is he whiche hathe abun dance of al thinges that is good, and is parfyte in all thynges commen dable or prayseworthy or to be desyred of a good man. somtyme it is ta ken for fortunate, ryche, or noble. bonifacius, fayre, full of fauor or well fauored. [+] * * * * * [c]the parsons names are beatus and bonifacius. _beatus._ god saue you mayster boniface. _bonifacius._ god saue you & god saue you agayne gêtle _beatus._ but i wold god bothe we were such, and so in very dede as we be called by name, that is to say thou riche & i fayre. _beatus._ why do you thynke it nothynge worth at al to haue a goodly glorious name. _bonifacius._ truely me thynke it is of no valure or lytle good worthe, onles a man haue the thynge itselfe whiche is sygnified by the name. _beatus._ yea you maye well thynke your pleasure, but i am assured that the most part of all mortall men be of another mynde. _bonifa._ it may wel be i do not denye that they are mortal, but suerly i do not byleue that they are me, which are so beastly mynded. _bea._ yes good syr and they be men to laye ||your lyfe, onlesse ye thynke camels and asses do walke about vnder the fygure and forme of men. _boni._ mary i can soner beleue that then that they be men whiche esteme and passe more vpon the name, then the thynge. _bea._ i graunte in certayne kyndes of thinges moost men had rather haue the thynge then the name, but in many thynges it is otherwyse and cleane cõtrary. _bo._ i can not well tell what ye meane by that. _bea._ and yet the example of this matter is apparant or sufficiently declared in vs two. thou arte called bonifacius and thou hast in dede the thynge wherby thou bearest thy name. yet if there were no other remedy but eyther thou must lacke the one or the other, whether had you rather haue a fowle and deformed face or elles for boniface be called maleface or horner? _boni._ beleue me i had rather be called fowle thersites then haue a monstrous or a deformyed face, whether i haue a good face or no ||i can not tell. _bea._ and euen so had i for yf i were ryche and there were no remedy but that i must eyther forgoo my rychesse, or my name i had rather be called irus whiche was a poore beggers name then lacke my ryches. _boni._ i agree to you for asmoch as ye speake the trouth, and as you thynke. _bea._ iudge all them to be of the same mynde that i am of whiche are indued with helthe or other commodities and qualities appartaynynge to the body. _boni._ that is very trewe. _bea._ yea but i praye the cõsyder and marke howe many men we se whiche had rather haue the name of a lerned and a holy man, then to be well lerned, vertuous, & holy in dede. _boni._ i knowe a good sorte of suche men for my part. _bea._ tell me thy fãtasie i pray the do not suche men passe more vpon the name then the thinge? _boni._ methynke thy do. _bea._ yf we had a logician here whiche could well and clarkelie defyne what were a kynge, what a bysshoppe, ||what a magistrate, what a philosopher is, paduêture we shuld find som amõg these iolly felowes whiche had rather haue the name then the thynge. _boni._ surely & so thynke i. yf he be a kinge whiche by lawe and equyte regardes more the commoditie of his people then his owne lucre/yf he be a bisshop which alwayes is careful for the lordes flocke cõmytted to his pastorall charge/yf he be a magistrate which frankelie and of good wyll dothe make prouysyon, and dothe all thinge for the comyn welthes sake/and yf he be a phylosopher whiche passynge not vpon the goodes of this worlde, only geueth hym selfe to attayn to a good mynde, and to leade a vertuous lyfe. _bea._ lo thus ye may perseyue what a nombre of semblable exãples ye may collecte & gether. _boni._ undouted a great sorte. _bea._ but i pray the tel me wyll you saye that all these are no men. _boni._ nay i feare rather lest in so sayenge it shulde cost vs our lyues, and ||so myght we our selues shortelye be no men. _bea._ yf man be a resonable creature, howe ferre dyffers this from all good reason, that in cõmodities apertayning to the body (for so they deserue rather to be called then goodnes) and in outwarde gyftes whiche dame fortune geues and takes awaye at her pleasure, we had rather haue the thynge then the name, and in the true and only goodnes of the mynd we passe more vpon the name then the thynge. _boni._ so god helpe me it is a corrupte and a preposterours iudgement, yf a man marke and consyder it wel. _bea._ the selfe same reason is in contrarie thinges. _boni._ i wolde gladly knowe what ye meane by that. _bea._ we maye iudge lykewyse the same of the names of thynges to be eschued, and incommodites which was spoken of thynges to be diffyred and cõmodites. _boni._ nowe i haue considered the thynges well, it apereth to be euen so as ye saye in dede. __bea.__ it shulde be ||more feared of a good prynce to be a tyraunt in dede then to haue the name of a tyraunt. and yf an euyll bysshop be a thefe and a robber, then we shulde not so greatly abhorre and hate the name as the thynge. _boni._ eyther so it is or so it shuld be. _bea._ nowe gather you of the rest as i haue done of the prynce & the bysshop. _boni._ me thynkes i vnderstande this gere wonderouse well. _bea._ do not all men hate the name of a fole or to be called a moome, a sotte, or an asse? _boni._ yeas as moche as they do any one thynge. _bea._ and how saye you were not he a starke fole that wold fishe with a goldê bayte, that wolde preferre or esteme glasse better then precious stones, or whiche loues his horse or dogges better then his wyfe and his chyldrê? _boni._ he were as wyse as waltoms calfe, or madder then iacke of redyng. _bea._ and be not they as wyse whiche not assygned, chosen, nor yet ones appoynted by the magistrates, but vpon ||theyr owne heed aduenture to runne to the warres for hoope of a lytle gayne, ieoperdynge theyr bodyes and daungerynge theyr soules? or howe wyse be they which busie thê selfe to get, gleyne, and reepe to gyther, goodes and ryches when they haue a mynde destitute and lackyng all goodness? are not they also euen as wyse that go gorgyously apparylled, and buyldes goodly sumptuous houses, when theyr myndes are not regarded but neglect fylthye and with all kynde of vyce fowle corrupted? and how wyse are they whiche are carefull diligent and busie, about the helthe of theyr body neglectynge and not myndynge at all theyr soule, in daunger of so many deedly synnes? and fynally to conclude howe wyse be they whiche for a lytle shorte transytorye pleasure of this lyfe deserue euerlastynge tormentes and punyshementes? _boni._ euen reason forseth me to graunt that they are more then frãtyke and folyshe. _bea._ yea ||but althoughe all the whole worlde be full of suche fooles, a man can scaselye fynde one whiche can abyde the name of a foole, and yet they deserue to be called so for asmoche as they hate not the thynge. _boni._ suerly it is euen so as ye seye. _bea._ ye knowe also howe the names of a lyar and a thefe are abhorred and hated of all men. _boni._ they are spyteful and odious names, and abhorred of all men, and not withe out good cause why. _bea._ i graunte that, but althoughe to commyt adulterie be a more wycked synne then thefte yet for al that some men reioyse and shewe them selfe glad of that name, whiche wolde be redy by and by to drawe theyr swerdes and fyghte withe a man that wolde or durst call them theues. _boni._ it is true there are many wolde take it euyll as you saye in dede. _bea._ and nowe it is commyn to that poynt that thoughe there are many vnthryftes and spêdals whiche consume theyr substaunce at the ||wyne and vpon harlottes, and yet so wyllynge to continewe openly that all the worlde wonders at them, yet they wyll be offended and take peper in the noose yf a man shulde call them ruffyans or baudy knaues. _boni._ suche fellowes thynke they deserue prayse for the thynge, and yet for all that they can not abyde the name dewe to the thinge whiche they deserue. _bea._ there is scarslye any name amonges vs more intollerable or worse can be abydden then to be called a lyar or a lyeng fellowe. _boni._ i haue knowen some or this whiche haue kylled men for suche a spytefull worde as that is. _bea._ yea yea but wolde god suche hasty fellowes dyd as well abhorre the thinge and hate lienge as well as to be called lyers, was it neuer thy chaunce to be dysceyued of any man whiche borowinge mony of the appoyntynge the a certayne daye to repaye the sayd money and so performyd not his appoyntment nor kept his day? ||_boni._ yeas many tymes (god knoweth) and yet hath he sworne many a greuous othe and that not one tyme but many tymes. _bea._ peraduenture he wolde haue ben so honest as to haue payed it and yf he had had wherwith. _boni._ naye that is not so for he was able inoughe, but as he thought it better neuer to paye his dettes. _bea._ and what call you this in englyshe, is it not playne lyenge? _boni._ yes as playne as dunstable way, there can not be a lowder lye then this is. _bea._ durste you be so bolde to pulle one of these good detters of yours by the sleue and saye thus to hym, why hast thou dysceyued me so many tymes and broken promyse with me, or to talke to hym in playne englyshe, why doest thou make me so many lyes? _boni._ why no syr by my trouthe durst i not, excepte i were mynded before to chaûge halfe a dosen drye blowes with hym. _bea._ dothe not masons brekelayers, carpenters, smy||thes, goldsmithes, taylours, disceyue and disapoynt vs after the lyke maner daylye promysynge to do youre worke suche a daye and suche a daye without any fayle, or further delaye, and yet for all that they parforme not theyr promesse althoughe it stande the neuer somoche vpon hande, or that thou shuldest take neuer so moche profyte by it. _boni._ this is a wonderous and strange vnshamefast knauerye of all that euer i hard of. but and ye speake of breakers of promyse then ye maye reken amongest them lawyers and atturneys at the lawe, which wyl not stycke to promyse or beare you in hande that they wyll be diligent and ernest in the furtheraûce and spedie expedicion of your sute. _bea._ reken quod he, naye ye maye reken fyve hundreth mennes names besyde these of sundrye faculties and occupacions whiche wyll promyse more by an ynch of a candle then they wyll performe by a whole pounde. _boni._ why ||and ye call this lyenge all the worlde is full of suche lyenge. _bea._ ye se also lykewyse that no man can abyde to be called thefe, and yet all men do not abhorre the thynge so greatly. _boni._ i wolde gladly haue you to declare your mynde in this more playnlye & at large. _bea._ what difference is there betwene hym whiche stealeth thy money forthe of thy cofer, and hym whiche forsweareth and falsely denyeth that whiche thou cõmytted to his custodie to be reserued and safely kept for thy vse only, or to suche tyme as thou arte mynded to call for it agayne. _boni._ there is as they say neyther barrell better hearing, but that in my iudgement he is the falser knaue of the twayne whiche robbes a man that puttes his confidence and trust in hym. _bea._ yea but howe fewe men are there nowe adayes lyuynge whiche are contente to restore agayne that whiche they were put in truste to kepe, or yf they deluer it agayne it is ||so dymynysshed, gelded, nypped, and pynched, that it is not delyuered whollye, but some thinge cleues in theyr fyngers, that the prouerbe may haue place where the horse walloweth there lyeth some heares. _boni._ i thynke but a fewe that dothe otherwyse. _bea._ and yet for all that there is none of al these that cã abyde it ones to be called thefe, and yet forsothe they hate not the thing so greatly. _boni._ that is as trewe as the gospell. _bea._ consyder me nowe and marke i beseche the howe the goodes of orphanes, pupylls, wardes, and fatherlesse chyldren be cõmunely ordered and vsed, how wylles and testamentes be executed and performed, how legacyes and bequethes be communelye payde, naye howe moche cleueth and hangeth fast in the fyngers of the executors or with them that mynyster and intermedle with the goodes of the testatours. _boni._ many tymes they retayne and kepe in theyr handes all togy||ther. _bea._ yea they loue to playe the thefe well inoughe, but they loue nothynge worse then to here of it. _boni._ that is very trewe. _bea._ howe lytle dyffers he from a thefe whiche boroweth money of one and other and so runneth in dette, with this intent and purpose that yf he maye escape so or fynde suche a crafty colour or a subtyle shyft, he intendeth neuer to paye that he oweth. _boni._ paraduenture he maye be called warer or more craftier thê a thefe is in dede but no poynt better, for it is hard chosyng of a better where there is neuer a good of them bothe. _bea._ yea but althoughe there be in euery place a great nombre of such makeshyftes and slypper marchauntes yet the starkest knaue of thê all can not abyde to be called thefe. _boni._ god onely knoweth euery mãnes hart and mynd, and therfore they are called of vs men that are runne in dette or fer behynde the hande, but not theues for that soun||deth vnswetely and lyke a playne song note. _bea._ what skyllys it howe they be called amõge men yf they be theues afore god. and where you say that god onely knoweth euery mannes hart and mynde, euen so euery man knoweth his owne mynde, whether in his wordes & doynges he entende fraude, couyn, dysceyte, and thefte or no. but what say ye by hym whiche when he oweth more then he is worthe, wyll not stycke to lashe prodygallye and set the cocke vpon the hoope, and yet yf he haue any money at all lefte to spende that a waye vnthryftely, and when he hathe played the parte of a knauyshe spendall in one cytie deludinge and disceyuyng his creditours, ronnes out of this countre and getteth hym to some other good towne, and there sekynge for straûgers and newe acquayntaûce whom he may lykewyse begyle, yea and playeth many suche lyke partes and shameful shiftes. i praye the tell me dothe not suche a ||greke declare euydentlye by his crafty dealynge and false demeanour, what mynde is he of? _boni._ yes suerly as euydentlye as can be possible. but yet suche felowes are wonte to colour and cloke theyr doynges vnder a craftie pretence. _bea._ with what i beseche the? _boni._ they saye to owe moche and to dyuers persones is communely vsed of great men, yea and of kynges also as well as of them, and therfore they that intende to be of that disposycyon wyll beare out to the harde hedge the porte of a gentylman and soo they wyll be taken and estemed for gentilmen of the commune people. _bea._ a gentylman and why or to what entent and purpose a gentylman? _boni._ it is a straunge thynge to be spoken howe moche they thynke it is mete for a gentylman or a horseman to take vpon hym. _bea._ by what equytie, authoritie, or lawes. _boni._ by none other but by the selfe same lawes that the admiralles of the ||sees chalenge a proprietie in all suche thynges as are cast vpon the shoore by wracke, althoughe the ryghte owner come forthe and chalenge his owne goodes. and also by the same lawes that some other men saye all is theyrs what soeuer is founde aboute a thefe or a robber whê he is takê. _boni._ such lawes as these are the arrantest theues that are myght make them selues. _bea._ yea and ye may be sure they wold gladly with al theyr harts î their bodies make suche lawes yf they coulde mayntayne them or were of power to se them executed, and they myght haue some thynge to laye for theyr excuse if they could proclayme opyn warre before they fell to robbynge. _boni._ but who gaue that pryuylege rather to a horseman then to a foteman, or more to a gentylman thê to a good yeman. _bea._ the fauoure that is shewed to men of warre, for by suche shyftes and thus they practyse before to be good men of warre that they ||maye be more redy & hansome to spoyle theyr enemyes when they shall encounter with thê. _boni._ i thynke pyrhus dyd so exercyse and breake his yonge souldyers to the warres. _bea._ no not pyrrhus but the lacedemonians dyd. _boni._ mary syr hange vp suche practysers or soldyers and theyr practisyng to. but howe come they by the name of horsemen or gentylmen that they vsurpe suche a great prerogatyue? _bea._ some of them are gentylmê borne and it cometh to them by auncestrie, some bye it by the meanes of maystrys money, and other some gette it by certayne shyftes. _boni._ but maye euery man that wyl and lyst come by it by shyftes? _bea._ yea why not, euery man maye be a gentylman nowe adayes very well and yf theyr condicions and maners be accordynge. _boni._ what maners or condicions must suche one haue i beseche the? _bea._ yf he be occupyed aboute no goodnesse, yf he can ruffle it ||and swashe in his satens and his silkes and go gorgiously apparelled, yf he can ratle in his rynges vpon the fyngers endes, yf he can playe the ruffyan and the horemonger and kepe a gaye hoore gallantlye, yf he be neuer well at ease but when he is playenge at the dyse, yf he be able to matche as moche an vnthryfte as hym selfe with a newe payre of cardes, yf he spende his tyme lyke an epycure vpon bankettinge, sumptuous fare, and all kynde of pleasures, yf he talke of no rascalles nor beggars, but bragge, bost, face, brace, and crake of castelles, towers, and skyrmysshes, and yf all his talke be of the warres and blody battels, and playe the parte of crackinge thraso throughly, such gaye grekes, lusty brutes and ionkers may take vpon them to be at defyaunce withe whome they wyll and lyst, thoughe the gentylman haue neuer a fote of lande to lyue vpon. _boni._ call ye them horsmen. mary syr suche horsemen are wel ||worthy to ryde vpõ the gallowes, these are gentylmen of the iebet of all that euer i haue harde of. _bea._ but yet there be not afewe suche in that parte of germany called nassen or hessen. f i n i s trãslated by edmonde becke and prynted at cantorbury in saynt paules parishe by johñ mychell. [+] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * [transcriber's note: the following typographical errors were corrected. "soldyers cassocke, a payre of hoose all to cut and manglyd, may co||uer an euangelycall mynde." hoose _was_ hoofe "poliphe. naye i knowe hym whiche bereth a shepe vpon his heed, and a sore in his brest" sore _was_ fore "orphanes, pupylls, wardes, and fatherlesse chyldren be cõmunely ordered and vsed, how wylles" cõmunely _was_ cõmuuely ] [transcriber's note: the printed text marks the first few leaves of each 16-page signature: ||a.i.||, ||a.ii.||... other page breaks are marked in this e-text with double lines || a few apparent typographic errors were corrected and are listed at the end of the text. other irregularities are noted but were left unchanged. all other spelling, capitalization and punctuation are as in the original.] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * a ve ry pleasaunt & fruitful dio loge called the *epicure*, made by that fa mous clerke eras mus of rotero dame, newly translated. 1545. * * * * * _s. paule to the ephesians_ you that haue professed christ, suffre not your selues to be deceyued vvith false doctrine, nor vaine and noughtie talkyng, but herken vnto all godly thynges, and especially too the doctryne of the gospell. ||a.ii.|| the habovn daunt mercie and grace of our heauenly father iesu christ, maye alwaies strengthen and defende oure noble & vertuous prynce ed ward too the mainte naunce of the liue ly woord of god. whereas manye histories of olde & auncient antiquitie, and also al godly & christiã writers most playnely consêt together, and agree in this, that dignitie, riches, kinred, worldly pompe, and renoume, doo neither make men better, ne yet happiar, contrarie too the blynde & fonde iudgement of the most part of menne: but by the power and strength of the mynde, that is, learnyng, wysedome, || and vertue, all menne are hyghly enriched, ornated, & most purely beutified, for these bee thinges bothe notable, eternall, and verye familiar betwene the heauenly father & vs. it is therefore euidente (most excellent prince) that the fittest ornamêtes for your graces tender age, bee, eruditiõ and vertue. wherunto you are bothe so ernestly addicte and therin so wõderfully doo preuaile, that i nede not too exhorte & exstimulate your grace vnto the study thereof. for that god him self hath wrought, and fourmed your mynde so apt and desirous too attayne and diligêtly too seeke for al godly doctrine, that euê now you doo shewe in all youre saiynges and dooinges suche a wonderfull pleasaûtes much lyke vnto a certayne swete musike or harmonie, that any honest hart exceadinglye woulde reioyce in the sight therof. verely, your grace thinketh plainly all time lost, that is not bestowed vpon learnyng, which is a verie rare thyng in anye childe, and rarest of all in a prince. thus youre noblenes, rather desireth vertue and ||a.iii.|| learning the most surest and excellent treasures, which farre surmounte all worldly ryches, then anye vanities or trifles. nowe youre grace prepareth for the holsome and pleasaunt foode of the mynde. now you seke for that whiche you shal fynd most surest helper and faythfulst councellour in all your affaires. now your magnificêt mynde studieth that, whiche all englyshe menne with meke and humile heartes shuld desire god to endue your grace with all. now with diligent labour you searche for a thyng, as one most myndeful of this saiyng: happy is that realme that hath a lerned prince. nowe you trauaile for that, whiche conquereth, and kepeth doune all greuous tourmentes & outragious affections of the mynde, too the furderaunce of good liuyng, and maintenaûce of vertue, i meane holsome erudition and learnyng. many heathen princes forsoth, are highly magnified with most ample prayses, which gaue them selues too the study of philosophie, or knowledge of tongues, for their owne commoditie, and || especially for the weale of their subiectes. who is nowe more celebrated and worthelier extolled then mithridates? that noble kyng of pont and bithinia, which, (as aulus gellius writeth) vnderstoode so perfitly the languages of .xxii. sondrye countries that were vnder his dominiõ, that he neuer vsed any interpretour too answer his subiectes, but spake their lãguages so finelye, as thoughe he had been of the same coûtrie. ageyn, that honorable manne quintus ennius saied: that he had .iii. heartes, because he coulde speake greke, italian, and latin. yea, and breuely, the most famaus writers, as well the heathen, as the christien, with an vniuersall consent, playnly affirme: whan thei had weied the nature and condiciõ of the purest thinges vnder heauen, thei sawe nothyng faire, or of any pryce, or that ought too be accõpted ours, but onely vertue and learning. euen now too acknowledge that same, it is yeouê you from aboue, for your grace delecteth in nothyng more then too bee occupied in the holye byble: wherin, ||a.iiii.|| you beginne too sauer & smelle furth the treasure of wisedome, knowledge and fulnes of the deuyne power, that is a studie most conuenient for euery christien prince, that kynd of studye cannot haue sufficient laude and commendation. whose princely heart forsoth, is raueshed on suche a godlie and vertuous studie, it can neuer haue condigne and worthie praises, but deserueth alwaies too bee had in great price, estimation, and honour. who dooeth not know? that prince which is yeouen vnto the scriptures of god and with a stoute stomake and valiãt heart, both searcheth furth and also defendeth ye true doctrine of the gospell, too bee inrolled in the assemble of christ. who dooeth not see? that prince too bee moost surelye armed, which carieth in his heart the swerd of ye spirit, which is the blessed woord of god. who is ignoraunt? that euer lastyng lyfe consisteth in the knoweledge of god. what prince woulde not studie to maintaine that, which is written for the health, and saluation of all menne weiyuge with himselfe || that a prince can not deserue, neither by conquest, ciuel policie, nor yet by anye other meane vnder heauen, thys name high or honorable, so wourthely as by the setting forward of goddes woorde. what young prince humily defendyng doune intoo him selfe and callyng to memory his bounden dutie woulde not with a glad hearte and a chearfull mynde, gredelye desyre too knowe, enlarge, and amplifie the glory and maiestie of hys derely beloued father? your grace (forsoth) hath professed god too bee your father: blessed are you then if you obey vnto hys word, and walke in his waies. blessed are you, yf you supporte suche as preache the gospell. blessed are you, yf your mind bee full furnished with the testament of christ, and shew your selfe too bee the most cruel too and enemy agaynst ypocrisie, supersticion, and all papistical phantasies, wherwith the true religion of god hathe been dusked and defaced these many yeres blessed are you, if you reade it daye & nighte, that your grace maye knowe what god dooeth forbyd you, and ||a.v.|| euer submit your selfe therunto with seruiceable lowlines chiefly desiring to florysh and decke your mynd with godly knowledge. and most blessed are you, if you apply your self vnto al good workes, & plant surely in your heart the scriptures of christ, if you thus doo, nether the power of any papistical realme, nor yet of hel can preuaile at any time against your grace. nowe therfore, with humile hearte, faithfully receiue the swete promises of the gospel. if you kepe the woordes of the lorde and cleaue fast vnto them: there is promised you the kingdome of heauen: you are promised a weale publick most riche and welthy you are promised too bee deliuered from the deceiptes of all youre priuie enemyes. you are promised also, too conquere great and mightie nations. agayne, let your grace bee most fully perswaded in this, that ther was neuer kyng nor prince, that prospered whiche tooke parte against goddes woord, and that the greatest abhomination that can bee, either for kyng, prince, or any other manne, is too || forsake the true woord of god. o with howe rebukefull woordes & greuous iudgement thei be condemned, which dispice & set lytle by the holy byble & most blessed testamêt of god, wherin there is contained all the wil & pleasure of our heauêly father toward vs most miserable & ignoraunt wretches who would not quake, too beholde the terrible feares & threatenynges of god ageinst al suche? who would not lament & gladly helppe their obstinate blyndenes? who woulde not weepe? to heare and reade in how many places, they be openly accursed by the scriptures of christ. god him self playnely affirmeth, that he wyll sodênly consume them with the breath of his anger. yea, besides that whoso euer declyneth from the word of god is accursed in all his doynges, whether he be kyng, or prynce, riche, or poore, or of what estate soeuer he bee. this fearfull saiyng (most excellent prynce) shulde moue all men to take hede vnto their duties and to praie that gods word maie take place emõgist vs. o that al men would ||fantasie the scriptures of god, and saye with the vertuous man iob. wee will not bee ageynst the woordes of the holy one. truth it is, god taketh diligent care too haue vs al know his woord. woulde god therfore, that all wee were now willing to haue the syncere woorde of god & all holsom doctrine too go forward. o that all we would consent togither in the gospell, brotherly admonishyng, and secretelye prouokyng one an other too true religion & vertue. o that no man would sow emongist the people pernitious doctryne, but with all lowly diligêce and godlye monition euer prouoke, tempt, and stere them, tyll their heartes were remoued frõ their olde dautyng dreames and supersticiõ, which haue been long grafted in them thorow popyshe doctrine. by this meane wee shuld euer haue concorde emongist vs, whiche in all thynges is necessary, but most nedefull and expedient in gods holi woord. now truely the godlyest thynge that can bee deuysed, for any christian realme, is to haue emongist them one maner and || fourme of doctryne, & too trace trueli the steppes of god and neuer to seeke any other bywayes. who hath not redde in ye scriptures? but that realme is endued with godly ornamentes & riches, where all men prospere, go for ward and florishe in gods woord, delectyng day and night in the swete cõsolations of the holy testament. by this way we shuld especially set forth the glory of god, and of our sauiour iesu christ, if we would reuerently shew one an other that whiche god hath taught vs. yea & in this doyng all men shulde well perceaue that we were the true disciples of christ, being knitte and coupled fast together in mynde and iudgement, preachyng god with one mouth and also with one assent euer promotyng his gloryous testament. o the good happe and grace of that king or prynce emongist whose subiectes there is such an hole consent and iudgement in the woord of god, for that most assuredly byndeth & adiuigneth ye hartes of al subiectes too their kyng. the strength of the gospell is euen suche in this puincte, || that there was neuer man, which did humily receaue it, that would murmour ageynst his prince. it teacheth how wyllyngly all men shulde obey their kyng. it sheweth verye lyuely and most apertly vnto euery man his ful dutie. it euer prouoketh vs from all wicked, cursed, and most obstinate disobedience. it euer instructeth men too shewe them selues most lowly, humile, and obesaunt toward their prynce. whosoeuer hath tasted fully therof, will declare hym selfe in al thynges, too bee a faithful subiect. furthermore, it is clearer then the light (most vertuous prince) that it woulde make muche for the weale of this noble realme, yf all mê with heart and mynde, would nowe as well expulse the pernitious and deuelyshe doctryne af that romishe bishop, as his name is blotted î bookes. there is none so ignoraunt, but he knoweth that, thorough hym we were brought into a wõderful blindnes, thorough hym we did sauer of nothyng, but of stynkyng ydolatry, through hym we were deceiued with || false ypocrisie. now let euery blind stiffe hearted, and obstinate creature compare his abhomination with the gospell, and if he be not shameles, he will abashe to smell of his papistrie, and to walow still in ignoraunce, vn lest he bee priuely confederate and in heart consent with the detestable felowship of al wicked papistes. now would god all suche men would reduce ageyn their heartes vnto ye gospell of christ, would god they would bee prouoked by some meane to desire knowledge. o that god woulde yeoue them a couragious mynde too reade the gospel, there they shal sone fynde all the venoume of the romishe sort most playnely detected. forsoth wee see dayly, that lacke of knowledge of the gospel maketh some busserdes runne hedlong on all rockes, daungers, & extreme perilles: yea, and beside that, olde popysh doctryne whiche lyeth folded vp & locked faste in their heartes, doeth so sore blynd thê that they haue neither fauour ne affectiõ too printe in their myndes, the expressed coûcels, admonitions, and || preceptes of the holy scripture, but too slepe stil in their owne conceites, dreames, & fonde phansies. wherfore let your dignitie note well this, that all those whiche bee not wyllyng that gods woord should bee knowen, and that blyndenes should be clean expulsed from all men, whiche be baptised in ye blessed bludde of christ, bewray themselues playne papistes: for in very deede that most deceatful wolfe and graund maister papist with his totiens quotiens, and a pena et culpa blesseth all suche as will bee blynde stil, maintaine his põpe, drinke of his cuppe of fornication, trust in his pardounes, liue in popery, ypocrisie, and dãnable ydolatrie, shut vp the kingdome of heauen, & neuer regarde the gospel. cõtrarie too this, christ bi his holy prophete calleth al those blessed that seke for his testimonies, al those his elect & chosê childrê, which turne frõ synne, ypocrisie, & ydolatrie, all those goddes that heare his word, yea, & breuely, al those which set it forward honorable mê. & in this puincte your grace shoulde euer beare in mynde, || that noble and vertuous kyng hezekiah, whiche shewed hymselfe very honorable in settîg forward ye woord of god, and therby gotte hym glory and fame immortall, so that nowe he is most highly praysed amongtst all men. ageyn his subiectes dyd obey his commaundement feynedly with ypocrisie, but in their heartes they abhorred gods woord. o the miserie that dyd afterwarde sodeinly ensue vpon them, o the wonderfull wrath of god that was poured vpon them, o their great and obstinate blindnes whiche caused them most greuously too be scourged: their plage was no lesse then too bee vtterly spoyled of their enemies, their plage was no lesse then to eate one an other: yea, their plage was no lesse then to eate their owne sonnes and doughters. this calamitie and sorow (most noble prynce) happened them because they dyd not regarde the lawes of god, but tourned too their olde abhominable ydolatrie, and lightelye estemed gods holy woord. wherfore euen now whosoeuer is an enemie ||b.i.|| to the holy bible, that is, neither studiyng it himselfe, nor willyng that other men shulde knowe it, he can in no wyse be a right christian man: although he fast, pray, doo almes, & all the good workes vnder heauen. and he that hath suche a mynde, is ye most cursed and cruel enemie too god, a playne sower of sedition, and a deuelishe disquieter of all godly men. for truly those that reade the gospel of christ, and labour diligêtly therin: doo fynde wonderfull rest & quietnes, from all woofull miserie, perturbatiõ, and vanities of this world. and surely none but ypocrites or els deuilles would go about too stoppe or allure men from suche a treasure and godly study. and it were conuenient, that all they whiche wyll remayne styll necligent, styffe, & blind: shuld set before their faces the feare of paynes infernall, and if thei haue any grace at all, their spirites ought to be moued: too note the great plages that haue happened the slouthful in gods woord, & those that haue been stubburne ageynst the settyng || out of it. there bee a thousand recordes and examples in the holy bible agaynst such as be farre wyde from knowledge, and lye now walteryng styl in ignoraunce and will not looke vpon the bible. it woulde seme, they hope for a thyng, but their hope is in vaine: for saint paule plainely writeth the hope of suche ypocrites shall coo[~m] too nought. and too conclude (most honorable prince) seeyng wee haue suche knowledge opened vnto vs, as neuer had englishe mê, and are clearly deliuered from the snares and deceiptes of al false and wicked doctrine, if we shuld not now thãkefully receaue the gospell, and shewe our selues naturally enclyned to set it forwarde, yea, and pray daye and night vnto god, for the preseruatiõ and health of the kynges highnes, your graces deare, and most entierly beloued father, we were neither true subiectes nor ryght christen men. forsoth, through the absolute wisedome, and the most godly and politike prudencie of his grace, the swete sounde of gods woorde is gone ||b.ii.|| thorough out all this realme, the holye bible and blessed testament of oure sauiour christ are coo[~m]ne to lighte, and thousandes haue faithfully receiued those pleasaunt, ioyfull, and most comfortable promises of god. surely this thyng before all other, is acceptable too god. this thyng especially swageth ye ire of god. this thyng in all holi scriptures god most chiefly requireth of his elect & faithfull seruaûtes, euen too haue his lytell flocke knowe his blessed woorde, whiche woulde bee muche better knowê & more thankefulli receaued, yf al agees and degrees of men with one mynd, wyll, & voice, would nowe drawe after one lyne, leauyng their owne priuate affections, and shewe theim selues euer vigilant, prompt, & ready helpers & workers with god, (accordynge to the councell of sainct paule) & especially priestes, scolemaisters & parêtes, which accordyng too ye prophete dauid are blessed, if they gladly requite ye lawe of god. they shuld therfore reade ye bible & purdge theyr mindes of al papistry: for theyr || necligence, in dooyng their duties & slugishnes toward ye blessed woord of god, dooeth too muche appere. through them forsoth the gospel of christ shuld bee most strongely warded and defended, for almost all the prophetes, and a great parte of the scripture beside teache them their duties, and shew playnely what maner of men they shulde bee: yea, and how greuously the holy prophetes crie out vpon false and ignoraunt priestes, the thyng is very euident. but through the helppe of god all those that be ignoraunt, or els learned (as they take them selues) wyll leaue of, and repent them of their wicked and obstinate blyndnes, and bowe them selues with all oportunitie too draw mens heartes too the holy testament of god: consideryng, that in the terrible day of iudgement, euery mã shall yeoue accompte of his beliwicke, where neither ignoraûce shall excuse vs, ne yet any worldly põpe may defêd vs. most happye thê shall they bee, whiche haue walked iustely in the sight of the lorde, and ||b.iii.|| that haue syncerely preached his testament and lyuely woord withoute flattery or iuggelyng: yea, and in that fearful day, all they (as writeth s. augustine) shal fynde mercie at the handes of god, whiche haue entised and allured other vnto goodnes and vertue. weiyng this with my self, (most excellent, and vnto all kynd of vertues most prõpt & prestãt prince) i thought it good too translate this dialoge, called the epicure, for your grace: whiche semed too me, too bee very familiar, & one of ye godliest dialoges that any mã hath writtê in ye latin tong. now therfore i most humili praie, that this my rude & simple trãslation may bee acceptable vnto your grace, trustyng also that your most approued gentilnes, wil take it in good part. there as i doo not folow ye latyn, woord for woord, for i omytte that of a certaine set purpose. _your humile seruaunt, philyppe_ gerrard, groume of your graces chambre. * * * * * the interlocutours {hedonivs} {spvdevs} what meaneth hit _spudeus_, too applye hys booke so ernestlye i praye you what is the matter you murmour so with yourselfe? _spvdevs._ the truth is (o _hedoni_) i seke too haue knowledge of a thing, but as yet i cannot fynde that whych maketh for my purpose. _hedo_ what booke haue you there in your bosome? _spvde. ciceros_ ||dialoge of the endes of goodnes. _hedo._ it had bene farre more better for you, too haue sought for the begynnynges of godly thynges, then the endes. _spvde._ yea, but _marcus tullius_ nameth that the ende of godlines which is an exquisite, a far passing, and a very absolute goodnes in euerye puincte, wherein there is contained all kynde of vertu: vnto the knowledge ther of whosoeuer can attaine, shuld desire none other thîg, but hold himselfe hauyng onely that, as one most fully content and satisfied. _hed._ that is a worke of very great learning and eloquence. but doo you thynke, that you haue preuailed in any thîg there, whereby you haue the ||rather come too the knowledge of the truth? _spe._ i haue had such fruite and cõmoditie by it, that now verelye hereafter i shall doubt more of the effect and endes of good thinges, then i did before. _hedo._ it is for husbãd menne too stande in doubt how farre the limittes and merebãkes extend. _spe._ and i cannot but muse styll, yea, and wonder very muche, why ther hath been so great controuersie in iudgementes vpon so weightie a matter (as this is) emongist so well learned menne: especially suche as bee most famous and auncient writers. _hedo._ this was euen the cause, where the verite of a thyng is playne and manifest, cõtrarily, ye errour through || ignoraunce againe in the same, is soone great & by diuers meanes encreaseth, for that thei knewe not the foundation and first beginnyng of the whole matter, they doo iudge at all auentures and are very fondly disceaued, but whose sentence thynke you too bee truest? _spe._ whan i heare _marcvs tullius_ reproue the thyng, i then fãtasie none of all their iudgementes, and whan i heare hym agayne defende the cause: it maketh me more doubtfull thê euer i was and am in suche a studie, that i can say nothyng. but as i suppose ye stoickes haue erred the lest, and nexte vnto thê i commend the _peripatetickes_. _hedo._ yet i lyke none of their opinions || so well as i doo the epicures. _spv._ and emõgist all the sectes: the _epicures_ iudgement is most reproued and condemned with the whole consent and arbitremêt of all menne. _hed._ let vs laye a side all disdayne and spite of names, and admitte the epicure too bee suche one, as euery man maketh of hym. let vs ponder and weighe the thyng as it is in very deed. he setteth the high and principall felicitie of man in pleasure, and thiketh that lyfe most pure and godly, whiche may haue greate delectatiõ and pleasure, and lytle pensiuenes. _spv._ it is euen so. _hed._ what more vertuouser thyng, i praye you, is possible too bee spokê then this || saiyng. _spu._ yea, but all menne wonder and crye out on it, and saye: it is the voyce of a bruite beast, and not of manne. _hedo._ i knowe thei doo so, but thei erre in ye vocables of theise thinges, and are very ignoraunt of the true and natiue significations of the woordes, for if wee speake of perfecte thynges, no kinde of menne bee more righter _epicures_, then christen men liuing reuerêtly towardes god and mã, and in the right seruice and worshiping of christ. _spv_ but i thinke the _epicures_ bee more nerer and agree rather with the _cynickes_, then with the christien sorte: forsoth ye christiens make them selues leane || with fastynge, bewayle and lament their offences, and eyther they bee nowe poore, or elles theyr charitie and liberalitie on the nedye maketh theim poore, thei suffer paciently to bee oppressed of mêne that haue great power and take many wronges at their handes, and many men also laughe theim too skorne. nowe, if pleasure brynge felicitie wyth it, or helpe in anye wyse vnto the furderaunce of vertue: we see playnly that this kynde of lyfe is fardest from al pleasures. _hedonius._ but doo you not admitte _plautus_ too bee of authoritie? _speudeus._ yea, yf he speake vprightely. _hedonius._ heare nowe them, and beare awaye wyth you the saiynge of || an vnthriftie seruaunt, whyche is more wyttier then all the paradoxes of the stoickes. _spe._ i tarie to heare what ye wil say. _hedo._ ther is nothyng more miserable then a mynd vnquiet & agreued with it selfe. _spe._ i like this saiyng well, but what doo you gather of it? _hedo._ if nothing bee more miserable thê an vnquiet mynde, it foloweth also, that there is nothing happiar, then a mynde voyde of all feare, grudge, and vnquietnes. _spev._ surely you gather the thing together with good reasõ but that notwithstandynge, in what countrie shall you fynde any such mynde, that knoweth not it selfe gyltie and culpable in some kynde of euell, _hedo._ || i call that euyll, whiche dissolueth the pure loue and amitie betwixt god and manne. _spv._ and i suppose there bee verye fewe, but that thei bee offêders in this thynge. _hedo._ and in good soth i take it, that al those that bee purdged, are clere: whych wiped out their fautes with lee of teares, and saltpeter of sorowfull repentaunce, or els with the fire of charitie, their offêces nowe bee not only smalle grefe and vnquietnes too them, but also chaunce oftê for some more godlier purpose, as causing thê too lyue afterward more accordyngly vnto gods commaûdemêtes. _spv._ in deede i knowe saltpeter and lee, but yet i neuer hearde before, that faultes || haue been purdged with fire. _h._ surely, if you go to the minte you shall see gould fyned wyth fyre, notwithstãdyng that ther is also, a certaine kynde of linê that brenneth not if it bee cast in ye fyre, but loketh more whiter then any water coulde haue made it, & therefore it is called _linum asbestinum_, a kynde of lynen, whyche canne neither bee quenched with water nor brent with fyre. _spu._ nowe in good faith you bring a paradox more wõderful then all the maruailous and profound thynges of the stoickes: lyue thei pleasasauntly whom chryst calleth blessed for that they mourne & lament? _hedonius._ thei seme too the worlde too mourne, but || verely they lyue in greate pleasure, and as the commune saiynge is, thei lyue all together in pleasure, in somuche that _sardanapalvs_, _philoxenus_, or _apitius_ compared vnto them: or anye other spoken of, for the greate desyre and study of pleasures, did leade but a sorowefull and a myserable lyfe. _spe._ these thinges that you declare bee so straunge and newe, that i can scarcelye yeoue any credite vnto them. _hedo._ proue and assaye them ones, and you shall fynde all my saiynges so true as the gospell, and immediatly i shal bryng the thynge too suche a conclusion (as i suppose) that it shall appeare too differ very lytle from the truth ||c.i|| _spv._ make hast then vnto your purpose. _hed._ it shalbe doone if you wyll graunt me certayne thynges or i begynne. _spu._ if in case you demaunde suche as bee resonable. _hedo._ i wyl take myne aduauntage, if you confesse the thyng that maketh for mine intent. _spu._ go too. _hedo._ i thynke ye wyll fyrste graunt me, that ther is great diuersitie betwxt the solle and the bodye _spu._ euen as much as there is betwene heauen and yearth, or a thyng earthly and brute, & that whiche dieth neuer, but alwayes cõtaineth in it the godly nature. _hedo._ and also, that false deceiueable & coûterfetted holy thynges, are not too bee taken for those, which in very dede be || godly. _spude._ no more then the shaddowes are too bee estemed for the bodies, or the illusions and wonders of wytchcraftes or the fantasies of dreames, are too bee taken as true thynges. _he._ hitherto you answer aptly too my purpose, and i thynke you wyl graunt me this thyng also, that true and godly pleasure can reste and take place no where but only on such a mynd that is sobree and honest. _spv._ what elles? for no man reioyseth too beholde the sunne, if his eyes bee bleared or elles delecteth in wyne, if the agew haue infected hys tast. _hed._ and the _epicure_ hymselfe, or elles i am disceiued, would not clippe & enbrace that pleasure, whiche ||c.ii.|| would bring with it farre greater payne and suche as would bee of long continuaunce. _spv_ i thynke he woulde not, if he had any wytte at all. _hed._ nor you wyll not denye this, that god is the chiefe and especiall goodnes, then whõ there is nothyng fayrer, there is nothyng ameabler, ther is nothing more delicious and swetter. _spvde._ no man wyll deny thys except he bee very harde hearted and of an vngentler nature then the _ciclopes_. _hed._ nowe you haue graunted vnto me, that none lyue in more pleasure, then thei whyche lyue vertuouslye, and agayne, none in more sorowe and calamytie then those that || lyue vngratiously. _spu._ then i haue graûted more thê i thought i had. _he._ but what thing you haue ones cõfessed too bee true (as _plato_ sayth) you should not deny it afterward. _spv._ go furth with your matter. _hedo_ the litle whelpe that is set store and greate price by, is fed most daintely, lieth soft, plaieth and maketh pastime continually, doo you thinke that it lyueth plesaûtly? _spv._ it dooeth truely. _hedo._ woulde you wyshe to haue suche a lyfe? _spv._ god forbyd that, excepte i woulde rather bee a dogge then a man, _hedo._ then you confesse that all the chief pleasures arise and spring frõ the mynd, as though it were from a welspryng. _spv._ ||c.iii|| that is euident ynough. _he._ forsoth the strength and efficacy of the minde is so great, that often it taketh away the felyng of al externe and outward pain & maketh that pleasaunt, which by it selfe is very peynful. _spv._ we se that dayly in louers, hauyng great delight to sytte vp long & too daunce attendaunce at their louers doores all the colde wynter nyghtes. _hedo._ now weigh this also, if the naturall loue of man, haue suche great vehemency in it, which is a cõmune thyng vnto vs, both with bulles and dogges, howe much more should all heauenly loue excell in vs, which cõmeth of ye spirit of christ, whose strêgthe is of suche power, that it ||would make death a thîg most terrible, too bee but a pleasure vnto vs. _spu._ what other men thîke inwardly i know not, but certes thei wãt many pleasures which cleaue fast vnto true and perfect vertue. _he._ what pleasures? _spu._ thei waxe not rich, thei optein no promotiõ, thei bãket not, thei daûce not, thei sing not, thei smell not of swete oyntmêtes, thei laugh not, thei play not. _he._ we should haue made no mention in thys place of ryches and prefermente, for they bryng wyth them no pleasaunt lyfe, but rather a sadde and a pêsiue. let vs intreate of other thynges, suche as they chiefely seeke for, whose desyre is to liue deliciously, see ye not daily ||c.iiii|| drõkerdes, fooles, and mad menne grinne and leape? _spv._ i see it _hed._ do you thynke that thei liue most pleasaûtly? _spv_ god send myne enemies such myrth & pleasure. _he._ why so? _sp._ for ther lacketh emongist thê sobrietie of mind. _he._ then you had leuer sit fastyng at your booke, then too make pastime after any suche sorte. _sp._ of thê both: truly i had rather chose to delue. _h._ for this is plaine that betwixt the mad mã & the drûkerd ther is no diuersitie, but that slepe wil helpe the one his madnes, & with much a doo ye cure of _physicions_ helpeth the other, but the foole natural differeth nothing frõ a brute beast except by shape and portrature of body, yet thei || be lesse miserable whom nature hathe made verye brutes, then those that walowe theim selues in foule and beastly lustes. _sp._ i confesse that. _hedo._ but now tell me, whether you thynke thê sobre and wyse, which for playn vanities and shadowes of plesure, booth dispice the true and godlye pleasures of the mynde and chose for them selues suche thynges as bee but vexacion & sorowe. _spv._ i take it, thei bee not. _hedo._ in deede thei bee not drûke with wyne, but with loue with anger, with auarice, with ambicion, and other foule and filthie desires, whiche kynde of drunkenes is farre worse, thê that is gotten with drinking of wine. yet _sirus_ that leude cõspaniõ ||of whom mention is made in ye commedie, spake witty thynges after he had slepte hym self soobre, and called too memorie his greate and moost beastlye drunkenes: but the minde that is infected with vicious & noughty desire, hath muche a doo too call it selfe whom agein? how many yeares doeth loue, anger, spite, sensualitie, excesse, and ambition, trouble and prouoke the mynde? how many doo wee see, whiche euen from their youth, too their latter dais neuer awake nor repêt them of the drunkennes, of ambitiõ, nigardnes, wanton lust, & riatte? _spu._ i haue knowen ouermany of that sorte. _hedo._ you haue graûted that false and fayned good || thinges, are not too bee estemed for the pure and godly. _sp._ and i affirme that still. _hedo._ nor that there is no true and perfect pleasure, except it bee taken of honest and godly thynges. _spud._ i confesse that. _he._ then (i pray you) bee not those good that the commune sorte seeke for, they care not howe? _spu._ i thinke they be not. _hedo._ surely if thei were good, they would not chaunce but onely too good men: and would make all those vertuous that they happen vntoo. what maner of pleasure make you that, doo you thinke it too bee godly, which is not of true & honest thynges, but of deceatfull: and coometh out of ye shadowes of good thynges? _sp._ || nay in noo wyse. _he._ for pleasure maketh vs to liue merely. _spu._ yea, nothyng so muche. _he._ therfore no man truely liueth pleasauntly, but he that lyueth godly: that is, whiche vseth and delecteth onli in good thynges: for vertue of it selfe, maketh a man to habound in all thynges that bee good, perfete, & prayse worthy: yea, it onely prouoketh god the fountaine of all goodnes, too loue and fauour man. _sp._ i almost consent with you. _hed._ but now marke howe far they bee from all pleasure, whiche seeme openly emongist all men too folowe nothyng, but the inordinate delectation in in thynges carnall. || first their mynde is vile, and corrupted with the sauour and taste of noughtie desires, in so muche that if any pleasaunt thing chaunce them, forthwith it waxeth bitter, and is nought set by, in like maner as where ye welle hed is corrupted and stynketh, there ye water must nedes be vnsauery. agein ther is no honest pleasure, but that whiche wee receaue with a sobre and a quiet mynde. for wee see, nothyng reioyseth the angry man more, thê too bee reuenged on his offenders, but that pleasure is turned into pain after his rage bee past, and anger subdued. _spu._ i say not the contrary. _he._ finally, suche leude pleasures bee taken of fallible thinges, therefore || it foloweth that they be but delusiõs and shadowes. what woulde you say furthermore, if you saw a mã so deceaued with sorcerie & also other detestable witchecraftes, eat, drynke, leap, laugh, yea, and clappe handes for ioye, when ther wer no such thyng there in very dede, as he beleueth he seeth. _spu._ i wolde say he were both mad and miserable. _hedo._ i my self haue been often in place, where the lyke thyng hath been doone. there was a priest whiche knewe perfectly by longe experience and practise, the arte to make thynges seme that they were not, otherwise called, _deceptio visus_. _sp._ he did not lerne that arte of the holy scripture? _hedo._ yea, || rather of most popeholy charmes and witchecraftes: that is too saye, of thinges, cursed, dampnable, and wourthy too bee abhorred. certayne ladies & gentlewomen of the courte, spake vnto hym oftentimes: saiyng, they woulde coo[~m] one day too his house and see what good chere he kept: reprouyng, greatly vile and homly fare, and moderate expenses in all thynges. he graunted they shulde bee welcome, and very instauntly desired them. and they came fastyng because they would haue better appetites. whã they wer set to dyner (as it was thought) ther wãted noo kynde of delitious meat: they filled thê selues haboûdantly: after ye feast was || doone, they gaue moost hearty thanckes, for their galaunte cheare, and departed, euery one of them vnto their owne lodgynges: but anone their stomackes beganne too waxe an hungred, they maruayled what this shuld meane, so soone to be an hungred and a thirste, after so sumptuous a feast: at the last the matter was openly knowen and laught at. _spu._ not without a cause, it had been muche better for thê too haue satisfied their stomackes at their owne chãbers with a messe of potage, thê too be fed so delitiousli with vain illusiõs. _h._ and as i thîk ye cõmune sort of men ar muche more too bee laught at, whiche in steede of godlye thynges, ||chose vaine and transitory shadowes, and reioyce excedyngly in suche folishe phansies that turne not afterwarde in too a laughter, but into euerlasting lamentation and sorow. _spudeus_ the more nerelier i note your saiynges, the better i like thê. _hedo._ go too, let vs graunt for a tyme these thynges too bee called pleasaunt, that in very dede ar not. would yow saye that meeth were swete: whiche had more aloes myngled with it, then honye? _spud._ i woulde not so say and if there were but the third part of an ounce of aloes mixt with it. _hedo._ or els, would you wishe to bee scabbed because you haue some pleasure too scratch? _spud._ noo, if i wer ||d.i|| in my right mynd. _hed._ then weigh with your self how great peyne is intermyngled wyth these false and wrongly named pleasures, that vnshamefast loue filthie desire, much eatyng and drinking bring vs vnto: i doo omitte now that, which is principall grudge of cõscience, enemitie betwixt god and mã, and expectation of euerlastyng punishêment. what kynd of pleasure, i pray you is ther in these thinges, that dooeth not bryng with it a greate heape of outeward euilles? _spv._ what bee thei? _hedo._ we ought to let passe and forbeare in this place auarice, ambition, wrath, pryde enuy, whiche of their selues bee heuy and sorowful euylles and || let vs conferre and compare all those thynges together, that haue the name of some chief and special pleasure: wher as the agew the hedache, the swelling of the belly, dulnes of witte, infamy, hurt of memory, vomyting, decaye of stomacke, tremblyng of the body succede of ouer muche drynking: thynke you, that the _epicure_ would haue estemed any suche lyke pleasure as thys, cõuenient and wourthy desire? _spv._ he woulde saye it wer vtterly too bee refused. _hedoni._ wheras young men also with hauntynge of whores (as it is dayly seene) catche the newe leprosie, nowe otherwyse named jobs agew, and some cal it the scabbes of naples, throughe ||d.ii|| which desease they feele often ye most extreme and cruell paines of deathe euen in this lyfe, and cary about a bodye resemblyng very much some dead coarse or carryn, do you thynke that thei apply them selues vnto godlye pleasure. _spvd._ noo, for after thei haue been often familiar with their prety ones, then they must goo streighte too the barbours, that chaunceth continuallye vnto all whoremongers. _hed._ now fayne that ther wer a lyke measure of pain and plesure, would ye then require too haue the toothache so longe as the pleasure of quaffing & whordome endured? _spv._ verely i had rather wãt them booth, for ther is no commoditie nor || vantage to bye pleasure with payn but only to chaûg one thing for another, but the best choise is nowe not too affectionate anye such leudnes, for _mar. tullius_ calleth that an inward greife & sorow. _he._ but now ye prouocation & entisemêt of vnleful plesure, besides that it is much lesse then the pain which it bringeth with it, it is also a thing of a very short time: but if the leprosye bee ones caught, it tourmêteth mê al their life daies very pitifully & oftentimes cõstraineth them to wyshe for death before thei cã dye. _sp._ such disciples as those then, the _epicure_ would not knowe. _hed._ for the most part pouertie, a very miserable and painfull burden, foloweth ||d.iii.|| lechery, of immoderate lust cõmeth the palsie, tremblyng of ye senewes, bleardnes of eyes, and blyndnes, the leprosie and not these only, is it not a proper pece of worke (i pray you) to chaûg this short pleasure neyther honest nor yet godly, for so manye euylles far more greuouse and of muche longer continuance. _sp._ although there shoulde no pain com of it, i esteme hym to bee a very fond occupier, which would chaûge precious stones for glasse. _he._ you meane that would lose the godly pleasures of the mynde, for the coloured pleasures of ye body. _sp._ that is my meanyng. _he._ but nowe let vs come to a more perfecter supputation, neither the agewe || nor yet pouerty foloweth alwaies carnal pleasure, nor the new leprosy or els the palsy wait not on at al times the great & excessiue vse of lecherye, but grudge of cõsiêce euermore is a folower & sure companiõ of al vnleaful pleasure, then the which as it is plainly agreed betwixt vs, nothyng is more miserable. _spv._ yea, rather it grudgeth their cõscience sometyme before hande, & in the self pleasure it pricketh their mynde, yet ther bee some that you woulde say, want this motion and feelyng. _he._ thei bee nowe therfore in worse estate & cõditiõ. who would not rather feele payne, then too haue hys body lacke any perfecte sence, truly from some ether intemperatnes ||d.iiii.|| of euel desires, euen like as it were a certayne kynde of drunkenes, or els wont and cõmune haunt of vice which ar so hardened in them, that they take a way ye felyng & cõsideration of euyl in their youth, so that whã agee commeth vpõ them beside other infinitie hurtes and perturbations agaynst whose commyng thei should haue layd vp the deedes of their former lyfe, as a special iuwel and treasure: then thei stande greatly in fear of death, a thyng emongist all other most ineuitable, & that no man canne shonne: yea, and the more they haue heretofore been dysmayed and lacked their sences, the greater now is their vnquietnes and grudge of || conscience, then truely the mynde is sodenly awaked whether it wol or noo, and verely wher as olde agee is alwayes sad and heuy of it selfe for as muche as it is in subiection and bondage vnto many incommodities of nature, but then it is farre more wretchede and also fylthye, if the mynde vnquiet with it selfe shal trouble it also: feastes, ryotous banketyng, syngyng, and daunsynge, with manye suche other wanton toyes & pastimes which he was communely yeouê vnto & thought very plesaût when he was young, bee nowe paynfull vnto hym beyng olde and crooked, ne agee hath nothyng too comforte and fortifi || it selfe withall, but onely too remembre that it hath passed ouer the course of yeares in vertue and godly liuyng and conceaue a special trust too obtaine herafter a better kynde of life. these be the two staues wherevpon age is stayed, & if in their steed you wyll lay on hym these two burdens: that is, memorie how synfully he hath ledde his life, and desperation of the felicitie that is too coome, i praye you what liuyng thyng can bee feyned too suffre sorer punishement and greater miserie? _spu._ verely i can see nothyng although some man woulde saye an olde horse. _hedo._ then to cõclude it is too late to waxe wise and that saiyng appereth now || too bee very true. carefull mornynges doo oftentymes folowe mery euentides, and all vayne and outragious mirth euer turneth into sorowfull sighes: yea, & they shulde haue considered both that there is noo pleasure aboue ye ioyfulnes of the heart, and that chearefull mynde maketh agee too florishe, an heauy spirit consumeth the boones, & also that all the dayes of the poore are euell: that is, sorowfull and wretched. and agayne a quiet mynde is lyke a contynuall feaste. _spvdevs._ therfore they bee wyse, that thryue in tyme, and gather too gether necessaries for that agee coo[~m]. _hedoni._ the holy scripture intreateth not soo wordely || as too measure the felicitie and highe consolation of manne, by the goodes of fortune, onely he is very poore, that is destitute and voyde of al grace & vertue, and standeth in boundage and debette, bothe of bodye & solle vnto that tyranne oure moost foo & mortall enemie the deuill. _spv._ surely he is one that is veri rigorous and impatient in demaundynge of his dutie. _he._ moreouer that man is ryche, whiche fyndeth mercye and foryeouenes at the handes of god. what shuld he feare, that hath suche a protectour? whether men? where as playnely theyr hole power may lesse do agaêst god, then the bytyng of a gnat, || hurteth the elephant. whether death? truly that is a right passage for good men vnto all sufficient ioy and perfection accordyng too the iust reward of true religion and vertue. whether hell? for as in that the holy prophete speaketh boldely vnto god. although i shulde walke in the middest of the shadow of death, i wil not feare any euils because ye art with me. wherfore shulde he stande in feare of deuils, whiche beareth in his heart hym, that maketh the deuils too tremble and quake. for in diuers places the holye scripture praiseth and declareth opêly the mynde of a vertuous man, too bee the right temple of god. and this to bee so true that || that it is not too bee spoken agaynst, ne in any wise shuld bee denied. _spv._ forsoth i can not see, by what reason these saiynges of yours can be confuted al thoughe they seme too varye muche from the vulgar and cõmune opinion of men. _hedo._ why doo they soo? _spv._ after your reasonyng euery honest poore man, shulde liue a more pleasaunt life, then any other, how much soeuer he did haboûd in riches, honour, and dignitie: and breuely though he had all kynde of pleasures. _he._ adde this too it (if it please you) too bee a kyng, yea, or an emperour if you take away a quiet mynd with it selfe, i dare boldely say, that the poore man sklenderlye || and homely appareled, made weake with fastyng, watchyng, great toile and labour, and that hath scarcely a groat in all the worlde, so that his mynde bee godly, he lyueth more deliciously then that man whiche hathe fyue hûdreth times greater pleasures & delicates, then euer had _sardanapalus_. _sp._ why is it thê, that we see communely those that bee poore looke farre more heuely then riche men. _hed._ because some of them bee twise poore, eyther some desease, nedines, watchyng, labour, nakednesse, doo soo weaken the state of their bodyes, that by reason therof, the chearefulnes of their myndes neuer sheweth it selfe, neyther in these thinges, || nor yet in their deathe. the mynde, forsooth thoughe it bee inclosed within this mortal bodye, yet for that it is of a stronger nature, it sõwhat trãsfourmeth and fascioneth the bodie after it selfe, especially if the vehement instigation of the spirit approche the violent inclination of nature: this is the cause we see oftentymes suche men as bee vertuous die more cherefully, then those that make pastyme contynually, & bee yeouê vnto all kynd of pleasures. _sp._ in very dede, i haue meruayled oftten at that thyng. _hed_ forsoothe it is not a thyng too bee marueyled at, though that there shulde bee vnspeakeable || ioy and comforte where god is present, whiche is the heed of all mirth and gladnes, nowe this is no straunge thyng, althoughe the mynde of a godly man doo reioyce contynually in this mortall bodye: where as if the same mynde or spirit discended into the lowest place of hell shuld lose no parte of felicitie, for whersoeuer is a pure mynd, there is god, wher god is: there is paradise, ther is heauen, ther is felicitie, wher felicitie is: ther is the true ioy and synsere gladnes. _sp._ but yet they shuld liue more pleasauntly, if certein incommodities were taken from them, and had suche pastymes as eyther they dispise orels can not get nor attaine vnto. _he._ ||e.i.|| (i praye you) doo you meane, suche incommodities as by the commune course of nature folow the cõdition or state of mã: as hunger, thirst, desease, werynes, age, death, lyghtnyng yearthquake, fluddes & battail? _spv._ i meane other, and these also. _hedo._ then we intreate styll of mortal thynges and not of immortal, & yet in these euils the state of vertuous men, may bee better borne withal, then of suche as seeke for the pleasures of the body they care not howe. _spv._ why so: _hedo._ especyally because their myndes bee accustomed and hardened with most sure and moderate gouernaunce of reason against al outragious affections of the mind || and they take more patiently those thynges that cannot bee shonned then the other sort doo furthermore, for as muche as thei perceiue, all such thynges ar sent of god, either for the punishment of their faultes, or els too excitate and sturre them vp vnto vertue, then thei as meeke and obediente chyldren receiue them from the hãd of their mercifull father, not only desireously, but also chearefully and geue thankes also, namely for so merciful punyshment and inestimable gaines. _spv._ but many doo occatiõ griefes vnto thê selues. _hedo._ but mo seeke remedye at the _phisicions_, either to preserue their bodies in helth or elles if they bee sycke, too ||e.ii.|| recouer health, but willyngly too cause their owne sorowes, that is, pouertie, sickenes, persecution, slaunder, excepte the loue of god compel vs therto, it is no vertue but folishnes: but as often as thei bee punyshed for christ and iustice sake, who dar bee so bold as too cal them beggers & wretches? whã the lord himself very famyliarly calleth them blessed, and commaûdeth vs to reioyse for their state and condition. _spv._ neuerthelesse, these thynges haue a certayne payne and griefe. _hedo._ thei haue, but on the onesyde, what for fear of hel, and the other for hoope of euerlastynge ioye, the payne is sone past and forgottê now tell me if you knewe that || you myghte neuer bee sycke, or elles that you shoulde feele no payne of your body in your life tyme, if you woulde but ones suffer your vtter skinne too bee prycked with a pynnes puinct, would you not gladly and with all your very heart suffer then so lytle a payne as that is? _spv_ verye gladlye, yea, rather if i knewe perfectlye that my teeth would neuer ake, i would willynglye suffer too bee prycked depe with a nedle, and too haue both mine eares bored through with a bodkin. _hedo._ surely what payne soeuer happeneth in this lyfe, it is lesse and shorter, compared with the eternall paines, then is the soden pricke of a needle, incomparisõ of the ||e.iii.|| lyfe of man though it bee neuer so long, for there is no conuenience or proportion of the thyng that hath ende, and that whych is infinite. _spv._ you speake very truly. _hedo._ now if a man coulde fully perswade you, that you should neuer feele payne in al your life, if you did but ones deuide the flame of ye fyre, with your hande, whyche thyng vndoughtely _pithagoras_ forbade, woulde you not gladlye doo it? _spv._ yea, on that condicion i had liefer doo it an hundred times, if i knew precisely the promiser would kepe touch. _he._ it is playne god cannot deceaue. but now that feelyng of paine in the fyre is longer vnto the whole lyfe of man, then is the ||lyfe of mã, in respect of the heauenlye ioye, althoughe it were thrise so long as ye yeares of _nestor_, for that casting of the hand in the fyre thoughe it bee neuer so shorte, yet it is some parte of hys lyfe, but the whole lyfe of man is noo portion of tyme in respect of the eternal lyfe. _spv._ i haue nothyng too saye against you. _hedo._ doo you then thyncke that anye affliction or tourment can disquiet those that prepare them selues wyth a chearful hearte and a stedfast hoope vnto the kyngedome of god, wher as the course of this lyfe is nowe so shorte? _spvde._ i thinke not, if thei haue a sure perswasion and a constant hope too attayne it. _hedo._ i coome ||e.iiii.|| now vnto those pleasures, whiche you obiected agaynst me, they do wythdrawe them selues from daunsynge, bankettynge, from pleasaunte seeghtes, they dispyce all these thynges, as thus: for to haue the vse of thinges farre more ioyfulle, and haue as great pleasure as these bee, but after another sorte: the eye hath not seene, the eare hath not heard, nor the heart of man cannot thyncke what consolations _god_ hathe ordeined for them that loue hym. sayncte paule knewe what maner of thynges shoulde bee the songes, queeres, daunsynges, and bankettes of vertuous myndes, yea, in this lyfe. _spvdevs_ but there bee some leafull || pleasures, whyche they vtterlye refuse. _hedonivs._ that maye bee, for the immoderate vse of leafull and godly games or pastymes, is vnleaful: and if you wyll excepte this one thing onlye, in al other thei excelle whiche seeme too leade a paynfull lyfe, and whome we take too bee ouerwhelmed with all kynd of miseries. now i prai you what more roialler sight can ther be, then ye cõtêplatiõ of this world? and such men as ye be in fauour of god keping his holy cõmaûdemêtes & loue his most blessed testamêt, receiue far geater pleasure in the syght therof, then thother sorte doo, for while thei behold wyth ouercurious eyes, ye wõderful worke, their mynde || is troubled because they can not compasse for what purpose he doeth such thinges, then thei improue the moost righte and wise gouernour of all and murmour at his doinges as though they were goddes of reprehension: and often finde faute with that lady nature, and saye that she is vnnaturall, whiche taunt forsooth with as muche spite as can bee shewed with woordes, greueth nature: but truely it reboundeth on hym, that made nature, if there bee any at all. but the vertuous man with godly & simple eyes beholdeth with an excedyng reioyce of heart the workes of his lorde and father highly praysyng thê all, and neither reprehêdeth nor || findeth faut with any of thê, but for euery thyng yeoueth moste hearty thankes, when he considereth that al were made for the loue of man. and so in al thynges, he praieth vnto the infinite power, deuine wisedome, & goodnes of the maker, wherof he perceiueth moste euident tokens in thynges that bee here created. now fain that there were suche a palace in verie deede as _apuleus_ faineth, or els one that were more royall and gorgeouse, and that you shoulde take twoo thither with you too beholde it, the one a straunger, whiche gooeth for this intent onely too see the thyng, and the other the seruaût or soonne of hym that firste causeth this buyldyng, whether || will haue more delectie in it? the straunger, too whom suche maner of house dooeth nothyng appartain, or the soonne whiche beholdeth with greate ioye and pleasure, the witte, riches, and magnificence of his deerely beloued father, especially when he dooeth consider all this worke was made for his sake. _sp._ your question is too plain: for they most cõmunely that bee of euill condicions, knowe that heauen and all thinges contained therin, were made for mannes sake. _hedo._ almoste al knowe that, but some dooe not remembre it, shewyng thêselues vnthãkeful for the great and exhuberãt benefittes of god, & al though thei remember it, yet that mã taketh || greater delight in the sight of it whiche hath more loue vnto the maker therof, in like maner as, he more chearfully wyll behold the element whiche aspireth towarde the eternall life. _spv._ your saiynges are muche like too bee true. _hed._ nowe the pleasures of feastes dooeth not consist in the delicates of the mouth, nor in the good sauces of cookes, but in health of body and appetite of stomacke. you may not thynke that any delicious person suppeth more pleasauntly hauyng before hym partriches, turtelles, leuerettes, bekers, sturgeon, and lamprayes: then a vertuous man hauyng nothîg too eat, but onely bread potage, or wortes: and nothyng || too drynke, but water, single bere, or wyne well alayde, be cause he taketh these thinges as prepared of god vnto all lyuyng creatures, and that they bee now yeouê vnto him of his gentyll and mercifull father, praier maketh euery thyng too sauour well. the petition in ye begynnyng of dyner sanctifieth all thynges and in a while after there is recited some holy lesson of the woorde of god: whiche more refresheth the minde, then meate the body, and grace after all this. finally he riseth from the table, not ful: but recreated, not laden, but refreshed: yea, refreshed both in spirit and bodie, thynke you that any chief deuiser of these muche vsed bãkets, & || deintye delicaces fareth nowe more deliciously? _spudeus._ but in _venus_ there is greate delectacions if we beleue _arestotell_. _hed._ and in this behalfe the vertuous manne far excelleth as well as in good fare, wiegh you now the matter as it is, the better a manne loueth his wife, the more he delecteth in the good felowship and familiaritie that is betwene theim after the course of nature. furthermore, no menne louê their wiues more vehemêtly then thei that loue theim euê soo, as christ loued the churche. for thei that loue thê for the desire of bodely pleasure, loue thê not. more ouer, the seldomer any man dooeth accompany with his wife, the greater pleasure, it || is to hym afterwarde, and that thyng the wãtõ poete knew full well whiche writeth, rare and seldome vse stereth vp pleasures. albeit, the lest parte of pleasure is in the familiare company betwene theim. there is forsothe far greater in the continuall leadyng of their liues too gether, whiche emongest none can be so plesaunt as those that loue syncerely and faithfully together in godly and christian loue, and loue a like one the other. in the other sort, oftê whêthe pleasure of ye body decaieth & waxeth old loue waxeth coold & is sone forgottõ, but emõgest right christê mê, the more ye the lust of ye flesh decreaseth & vanisheth away, ye more thê al godly loue encreseth || are you not yet perswaded that none lyue more pleasauntly thê they whiche liue continually in vertue and true religiõ of god? _sp._ would god all men were as well perswaded in that thyng. _he._ and if they bee epicures that lyue pleasauntli: none bee righter epicures then they that liue vertuously, and if we wyll that euery thyng haue it right name none deserueth more ye cogname of an epicure, then that prince of all godly wisedome too whõ most reuerêtly we ought alwaies too praye: for in the greeke tonge an epicure signifieth an helper. nowe whan the lawe of nature was first corrupted with sinne, whê the law of moses did rather prouoke euil desires ||f.i.|| then remedy them. whã the tyraunte sathanas reygned in this worlde freely and wythout punishement, then thys prynce onely, dyd sodenlye helpe mankynde redy to perishe: wherfore thei erre shamefully which scoff and bable that _christ_ was one that was sadd and of a malancolye nature, & that he hath prouoked vs vnto an vnpleasaunt kynde of lyfe, for onely he did shewe a kind of liuing most godly and fullest of al true pleasure, if we might haue the stone of _tantalus_ taken awaye from vs. _spvd._ what darke saiyng is this? _edo._ it is a mery tale too laugh at, but this bourd induceth verye graue and sadde thynges. _spv._ i tary too heare ||this mery conceite, that you name too bee so sage a matter. _he_ thei whiche gaue their studye and diligence to colour and set furth the preceptes of philosophie wyth subtil fables, declare that there was one _tantalus_ broughte vnto the table of the goddes, whych was euer furnished wyth all good fare, and most nete and sumptuous that myght bee, whan thys straunger shoulde take hys leave, iupyter thought it was for his great liberalitie and highe renoume, that his guest shuld not depart wythout some rewarde, he wylled him therfore too aske what he woulde, and he shoulde haue it: _tantalus_ (forsooth) lyke a verye leude and foolyshe person, ||f.ii.|| for that he sette all the felicitie and pleasure of man in the delectation of the bely, and glotonye, desired but only too sytte at suche a table all the dayes of hys life, iupiter graunted him his desire, and shortly his vow was there stablished and ratifyed. _tantalus_ nowe sytteth at the table furnyshed wyth all kindes of delicates, such drinke as the goddes druncke of was set on the table, and there wanted no rooses nor odours that could yeoue any swete smel before the goddes, _ganymedes_ the buttler or one lyke vnto hym, standeth euer redye, the _muses_ stande rounde aboute syngyng pleasauntly, mery _silenus_ daunseth, ne ther wanted noo fooles || too laugh at, and breuely, there was euerye thynge that coulde delyght any sence of mã but emongist all these, _tantalus_ sytteth all sadde, syghyng, and vnquiet with hym selfe, neither laughing nor yet touching such thynges as were set before hym _spvde._ what was the cause? _hed._ over his head as he sate there hãged by an heere a great stone euer lyke too fall. _spv._ i woulde then haue conueied my selfe from suche a table. _hedo_ but his vowe had bound hym too the contrarye, for iupyter is not so easye too intreate as oure _god_, which dooeth vnloose the pernitious vowes of menne, that bee made contrary vnto his holy woord, if thei bee ||f.iii.|| penitent and sorye therfore, or elles it myght bee thus, the same stoone that woulde not suffer hym too eate, would neither suffer hym to ryse, for if he had but ones moued he shuld haue been quashed al in peeses with the fall thereof. _spvde._ you haue shewed a very mery fable _hedon._ but nowe heare that thing, which you wil not laugh at: the commune people seeke too haue a pleasaunt life in outwarde thynges, where as noothyng can yeoue that, but onely a constant and a quiet mind: for surely a far heuier stone hangeth ouer these that grudge with them selues, then hanged ouer _tantalus_: it only hangeth not ouer them, but greueth and || oppresseth the mynde, ne the mind is not troubled wyth any vayn hoope, but looketh euery houre to bee caste in too the paynes of hell, i praye you what can bee so pleasaunt emongist all thinges that bee yeouen vnto man, that coulde reioyse the mynde, whyche were oppressed wyth suche a stoone? _spvde._ truely there is nothyng but madnes, or elles incredulitie. _hedo._ yf younge menne woulde weygh these thynges, that bee quyckly prouoked and entised with pleasure as it were wyth the cuppe of _circes_, whiche in steade of theyr greatest pleasures receiue poysone myxte with honye. howe circumspecte would they bee too doo anye thynge ||f.iiii|| vnaduisedly that shoulde grudge their mindes afterward? what thinge is it that thei would not doo too haue suche a godly treasure in store against their latter daies? that is a minde knowyng it selfe cleane & honest and a name that hath not been defiled at any time. but what thyng now is more miserable then is agee? whan it beholdeth, and loketh backward on thinges that be past seeth plainly with great grudg of conscience howe fayre thynges he hathe despiced and sette lyght by, (that is, howe farre he hath discented and gone astray from the promyses made vnto god in baptime) & agayn, how foule & noughty thîges he hath clipped and enbraced, and whã || hee looketh forwarde, hee seeth then the daye of iudgemente drawe neere, and shortely after the eternall punyshemente of of hell. _spvde._ i esteme theim most happie whych haue neuer defyled theyr youthe, but euer haue increased in vertu, til thei haue coomne vnto the last puincte of age. _hedo._ next them thei ar too bee commended that haue wythdrawne theim selues from the folie of youth in tyme. _spvde._ but what councel wil you yeoue agee that is in suche great myserie. _hedo._ no man shoulde dispayre so long as life endureth, i wyl exhorte him to flee for helpe vnto the infinitie mercye & gentilnes of god. _sp._ but the longer that he hath liued || the heape of his synnes hath euer waxen greate and greater, so that nowe it passeth the nomber of the sandes in the sea, _he_ but the mercies of our lord far excede those sãdes, for although the sande can not bee numbred of manne, yet hit hath an ende, but the mercie of god neither knoweth ende, ne measure. _sp._ yea but he hath no space that shall dye by and by, _hedoni._ the lesse tyme he hath the more feruêtly he should cal vnto god for grace, that thyng is long inough before god, whiche is of suche power as too ascende from the yearth vnto heauê, for a short prayer forsoth streght entreth heauê, if it bee made with a vehemêt spirit. it is written, that || ye womã synner spoken of in the gospell did penaunce al her life dayes: but with how fewe wordes again did the thief obtain paradise in the houre of death? if he will crye with hearte and mynde, god haue mercie on me after thy great mercie: god wil take awaye from hym _tantalus_ stone and yeoue in his hea ryng ioye and cõfort and his bones hu miled throughe cõtrition, wil reioyse that he hath his synnes foryeouen hym. *finis.* * * * * * imprinted at london within the precinct of the late dissolued house of the gray friers, by richarde grafton, printer too the princes grace. the. xxix. daie of iuly, the yere of our lorde. m.d.xlv. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * [typographic errors: arabic numeral = unnumbered page _v_ = verso (back of page) a.5 _v_ most blessed testament _was_ bessed b.5 _v_ b.6 then this || saiyng. _end of b.5v reads_ sai-/yng _including catchword_ c.7 _v_ in too a laughter _was_ in too a/a laughter _at line break_ d.7 _v_ where god is present _was_ where god is/is present _at line break_ e.iii it is no vertue but folishnes: but as often as thei bee punyshed _was_ it is no-/vertue _at line break_ _and_ but as of-/often _at line break_ e.8 _v_ f.i rather prouoke euil desires || then remedy them _end of e.8v reads_ thê/reme _including catchword_ f.i _v_ to colour and set furth the preceptes _was_ set-/furth _at line break_ f.ii _v_ breuely, there was _was_ breuely, there/there was _at line break_ irregularities in text (not changed): d.5 the two staues wherevpon age is stayed _text reads_ ...where-/vpon _at line break_ d.6 oure moost foo & mortal enemie _unchanged_: ?fool (foul) mismatched catchwords (text uses second form): c.iiii c.iiii _v_ [bee] || be c.7 _v_ c.8 [done] || doone d.iiii _v_ d.5 [hym] || it d.8 d.8 _v_ [ioye] || ioy d.8 _v_ e.i [i] || (i... e.ii _v_ e.iii [life] || lyfe e.iii _v_ e.iiii [nowe] || now e.iiii e.iiii _v_ plea-[sure] || sures e.5 e.5 _v_ [fyndeth] || findeth e.7 e.7 _v_ [deyntie] || deintye f.iiii f.iiii _v_ [he] || hee f.5 v.5 _v_ [the] || [ye] ] [transcriber's note: the original text has no page numbers; instead, the first few leaves of each 16-page signature are marked. this information is shown between paired double lines: || a iij.||. other page breaks have been marked with double lines || a few apparent typographic errors were corrected and are listed at the end of the text. other possible errors are also noted but were left unchanged. all other spelling and punctuation are as in the original.] * * * * * a dialoge or communication of two persons, deuysyd and set forthe in the la tê tonge, by the noble and famose clarke. _desiderius erasmus_ intituled ye pyl gremage of pure de uoty on. newly trãslatyd into englishe. * * * * * || [+] ij.|| to the reder. amongest the writinges of all men, dearly belouyd reder, not onely of the diuersyte of tongues, but also the noble drawghts of so artificyall paynted figures, whiche haue so lyuely expressed to ye quycke ymage, the nature, ordre, & proporcyon of all states, as concernynge the gouernaunce of a christen comêwealthe, that ther is (as i suppose) no parte of the scripture, which is not so enpowndyde, furnysshed, and set forthe, but that euery christen man, therby may lerne his dewty to god, hys prynce, and hys nebure, and so consequently passe thourough the strayte pathe of the whiche scripture doth testyfye vpõ, very fewe can fynde ye entrye, wherby thorough faythe in the redêptyon of the worlde thorowe ye bloode of christe the sone of god, to rayne || with the father and the holy goste eternally, accordynge to the promyse of christe, sayinge. in my fathers hawse ther be many placys to dwell in, we wyll come to hym and make a mansyon place with hym and i haue and shall open thy name vnto them, that the same loue with the whiche thou louydest me, may be in theym, and i in thê, and thys is the kyngdome of god so often mouyd to vs in holy scripture, whiche all faythfull shall possesse and inheret for euermore: where as ye vnfaythfull, vnryghtswye, and synner shall not entre in to the kyngdome of god, bycause, of chaûgynge the glory of gode immortall in to the ymage of a corruptyble man, and therfore to incentiously he hathe suffrede them to wandre in theyr clowdes of ygnoraunce, preferrynge the lyes and corrupte || [+] iij.|| iudgmentes of man the veryte and the truthe of god, rather seruynge the creature then the creator, amongest all the parties of the whiche (as was spoken at the begynnyng) thys alwaye not alonely in the newe law, but also in the olde testament was as a thynge moost abhomynable and displesant in the sight of gode prohybyte and forbyden: but our nature whiche hath in hym, the dampnable repugnaûce of synne agaynst the omnypotêt power of gode, lest euyn frome owre fyrst father adam, is so enclyned to vyces, amongest the whiche it hath not gyuen the least parte to thys desperate synne of ydolatrye, agaynst the immaculate, and fearefull commandement of god. thou shalt haue no straunge gods in my syght, that it is sore to be dreadde the same iudgement to be gyuyn || vpon vs that was gyuen vpon the cytye of ninyue to be absorped of the yerthe in to the yre and vengeannce of gode, whiche hathe ben the cause that so many wryters bothe of late dayes, and many yeres passede, haue euyn to deathe, resisted thes dampnable bolsterers of ydolatrye, gyuen theyr selues to the crosse in example of reformacyon to theyr bretherne, bothe in wrytinge and cownsell, exhortynge the flocke of christe frome soche prophane doctryne, amongest whome the noble and famouse clerke _desiderius erasmus_ hath setforthe to the quycke ymage, before mennys eyes, the supersticyouse worshype and false honor gyuyn to bones, heddes, iawes, armes, stockes, stones, shyrtes, smokes, cotes, cappes, hattes, shoes, mytres, slyppers, sadles, rynges, bedes, gyrdles, bolles, || [+] iiij.|| belles, bokes, gloues, ropes, taperes, candelles, bootes, sporres, (my breath was almost past me) with many other soche dampnable allusyones of the deuylle to use theme as goddes contrary to the immaculate scripture of gode, morouer he notethe as it were of arrogancye the pryuate iudgment of certayne that of theyr owne brayne wolde cast out ymages of the temple, with out a comen consent and authoryte, some there be that alway seke halowes, and go vpon pylgramages vnder a pretense of holynes, whervpon thes brotherhoddes and systerhoodes be now inuented, morouer they that haue ben at hierusalem be called knightes of the sepulcre, and call one an other bretherne, and vpon palme-sondaye they play the foles sadely, drawynge after them an asse in a || rope, when they be not moche distante frome the woden asse that they drawe. the same do they conterfayte that haue ben at saynt iames in compostella. but they be more pernycyouse, that set forthe vncertayn relyques, for certayne, and attrybute more to them than they oughte to haue, and prostytute or sett theym forthe for fylthye lukre. but now whan they perceyue, that this theyr dãpnable *corbane [*a tresure boxe of ye iewes.] dothe decay, and that theyr most to be lamented blyndnes and longe accustomed errours shuld be redressed, they, all fayre bothe of god and man set asyde, rebelle and make insurrectyones contrary to the ordynaunce of gode, agaynst theyr kynge and liege lorde, prouokynge and allurynge the symple comynaitye to theyre dampnable ypocrysye and conspyracy, myndyng || [+] v.|| and goynge about to preuente our most soueraigne lordes iudgment, not yet gyuê vpon theyr sodomiticall actes, and most horryble ypocrysy. but the worde of the lorde whiche they so tyrannously go aboute to suppresse with all the fauerours therof shall ouercome & destroy all soch most to be abhorred & deceyuable inuegelers & dysturbers of ye symple people to soch detestable treason. and that it may so do to the terryble example of thes and a11 other rebelles and most dysloyal subiectes, and to ye greate comforthe & cõsolacyõ of his gracys faythfull and true comens. i requyre him which brethethe where he willithe and raygnethe eternall gode to graût vnto our seyde most dradde soueraygne lorde whose maiesty as it euydently appereth onely applieth his diligence to the aduaunsynge || & lettynge forthe of the most holsome documenth and teachyng of almyghty god, to the redres of long accustome euylls and damnable sectes, to the supportacion and mayntenaunce of godly and alowable ceremonyes, to the suppressynge and most to be desired abolishyng of the deuelishe and detestable vsurped aucthoryties, dampnable errours and prophane abuses brought in by that myghty golyas, that obdurated phareo, that proude nembroth (whome god amêde) the byshope of rome, to graunte (i say) vnto hys hyghnes, suche hys godly ayde and assistence, that hys grace with hys moost honorable counsell (agaynst whome this arrogant conspyracy is nowe moued and begonne) may ouercome and debelle the stud traytres as in tymes paste hys maiestye hath prudently || do other, that haue hertofore attempted to perpetrate and brynge to passe like sedicyous mishief, and so to establishe the hartes of hys gracys true subiectes that they may wyllyngly and according to theyr dueties, obey and fulfyll hys most lawfull and godly ordened lawes and commaundements wherby they shall not onely do the thyng agreable to goddes wylle and teachynges, in that he willeth euery soule to be subiected to the hygher power and obedyent to theyr prynce, but also (to theyr greate laude and prayse) shall shewe them selfe to be redy and confirmable to do theyr dueties in aydyng hys excellent hyghnes to the reformacyon of all pernicious abuses & chiefly of detestable ydolatrye, whiche is so muche prohibited in holy scripture and most displeasant to god, || for whiche intent and purpose the sayd most noble and famous clarke _desiderius erasmus_, compiled & made this dialoge in laten, as it foloweth herafter nowe lately translated into our mother the englishhe tonge. auoyd therfore, most deare readere, all abuses whereby any inconuenyence may growe, other to the hynderaunce of godes worde, to the displeasure of thy prynce, (whome thou arte so straytly commaunded to obaye, or to the domage of a publike weale, whiche aboue all vices is noted most to be abhorred, not alonely of the most holy wryteres and expownderes of scripture, but also of prophane gentylles, whiche neuer perceyuyd other thinge than nature enclyned theyr hartes vnto, and so consequently to obtayne the fruytion of the godhode thorowe the faythe that was || spoken of at the begynnynge to the whiche the lorde iesus chri ste brynge vs all with a perfaycte quyetnes, so be it. + * * * * * || a.|| a pylgremage, for pure deuocyõ. _menedemus._ [*signifieth to forsake.] what new thynge ys it, that i se? doo i nat see _ogygyus_ my neybur, whom no mã could espie of all thes sex monthes before? yt was a sayng that he was deed, it is euen he, except that i be ferre deceyuyd. i wyll go to hym, & byd hym good morow. good morow ogygyus.[*was faynyd of an old kynge of thebanes.] good morow to you menedemus. _mene._ i pray you frome what contray do you come to vs ayen so saffe. for here was a great comunicacyõ that you dyd sayle streght to hell. _ogy._ no, thankyd be god, i haue faryd as well syns i went hens, as euer i dyd in all my lyffe. _me._ well, a man may well perceyue that all soche rumours be but vanytye. but i pray you what araye is this that you be in, me thynke that you be clothyd with cokle schelles, and be || ladê on euery syde with bruches of lead and tynne. and you be pretely garnyshyd with wrethes of strawe & your arme is full of *snakes egges.[*signifyeth bedes. malsyngam ys callyd parathalassia by cause it is ny to ye see.] _ogy._ i haue bene on pylgremage at saynt iames in compostella, & at my retourne i dyd more relygyously vysyte our lady of walsyngã in england, a very holy pylgremage, but i dyd rather vysyte her. for i was ther before within this thre yere. _me._ i trowe, it was but for your pleasure. _ogy._ nay, it was for pure deuocyon. _me._ i suppose you learnyd that relygyõ of the grecyanes. _ogy._ my mother in law dyd make a vowe that if her dougther shuld be delyueryd of a man chyld alyue, than that i shuld go to saynt iames on pylgremage, and ther to salute and thãke hym. _me._ dyd you salute saynt iames alonly in your name, and your mothers. _ogy._ no, in the name of all owre house. _me._ || a ij.|| verely i thynke that your howshold as well shold haue prosperd, in case you had not salutyd hym at all. but i pray you what answer dyd he make to your salutacyon. _ogy._ nothynge at all. but whã i dyd offre, me tought he dyd lawghe vpon me, and becke at me with hedde, & dyd reche to me this cokleshell. _me._ wherfore dothe he gyue rather suche schelles, than other thynges. _ogygy._ for the see, whiche is nye vnto hym dothe mynystre plenty of suche. _me._ o holy saynt iames, that bothe is a mydwyffe to women with chyld, and also dothe helpe his pylgrymes. but i pray you what new kynd of makyng vowes is that that whan a mã is ydle he shall put the burden apon an other mannes bakke? in case that you doo bynd youre selffe with a vowe, that yf ye matter chaunche happyly whiche you haue in hande, that i for you || shall fast twyse in on weke, do you beleue that i can fulfyl youre vow? _ogy._ no, i doo not beleue it if that you dyd vowe it in youre awne name. it is but a sport with yow to mokke sayntes. but this was my mother in law, i must nedys obey her, you know womenes affectyones, & i must obaye heres. _me._ if that you had not perfourmyd your vowe, what iopertye had you be in? _ogy._ i graunt, he could not haue had an accyon ayenst me in ye law, but he myght from hensforthe be deafe to my vowes, orels pryuyly send some calamytye or wretchednes amongste my housholde, yow know well enuffe the maneres of great men. _me._ tell me now what that same honest mã saynt iames dothe, and howe he farythe. _ogy._ moche colder thã he was wontyd to do. _me._ what is the cause of it? his age? _ogy._ oh you scoffer, yow || a iij.|| know wel enoghe that sayntes wax nat olde. but this new learnynge, whiche runnythe all the world ouer now a dayes, dothe cause hym to be vysytyd moche lesse than he was wontyd to be, for if any doo come thay salute him alonly, but they offre lytle or nothinge, and say that theyr monaye may bettre be disposyd amongste pore people. _me._ o a wykyd comunicacyon. _ogy._ ye & so great an apostle whiche was wõtyd to stand all in precyous stones & gold, now stãdythe all of wodde hauynge before hym skaresly a wax candle. _me._ if it be trew that i here, it is great ioperdy lest that same chance to all the rest of the sayntes. _ogy._ i thynk it wel, for ther is an epistle abrode whiche our lady dyd wryte apon the same matter. _me._ what lady? _ogy._ *she that hathe her name of a stone.[*our ladi of stone in raurachia whiche is a certayne cuntre.] _me._ i trawe it is in raurachia. _ogy._ that same || is it. _me._ yow tell me of a stony lady, but to whome dyd she wryte? _ogy._ the epistle dothe playnely shew his name. _me._ by whome was it sent? _ogy._ no dowbt but by an angell, whiche dyd lay the wrytynges apõ the aultre, wherof he prechythe to whome it was sent. and lest there shuld be any suspectyõ of crafty cõuayance in you, you shall se the epistle wryten with his owne hande. _me._ do you know so well the hand of thangell whiche is secretary to our lady? _ogy._ yee why nat? _me._ by what argumêt? _ogy._ i haue redde that *epithaphe [*is a scripture wryten on a graue.] of bede which was grauyd of the angell: and the letteres agre in all thynges. i haue redde also ye obligacyõ whiche was sent to saynt gyles as dothe aper. dothe not thes argumentes proue that mater to be good enoghe. _me._ may a man loke apon them? _ogy._ ye and if you wyll swere to kepe it || a iiij.|| preuy. _me._ oh you shall speake to a stone. _ogy._ ther be stones now a dayes of that name very slawnderous, that wyll hyde nothynge. _me._ you shall speake to a domme man, & yow trust nat a stone. _ogy._ apon ye condycyon i wyll tell it, loke that you here with bothe youre eyares. _me._ so i doo. [the epistle of our lady.] _ogy._ mary the mother of iesu to *glaucoplutus [*glaucoplutus desirus of ryches.] sêdythe gretynge. insomoche as you folowe luther, you nobly perswade, that it is but in vayne to call apõ sayntes, do ye well know for that to be grettly in my fauore. for vntyll thys day i haue almost be slayne with the importunate prayers of men. of me alone they askyd althynges, as who shuld say my sone were alway a babe, because he is so faynyd and payntyd apõ my breste, that yet he wold be at my commaundemêt and durst nat denye my petycyon, dredynge that if he denye my petycyon, || that i shuld denye hym my teate whan he is a thurst: and very oft thay requyre that of me, whiche a shamfast yongman dare scantly aske of a bawde, yee they be suche thynges as i am ashamyd to put in wrytynge. now comythe ye marchauntman and he redy to sayle into spayne for a vantage, dothe cõmytte hys wyues honesty to me. than commythe thet lytle preaty nunne and she castythe away her vayle redy to runne away, she leuythe with me the good name of her vyrgynytye, whiche shortly she entendythe to take monay for. than cryeth the wykyd soudyer purposyd to robbe & saythe, blessyd lady send me a good praye. now cõmythe the vnthryfty dyasser and cryethe, send me good chance lady & thow shalt haue parte of my wynnynges: and if the dyasse runne ayenst hym, he blasphemes, and cursythe me, bycause || i wyll nat fauor his noghtynes. now cryeth she that sellythe her selffe for fylthye lukre & saythe, swete lady send me some costomers, & if i denye it, they exclame ayenst me & say, thou arte not the mother of marcy. moreouer the vowes of some women be no lesse wykyd thã folishe. the mayd cryeth & saythe, o swet mary send me a fayre and riche husbond. the maryed womã saythe send me goodly chylderen. now laborythe the woman with chyld, and cryeth dere lady dylyuer me of my bondes. than cõmythe ye olde wyffe, and saythe flowre of all women send me to lyue longe withowt coghe and drynes. now crepythe the the dotynge old man & saythe, lady send me for to wax yonge ayê. thã cõmythe forth the phylosopher and cryethe send me some argumêtis that be îsoluble. the great prest cryeth send me a fat benefyce. thã || saythe the bysshope kepe well my churche. thã cryethe ye hye iustyce shew me thy sone or i passe out of this worlde. thã saythe ye cowrtyer send me trwe confession at the howre of my deathe. the husbondman saythe send vs temperate wether. the mylke wyffe cryethe owt blessyd lady saue our catell. now if i denye anythynge by & by i am crwell. if i cõmytte it to my sone, i here them say, he wyll what so euer you wyll. shall i than alone bothe a woman and a mayd helpe maryneres, sawdyeres, marchantmen, dyasseres, maryed mê, women with chyld, iudges, kynges, and husbondmen? ye and this that i haue sayd is the least parte of my payne. but i am nat now so moche trobled with soche busynes, for that i wold hartely thanke you, but that this commodytye dothe brynge a greater discõmodytye with hym. i || haue now more ease, but lesse honor & profett. before this tyme i was callyd quene of heuen, lady of the world, but now any man wyll skarsly say aue maria or hayle mary. before i was clothyd with precyous stones and gold, and had my chaunges, and dayly ther was offeryd gold and precyous stones, now i am skarsly coueryd with halffe a gowne and that is all beeyten with mysse. my yerly rentes be now so smalle that i am skarsly able to fynde my pore quere kepar to light a wax cãdle before me. yet all this myght be sufferyd, but you be abowt to pluke away greater thynges, you be abowt (as they say) that what so euer any saynte hathe in any place, to take hyt frome the churches, but take hede what you doo. for ther is no saynte without a way to reuêge his wronge. if you cast saynt petre forthe of the churche, he may serue || you of the same sauce, and shite vp heuyngates ayenst you. ye saynt paule hathe his sworde. barthylmew is nat withowt his great knyffe. saynt wyllyam is harnysyd vnder his monkes cloke, nat withowt a greate speare. what canst thou doo ayenst saynt george whiche is bothe a knyght & all armyd with hys longe spere and his fearfull sword? nor saynt antony is nat withowt hys weapenes for he hathe holy fyre with hym. ye the rest of the sayntes haue theyr weapones or myschefues, whiche they send apon whome they liste. but as for me thou canst not cast owt, except thou cast owt my sone, whiche i hold in myne armes. i wyll nat be seperat frome hym, other thou shalt cast hym owt with me or els thou shalt let vs bothe be, except that you wold haue a temple withowt a christe. these be the thynges that i wold || yow shall know ymagyne you therfore what shal be your answer. for this thinge pleasythe me very well. frome oure stony churche the calendes of auguste, the yere frome my sonnes passyon a m. ccccc. xiiij. i stony lady subscrybyd thys with myne owne hande. _me._ trewly that was a soro and fearfull epistle, i suppose that glaucoplutus wyll beware frõ hêsforthe. _ogy._ ye & if he be wyse. _me._ wherfore dyd nat that good saynt iames wryte to that man of the same mater. _ogy._ i can nat tell, except it be bycause he is so ferre of, and now a dayes men be moche searchyd for suche maters, & in theyr iornaye theyr lettres takê frome them. _me._ i pray you, what god dyd send you into englõd? _ogy._ i saw the wynd maruelouse prosperouse thyderward, and i had almoste promysyd this to that blessyd lady of walsyngã that i wold seke || her within .ij. yere, _me._ what wold you axe of her. _ogy._ no new thyngs at all, but suche as be comen, as to kepe saffe and sownd my housholde, to encreasse my goodes, and in thys world to haue a lõge and mery liffe, and whã i dye euerlastynge lyffe in another worlde. _me._ may nat owr lady grante the same at home with vs? she hathe at antwarpe a moche more lordly temple thã at walsyngame. _ogy._ i denye nat but it may be so, but in dyuers places she grantes dyuers thynges, wether it be her pleasur so to do, or bycause she is so gentle, that as cõcernynge this purpose, she wyll gyue her selfe to our affectyões. _me._ i haue harde oft of saynt iames, but i pray you describe to me the kyngdome of walsyngam. _ogy._ verely i shall tell you as shortly as i canne. yt is the most holy name in all england, and you may fynde some in || that yle, that suppose thayr substãce shal nat prospayre except they vysyte her with thayr offerynge euery yere ones as thay be able to gyue. _me._ wher dothe she dwell? _ogy._ at the vttermost parte of all england betwyxt the northe and the weste, nat vary ferre from the see, skarsly iii myles, the towne is almost susteynyd by the resort of pylgrymes. the college is of canões, but thay be suche as hathe thayr name of the laten tonge and be called seculares, a kynd betwyxte monkes & chanones. _me._ what you tell me of *amphybyanes, [*amphybyanes be thynges doutfull.] suche as ye mõstre *fyber is.[*fyber is a beste of ye see & ye land.] _ogy._ no thay be rather suche as the *cocatrice. [*a cocatrice wil kyll a man with a loke,] but withowt dissimulation, i shall put you owt of this dowte in thre wordes. to them that thay hate, thay be chanones, and to them that thay loue thay be monkes _menede._ yet yowe doo nat open thys redle. _ogy._ || i shall paynte it before youre eyes, if the bysshope of rome doo shot hys thonderbowlt amõgst all monkes, thay wyll than be chanones, & nat monkes, but and if he wold suffre all monkes to take wyues, thã wyll they be monkes, _me._ o new partakeres, i wold to god they wold take away my wyffe. _ogy._ but to come to our purpose, the college hathe skarsly any other *emolumêtes [*rêttes.] but of the liberalite of our lady. for the great offeryngs be kepyd stylle, but if ther be any litle some of monaye offerid that goith to the comens of the company, & the mayster whome thay call pryoure. _me._ be thay of a vertuous lyffe? _ogy._ nat to be dispraysyd, thay be more vertuous thã ryche of thayr yerely renttes. the temple ys goodly & goregious, but oure lady dwellythe nat in it, but that was purchasyd for the honor of her sone. she hathe her owne temple, || b.|| that she may be of the ryght hand of her sone. _me._ apon the right hãd. whiche way dothe her sonne loke than? _ogy._ it is well remembryd. whan he lokythe to the west, his mother is apõ his right hand, but whã he turnythe hym to the este she is apon the lefte hand. but yet she dwellythe nat in that churche, for it is nat yet buyldyd all vpe, and the wynde runnythe thorow euery parte with open wyndowes & dowres, and also nat ferre of is the occiane seye father of all wyndes. _me._ what doo yow tell me wher dothe she dwell thã? _ogy._ in ye same churche whiche i told you was nat all fynyshyd, ther is a lytle chapell seelyd ouer with wodde, on ether syde a lytle dore wher ye pylgrymes go thorow, ther is lytle light, but of ye taperes, with a fragrant smell. _me._ all these be mete for religyon. _ogy._ ye menedemus if you loke within you || wyll say that it is a seate mete for sayntes, all thynges be so bright in gold, syluer, and precyous stones. _me._ you almost moue me to go thyther also. _ogy._ it shalnat repente you of your iornay. _me._ spryngithe ther no holy oyle? _ogy._ i trowe you dote, that spryngythe nat but owt of the sepulchres of sayntes, as saynt andrew, & saynt katerê, owr lady was nat beried. _me._ i graût i sayd amysse, but tell on your tale. _ogy._ so moche more as thay persayue youre deuocyõ, so moche larger reliques wyl thay shew to you. _me._ ye and peraduêture that thay may haue larger offerynges, as is sayd that, many lytle offerynges makythe a heuy boxe. _ogygy._ her chaplens be alway at hand. _me._ be thay of ye chanones? _ogy._ no, thay be nat permyttyd to be with her, lest that peraduenture by occasyon of that religyon, thay shuld be plukkyd || b ij.|| frome thayr owne religyõ, and whylst thay kepe that virgyne, thay regard very lytle thayr awne virgynyte, alonly in that inner chapell whiche is our ladyes preuy chãbre, ther standithe a certayne chanõ at the autre. _me._ for what purpose? _ogy._ to receyue and kepe, that whiche is offeryd. _me._ dothe any man gyue ayenst hys wyll. _ogy._ no, but many men hathe suche a gentle shamfastnes, that thay wyll gyue some thynge to hym that standythe by, other thay wyll offre more largely, whiche thay wold nat doo perauêture if that he were absent, that standithe there. _me._ you tell me of mannes affectiones, whiche i my selffe prouyd very ofte. _ogy._ ye trewly there be some so gyuê to our blessyd lady, that whan thay apere to put vpe thayr handes to offre, with a pure cõusyance, thay stayl that whiche other men hathe gyuen. _me._ than || lett no man be there, wyll nat oure lady shote her thonderbowlte at suche. _ogy._ wherfor shuld our lady rather doo so, than god hymselffe, whom thay be nat affrayd to pluke owt hys robes, & breake ye churche walles therfore. _mene._ i am in a great doubt whether i shuld, rather maruayle apon thayre wykyd boldnes, or goddys great gêtlenes and longe sufferynge. _ogy._ apõ the northe parte ther is a certayne gaate, but lest that you should make a lye, it is nat of the churche, but of the pale that compassithe a bowte the churche yarde, and that hathe a lytle wykyt, suche as be in great mennes gaates, that who so euer wyll entre, must fyrst putin hys legge, nat withowt some ioperdie, and than bowe downe hys hedde. _me._ it is ioperdie to goo thorow suche a dore, to a mannes enemye. _ogy._ so it is, the sexten dyd tell me that || b iij.|| ther was ones a knyght whiche fleeynge hys enemye, than aprochynge, dyd ride thorow ye wykyte, and than the wretche dispayrynge in hym selffe, apon a soden motion, dyd commend hymselffe to ye blessyd virgyne, whiche was than at hand. but now commythe the myrakle. by and by that knyght was all in the churche yarde, and hys aduersary was ragynge at the dore wowte. _me._ and dyd he tell you so maruylous a myrakle for a trewthe? _ogy._ no dowte. _me._ but i suppose that he could nat so lyghtely doo that to you so a great a philosopher. _ogy._ he dyd shewe to me in that same wykytte in a plate of coper, the ymage of the knyght fastenyd with nayles and with the same garmentes that the englishmen were wontyd to wayre at that tyme, as you may see in that olde pictures, whiche wyl nat lye, barbours had || but lytle lyuynge at that tyme: and dieres & websteres gotte but litle monay. _me._ why so? _ogy._ for he had a berd like a goote, and his cote had neuer a plyte, & it was so litle, that with strayte gyrdynge it mayd hys body to apere lesse than it was. ther was another plate, that was in quantyte and fourme like to a cheste. _me._ well now it is nat to be doubtyd apõ. _ogy._ under ye wykyte ther was a grate of yrne, that no man cã passe theryn but a footemã, for it is nat conuenyent that any horsse shuld tread after apon ye place, whiche the knyght dyd cõsecrate to owr lady. _me._ nat withowt a good cause. _ogy._ frome that parte toward the este, there is a litle chapell, full of maruayles and thyther i wête, ther was i receyuyd of another of our ladyes chaplenes, ther we knelyd downe, to make our litle prayeres. by & by, he broght forthe || b iiij.|| the ioynte of a mannes fynger, the greatyste of thre, which i kyssyd, & askyd whose relyques thay were, he dyd say that thay were saynt petres. what thapostle sayd i. ye sayd he. than i dyd better beholde the ioynte, whiche for hys greatenes myght well haue be a gyãtes ioynte, rather than a mannes. than sayd i, saynt peter must nedys be a great man of stature. but at that word, ther was one of the gentlemê that stode by, that could not forbere lawghynge, for the which i was very sory. for if he had holden hys pease, we had sene all the relyques, yet we metely well pleasyd mayster sextê, with gyuynge hym .ij. or .iij. grotes. before that chapell there was a litle howsse, which he sayd ones in wynter tyme whan that there was litle rowme to couer the reliques, that it was sodenly broght & sett in that place. under that house || there was a couple of pittes, bothe fulle of water to the brynkys, and thay say that ye sprynge of thos pittes is dedicate to our lady, that water is very colde, and medycynable for the hede ake and that hartburnynge. _me._ if that cold water wyll hele the paynes in the hede and stomake, than wyll oyle put owte fyre from hensforthe. _ogy._ it is a myrakle that i tell, good syr, or els what maruayle shuld it be, that cowld water shuld slake thurste? _me._ this may well be one parte of your tale. _ogy._ thay say that the fowntayne dyd sodenly sprynge owte of the erthe at the commaundement of our lady, & i dilygently examenynge althynges, dyd aske hym how many yeres it was sythe that howsse was so sodenly broght thyther. many yeres agone saythe he. yet, sayde i, the wallys doo nat apere so old. he dyd nat denay it. no mor thes woden || b v.|| pyleres. he cowld nat denay but that they were sette there nat longe agoo, and also the mater dyd playnly testyfye ye same. afterward, sayd i, thys roffe which is all of rede dothe apere nat to be very olde, & he granted also, thes greete bemes which lye ouerthwerte, and these rafteres that hold vpe that howsse were nat sett longe agone. he affyrmyd my saynge. well sayd i seynge that no parte of the housse is lefte but all is new, how can yow say that this was the house whiche was broght hyther so longe agoo. _me._ i pray you how dyd the howskeper, auoyde hymselffe frome your argumêt. _ogy._ by & by he dyd shew to vs the mater by the skyne of a bayre whiche had hangyd be the rafteres a longe season, and dyd almost moke the symplenes of owre wyttes that could nat perceyue so manyfeste an argumête we beynge || perswadyd by this argument, askid pardon of our ignorance, and callid into our communycacyon the heuêly mylke of our lady. _me._ o how like to the sone is the mother, for he hath left to vs so moche blood here in erthe, & she so moche mylke, that a man wyl skarysly beleue a woman to haue so moche mylke of one chylde, in case the chyld shuld sukke none at all. _ogy._ thay saye the same of the holy crosse, whiche is shewyd in so many places bothe openly, and pryuately, that if ye fragmentes were gathered apon one heape, they wold apere to be a iuste fraghte for a shipe, and yet christe dyd bere all his crosse hymselffe. _me._ but do nat you maruayll at this? _ogy._ it may welbe a strãge thynge, but no maruayle, seynge that the lord whiche dothe encreasse this at hys pleasure, is almyghty. _me._ it is very gently expownded, but i am || afrayd, that many of thes be faynyd for lukre. _ogy._ i suppose that god wold nat suffre hymselffe to be deludyd of suche a fasshion. _mene._ yis, haue nat you sene that whã bothe the mother, the sone, the father, and the holy ghoste hathe be robbyd of thes sacrilegyous theues, that thay woldnat ones moue, or styre nother with bekke or crakke wherby thay myght fray away the theues. so great is the gentles of god. _ogy._ so it is, but here out me tale. this mylke is kepyd apon the hye aultre, and in the myddys ther is christe, with his mother apon hys ryght hand, for her honor sake, the mylke dothe represente the mother. _me._ it may be sene than? _ogy._ it is closyd in crystalle. _me._ it is moyste thã? _ogy._ what tell you me of moystenes, whã it was mylkyd more than a thowsand and fyue hunthrithe yere agone, it is so congelyd, that a mã wold || saye that it were chalke temperyd with the whyte of a egge. _me._ ye, but do thay sette it forthe bare? _ogy._ no, lest so holy mylke shuld be defowlyd with the kyssynge of men. _me._ you say well. for i suppose that ther be many that kysse it, whiche be nother clene mouthyd, nor yet be pure virgynes. _ogy._ whan ye sexten sawe vs, he dyd runne to the aultre, & put apon hym his surplese, & his stole about his nekke, knelyd downe relygyously, and worshipyd it, and streghtforthe dyd offre the mylke to vs to kysse. and at the ende of the aultre we knelyd downe deuoutly, & the fyrste of all we salutyd christe, & than after we callyd apon our lady with thys prayer, whiche we had mayd redy for the same purpose. o mother & mayde, whiche dyd gyue sukke with thy virgynes teates the lorde of heuen and yerthe, thy sone iesus christe, we beynge puryfyed || thorowe hys precyous blode, do desyre that we may attayne, and come to that blessyd infancye of thy colombynes meknes, whiche is immaculate without malice, frawde, or diseyte, and with all affectyon of harte dothe couett and stody for the heuenly mylke of the euangelicall doctryne, to go forthe and encrease with it into a perfaycte man, into the mesure of the plentefulnes of christe, of whose cõpany thou haste the fruycyon, togyther with the father, & the holy ghost for euermore, so be it. _me._ uerely thys is a holy prayer. but what dyd she? _ogygy._ thay bothe bekkyd at vs, excepte my eyes waggyd, and me thoght that the mylke daunsyd. in the meanseson the sexten came to vs, withowt any wordes, but he held out a table suche as the germanes vse to gather tolle apon bridges. _me._ by my trothe i haue cursyd veryofte suche || crauynge boxes, whan i dyd ryde thorowe germany. _ogy._ we dyd gyue hym certayne monay whiche he offeryd to our lady. thã i axyd by a certayne yonge man, yt was well learnyd, whiche dyd expownde and tell vs the saynge of ye sextê, hys name (as fere as i remembre) was robert alderisse, by what tokenes or argumêtes he dyd know that it was the mylke of owr lady. and that i very fayne, & for a good purpose desyred to knowe, that i myght stope the mowthes of certayne newfanglyd felowes, that be wotyd to haue suche holy relyques in derysyon and mokage. fyrst of all the sexten with a froward cowntenãce wold nat tell, but i desyryd the yong man to moue hym more instantly, but somwhat more gently he so courtesly behauyd hymselffe, that and he had prayd owr lady herselffe || after that fashion, she wold nat haue be dysplesyd therwith. and thã this mystycall chapleyn, as and if he had be inspyryd with ye holy ghoste, castynge at vs a frounynge loke, as & if he wold haue shote at vs ye horryble thonderbolte of the greate curse, what nede you (saythe he) to moue suche questyones, whan yow see before your eyes so autentycall & old a table. and we were afrayd lest that he wold haue cast vs out of the churche for heretykes, but that oure monay dyd tempte hys greate furye. _mene._ what dyd you in the meaneseason? _ogygyus._ what suppose you? we were amasyd as and if a man had stryke vs with a clube, or we had be slayne with a thonderclape, and we very lowly axid pardon of oure folishe boldenes, and gote vs frome thens. for so must we entreate holy thynges. || frome thens we went in to ye howse where owre lady dwellithe, and whan we came there, we sawe another sexten whiche was but a noues, he lokyd famylarly as and if he had knowê vs, and whã we came a litle further in, we sawe another, that lokyd moch after suche a fashion, at the last came the thyrd. _me._ perauenture thay desyryd to descrybe you. _ogy._ but i suspecte another mater. _mene._ what was it? _ogygy._ there was a certayne theffe that had stole almost all owr ladyes frontlet, and i supposyd that they had me in suspycyon thereof. and therfore whan i was within the chapell i mayd my prayers to our lady after thys fashiõ. oh cheffe of all women mary the mayd, most happy mother, moste pure virgyne, we vnclene, and synners, doo vysyte the pure & holy, and after our abylytye we haue offeryd vnto the, we pray thy that thy || c.|| sone may grante this to vs, that we may folow thy holy lyffe, and that we may deserue thorow the grace of the holy ghoste, spirytually to cõceyue the lord iesus christ, & after that conceptyon neuer to be separat from hym, amen. this done i kyssyd the aultre, and layd downe certayne grotes for myne offerynge and went my waye. _me._ what dyde our lady now, dyd nat she make one sygne, that you myght know that she had hard youre prayeres. _ogy._ the lyght (as i told you before) was but litle, and she stode at the ryght ende of the aultre in the derke corner, at the last the communicatyõ of the fyrst sexten had so discoregyd me, that i durst not ones loke vpe with myne eyes. _me._ this pylgremage came but to smale effecte. _ogy.._ yes, it had a very good & mery ende. _me._ you haue causyd me to take harte of grasse, for (as homere || saythe) my harte was almost in my hose. _ogy._ whan dynar was done, we returnyd to ye temple. _me._ durste you goo & be susspecte of felonye? _ogy._ perauenture so, but i had nat my selffe in suspiciõ, a gyltles mynde puttythe away feare. i was very desyrous to see that table whiche the holy sexten dyd open to vs. at the last we fownde it, but it was hãgyd so hye that very fewe could rede it. my eyes be of that fashion, that i can nother be callyd *linceus, [*linceus ys a beaste so quike eyed that it wyll see thorow any wall] nother purre blynd. and therefore i instantly desyryd alldryge to rede it, whose redynge i folowyd with myne owne eyes, because i wold skarsly truste hym in suche a mater. _me._ well, now all doubtes be discussyd. _ogy._ i was ashamyd that i doubtyd so moche, ye mater was so playne set forthe before oure eyes, bothe the name, the place, the thynge it selffe as it was || c ij.|| done, to be breffe, there was nothynge lefte owte. there was a mane whos name was wylyam whiche was borne in parise, a man very deuoute in many thyngs but pryncypally excedynge relygyous in searchynge for the relyques of all sayntes thorowowt all the world. he after that he had vysytyd many places, contrayes, and regyones, at the laste came to cõstantynenople. for wylhelmes brother was there byshope, whiche dyd make hym pry to a certayne mayde, whiche had professyd chastyte, that hadde parte of oure ladyes mylke, which were an excedynge precyous relyque, if that other with prayer, or monaye, or by any crafte it myghte be gotte. for all the reliques that he hadde gotte before were but tryfles to so holy mylke. wyllyam wold not rest there tyll that he had gotte halffe of that holy mylke, but whan he had || it, he thoghte that he was richer than croeseus. _me._ why nat, but was it nat withowt any goodhope? _ogy._ he went thã streght home, but in hys iornay he fell seke. _me._ iesu there is nothynge in thys worlde that is other permanent, or alwayes in good state. _ogy._ but whan he sawe & perceyuyd that he was in greate ioperdye of his lyffe, he callyd to him a frenchman, whiche was a very trusty companyon to hym in hys iornay. and commaundyd all to auoyd the place, and make sylence, & pryuyly dyd betake to hym thys mylke, apon this condycyõ, that if it chãcyd to come home saffe & sownde he wuld offre that precyous tresure to our ladyes aultre in paryse, whiche standythe in the myddys of the ryuere sequana, whiche dothe apere to separat hymselffe to honor and obaye our blessyd lady. but to make short tale. wylyam is deade, & || c iij.|| buryed, the frenchman mayd hym redy to departe apon hys iornay, & sodêly fell seke also. and he in great dyspayre of amendynge, dyd commyth ye mylke to an englishmã, but nat withowt great instance, and moche prayer he dyd that whiche he was mouyd to doo. than dyed he. and ye other dyd take the mylke, and put it apon an aultre of ye same place the chanones beynge present, whiche were yt as we call regulares. thay be yet in the abbaye of saynt genofeffe. but ye englishmã obtaynyd the halffe of that mylke, & caryed it to walsyngã in england, the holy ghost put suche in hys mynde. _me._ by my trothe this is a godly tale. _ogy._ but lest there shuld be any doubte of this mater, ye byshopes whiche dyd grante pardon to it thayre names be wryten there, as thay came to vysyte it, nat withowt thayre offerynges, and thay haue || gyuen to it remyssyon, as moche as thay had to gyue by thayre authorite. _me._ how moche is that? _ogy._ fowrty dayes. _mene._ yee is there dayes in hell. _ogy._ trewly ther is tyme. ye but whan thay haue grãtyd all thayre stynte, thay haue no more to grante. _ogy._ that is nat so for whan one parte is gone another dothe encrease, and it chansythe dyuersly euyn as the tonne of canaidus. for that althoghe it be incontynently fyllyd, yet it is alway emptye: and if thou be takynge owt of it, yet there is neuer the lesse in the barell. _me._ if thay grãte to an hunderithe thowsand mê fowrty dayes of pardone, wuld euery man haue elyke? _ogy._ no doubte of that. _me._ and if any haue forty byfore dynar, may he axe other forty at after souper, is there any thynge left than to gyue him? _ogy._ ye, & if thou aske it ten tymes in one howre. _me._ i wold || c iiij.|| to god that i had suche a pardon bagge, i wold aske but .iij. grotes, and if thay wold flowe so faste. _ogy._ ye but you desyre to be to ryche, if that you myght for wyshynge, but i wyl turne to my tale, but there was some good holy man whiche dyd gyue this argumente of holynes to that mylke, and sayd that our ladyes mylke whiche is in many other places, is precyous & to be worshipyd but thys is moche more precyous, & to be honoryd, bycause the other was shauen of stones, but this is the same that came out of the virgynes brest. _me._ how kno you that? _ogy._ the mayd of cõstantynople, which dyd gyue it, dyd saye so. _me._ perauenture saynt barnard dyd gyue it to her. _ogy._ so i suppose. for whã he was an old man, yet he was so happy that he sukkyd of ye same mylke, that iesus hymselffe sukkyd apon. _me._ but i maruayle why he was || rather callyd a hony sukker than a mylke sukker. but how is it callyd oure ladyes mylke that came neuer owt of her breste? _ogy._ yes it came owt at her breste, but perauenture it light apon the stone that he whiche sukkyd knelyd apon, and ther was receyuyd, and so is encreasyd, & by ye wyll of god is so multyplyed. _me._ it is wel sayd. _ogy._ whan we had sene all thys, whyle that we were walkynge vpe & downe, if that any thynge of valure were offeryd, so that anybody were present to see thaym ye sextens mayd great haste for feare of crafty cõuayêce, lokynge apõ thaym as thay wold eate thaym. thay poynte at hym with there fynger, thay runne, thay goo, thay come, thay bekke one to an other, as tho thay wold speake to thaym that stand by if thay durste haue be bold. _mene._ were you afrayd of nothynge there? _ogy._ yis i dyd loke || c v.|| apõ hym, lawghynge as who shold saye i wold moue him to speake to me, at laste he cam to me, and axid me what was my name, i told him. he axid me if yt were nat i that dyd hange vpe there a table of my vowe writen in hebrew, within .ij. yere before. i confessid that it was ye same. _me._ cã you wryte hebrewe? _ogygy._ no but all that thay cãnat vnderstond, thay suppose to be hebrewe. and than (i suppose he was send for) came the posterior pryor. _me._ what name of worshipe is that? haue thay nat an abbate? _ogy._ no _me._ why so? _ogy._ for thay cannat speake hebrew. _me._ haue thay nat a bishope? _ogy._ no. _me._ what is ye cause? _ogy._ for oure lady is nat as yet so ryche, that she is able to bye a crosse, & a mytre, whiche be so deare, _me._ yet at least haue thay nat a presedente? _ogy._ no veryly. what lettythe thaym? _ogy._ that is a name || of dygnyte and nat of relygyõ. and also for that cause suche abbayes of chanones, doo nat receyue the name of an abbate, thay doo call thaym maysters? _me._ ye, but i neuer hard tell of pryor posterior before. _ogy._ dyd you neuer learne youre grãmere before. _me._ yis i know prior posterior amõgst the fygures. _ogy._ that same is it. it is he that is nexte to the prioure, for there priour is posterior. _me._ you speake apon the supprioure. _ogy._ that same dyd entertayne me very gently, he told me what greate labure had be abowt ye readynge of thos verses, & how many dyd rubbe thayr spectakles abowt thaym. as oft as any old ancyent doctor other of deuynyte or of the lawe, resorted thyder, by and by he was broght to that table, some sayd that thay were lettres of arabia, some sayd thay were faynyd lettres. well || at the last came one that redde the tytle, it was wryten in laten with greate romayne lettres, ye greke was wryten with capytale lettres of greke, whiche at the fyrst syght do apere to be capytale latê lettres, at thayr desyer i dyd expownde ye verses in laten, trãslatynge thaym word for word. but whã thay wold haue gyuyn me for my labour, i refusyd it, seynge that ther was nothynge so hard that i wold not doo for our blessyd ladyes sake, ye thogh she wold commaûd me to bere this table to hierusalê. _me._ what nede you to be her caryoure, seynge that she hathe so many angelles bothe at her hedde and at her fette. _ogy._ than he pullid owt of hys purse a pece of wodde, that was cutt owte of the blokke that our ladye lenyd apon. i perceyuyd by and by thorow the smell of it, that it was a holy thynge. than whan i sawe so || greate a relyque, putt of my cappe, and fel down flatte, & very deuoutly kyssyd it .iij. or .iiii tymes, poppyd it in my pursse. _me._ i pray you may a man see it? _ogy._ i gyue you good leue. but if you be nat fastynge, or if you accompanyed with yowre wyffe the nyght before, i conceyle you nat to loke apon it. _me._ o blessed arte thou that euer thou gotte this relyque. _ogy._ i may tell you in cowncell, i wold nat gyue thys litle pece for all ye gold that tagus hathe, i wyll sett it in gold, but so that it shall apere thorow a crystall stone. and than the supprioure whã he sawe that i dyd take the relyque so honorably, he thoght it shuld nat be lost, in case he shuld shew me greater mysteries, he dyd aske me whether i hadde euer sene our ladyes secretes, but at that word i was astonyed, yet i durst nat be so so bold as to demande what thos || secretes were. for in so holy thynges to speake a mysse is no small danger. i sayd that i dyd neuer se thaym but i sayd that i wold be very glade to see thaym. but now i was broght in, and as i had be inspired with the holy ghost, than thay lyghted a couple of taperes, & set forthe a litle ymage, nat couryously wroght, nor yet very gorgeous, but of a meruelous virtue. _me._ that litle body hathe smale powre to worke myrakles. i saw saynt christopher at parise, nat a carte lode, but as moche as a greate hylle, yet he neuer dyd myrakles as farre as euer i herd telle. _ogy._ at our ladyes fette there is a precyous stone, whos name as it is nother in greke nor laten. the frenchemã gaue it the name of a tode, bycause it is so like, that no man (althoghe he be conynge) can set it forthe more lyuely. but so moche greater is || the myrakle, that the stone is litle, the fourme of the tode dothe nat apere, but it shynythe as it were enclosyd within that precyous stone. _me._ perauenture they ymagyne ye symylytude of a tode to be there, euyn as we suppose whan we cutte ye fearne stalke there to be an egle, and euyn as chyldren (whiche they see nat indede) in ye clowdes, thynke they see dragones spyttynge fyre, & hylles flammynge with fyre, & armyd mê encownterynge. _ogy._ no, i wold you shuld know it, there is no lyuynge tode that more euydêtly dothe expresse hymselffe than it dyd there playnly apere. _me._ hetherto i haue sufferyd thy lyes, but now get the another that wyll beleue the, thy tale of a tode. _ogy._ no maruayle menedemus thogh you be so disposyd, for all the world cannot make me to beleue yt, not & all doctoures of dyuynyte wold swere || it were trewe. but that i sawe it with myne eyes, ye with thes same eyes, dyd i proue it. but in ye meanseson me thynke you regard naturall phylosophye but litle. _me._ why so, because i wyll nat beleue ye asses flye? _ogy._ an do you nat se, how nature the worker of all thynges, dothe so excell in expressynge ye fourme bewty, & coloure of thaym maruylously in other thynges, but pryncypaly in precyous stones? moreouer she hathe gyuen to ye same stones wonderouse vertu and strêkthe that is almost incredyble, but that experience dothe otherwyse testyfye. tell me, do you beleue that a adamand stone wold drawe vnto him stele withowt any towchynge therof, and also to be separate frome him ayen of hys owne accorde, excepte that yow had sene it with yowre eyes. _me._ no verely, nat and if .x. arystoteles wold perswade me || to the contrarye. _ogy._ therfore bycause you shuld nat say thys were a lye, in case you here any thynge, whiche you haue not sene prouyd. in a stone callyd ceraunia we see ye fashon of lightnynge, in the stone pyropo wyldfyre, chelazia dothe expresse bothe the coldnes and the fourme of hayle, and thoghe thou cast in to the hote fyre, an emrode, wyll expresse the clere water of the seye. carcinas dothe counterfayte ye shape of a crabfishe. echites of the serpente vyper. but to what purpose shuld i entreat, or inuestygate the nature of suche thynges whiche be innumerable, whã there is no parte of nature nor in the elementes, nother in any lyuynge creature, other in planetes, or herbes ye nature euyn as it were all of pleasure hathe not expressyd in precyous stones? doo yow maruayle thã that in thys stone at owre ladies fote, || d.|| is the fourme and fashon of a tode. _me._ i maruayle that nature shuld haue so moche lesure, so to counterfayt the nature of althynges. _ogy._ it was but to exercyse, or occupye the curyosytye of mannes wytte, and so at the lest wyse to kepe vs frome ydlenes, and yet as thoghe we had nothynge to passe ye tyme with all, we be in a maner made apon foles, apon dyesse, and crafty iogeleres. _me._ you saye very truthe. _ogy._ there be many men of no smale grauytye, that wyll say thys kynd of stones, if that you put it in vynagre, it wyll swyme, thoge you wold thruste it downe with violence. _me._ wherfore do thay sette a tode byfore our lady? _ogy._ bycause she hathe ouercome, trode vnderfote, abolyshyd all maner of vnclennes, poysõ, pryde, couytousnes, and all wordly affectyones that raygne in man. _me._ woo be to vs, that hathe so many todes in owre hartes. || _ogygy._ we shal be purgyd frome thaym all, if we dylygêtly worshipe owre lady. _me._ how wold she be worshipyd. _ogy._ the most acceptable honor, that thou canste doo to her is to folowe her lyuynge. _me._ you haue told all at ones. but this is hard to brynge to pass. _ogy._ you saye truthe, but it is an excellente thynge. _me._ but go to, and tell on as you begane. _ogy._ after thys to come to owre purpose, the supprioure shewyed to me ymages of gold and syluer, and sayd, thes be pure gold, and thes be syluer and gyltyd, he told the pryce of euery one of thaym, and the patrone. whan i wonderyd, reioycynge of so maruelous ryches, as was abowt our lady, than saythe the sextê bycause i percayue, that you be so vertuously affecte, i suppose it greate wronge, to hyde any thynge frome you, but now you shall see the pryuytyes || d ij.|| of our lady, and than he pullyd owt of the aultre a whole world of maruayles, if i shuld tell you of all, a whole daye wold nat suffyse, & so thys pylgremage chansyd to me most happy. i was fyllyd euyn full withe goodly syghts, and i brynge also with me this wonderous relyque, whiche was a tokê gyuen to me frõe our lady. _me._ haue you nat it prouyd, what valewre your woden relyque is on? _ogy._ yis, that i haue, in a certayne inne within thys thre dayes, ther i fownde a certayne man that was bestraght of hys wytte, whiche shuld haue be bownde, but thys woden relyque was put vnder hys nekke pryuyly, wherapon he gad a sadde and sownd sleape, but in the mornynge he was hole and sownde as euer he was before. _me._ it was nat the phrenysy, but the dronkê dropsye, sleape ys wontyd to be a good medicyne for ye dysease. || _ogy._ whã you be dysposyd to skoffe menedemus, yt ys best that you gette a nother maner of gestynge stokke than thys, for i tell you it is nother good nor holsome, to bowrde so with sayntes. for thys same mã dyd say, that a woman dyd apere to hym, in hys sleape, after a maruelouse fashion, which shold gyue hym a cuppe to drynke apon. _mene._ i suppose it was *elleborû. [*elleborum wyll restore a man to hys senses that hathe lost thê.] _ogy._ that is vncertayne, but i kno well ye mã was well broght into hys mynde ayen. _me._ dyd you other come or goo by sante thomas of cantorbury that good archebishope. _ogy._ what els/there ys no pylgremage more holy. _me._ i wold fayne here of yt, and i shold nat trouble you. _ogy._ i pray you here, & take good hedd. kente ys callyd that parte of england, that buttythe apon fraûce and flanders, the cheffe cytye there of ys cantorburye, in yt there be ij. || d iij.|| abbayes, bothe of thaym be of saynte benedycts ordre, but that which ys callyd saynte augustyns dothe apere to be the oldre, that whiche ys callyd now saynte thomas dothe apere to haue be the archebyshope of cantorburys see, where as he was wontyd to lyue with a sorte of monkes electe for hymselffe, as byshopes now adayes be wontyd to haue thayr howses nye vnto the churche, but aparte frome other canons howses. in tymes paste bothe byshopes & chanones were wontyde to be monkes, as may be playnly prouyd by many argumentes. the churche which ys dedycate to saynte thomas, dothe streche vpe apon heght so gorgeously, that it wyll moue pylgrymes to deuocion a ferre of, and also withe hys bryghtnes and shynynge he dothe lyght hys neybures, & the old place whiche was wontyd to be most holy, || now in respecte of it, is but a darke hole and a lytle cotage. there be a couple of great hye toures, which doo seme to salute strangeres aferre of, and thay dow fyll all the contray abowt bothe farre and nere, with the sownde of great belles, in the fronte of the temple, whiche is apõ the southe syde, there stand grauen in a stone thre armyd men, whiche with thayr cruell handes dyd sleye the most holy saynte thomas, and there is wryten thayr surnames tracy, breton, and beryston. _me._ i pray you wharfore doo thay suffer thos wykyd knyghtes be so had in honoure. _ogy._ euyn suche honor is gyuen to thaym as was gyuê to iudas, pylate, and caiphas, & to the compauy of the wykyd sowdyeres, as you may se payntyd in the tables that be sett before aultres. thayr surnames be putto lest any man hereafter shuld vsurpe any || d iiij.|| cause of thayr prayse. thay be payntyd byfore mennes eyes, bycause that no cowrtyer after thys shuld laye violêt handes other apõ byshopes, or the churche goodes. for thes thre of this garde strayght apon that wykyd acte, wente starke madde, nor thay had neuer had thayr mynde ayen, but that thay prayd to blessyd saynt thomas. _me._ o blessyd pacyence of suche martyres. _ogy._ at our entre in, lord what a pryncely place dyd apere vnto vs, where as euery mã that wyll may goo in. _me._ is there no maruayle to be sene. _ogy._ nothynge but the greate wydnes of the place, and a sorte of bokes, that be bownde to pyleres wherein is the gospell of nicodemus, and i cannat tell whos sepulkre. _me._ what than? _ogy._ thay do so dylygêtle watche lest any mã shulde entre in to the quere of yron, that thay wyll skarsly suffre a man || to loke apon it, whiche is betwyxte the greate churche & the hye quere (as thay calle it) a man that wyll go thyther must clyme vp many stayres byfore, vndre the whiche there is a certayne wykyt with a barre that openythe the dore apon the northe syde. there standythe forthe a certayne aultre whiche is dedycate to our lady, it is but a lytle one, and i suppose set there for no other purpose, but to be a olde monumêt or sygne, that in thos dayes there was no greate superfluyte. there thay saye that thys blessyd martyr sayd his last good nyght to our lady, whã he shuld departe hensse. in ye aultre is the poynte of the sword that styryd abowt the braynes of thys blessyd martyr. and there lye his braynes shed apon the yerthe, whereby you may well knowe yt he was nere deade. but the holly ruste of thys grat i deuoutly kyssed for loue of ye || d v.|| blessyd martyr. from thens we wêt vndre the crowdes, whiche is nat withowt hys chaplaynes, & there we sawe the brayne panne of that holy martyr whiche was thraste quyte thorow, all the other was coueryd with syluer, the ouerparte of the brayne panne was bare to be kyssyd, and there with all is seth forthe a certayn leden table hauynge grauyd in hym a tytle of saynte thomas of acrese. there hange also the sherte of heyre, & hys gyrdle with hys heren breches where with that noble champyõ chastnyd hys body, thay be horryble to loke apon, and greatly reproue oure delycate gorgeousnes. _me._ ye perauêture so thay do the mõkes slotefulnes. _ogy._ as for that mater i cãnat affyrme nor yet denye, nor yet it is no poynte of my charge. _me._ ye saye truthe. _ogy._ frome thens we returnyd in to the quere, & apon || ye northe syde be ye relyques shewyd, a wonderouse thynge to se, what a sort of bones be broght forthe, skulles, iawes, thethe, handes, fyngres, hole armes, whã we had worshipyd thaym all, we kyssyd thaym, that i thoght we shuld neuer haue mayd an ende, but that my pylgremage felow whiche was an vnmete companyon for suche a busynes, prayd thaym to make an end of sethynge forthe thayre relyques. _me._ what felowe was that? _ogy._ he was an englyshma callyd gratiane colte a man bothe vertuouse and well learnyd, but he had lesse affectyon toward pylgremages than i wold that he shuld haue. _me._ one of wyclyffes scoleres i warrante you? _ogy._ i thynke nat, althoghe he had redde hys bokes, how he came by thaym i cannat tell. _me._ he dysplesyd mayster sextê greuosly. _ogy._ thã was there broght forthe || an arme whiche had yet the redde fleshe apon it, he abhorryd to kysse it, a man myght se by hys countenance that he was nothynge well pleasyd, & than by and by mayster sexten put vp hys relyques. but than we lokyd apõ the table whiche was apõ the aultre, and all hys gorgeousnes, aftrewarde thos thyngs that were hydde vnder the aultre. ther was nothynge but riches excedynge, a man wold accompte both midas and cresus beggers in respecte of thos riches that ther was sett abrode. _me._ was ther no more kyssynge thê? _ogy._ no, but an other affection and desyre came apõ me. _me._ what was that? _ogy._ i syghed that i had no suche relyques at home. _me._ oh a wycked desyre & an euyl thought _ogy._ i graunt, and therefore i axyd, forgyfnes of saynt thomas before i remouyd one fote, to departe out of the church. after || thes thus we were brought in to ye reuestry, o good lorde what a goodly syght was ther of vestmêtes of veluet & clothe of golde, what a some of candlestykes of gold? we sawe ther saynt thomas crosse staffe, ther was seê also a rede ouerlayed with syluer, it was but of a smalle wyght, vnwrought, nor no longer then wold retch vnto a mans mydgle. _me._ was ther no crosse? _ogy._ i sawe none at all, ther was shewed vs a robe of sylke treuly, but sowed with cowrse threde, garnysshyd with nother gold nor stone. ther was also a napkyn full of swette blody, wher with saynt thomas wypyd bothe hys nose and hys face, these thynges as monumêtes of auncyent sobernes we kyssed gladely. _me._ be not these thynges showed to euery body? _ogy._ no for sothe good syr. _me._ how happened it that you were in so good credens, that no || secret thynges were hyd frome you? _ogy._ i was well acquyntede with the reuerende father gwylyame warham the archbyshope. he wrote .ij. or .iij. wordes in my fauour. _me._ i here of many that he is a mã of syngler humanite. _ogy._ but rather thou woldest call hym humanite it selfe if thou dydest well know hym. for ther is in hym soche lernynge, so vertuouse lyffe, soche purenes of maneres, that a mã cowld wyshe no gyfte of a parfayte byshope in him, that he hathe nat. frome thens afterward we were ladde to greater thynges. for behynde the hyghe aultre, we ascêdyd as it were in to a nother new churche, ther was shewed vs in a chapell the face of the blessed man ouergylted and with many precyous stones goodly garnysshed. a soden chaunse here had almost marred the matter and put vs out of conceyte. _me._ i tary || to knowe what euyl chaunse yow wyll speke of. _ogy._ here my companyõ gratiã gote hym lytle fauoure, for he, after we had mad an ende of praynge, inquyred of hym that sate by the hede, herke, he seyd, good father, is it true that i here, that saynt thomas whyl he it lyued was mercyfull toward ye poer people? that is very true saythe he, and he begã to tell greatly of his liberalyte and compassyon that he shewede to the poer and nedy. then sayd gratiã: i thynke that affection and good mynd in him not to be chaungyde, but that it is now moche better. unto this graunted ye keper of the hede, agayn sayd he, then in as moche as thys holy man was so gratyouse vnto ye poer, whan he was yet poer, & he hym selfe had nede of monay for ye necessarys of hys body, thynke ye nat that he wold be contêt, now that he is so ryche, and also nedethe || nothynge, that if a poer womã hauynge at home chylderne lakynge mete and drynke, or els doughters beynge in danger to lose ther virginite, for defaute of ther substaunce to mary them with, or hauynge her husbande sore syke, and destitute of all helpe, in case she askyd lycens, & pryuyly stole away a small porcyon of so greate riches, to sukkre her howshold, as and if the shold haue it of one that wold other leane, or gyue it to herre? and whan he wold nat answere that kepyd the golden hedde, gracyane, as he is som what hasty, i, saythe he, doo suppose playnly, that this holy man wold be gladde, yf that she, now beynge deade, myght sustayne the necestiye of pore people. but there mayster parson begone to frowne, & byte hys lyppe, with hys holowe eyes lyke to *gorgone [*a mõster that hathe snakes for heares apon her hedde.] ye monstre to luke apõ vs. i doo not dowbte he wold haue || cast vs out of the temple, and spytte apõ vs, but that he dyd knowe that we were comendyd of the archebsyhope. but i dyd somwhat myttygate the manes ire, with my fayre wordes, saynge that gratiane dyd nat speake as he thoghte, but that he gestyd as he was wontyd to doo, and stoppyd hys mouthe with a fewe pens. _mene._ treuly i do greatly alow your goodly fashion, but oftentymes ernestly i cõsyder, by what meaynes they may be acõpted without faute & blame, that bestow so moche substance in buyldyng churchys, in garnysshynge, and enrychynge them without all mesure. i thynke as touchyng the holy vestmentes, & the syluer plate of the temple ther ought to be gyuyn, to the solempne seruys, hys dygnyte and comlynes, i wyll also that the buyldyng of the churche shall haue hys maiesty decent and || e.|| conuenyent. but to what purpose seruyth so many holy water pottes, so many cãdlestyckes, so many ymages of gold. what nede there so many payre of organes (as thay call them) so costely & chargeable? for one payre can not serue vs: what profyteth ye musicall criynge out in the temples that is so derely bought and payed for, whan in the meaneseson our brothers and systers the lyuely temples of christe liynge by the walles/dye for hungre & colde. _ogy._ ther is no vertuouse or wyse man, that wold nat desyre a meane to be hadde in thes thynges. but in as moche as thys euyl is growen and spronge vp of superstityon beyond mesure, yet may it better be sufferde, specially when we consyder on the other syde the euyll conscience and behauyor of them that robb the churches of what so euer iuellys ther may be so founde, thes || ryches were gyuen in a maner great men, & of pryncys, the whiche they wold haue bestowede vpon a worse vse, that is to say other at the dyce or in the warres. and if a man take any thynge from thense. fyrst of all it is taken sacrylege, then they hold ther handes that were accustomed to gyfe, besyde that morouer they be allured & mouyde to robbynge & vaynynge. therfore thes mene be rather the kepers of thys treasures thê lordes. and to speake a worde for all, me thynket it is a better syght to beholde a temple rychely adourned, as ther be some with bare wolles, fylthy and euyl fauorde, more mete for stables to put horses then churches for chrysten people. _me._ yet we rede that byshopes in tymes paste were praysede and cõmended bycause they solde the holy vesseles of theyr churches, and with that money helped and releued the || e ij.|| nedy and poure people. _ogy._ thay be praysede also now in our tyme, but thay be praysed onely, to folow ther doynge (i suppose) thay may not, nor be any thynge dysposede. _me._ i interrupte and lett yowr cõmunycatyon. i loke now for the cõclusyon of ye tale. _ogy._ gyffe audyence, i wyll make an ende shortly. in the meane seson comyth forthe he that is the cheffe of them all. _me._ who is he? the abbot of the place? _ogy._ he werythe a mytre, he may spend so moche as an abbot, he wãted nothynge but ye name, and he is called prior for this cause tharchebyshope is takê in the abbotes sted. for in old tyme who so euer was archbyshope of ye dyocese, the same was also a monke. _me._ in good faythe i wold be content to be namyde a camelle, if i myght spende yerely the rentes and reuennes of an abbot. _ogy._ me semede he was a || man bothe vertuous and wyse, and not vnlearnede duns diuinite. he opened the shryne to vs in whiche ye holle body of the holy mã, thay say, dothe rest and remayne. _me._ dydste thou see hys bones. _ogy._ that is not conuenient, nor we cowld not come to it, except we sett vp laders, but a shryne of wod couerede a shryne of gold, when that is drawne vp with cordes, thã apperith treasure and riches inestimable. _me._ what do i here? the vilest part and worst was golde, all thynges dyd shyne, florishe, and as it were with lyghtnynge appered with precyouse stones and those many and of great multitude: some were greater than a gowse egge. dyuerse of ye monks stode ther aboute with greate reuerence, the couer takyn a way, all we kneled downe and worshyped. the pryor with a whyte rodde showed vs euery stone, addynge therto the || e iij.|| frenche name, the value, & the autor of the gyfte, for the cheffe stonys were sent thyther by great prynces. _me._ he ought to be a man of an excedyng witt & memory. _ogy._ you gesse well, how beit exercyse & vse helpeth moche, for euyn the same he dothe oftentymes. he brought vs agayne in to the crowdes. our lady hathe ther an habitacyon, but somwhat darke, closed rownde aboute with double yren grats. _me._ what feared she? _ogy._ nothinge i trow, except theues. for i saw neuer any thing more laden with riches synse i was borne of my mother. _me._ you show vnto me blinde ryches. _ogy._ whê they brought vs candells we saw a sight passynge ye ryches of any kynge. _me._ dothe it excede our lady of walsyngã? _ogy._ to loke vpõ this, is richer, the secret tresure she knoweth her selfe, but this is not shewede, but to great || men, or to specyall frendes. at the last we were brought agayne in to the reuettry, there was taken out a cofer couered with blacke lether, it was sett downe apon the table, it was sett open, by and by euery body kneled downe and worshipyd. _me._ what was in it? _ogy._ certayne torne ragges of lynnen clothe, many hauynge yet remaynynge in them the token of the fylthe of the holy mannes nose. with these (as they say) saynt thomas dyd wype a way the swett of hys face or hys neke, ye fylthe of hys nose, or other lyke fylthynes with whiche mannes body dothe abownde. then my companyon gratian, yet ones agayn, got hym but smalle fauour. unto hym an englyshe man and of famylyare acquayntenance and besyde that, a man of no smalle authorite, the prior gaff gentylly one of the lynnê ragges, thynkynge to haue gyuen || e iiij.|| a gyfte very acceptable & pleasaunt, but gratian there with lyttle plea sede and content, not with out an euydent synge of dyspleasure, toke one of them betwene hys fyngers, and dysdaynyngly layd it down agayne, made a mocke and a mow at it, after the maner of puppettes, for thys was hys maner, if any thing lykede hym not, that he thought worthy to be despysede. wher at i was bothe ashamed and wonderously afrayed. not withstondynge the prior as he is a man not at all dull wytted, dyd dyssemble the matter, & after he had caused vs drinke a cuppe of wyne, gentylly he let vs departe. when we came agayne to london. _me._ what shuld ye do at londo: seynge ye were not farre from the see cost, to seale in to yowr cuntre? _ogy._ it is true. but that see cost i refused and gladely dyd fle from it, as from a place that is || noted and more euyl spoken of it, for robbyng, stelynge, and vntrue dealynge, then is of dangerouse ioperdy in the see, be that hyll malea wher many shyppes be drowned & vtterly destroyed for euer. i wyll tell the what i dyd se the last passage, at my commynge ouer. we were many caryed in a bote frome calys shore to go to the shyppe. amongest vs all was a pour yõge mã of fraûce, and barely appayrelled. of hym he demauuded halfe a grote. for so moche thay dow take and exacte of euery one for so smalle a way rowynge. he allegede pouerty, then for ther pastyme thay searched hym, plucked of his shoes, and betwene the shoo and the soule, thay fownde .x. or .xij. grotes, thay toke thê from hym laughyng at the mater: mockinge and scornyng the poer & myserable frenchman. _me._ what dyd ye fellow than? _ogy._ what thyng dyd || e v.|| he? he wept. _me._ whether dyd they thys by any authoryte? _ogy._ suerly by the same authoryte that thay steyle and pycke straungers males and bowgettes, by the whiche they take a way mennes pursys, if they se tyme and place conuenyent. _me._ i meruayll that they dare be so bold to doo soch a dede, so many lokynge vpon them. _ogy._ they be so accustomed, that they thynk it well done. many that were in the shyp lokede owt and sawe it also, in the bote were dyuerse englyshe marchauntes, whiche grudged agaynst it, but all in vayne. the botemê as it had ben a tryflyng mater reiosed and were glade that they had so taken and handelyd the myserable frenchman. _me._ i wold play and sporte with these see theues, & hange them vpon the gallowes. _ogy._ yet of such both the shores swarme full. here tell me, i pray the. what || wyll great mê do, whê theues take vpõ them to enterpryse soch masterys. therfore, herafter i had leuer go fourty myllys aboute, thê to go that way, thoffe it be moche shorter. morouer euyn as ye goynge downe to hell, is easy and leyght, but ye cõmynge frome thens of greate dyffyculty, so to take shyppynge of this syde the see, is not very easy, and the landynge very hard & dangeroufe. ther was at london dyuerse maryners of antwerpe, with them i purposed to take the see. _me._ hathe that cûtre so holy maryners? _ogy._ as an ape is euer an ape, i graûte, so is a maryner euer a maryner: yet if thou compare them vnto these, ye lyfe by robbynge, and pyllynge and pollynge, they be angelles. _me._ i will remembre thy saynge, if at any tyme i be dysposed to go and se englãde. but come agayne in to ye waye, frome whens i broght the || e vi.|| owt. _ogy._ then as we whent toward london not farre from canterbury, we came in to a great hollow and strayt way, morouer bowyng so downe, with hyllys of eyther syde, that a man can not escape, nor it cannot be auoyed, but he must nedes ryde that way. upõ the lefte hand of the way, ther is an almes howse for olde people, frome them runnyth on owt, as sone as they here a horseman commynge, he casteth holy water vpon hym, and anone he offereth hym the ouerlether of a shoo bownde abowte with an yerne whope, wherin is a glasse lyke a precyouse stone, they that kysse it gyf a pece of monay. _me._ in soche a way i had leuer haue an almes howse of olde folkes, then a company of stronge theues. _ogy._ gratian rode vpon my lefte hande nerer the almes howse, he caste holy water vpon hym, he toke it in worthe so so, || when the shoo was proferred hym, he asked what he ment by it, saythe he, it is saynt thomas shoo. there at he turned and was very angry, & turned toward me: what (saythe he) meane these bestes, that wold haue vs kysse ye shoes of euery good man? why doo they not lyke wyse gyue vs to kysse the spottel, & other fylthe & dyrt of the body? i was sory for the old mã, & gaue hym a pece of money to cõforthe hym with all. _me._ in myn opynyõ gratian was not all together angry with owt a good cause. if shoes and slyppers were kept for a tokê of sobre lyuynge, i wold not be moch dyscontent ther with, but me thynks it is a shame full fashyon for shoes, slyppers, and breches to be offered to kysse to any man. if some wold do it by there owne fre wyll, of a certene affectyõ of holynes, i thynke they were whorthy of pardon. _ogy._ it were || better not to thes thynges, if i may say as i thynke, yet owt of thes thynges that cannat forthwith be amended, it is my maner if ther be any goodnes thereyn, to take it out, and apply it to the best. in ye meanseson that contemplacyõ and light delited my mynde, that a good mã is lykened to a shepe, an euyll man to a benemouse best. the serpent after she is dede, cã stynge no more, not withstondyng with her euyll sauour and poyson she infecteth and corruptyth other. the shepe as lõge as she is a lyue norryseth with her mylke, clothet with her wolle, makyth riche with her lambes, when she is deade she gyueth vs good and profytable lether, and all her body is good meat. euen so, cruell men, gyuen all to the world, so longe as they lyue be vnprofitable to all mê, when they be deade, what with ryngyng of bellys, and pompyouse || funeralles they greue them that be on lyue, and often tymes vexe ther successours with new exactyones. good men of the other syde at all assais be profytable to all men, and hurtfull to noo man. as thys holy man, whyle he was yet alyue, by hys good example, hys doctryne, his goodly exhortatyons prouokyd vs to vertuouse lyuynge, he dyd cõfort the cõforthlesse, he helped ye poure, ye and now that he is deade, he is in a maner more profytable. he hathe buylded thys costly & gorgeouse churche, he hath caused greate authoryte thorough out all englande vnto the ordre and presthode. at ye last, thys pece of the show dothe susteyne a company of poure people. _me._ thys is of my faythe a godely cõtemplacyõ, but i maruayll greatly, seyng you ar thus mynded, that ye neuer dyd vysyte saynt patryckes purgatory in yerlande, of the || whiche the comyn people boost many wonderouse thynges, whiche seme to me not lyke to be true. _ogy._ of a suerty ther is not so meruelouse talkynge of it here, but the thynge it selffe doth fare excede. _me._ hast thou bene ther than, & gonne thorow saynt patryckes purgatory? _ogy._ i haue saylede ouer a ryuer ot hell, i went downe vnto the gates of hell, i saw what was dõe ther. _me._ thou dost me a greate pleasure, if thou wyll wotsaue to tell me. _ogy._ lett this be the prohemy or begynnynge of owr communycatyon, longe enough as i suppose. i wyll gett me home, & cause my souper to be made redy, for i am yet vndynede. _me._ why haue you not yet dyned? is it bycause of holynes? _ogy._ noo of a truthe, but it is bycause of enuy and euyll will. _me._ owe ye euyll wyll to yowr bely? _ogy._ no, but to the couetyse || tauerners euer catchynge and snatchynge the whiche when they wyll not sett afore a man that is mete & conuenyent, yet they are not afearde to take of straûgers that, whiche is bothe vnright and agaynst good consciens. of thys fashyõ i am acustomed to be auengede vpon thê. if i thynke to fare well at souper other with myne acquayntauns, or with some host som what an honest man, at dyner tyme i am sycke in my stomacke, but if i chaunce to fare after myne appetyte at dyner, before souper also i begynne to be well at ease in my stomacke. _me._ wre ye not ashamede to be taken for a couetouse fellow & a nygerde? _ogy._ menedeme they that make cost of shame in soche thynges, beleue me, bestow theyr money euyll. i haue lerned to kepe my shame for other purposys. _me._ now i longe for the rest of yowr comunycacyon, || wherfore loke to haue me yowr geste at souper, where ye shall tell it more conuenyently. _ogy._ for sothe i thanke you, that ye offere yowr selfe to be my gest vndesyred, when many hertely prayed refuse it, but i wyll gyue yow double thankes, if ye wyll soupe to day at home. for i must passe that tyme in doynge my dewty to my howsehold. but i haue counsell to eyther of vs moche more profytable. to morrow vnto me and my wyfe, prepare our dyner at yowr howse, then and if it be to souper tyme, we will not leyue of talkynge, vntyll you say that ye are wery, and if ye wyll at souper also we wyll not forsake you. why, claw you your hede? prepare for vs in good fayth we wyll come. _me._ i had leuer haue no tales at all. well go to, you shall haue a dyner, but vnsauery, except you spyce it with good & mery tales. _ogy._ but here || you, are ye not mouyd and styrrede in your mynde, to take vpon yow these pylgremages? _me._ perauenture it wyll sett me a fyre, after ye haue told me the resydew, as i am now mynded, i haue enough to do with my statyons of rome. _ogy._ of rome, that dyd neuer see rome?. _me._ i wyll tell you, thus i go my statyons at home, i go in to the parler, and i se vnto the chast lyuynge of my doughters, agayne frome thense i go in to my shope, i beholde what my seruauntes, bothe men and women be doynge. frome thense into the kytchyn, lokynge abowt, if ther nede any of my cownsell, frome thense hyther and thyther obseruynge howe my chylderne be occupyed, what my wyffe dothe, beynge carefull that euery thynge be in ordre, these be statyons of rome. _ogy._ but these thynges saynt iames wold dow || for yow. _mene._ that i shuld se vn to these thynges holy scriptu re commaundethe, that i shuld commyt the charge to sayntes i dyd rede yt neuer com maun ded. god saue the kynge finis. * * * * * [corrected errors: _v_ = verso (back of page) [+] iiij. the pryuate iudgmegt of certayne _was_ iudgmegt [+] v. cõsolacyõ of his gracys faythfull and true comens _was_ ofh is [+] v. _v_ prudently _was_ prudenly, but catchword has _prudently_ [+] vi. but also (to theyr greate laude and prayse) _was_ prayse( [+] vi. _v_ desiderius erasmus _was_ dsiderius erasmus b whan he lokythe to the west _was_ te west d iij. _v_ to the company of the wykyd sowdyeres _was_ compauy d v. frome thens we returnyd in to the quere _was_ returuyd e ij. _v_ me semede he was a man bothe vertuous and wyse word _a_ printed only as catchword e viij. i haue saylede ouer a ryuer to hell _was_ ot additional problems: [+] iiij. to use theme as goddes _u_ printed for _v_ whervpon thes brotherhoddes and systerhoodes _v_ printed for _u_ a good morow ogygyus. / good morow to you menedemus. change of speaker not marked c v. _ogy._ no veryly. what lettythe thaym? _ogy._ that is a name of dygnyte and nat of relygyõ. change of speaker not marked e ij. _v_ what do i here? the vilest part and worst was golde, change of speaker unclear petrarch's secret or the soul's conflict with passion three dialogues between himself and s. augustine translated from the latin by william h. draper with two illustrations london chatto & windus mdccccxi francis petrarch emiliae augustae per annus xxii collaboranti mecum, compatienti, collaetanti petrarcae hoc colloquium memorabile amoris dulcedine lacrimisque tinctum iam demum anglice redditum gratus dedico a. s. mdccccxi contents introduction author's preface dialogue the first dialogue the second dialogue the third introduction most modern writers on petrarch agree in stating that of all his works the dialogues which he calls _secretum meum_ are the one which throws most light upon the man himself. yet no english translation has hitherto been published. a french version by m. victor develay was issued a few years ago, and received the recognition of the french academy; and, considering the great importance of petrarch in the history of the renaissance, not merely in italy but in europe, it is time that a similar opportunity of knowing him more fully was offered to english readers; for there are signs on both sides of the atlantic that the number of those interested in him is steadily growing. the reason for this is undoubtedly the fact that, as the whole work of petrarch comes to be better known, interest in him as a man increases. mr. sidney lee has lately reminded us of his wide range and predominating influence in the matter of the sonnet in france and in elizabethan england, as well as in his own country; and yet that influence was very far indeed from revealing all that petrarch was. it was largely an influence of style, a triumph of the perfection of form, and his imitators did not trouble much about the precise nature of the sentiment and spirit informing the style. when this came to be weighed in the balances of a later day, the tendency of english feeling was to regard his sentiment as a trifle too serious and weak. the love-making of the cavaliers brought in a robuster tone. when once the question was raised, "why so pale and wan, fond lover?" there was really no good answer to it on petrarchan lines, and the consequence was that his name and fame suffered something of eclipse among us. but eclipses are transient events, and when literary england felt once more the attraction of italy in the end of the eighteenth century it was not only dante who began to resume his sway and to provoke translation, but petrarch also. then attention was turned chiefly to his italian poetry, but also in some degree to the general body of his latin works and to his letters, of which it is reported that fox was among the first to perceive the high value. in england the pioneers in this direction were mrs. susannah dobson, who published first a life of petrarch in two volumes in 1775, which had by 1805 reached a sixth edition, and, soon after, another volume called _petrarch's view of life_, purporting to be a translation, but in fact a very loose and attenuated abstract of the treatise _de remediis utriusque fortunæ,_ which nevertheless reached a new edition in 1797. then came a volume of essays on petrarch (murray 1823) by the italian exile ugo foscolo, and a little later a second life of the poet by no less a person than thomas campbell, also in two volumes. testifying to the re-awakened interest in petrarch, numerous translations also of his poetry were published by lady dacre, hugh boyd, leigh hunt, capel lofft, and many others, who took up after a long interval the tradition begun by chaucer and handed on by surrey, wyatt, sir philip sidney, spenser, drummond of hawthornden, and george chapman. then for a while there was a pause, and the main drift of such attention in england as could be spared for things italian in mid-victorian days was concentrated on the greater luminary of the _divine comedy_ and the exciting political events of the sixties; though some attention was drawn to things connected with petrarch by lytton's novel of _rienzi_, which was first published in 1835 and had a considerable vogue. meanwhile in italy itself his fame was well served by the excellent collection and reprint of his latin letters by fracasetti in three vols. (1859-63), and since that time there have appeared several important works dealing with the larger aspects of his life and work, most notable among them being koerting's _petrarka's leben und werke_ (leipsig 1878), and in france m. p. de nolhac's _pétrarque et l'humanisme_ (two vols., 1907, new edition), with other subsidiary works, and four small volumes by m. henri cochin, elucidating what is known of petrarch's brother gherardo and some of his many friends. amongst ourselves in late years, following the labours of j. a. symonds in his history of the renaissance, we have henry reeve's small but well-planned volume in the "foreign classics for english readers," and, more recently still, mr. hollway calthrop's _petrarch: his life, work and times_ (1907), and mrs. maud jerrold's _francesco petrarca: poet and humanist_ (1909). it is significant that both the last writers single out the _secretum_ for its psychological interest, the former stating that "to those who feel the charm of petrarch's nature and the intense humanity of his character, these three dialogues are the most fascinating of all his writings"; and the latter "that this conflict of the dual self is of quite peculiar interest." mrs. jerrold indeed goes so far as to say that petrarch "plunges into the most scathing self-examination that any man ever made. whether the book was intended for the public we may well doubt, both from the words of the preface and from the fact that it does not appear to have been published till after the author's death. but however this may be, it remains one of the world's great monuments of self-revelation and ranks with the _confessions of s. augustine_"--a verdict which to some critics will seem to have a touch of overstatement, though hardly beyond the opinion of petrarch's french students, and not altogether unpardonable in so enthusiastic an admirer of her subject, and a verdict which at least would not have been displeasing to petrarch himself. among the many points of human interest to be found in the dialogues not the least is the one connected with accidie, a theme which has of itself attracted special study in the present day, particularly since attention was called to it by the late bishop of oxford in his well-known introduction to the _spirit of discipline._ observers of mental life incline to the view that the form of depression denoted by the mediæval word was not confined to those times or met with only in monasteries, and it is curious that he who is sometimes called the "first of the moderns" should take us into his confidence as to his sufferings from this trouble, and exemplify the truth of the observation to which reference has been made. m. p. de nolhac, in his interesting work entitled _le frère de pétrarque,_ calls particular attention to this trait in petrarch's character, and in an appendix on the subject writes, "mais il faut surtout lire l'émouvante discussion que pétrarque, dans le second dialogue du _secretum_, suppose entre saint augustin et lui-meme, les aveux entrecoupés de sanglots qu'il laisse échapper. cette torture, dit-il, où il passe des jours et des nuits, a pourtant en elle je ne sais quelle atroce volupté tellement que parfois il en conte de s'y arracher" (p. 220). it is the remarking on this note of self-will, this _voluptas dolendi,_ that m. de nolhac considers is petrarch's special contribution to the subject and furnishes a new point beyond what is in previous definitions. the fundamental question raised by these dialogues is the question of what was the real nature and character of petrarch, and wherein lay the secret of his extraordinary charm and influence among his contemporaries, and especially among contemporary men? it is difficult to convey in few words how great an impression the study of his latin works makes in regard to this influence in his own lifetime. of course, a reader is soon aware of the trait of personal vanity in petrarch and of certain unconscious littlenesses, as in the matter of his appreciation of dante; but the strange thing is how little this interfered with the regard and admiration extended to him by many sorts and conditions of men. in the ordinary intercourse of life one is apt to think such a trait fatal to anything like respect, and it must always detract somewhat from the full stature of any mind, but in the case of petrarch it seems evident that he was one to whom much was forgiven, and that the reason is to be found in the presence in him of so rich an assemblage of other and better qualities that this one hardly counted at all, or was looked on with kindly amusement by friends large-hearted enough to think it nothing compared with what was good and admirable in his mind. we may take it for granted that, as he hints in his "letter to posterity," he started with the advantage of a good presence and a sufficient care of his own person and appearance in younger days; and it is evident that he had by nature a certain engaging frankness and impulsiveness, which nevertheless were not inconsistent with the contrasted qualities of gravity and dignity, learned at first from his father and mother and their friends, and cultivated by his study of the law and afterwards by his attendance on the papal court at avignon. one can discern this in his letters and see it reflected in those that were written to him or about him. but beyond these introductory qualities, as they may be called, there were other deeper traits, of rarer kind, that must be noted before one can understand the position he attained and has held so long. studying his work from the cool distance of six centuries, one is inclined to judge that the most fundamental quality of his nature was his love of literature, and that every other trait took a subordinate place to this. it is perhaps doubtful whether this or the life of personal affection, or even of devotion in a monastery, would have gained the upper hand if the circumstances of his life had been different in the matter of his love for laura; but taking into consideration that she was separated from him apparently by temperament and circumstance, the one course that remained open to him without let or hindrance was the life of literature in the sense of devotion to the great writers of the past and the practice of the art of writing for himself. he loved this for its own sake, and at the same time he was quickened by the sense of a new learning, which, since his time and largely by the impetus he gave it, has taken form and outline in a wonderful way, but was then only like the first streak of dawn upon the sky. petrarch was not the first man to find a certain contradiction between his desires and the possibilities of life around him, and to pass many years under the pain of contrary attractions that could not all be followed to fulfilment this conflict is what gives interest to the _secretum._ some have thought, and the idea was expressed by one of his correspondents, that his love for laura was very much of a literary pose. yet that such a view is an insufficient account of it seems pretty clearly established by the work here translated. it is, indeed, plain that his feelings ran a course, and not a smooth one, and did not continue in one stay; he came to see the whole matter in a changed light, and yet not wholly changed; his relation was transfigured, not abandoned, and after the death of laura, which took place when he was forty-four, it continued as a memory from which the pain had faded away and only what was uplifting remained. that which persisted unchanged all through his life and seems most to have had the colour and substance of a passion was the love of letters. to this his friendship, his very real patriotism, and (must we not add?) his religion also were in a sense second. but the mention of this last factor in the life of petrarch leads one to express the opinion that this has not yet been quite sufficiently reckoned with. that it should not have been thought worthy of such reckoning has probably arisen from the one ugly fact in his life which he himself does not conceal, and indeed expressly refers to in his "letter to posterity," in the following words:-"as for the looser indulgences of appetite, would indeed i could say i was a stranger to them altogether; but if i should so say, i should lie. this i can safely affirm that, although i was hurried away to them by the fervour of my age and temperament, their vileness i have always inwardly execrated. as soon as i approached my fortieth year i repelled these weaknesses entirely from _my_ thoughts and my remembrance, as if i had never known them. and this i count among my earliest happy recollections, thanking god, who has freed me, while yet my powers were unimpaired and strong, from this so vile and always hateful servitude."[1] now, although petrarch did not, as some other men have done, including his own brother, express his repentance by retiring to a monastery, yet there is evidence enough that the change of will here referred to, and professed in the _secretum_, was real, and that the older he grew the more he lifted up his heart. among other signs of this there is the curious little group of what he calls _penitential psalms,_ which were translated into english by george chapman, into whose translation of homer keats looked and was inspired in his will also there are not a few passages through which one hears a note of genuine penitence. among other curious points in it is the mention of the exact spot in which he would wish to be laid to rest in some one of seven different places where he might happen to die, the last being the city of parma, of which he says, "at si parmæ, in ecclesiâ majori, ubi per multos annos archidiaconus fui inutilis et semper fere absens." petrarch must have fully weighed in his own case the pros and cons for such retirement. his treatise _de otio religiosorum_ shows that he understood what good side that kind of life has, and his whole attitude towards his brother--generous, and attached, almost to the point of romance--reveals how he could admire it. but in his own case he felt that it would cramp his faculties too much to be endurable, and hinder more than it would help the kind of work to which he had put his hand. there was also another influence that told strongly on this father of humanism. he whose nature was so full of unsatisfied natural affection had begun in his latter years to find some rest and blessing in the love and tendance of a daughter, the light of whose care and companionship for him shines through his declining days like the rays of the sun in the evening after a dark and troubled day. but if we are right in judging that the love of letters was the dominant factor in the life of petrarch, it was but the main thread in a singularly complex nature. not much less in substance and strength was his genius for friendship. indeed, his study of the writers of past ages partook of the nature of friendship, just as his friendship with living men had a deep literary tinge. he loved books and he loved men, and he loved them in the same way. this is by no means a frequent combination in the degree in which it was shown in petrarch. more often the book-lover becomes a recluse, and the lover of his fellow-men loses his ardour for study. but not even the love of books and of men took up all the activities of this rich nature. he was also a keen traveller and among the first to write of natural scenery in the modern spirit. he had that in him which, in spite of his love for reading and writing, sent him forth into other lands and made him eager to see men and cities. yet the love of the country in him prevailed over the love of cities. his many references to his life at vaucluse, though to readers of to-day they may seem sometimes affected, yet show only a superficial affectation, a mere mode, which does not seriously lessen the impression of his simple taste and his genuine delight in his garden and his fishing, and his talk with the charming old farmer-man and that sun-burnt wife for whom he had such an unbounded respect. in the two recent lives of petrarch in english a reader may make closer acquaintance with this side of his character, and will find much that falls in with modern feeling as to simplicity of living and the joys of escaping from "the man-stifled town." but what is still a desideratum is a good english translation of his letters to his friends, which will add many glimpses of his daily interests and thoughts, and fill up the picture of his interior life as it is disclosed to us in the dialogues here presented. what the _secretum gives_ us is the picture of petrarch as he was in the crisis of his middle years. it was written in or about the year 1342 when he was thirty-eight, and in these dialogues we find him looking back over his youth and early life--the sap and vigour of his mind as strong as ever, the recollection of many sensations green and still powerful--but finding that the sheer march of time and experience of manhood are forcing him now to see things with more mature vision. five years later he will be seen suddenly kindled into surprising excitement in that strange rienzi episode, but in one of his letters to that unhappy politician there is a sentence which might have been penned by bishop butler, and has in it the accent of grave experience:[2] _"ibunt res quâ sempiterna lex statuit: mutare ista non possum, fugere possum"_ (things will go as the law eternal has decided: to alter their course is out of our power; what we can do is to get out of their way). the interest of the _secretum_ is heightened by remembering the time of life in which it was composed.[3] some will find most pleasure in reading what men have written _de senectute_, and others prefer the charm that belongs to youth; but is there not much to be said for the interest of what men write from that high tableland that lies between the two, in the full strength of their mind when they have lived long enough to know what is hidden from the eyes of youth and not long enough to be wearied and broken with the greatness of the way? such is the tone that seems to pervade the dialogues between s. augustine and petrarch. in the preface he looks forward to cherishing the little book himself in future years, like some flower that keeps alive remembrance of past days and yet is not cherished for memory only, but to guard the resolution which has been taken to go forward and not back, and, as his french translator suggests, "is it to be wondered at that these pages, written with such _abandon_, in which he has laid bare his whole soul, should have been his own favourite work? it was the book he kept at his bedside, his faithful counsellor and friend, and to which he turned ever and again with pleasure in the hours of remembering the time past." it is not necessary to tell over again the story of petrarch's lifelong devotion to the study of s. augustine's _confessions,_ or to dwell on the obvious reasons for that devotion. every man loves the book which tells the history of conflicts like his own, and which has helped to give him courage in his warfare and its sorrows and joys. "that loss is common would not make my own less bitter, rather more;" sings the poet, but if one reads the experience of those who have suffered and contended and conquered, and is sure that their load was as heavy as his own, then there is a spirit which is breathed over from one life to another, and which even though it tells us how great is the burden of sorrow in the world, yet also tells us that a man is not alone, but that there are companions in patience who a little strengthen each other and give the sense of fellowship from age to age, _donec aspiret dies et inclinentur umbrae._ many of the letters of petrarch's later years show how wistfully he waited for that day. but they also show how gallant a heart he kept, and how faithful to those friends that remained, including the one so lovable and generous and true, giovanni boccaccio, who survived him little more than a year. petrarch passed the end of his life in a modest house which he built in one of the loveliest parts of italy, that to english readers will be for ever dear because of the haunting music that shelley wove around its name. it was in the euganæan hills at arqua where petrarch chose to wait for the dawn, and, till it came, to go on working among the books he loved as his own soul. "many a green isle needs must be in the deep wide sea of misery," and to read the story of his last years there is to think of one of those green isles. these were days of calm, and the book of the secret ends with the expression of hope for a deeper calm still. in due time it came, but, as the english poet sang, after more than six centuries- the love from petrarch's urn yet amid yon hills doth burn, [1] translation by h. reeve. [2] _de rebus fam.,_ vii. 7. [3] the profile portrait, reproduced by kind permission of mr. t. fisher unwin, publisher of mr. e. j. mills' book on petrarch, is from lombardo's copy of the _de viris illustribus,_ finished about five years after the death of petrarch, and is believed to be an authentic picture of him in later life. a quenchless lamp. [illustration] [illustration: s. augustine greeting a friend _from a picture by benozzo gozzoli at san gimignano_] petrarch's secret author's preface often have i wondered with much curiosity as to our coming into this world and what will follow our departure. when i was ruminating lately on this matter, not in any dream as one in sickness and slumber, but wide awake and with all my wits about me, i was greatly astonished to behold a very beautiful lady, shining with an indescribable light about her. she seemed as one whose beauty is not known, as it might be, to mankind. i could not tell how she came there, but from her raiment and appearance i judged her a fair virgin, and her eyes, like the sun, seemed to send forth rays of such light that they made me lower my own before her, so that i was afraid to look up. when she saw this she said, fear not; and let not the strangeness of my presence affright you in any wise. i saw your steps had gone astray; and i had compassion on you and have come down from above to bring you timely succour. hitherto your eyes have been darkened and you have looked too much, yes, far too much, upon the things of earth. if these so much delight you, what shall be your rapture when you lift your gaze to things eternal! when i heard her thus speak, though my fear still clung about me with trembling voice i made reply in virgil's words- "what name to call thee by, o virgin fair, i know not, for thy looks are not of earth and more than mortal seems thy countenance."[1] i am that lady, she answered, whom you have depicted in your poem _africa_ with rare art and skill, and for whom, like another amphion of thebes, you have with poetic hands built a fair and glorious palace in the far west on atlas's lofty peak. be not afraid, then, to listen and to look upon the face of her who, as your finely-wrought allegory proves, has been well-known to you from of old. scarcely had she uttered these words when, as i pondered all these things in my mind, it occurred to me this could be none other than truth herself who thus spoke. i remembered how i had described her abode on the heights of atlas; yet was i ignorant from what region she had come, save only that i felt assured she could have come from none other place than heaven. therefore i turned my gaze towards her, eagerly desiring to look upon her face; but lo, the eye of man is unable to gaze on that ethereal form, wherefore again was i forced to turn them towards the ground. when she took note of this, after a short silence, she spoke once more; and, questioning me many times, she led me to engage with her in long discourse. from this converse i was sensible of gaining a twofold benefit for i won knowledge, and the very act of talking with her gave me confidence. i found myself by degrees becoming able to look upon the face which at first dismayed me by its splendour, and as soon as i was able to bear it without dread, and gaze fixedly on her wondrous beauty, i looked to see if she were accompanied with any other, or had come upon the retirement of my solitude alone; and as i did so i discerned at her side the figure of an aged man, of aspect venerable and full of majesty. there was no need to inquire his name. his religious bearing, modest brow, his eyes full of dignity, his measured step, his african look, but roman speech, plainly declared him to be that most illustrious father, augustine. moreover, he had so gracious a mien, and withal so noble, that one could not possibly imagine it to belong to any other than to him. even so i was on the point of opening my lips to ask, when at that moment i heard the name so dear to me uttered from the lips of truth herself. turning herself to him, as if to intervene upon his deep meditation, she addressed him in these words: "augustine, dear to me above a thousand others, you know how devoted to yourself this man is, and you are aware also with how dangerous and long a malady he is stricken, and that he is so much nearer to death as he knows not the gravity of his disease. it is needful, then, that one take thought for this man's life forthwith, and who so fit to undertake the pious work as yourself? he has ever been deeply attached to your name and person; and all good doctrine is wont more easily to enter the mind of the disciple when he already starts with loving the master from whom he is to learn. unless your present happiness has made you quite forget your former sorrow, you will remember that when you were shut in the prison of the mortal body you also were subject to like temptation as his. and if that were so, most excellent physician of those passions yourself experienced, even though your silent meditation be full of sweetness to your mind, i beg that your sacred voice, which to me is ever a delight, shall break its silence, and try whether you are able by some means to bring calm to one so deeply distressed." augustine answered her: "you are my guide, my counsellor, my sovereign, my ruler; what is it, then, you would have me say in your presence?" "i would," she replied, "that some human voice speak to the ears of this mortal man. he will better bear to hear truth so. but seeing that whatever you shall say to him he will take as said by me, i also will be present in person during your discourse." augustine answered her, "the love i bear to this sick man, as well as the authority of her who speaks, make it my duty to obey." then, looking kindly at me and pressing me to his heart in fatherly embrace, he led me away to the most retired corner he could find, and truth herself went on a few steps in front. there we all three sat down. then while truth listened as the silent judge, none other beside her being present, we held long converse on one side and the other; and because of the greatness of the theme, the discourse between us lasted over three days. though we talked of many things much against the manners of this age, and on faults and failings common to mankind, in such wise that the reproaches of the master seemed in a sense more directed against men in general than against myself, yet those which to me came closest home i have graven with more especial vividness on the tablet of my memory. that this discourse, so intimate and deep, might not be lost, i have sot it down in writing and made this book; not that i wish to class it with my other works, or desire from it any credit. my thoughts aim higher. what i desire is that i may be able by reading to renew as often as i wish the pleasure i felt from the discourse itself. so, little book, i bid you flee the haunts of men and be content to stay with me, true to the title i have given you of "my secret": and when i would think upon deep matters, all that you keep in remembrance that was spoken in secret you in secret will tell to me over again. to avoid the too frequent iteration of the words "said i," "said he," and to bring the personages of the dialogue, as it were, before one's very eyes, i have acted on cicero's method and merely placed the name of each interlocutor before each paragraph.[2] my dear master learned this mode himself from plato. but to cut short all further digression, this is how augustine opened the discourse. [1] _æneid,_ i. 327-28. [2] _de amicitiâ_, i. dialogue the first s. augustine--petrarch _s. augustine._ what have you to say, o man of little strength? of what are you dreaming? for what are you looking? remember you not you are mortal? _petrarch._ yes, i remember it right well, and a shudder comes upon me every time that remembrance rises in my breast. _s. augustine._ may you, indeed, remember as you say, and take heed for yourself. you will spare me much trouble by so doing. for there con be no doubt that to recollect one's misery and to practise frequent meditation on death is the surest aid in scorning the seductions of this world, and in ordering the soul amid its storms and tempests, if only such meditation be not superficial, but sink into the bones and marrow of the heart. yet am i greatly afraid lest that happen in your case which i have seen in so many others, and you be found deceiving your own self. _petrarch_. in what way do you mean? for i do not clearly understand the drift of your remarks. _s. augustine._ o race of mortal men, this it is that above all makes me astonished and fearful for you, when i behold you, of your own will clinging to your miseries; pretending that you do not know the peril hanging over your heads and if one bring it under your very eyes, you try to thrust it from your sight and put it afar off. _petrarch._ in what way are we so mad? _s. augustine._ do you suppose there is any living man so unreasonable that if he found himself stricken with a dangerous ailment he would not anxiously desire to regain the blessing of health? _petrarch._ i do not suppose such a case has ever been heard of. _s. augustine._ and do you think if one wished for a thing with all one's soul one would be so idle and careless as not to use all possible means to obtain what one desired? _petrarch._ no one, i think, would be so foolish. _s. augustine._ if we are agreed on these two points, so we ought also to agree on a third. _petrarch._ what is this third point? _s. augustine._ it is this: that just as he who by deep meditation has discovered he is miserable will ardently wish to be so no more; and as he who has formed this wish will seek to have it realised, so he who seeks will be able to reach what he wishes. it is clear that the third step depends on the second as the second on the first. and therefore the first should be, as it were, a root of salvation in man's heart. now you mortal men, and you yourself with all your power of mind, keep doing your best by all the pleasures of the world to pull up this saving root out of your hearts, which, as i said, fills me with horror and wonder. with justice, therefore, you are punished by the loss of this root of salvation and the consequent loss of all the rest. _petrarch_. i foresee this complaint you bring is likely to be lengthy, and take many words to develop it. would you mind, therefore, postponing it to another occasion? and that i may travel more surely to your conclusion, may we send a little more time over the premisses? _s. augustine_. i must concede something to, your slowness of mind; so please stop me at any point where you wish. _petrarch_. well, if i must speak for myself, i do not follow your chain of reasoning. _s. augustine_. what possible obscurity is there in it? what are you in doubt about now? _petrarch_. i believe there is a multitude of things for which we ardently long, which we seek for with all our energy, but which nevertheless, however diligent we are, we never have obtained and never shall. _s. augustine_. that may be true of other desires, but in regard to that we have now under discussion the case is wholly different. _petrarch._ what makes you say that? _s. augustine._ because every man who desires to be delivered from his misery, provided only he desires sincerely and with all his heart, cannot fail to obtain that which he desires. _petrarch_. o father, what is this i hear? there are few men indeed who do not feel they lack many things and who would not confess they were so far unhappy. every one who questions his own heart will acknowledge it is so. by natural consequence if the fulness of blessing makes man happy, all things he lacks will so far make him unhappy. this burden of unhappiness all men would fain lay down, as every one is aware; but every one is aware also that very few have been able. how many there are who have felt the crushing weight of grief, through bodily disease, or the loss of those they loved, or imprisonment, or exile, or hard poverty, or other misfortunes it would take too long to tell over; and yet they who suffer these things have only too often to lament that it is not permitted them, as you suggest, to be set free. to me, then, it seems quite beyond dispute that a multitude of men are unhappy by compulsion and in spite of themselves. _s. augustine_. i must take you a long way back, and as one does with the very young whose wits are slight and slow, i must ask you to follow out the thread of my discourse from its very simplest elements. i thought your mind was more advanced, and i had no idea you still needed lessons so childish. ah, if only you had kept in mind those true and saving maxims of the wise which you have so often read and re-read with me; if, i must take leave to say, you had but wrought for yourself instead of others; if you had but applied your study of so many volumes to the ruling of your own conduct, instead of to vanity and gaining the empty praise of men, you would not want to retail such low and absurd follies. _petrarch._ i know not where you want to take me, but already i am aware of the blush mounting to my brow, and i feel like schoolboys in presence of an angry master. before they know what they are accused of they think of many offences of which they are guilty, and at the very first word from the master's lips they are filled with confusion. in like case i too am conscious of my ignorance and of many other faults, and though i perceive not the drift of your admonition, yet as i know almost everything bad may be brought against me, i blush even before you have done speaking. so pray state more clearly what is this biting accusation that you have made. _s. augustine_. i shall have many things to lay to your charge presently. just now what makes me so indignant is to hear you suppose that any one can become or can be unhappy against his will. _petrarch_. i might as well spare my blushes. for what more obvious truth than this can possibly be imagined? what man exists so ignorant or so far removed from all contact with the world as not to know that penury, grief, disgrace, illness, death, and other evils too that are reckoned among the greatest, often befall us in spite of ourselves, and never with our own consent? from which it follows that it is easy enough to know and to detest one's own misery, but not to remove it; so that if the two first steps depend on ourselves, the third is nevertheless in fortune's hand. _s. augustine._ when i saw you ashamed i was ready to give you pardon, but brazen impudence angers me more than error itself. how is it you have forgotten all those wise precepts of philosophy, which declare that no man can be made unhappy by those things you rattle off by name? now if it is virtue only that makes the happiness of man, which is demonstrated by cicero and a whole multitude of weighty reasons, it follows of necessity that nothing is opposed to true happiness except what is also opposed to virtue. this truth you can yourself call to mind even without a word from me, at least unless your wits are very dull. _petrarch._ i remember it quite well. you would have me bear in mind the precepts of the stoics, which contradict the opinions of the crowd and are nearer truth than common custom is. _s. augustine._ you would indeed be of all men the most miserable were you to try to arrive at the truth through the absurdities of the crowd, or to suppose that under the leadership of blind guides you would reach the light. you must avoid the common beaten track and set your aspirations higher; take the way marked by the steps of very few who have gone before, if you would be counted worthy to hear the poet's word- "on, brave lad, on! your courage leading you, so only heaven is scaled."[1] _petrarch._ heaven grant i may hear it ere i die! but i pray you to proceed. for i assure you i have by no means become shameless. i do not doubt the stoics' rules are wiser far than the blunders of the crowd. i await therefore your further counsel. _s. augustine_. since we are agreed on this, that no one can become or be unhappy except through his own fault, what need of more words is there? _petrarch._ just this need, that i think i have seen very many people, and i am one of them, to whom nothing is more distressful than the inability to break the yoke of their faults, though all their life long they make the greatest efforts so to do. wherefore, even allowing that the maxim of the stoics holds good, one may yet admit that many people are very unhappy in spite of themselves, yes, and although they lament it and wish they were not, with their whole heart. _s. augustine_. we have wandered somewhat from our course, but we are slowly working back to our starting-point. or have you quite forgotten whence we set out? _petrarch._ i had begun to lose sight of it, but it is coming back to me now. _s. augustine._ what i had set out to do with you was to make clear that the first step in avoiding the distresses of this mortal life and raising the soul to higher things is to practise meditation on death and on man's misery; and that the second is to have a vehement desire and purpose to rise. when these two things were present, i promised a comparatively easy ascent to the goal of our desire. unless haply to you it seems otherwise? _petrarch_. i should certainly never venture to affirm this, for from my youth upwards i have had the increasing conviction that if in any matter i was inclined to think differently from yourself i was certain to be wrong. _s. augustine._ we will please waive all compliments. and as i observe you are inclined to admit the truth of my words more out of deference than conviction, pray feel at liberty to say whatever your real judgment suggests. _petrarch._ i am still afraid to be found differing, but nevertheless i will make use of the liberty you grant. not to speak of other men, i call to witness her who has ever been the ruling spirit of my life; you yourself also i call to witness how many times i have pondered over my own misery and over the subject of death; with what floods of tears i have sought to wash away my stains, so that i can scarce speak of it without weeping; yet hitherto, as you see, all is in vain. this alone leads me to doubt the truth of that proposition you seek to establish, that no man has ever fallen into misery but of his own free will, or remained, miserable except of his own accord; the exact opposite of which i have proved in my own sad experience. _s. augustine_. that complaint is an old one and seems likely to prove unending. though i have already several times stated the truth in vain, i shall not cease to maintain it yet. no man can become or can be unhappy unless he so chooses; but as i said at the beginning, there is in men a certain perverse and dangerous inclination to deceive themselves, which is the most deadly thing in life. for if it is true that we rightly fear being taken in by those with whom we live, because our natural habit of trusting them tends to make us unsuspicious, and the pleasantly familiar sound of their voice is apt to put us off our guard,--how much rather ought you to fear the deceptions you practise on yourself, where love, influence, familiarity play so large a part, a case wherein every one esteems himself more than he deserves, loves himself more than he ought, and where deceiver and deceived are one and the same person? _petrarch._ you have said this kind of thing pretty often to-day already. but i do not recollect ever practising such deception on myself; and i hope other people have not deceived me either. _s. augustine._ now at this very moment you are notably deceiving yourself when you boast never to have done such a thing at all; and i have a good enough hope of your own wit and talent to make me think that if you pay close attention you will see for yourself that no man can fall into misery of his own will. for on this point our whole discussion rests. i pray you to think well before answering, and give your closest attention, and be jealous for truth more than for disputation, but then tell me what man in the world was ever forced to sin? for the seers and wise men require that sin must be a voluntary action, and so rigid is their definition that if this voluntariness is absent then the sin also is not there. but without sin no man is made unhappy, as you agreed to admit a few minutes ago. _petrarch._ i perceive that by degrees i am getting away from my proposition and am being compelled to acknowledge that the beginning of my misery did arise from my own will. i feel it is true in myself, and i conjecture the same to be true of others. now i beg you on your part to acknowledge a certain truth also. _s. augustine._ what is it you wish me to acknowledge? _petrarch_. that as it is true no man ever fell involuntarily, so this also is true that countless numbers of those who thus are voluntarily fallen, nevertheless do not voluntarily remain so. i affirm this confidently of my own self. and i believe that i have received this for my punishment, as i would not stand when i might, so now i cannot rise when i would. _s. augustine._ that is indeed a wise and true view to take. still as you now confess you were wrong in your first proposition, so i think you should own you are wrong in your second. _petrarch._ then you would say there is no distinction between falling and remaining fallen? _s. augustine._ no, they are indeed different things; that is to say, different in time, but in the nature of the action and in the mind of the person concerned they are one and the same. _petrarch._ i see in what knots you entangle me. but the wrestler who wins his victory by a trick is not necessarily the stronger man, though he may be the more practised. _s. augustine._ it is truth herself in whose presence we are discoursing. to her, plain simplicity is ever dear, and cunning is hateful. that you may see this beyond all doubt i will go forward from this point with all the plainness you can desire. _petrarch._ you could give me no more welcome news. tell me, then, as it is a question concerning myself, by what line of reasoning you mean to prove i am unhappy. i do not deny that i am; but i deny that it is with my own consent i remain so. for, on the contrary, i feel this to be most hateful and the very opposite of what i wish. but yet i can do nothing except wish. _s. augustine._ if only the conditions laid down are observed, i will prove to you that you are misusing words. _petrarch._ what conditions do you mean, and how would you have me use words differently? _s. augustine._ our conditions were to lay aside all juggling with terms and to seek truth in all plain simplicity, and the words i would have you use are these: instead of saying you _can_not, you ought to say you _will_ not. _petrarch._ there will be no end then to our discussion, for that is what i never shall confess. i tell you i know, and you yourself are witness, how often i have wished to and yet could not rise. what floods of tears have i shed, and all to no purpose? _s. augustine._ o yes, i have witnessed many tears, but very little will. _petrarch._ heaven is witness (for indeed i think no man on this earth knows) what i have suffered, and how i have longed earnestly to rise, if only i might. _s. augustine_. hush, hush. heaven and earth will crash in ruin, the stars themselves will fall to hell, and all harmonious nature be divided against itself, sooner than truth, who is our judge, can be deceived. _petrarch._ and what do you mean by that? _s. augustine_. i mean that your tears have often stung your conscience but not changed your will. _petrarch._ i wonder how many times i must tell you that it is just this impossibility of change which i bewail. _s. augustine._ and i wonder how many times i must reply that it is want of will, not want of power, which is the trouble. and yet i wonder not that now you find yourself involved in these perplexities; in which in time past i too was tossed about, when i was beginning to contemplate entering upon a new way of life.[2] i tore my hair; i beat my brow; my fingers i twisted nervously; i bent double and held my knees; i filled the air of heaven with most bitter sighs; i poured out tears like water on every side: yet nevertheless i remained what i was and no other, until a deep meditation at last showed me the root of all my misery and made it plain before my eyes. and then my will after that became fully changed, and my weakness also was changed in that same moment to power, and by a marvellous and most blessed alteration i was transformed instantly and made another man, another augustine altogether. the full history of that transformation is known, if i mistake not, to you already in my _confessions._ _petrarch._ yes, in truth i know it well, and never can i forget the story of that health-bringing fig-tree, beneath whose shade the miracle took place.[3] _s. augustine._ well indeed may you remember it. and no tree to you should be more dear: no, not the myrtle, nor the ivy, nor the laurel beloved of apollo and ever afterwards favoured by all the band of poets, favoured too by you, above all, who alone in your age have been counted worthy to be crowned with its leaves; yet dearer than these should be to you the memory of that fig-tree, for it greets you like some mariner coming into haven after many storms; it holds out to you the path of righteousness, and a sure hope which fadeth not away, that presently the divine forgiveness shall be yours. _petrarch_. i would not say one word in contradiction. go on, i beseech you, with what you have begun. _s. augustine._ this is what i undertook and will go on with, to prove to you that so far you are like those many others of whom it may be said in the words of virgil- "unchanged their mind while vainly flow their tears."[4] though i might multiply examples, yet i will rather content myself with this alone, that we might almost reckon as belonging to ourselves, and so all the more likely to come home. _petrarch_. how wisely you have made choice; for indeed it were useless to add more, and no other could be so deeply graven in my heart. great as the gulf which parts us may be--i mean between you in your safe haven and me in peril of shipwreck, you in felicity, me in distress--still amid my winds and tempests i can recognise from time to time the traces of, your own storm-tossed passions. so that as often as i read the book of your _confessions_, and am made partaker of your conflict between two contrary emotions, between hope and fear, (and weep as i read), i seem to be hearing the story of my own self, the story not of another's wandering, but of my own. therefore, since now i have put away every inclination to mere dispute, go on, i beg, as you desire. for all my heart wishes now is not to hinder but only to follow where you lead. _s. augustine_. i make no such demand on you as that. for though a certain very wise man[5] has laid it down that "through overmuch contention truth is lost," yet often it happens that a well-ordered discussion leads to truth. it is not then expedient to accept everything advanced, which is the token of a slack and sleepy mind, any more than it is expedient to set oneself to oppose a plain and open truth, which indicates only the mind of one who likes fighting for fighting's sake. _petrarch_. i understand and agree with you and will act on your advice. now, pray go on. _s. augustine_. you admit, therefore, that the argument is just and the chain of reasoning valid, when we say that a perfect knowledge of one's misery will beget a perfect desire to be rid of it, if only the power to be rid may follow the desire. _petrarch_. i have professed that i will believe you in everything. _s. augustine._ i feel there is still something you would like to urge, even now. do, please, confess it, no matter what it may be. _petrarch._ nothing, only that i am much amazed i to think i should never yet have wished what i have believed i always wished. _s. augustine._ you still stick at that point. o well, to put an end to this kind of talk i will agree that you have wished sometimes. _petrarch._ what then? _s. augustine._ do you not remember the phrase of ovid- "to wish for what you want is not enough; with ardent longing you must strive for it."[6] _petrarch._ i understand, but thought that was just what i had been doing. _s. augustine._ you were mistaken. _petrarch._ well, i will believe so. _s. augustine._ to make your belief certain, examine your own conscience. conscience is the best judge of virtue. it is a guide, true and unerring, that weighs every thought and deed. it will tell you that you have never longed for spiritual health as you ought, but that, considering what great dangers beset you, your wishes were but feeble and ineffective. _petrarch._ i have been examining my conscience, as you suggested. _s. augustine._ what do you find? _petrarch._ that what you say is true. _s. augustine._ we have made a little progress, if you are beginning to be awake. it will soon be better with you now you acknowledge it was not well hitherto. _petrarch._ if it is enough to acknowledge, i hope to be able to be not only well but quite well, for never have i understood more clearly that my wishes for liberty and for an end to my misery have been too lukewarm. but can it be enough to desire only? _s. augustine._ why do you ask? _petrarch._ i mean, to desire without doing anything. _s. augustine._ what you propose is an impossibility. no one desires ardently and goes to sleep. _petrarch._ of what use is desire, then? _s. augustine._ doubtless the path leads through many difficulties, but the desire of virtue is itself a great part of virtue. _petrarch._ there you give me ground for good hope. _s. augustine._ all my discourse is just to teach you how to hope and to fear. _petrarch._ why to fear? _s. augustine._ then tell me why to hope? _petrarch._ because whereas so far i have striven, and with much tribulation, merely not to become worse, you now open a way to me whereby i may become better and better, even to perfection. _s. augustine._ but maybe you do not think how toilsome that way is. _petrarch._ have you some now terror in store for me? _s. augustine._ to desire is but one word, but how many things go to make it up! _petrarch._ your words make me tremble. _s. augustine._ not to mention the positive elements in desire, it involves the destruction of many other objects. _petrarch._ i do not quite take in your meaning. _s. augustine._ the desire of all good cannot exist without thrusting out every lower wish. you know how many different objects one longs for in life. all these you must first learn to count as nothing before you can rise to the desire for the chief good; which a man loves less when along with it he loves something else that does not minister to it. _petrarch_. i recognise the thought. _s. augustine_. how many men are there who have extinguished all their passions, or, not to speak of extinguishing, tell me how many are there who have subdued their spirit to the control of reason, and will dare to say, "i have no more in common with my body; all that once seemed so pleasing to me is become poor in my sight. i aspire now to joys of nobler nature"? _petrarch_. such men are rare indeed. and now i understand what those difficulties are with which you threatened me. _s. augustine_. when all these passions are extinguished, then, and not till then, will desire be full and free. for when the soul is uplifted on one side to heaven by its own nobility, and on the other dragged down to earth by the weight of the flesh and the seductions of the world, so that it both desires to rise and also to sink at one and the same time, then, drawn contrary ways, you find you arrive nowhither. _petrarch._ what, then, would you say a man must do for his soul to break the fetters of the world, and mount up perfect and entire to the realms above? _s. augustine._ what leads to this goal is, as i said in the first instance, the practice of meditation on death and the perpetual recollection of our mortal nature. _petrarch._ unless i am deceived, there is no man alive who is more often revolving this thought in his heart than i. _s. augustine._ ah, here is another delusion, a fresh obstacle in your way! _petrarch._ what! do you mean to say i am once more lying? _augustine._ i would sooner hear you use more civil language. _petrarch._ but to say the same thing? _s. augustine._ yes, to say nothing else. _petrarch._ so then you mean i care nothing at all about death? _s. augustine._ to tell the truth you think very seldom of it, and in so feeble a way that your thought never touches the root of your trouble. _petrarch._ i supposed just the opposite. _s. augustine._ i am not concerned with what you suppose, but with what you ought to suppose. _petrarch._ well, i may tell you that in spite of that i will suppose it no more, if you prove to me that my supposition was a false one. _s. augustine._ that i will do easily enough, provided you are willing to admit the truth in good faith. for this end i will call in a witness who is not far away. _petrarch_. and who may that be, pray? _s. augustine._ your conscience. _petrarch_. she testifies just the contrary. _s. augustine._ when you make an obscure, confused demand no witness can give precise or clear answers. _petrarch._ what has that to do with the subject, i would like to know? _s. augustine._ much, every way. to see dearly, listen well. no man is so senseless (unless he be altogether out of his mind) as never once to remember his own weak nature, or who, if asked the question whether he were mortal and dwelt in a frail body, would not answer that he was. the pains of the body, the onsets of fever, attest the fact; and whom has the favour of heaven made exempt? moreover, your friends are carried out to their burial before your eyes; and this fills the soul with dread. when one goes to the graveside of some friend of one's own age one is forced to tremble at another's fall and to begin feeling uneasy for oneself; just as when you see your neighbour's roof on fire, you cannot fool quite happy for your own, because, as horace puts it- "on your own head you see the stroke will fall."[7] the impression will be more strong in case you see some sudden death carry off one younger, more vigorous, finer looking than yourself. in such an event a man will say, "this one seemed to live secure, and yet he is snatched off. his youth, his beauty, his strength have brought him no help. what god or what magician has promised me any surer warrant of security? verily, i too am mortal." when the like fate befalls kings and rulers of the earth, people of great might and such as are regarded with awe, those who see it are struck with more dread, are more shaken with alarm; they are amazed when they behold a sudden terror, or perchance hours of intense agony seize on one who was wont to strike terror into others. from what other cause proceed the doings of people who seem beside themselves upon the death of men in highest place, such as, to take an instance from history, the many things of this kind that, as you have related, were done at the funeral of julius cæsar? a public spectacle like this strikes the attention and touches the heart of mortal men; and what then they see in the case of another is brought home as pertaining also to themselves. beside all these, are there not the rage of savage boasts, and of men, and the furious madness of war? are there not the falls of those great buildings which, as some one neatly says, are first the safeguards, then the sepulchres of men? are there not malignant motions of the air beneath some evil star and pestilential sky? and so many perils on sea and land that, look wheresoever you will, you cannot turn your gaze anywhither but you will meet the visible image and memento of your own mortality. _petrarch_. i beg your pardon, but i cannot wait any longer, for, as for having my reason fortified, i do not think any more powerful aid can be brought than the many arguments you have adduced. as i listened i wondered what end you were aiming at, and when your discourse would finish. _s. augustine._ as a matter of fact, you have interrupted me, and it has not yet reached its end. however, here is the conclusion--although a host of little pin-pricks play upon the surface of your mind, nothing yet has penetrated the centre. the miserable heart is hardened by long habit, and becomes like some indurated stone; impervious to warnings, however salutary, you will find few people considering with any seriousness the fact that they will die. _petrarch_. then few people are aware of the very definition of man, which nevertheless is so hackneyed in the schools, that it ought not merely to weary the ears of those who hear it, but is now long since scrawled upon the walls and pillars of every room. this prattling of the dialecticians will never come to an end; it throws up summaries and definitions like bubbles, matter indeed for endless controversies, but for the most part they know nothing of the real truth of the things they talk about. so, if you ask one of this set of men for a definition of a man or of anything else, they have their answer quite pat, as the saying goes; if you press him further, he will lie low, or if by sheer practice in arguing he has acquired a certain boldness and power of speech, the very tone of the man will tell you he possesses no real knowledge of the thing he sets out to define. the best way of dealing with this brood, with their studied air of carelessness and empty curiosity, is to launch at their head some such invective as this, "you wretched creatures, why this everlasting labour for nothing; this expense of wit on silly subtleties? why in total oblivion of the real basis of things will you grow old simply conversant with words, and with whitening hair and wrinkled brow, spend all your time in babyish babble? heaven grant that your foolishness hurt no one but yourselves, and do as little harm as possible to the excellent minds and capacities of the young." _s. augustine._ i agree that nothing half severe enough can be said of this monstrous perversion of learning. but let me remind you that your zeal of denunciation has so carried you away that you have omitted to finish your definition of man. _petrarch_. i thought i had explained sufficiently, but i will be more explicit still. man is an animal, or rather the chief of all animals. the veriest rustic knows that much. every schoolboy could tell you also, if you asked him, that man is, moreover, a rational animal and that he is mortal. this definition, then, is a matter of common knowledge. _s. augustine._ no, it is not. those who are acquainted with it are very few in number. _petrarch._ how so? _s. augustine._ when you can find a man so governed by reason that all his conduct is regulated by her, all his appetites subject to her alone, a man who has so mastered every motion of his spirit by reason's curb that he knows it is she alone who distinguishes him from the savagery of the brute, and that it is only by submission to her guidance that he deserves the name of man at all; when you have found one so convinced of his own mortality as to have that always before his eyes, always to be ruling himself by it, and holding perishable things in such light esteem that he ever sighs after that life, which reason always foresaw, wherein mortality shall be cast away; when you have found such a man, then you may say that he has some true and fruitful idea of what the definition of man is. this definition, of which we were speaking, i said it was given to few men to know, and to reflect upon as the nature of the truth requires. _petrarch._ hitherto i had believed i was of that number. _s. augustine_. i have no doubt that when you turn over in your mind the many things you have learned, whether in the school of experience or in your reading of books, the thought of death has several times entered your head. but still it has not sunk down into your heart as deeply as it ought, nor is it lodged there as firmly as it should be. _petrarch_. what do you call sinking down into my heart? though i think i understand, i would like you to explain more clearly. _s. augustine._ this is what i mean. every one knows, and the greatest philosophers are of the same opinion, that of all tremendous realities death is the most tremendous. so true is this, that from ever of old its very name is terrible and dreadful to hear. yet though so it is, it will not do that we hear that name but lightly, or allow the remembrance of it to slip quickly from our mind. no, we must take time to realise it. we must meditate with attention thereon. we must picture to ourselves the effect of death on each several part of our bodily frame, the cold extremities, the breast in the sweat of fever, the side throbbing with pain, the vital spirits running slower and slower as death draws near, the eyes sunken and weeping, every look filled with tears, the forehead pale and drawn, the cheeks hanging and hollow, the teeth staring and discoloured, the nostrils shrunk and sharpened, the lips foaming, the tongue foul and motionless, the palate parched and dry, the languid head and panting breast, the hoarse murmur and sorrowful sigh, the evil smell of the whole body, the horror of seeing the face utterly unlike itself--all these things will come to mind and, so to speak, be ready to one's hand, if one recalls what one has seen in any close observation of some deathbed where it has fallen to our lot to attend. for things seen cling closer to our remembrance than things heard. and, moreover, it is not without a profound instinct of wisdom that in certain religious orders, of the stricter kind, the custom has survived, even down to our own time (though i do not think it makes for good character altogether), of allowing the members to watch the bodies of the dead being washed and put in shrouds for their burial; while the stern professors of the rule stand by, in order that this sad and pitiful spectacle, thrust forsooth beneath their very eyes, may admonish their remembrance continually, and affright the minds of those who survive from every hope of this transitory world. this, then, is what i meant by sinking down deeply into the soul. perchance you never name the name of death, that so you may fall in with the custom of the time, although nothing is more certain than the fact or more uncertain than the hour. yet in daily converse you must often speak of things connected with it, only they soon fly out of mind and leave no trace. _petrarch._ i follow your counsel the more readily because now i recognise much in your words that i have myself revolved in my own breast. but please, if you think it well, will you impress some mark on my memory which will act as a warning to me and prevent me from this time henceforth from telling lies to myself and fondling my own mistakes. for this, it seems to me, is what turns men from the right way, that they dream they have already reached the goal, and make therefore no effort any more. _s. augustine._ i like to hear you speak so. your words are those of a man alert and watchful, who will not bear to be idle and trust to chance. so here is a test which will never play you false: every time you meditate on death without the least sign of motion, know that you have meditated in vain, as about any ordinary topic. but if in the act of meditation you find yourself suddenly grow stiff, if you tremble, turn pale, and feel as if already you endured its pains; if at the same time you seem to yourself as if you were leaving your body behind, and were forced to render up your account before the bar of eternal judgment, of all the words and deeds of your past life, nothing omitted or passed over; that nothing any more is to be hoped for from good looks or worldly position, nothing from eloquence, or riches, or power: if you realise that this judge takes no bribe and that all things are naked and open in his sight; that death itself will not turn aside for any plea; that it is not the end of sufferings, but only a passage: if you picture to yourself a thousand forms of punishment and pain, the noise and wailing of hell, the sulphurous rivers, the thick darkness, and avenging furies,--in a word, the fierce malignity everywhere of that dark abode; and, what is the climax of its horror, that the misery knows no end, and despair thereof itself is everlasting, since the time of god's mercy is passed by; if, i say, all these things rise up before your eyes at once, not as fictions but as truth, not as being possible, but inevitable, and of a surety bound to come, yes, and even now at the door; and if you think on these things, not lightly, nor with desperation, but full of hope in god, and that his strong right hand is able and ready to pluck you out of so great calamities; if you but show yourself willing to be healed and wishful to be raised up; if you cleave to your purpose and persist in your endeavour, then you may be assured you have not meditated in vain. _petrarch_. i will not deny you have terrified me greatly by putting so huge a mass of suffering before my eyes. but may god give me such plenteous mercy as that i may steep my thought in meditations like these; not only day by day, but more especially at night, when the mind, with all its daily interests laid aside, relaxes and is wont to return upon itself. when i lay my body down, as those who die, and my shrinking mind imagines the hour itself with all its horrors is at hand: so intently do i conceive it all, as though i were in the very agony of dying, that i shall seem to be already in the place of torment, beholding what you speak of and every kind of anguish. and so stricken shall i be at that sight, so terrified and affrighted, that i shall rise up (i know it) before my horrified household and cry aloud, "what am i doing? what suffering is this? for what miserable destruction is fate keeping me alive? jesu, by thy mercy, "thou whom none yet hath conquered, succour me,"[8] "give thy right hand to me in misery through the dark waves, o bear me up with thee, that dying i may rest and be in peace."[9] many other things shall i say to myself, as one in a fever whose mind every chance impression carries hither and thither in his fear; and then i go talking strangely to my friends, weeping and making them weep, and then presently after this we shall return to what we were before. and since these things are so, what is it, i ask, which holds me back? what little hidden obstacle is there which makes it come to pass that hitherto all these meditations avail nothing but to bring me troubles and terrors: and i continue the same man that i have ever been; the same, it may be, as men to whom no reflections like these have ever come? yet am i more miserable than they, for they, whatever may be their latter end, enjoy at least the pleasures of the present time; but as for me, i know not either what my end will be, and i taste no pleasure that is not poisoned with these embittering thoughts. _s. augustine._ vex not yourself, i pray you, when you ought rather to rejoice. the more the sinner feels pleasure in his sin, the more unhappy should we think him and the more in need of pity. _petrarch._ i suppose you mean that a man whose pleasures are uninterrupted comes to forget himself, and is never led back into virtue's path; but that he who amid his carnal delights is sometime visited with adversity will come to the recollection of his true condition just in proportion as he finds fickle and wayward pleasure desert him. if both kind of life had one and the same end, i do not see why he should not be counted the happier who enjoys the present time and puts off affliction to another day, rather than the man who neither enjoys the present nor looks for any joy hereafter; unless you are perhaps moved by this consideration that in the end the laughter of the former will be changed to more bitter tears? _s. augustine._ yes, much more bitter. for i have often noticed that if a man throws away the rein of reason altogether (and in the most excessive pleasure of all this is commonly the case), his fall is more dangerous than that of the man who may come rushing down from the same height, but keeps still some hold, though feebly, on the reins. but before all else i attach importance to what you said before, that in the case of the one there is some hope of his conversion, but in that of the other nothing remains but despair. _petrarch._ yes, that is my view also; in the meanwhile, however, have you not forgotten my first question? _s. augustine._ what was it? _petrarch_. concerning what keeps me back. i asked you why i am the only one to whom the profound meditation on death, that you said was so full of benefit, brings no good whatever. _s. augustine._ in the first place it is perhaps because you look on death as something remote, whereas when one thinks how very short life is and how many divers kinds of accidents befall it, you ought not to think death is far away. "what deludes almost all of us," as cicero says, "is that we regard death from afar off." some correctors--i would prefer to call them corruptors--of the text have wished to change the reading by inserting a negative before the verb, and have maintained that he ought to have said, "we do not regard death from afar off." for the rest, there is no one in his senses who does not see death one way or another, and in reality cicero's word _prospicere_ means to see from afar. the one thing that makes so many people suffer illusion in their ideas on death is that they are wont to forecast for their own life some limit, which is indeed possible according to nature, but at which, nevertheless, very few arrive. hardly any one, in fact, dies of whom the poet's line might not be quoted- "grey hairs and length of years he for himself expected."[10] the fault may touch you nearly, for your age, your vigorous constitution and temperate way of life perchance have fostered a like hope in your heart. _petrarch._ please do not suspect that of me. god keep me from such madness- "as in that monster false to put my trust!"[11] if i may borrow the words virgil puts in the mouth of his famous pilot palinurus. for i too am cast upon a wide ocean, cruel and full of storms. i sail across its angry waves and struggle with the wind; and the little boat i steer shivers and seems to be letting in the water in every part. i know well she cannot hold out for long, and i see i have no hope at all of safety unless the almighty pity put forth his strong right hand and guide my vessel rightly ere it be too late, and bring me to shore- "so that i who have lived upon the waters may die in port."[12] of this i think i should have a good hope, because it has never been my lot to put any confidence in those riches and power on which i see so many of my contemporaries, yes, and older men as well, relying. for what folly would it be to pass all one's life in toil and poverty and care, heaping up riches, just to die at last and have no time to enjoy them? so, then, in truth, i regard this dark shadow of death, not as something afar off, but very nigh and ever at the doors. and i have not forgotten a certain little verse i wrote in my youth at the end of a letter to a friend- "e'en while we speak, along a thousand ways with stealthy steps up to our very door death creeps." if i could say words like these at that time of life, what shall i say now that i am more advanced in age and more experienced in what life is? for everything i see or hear or feel or think seems, unless i deceive myself, connected in my mind with that last end. and yet the question still remains, what is it that holds me back? _s. augustine._ give humble thanks to god who so regards you and guides you with his merciful rein, and so pricks you with his spur. it is not surely possible, that he who thus has the thought of death before him day by day should ever be doomed to death eternal. but since you feel, and rightly so, that something still is wanting, i will try and unfold to you what it is, and, if god so please, remove it also; to the end that you may arise and with free, uplifted mind shake off that old bondage that so long has kept you down. _petrarch_. o would that indeed you may prove able so to help me, and i on my part be capable of receiving such a boon! _s. augustine._ it shall be yours if you wish. the thing is not impossible. but in the nature of man's actions two things are required, and if either be wanting, the action will come to nought. there must be will, and that will must be so strong and earnest that it can deserve the name of purpose. _petrarch._ so let it be. _s. augustine_. do you know what stands in the way of your purpose of heart? _petrarch._ that is what i want to know; what for so long i have earnestly desired to understand. _s. augustine_. then listen. it was from heaven your soul came forth: never will i assert a lower origin than that. but in its contact with the flesh, wherein it is imprisoned, it has lost much of its first splendour. have no doubt of this in your mind. and not only is it so, but by reason of the length of time it has in a manner fallen asleep; and, if one may so express it, forgotten its own beginning and its heavenly creator. and these passions that are born in the soul through its connection with the body, and that forgetfulness of its nobler nature, seem to me to have been touched by virgil with pen almost inspired when he writes- "the souls of men still shine with heavenly fire, that tells from whence they come, save that the flesh and limbs of earth breed dullness, hence spring fears, desire, and grief and pleasures of the world, and so, in darkness prisoned, they no more look upward to heaven's face."[13] do you not in the poet's words discern that monster with four heads so deadly to the nature of man? _petrarch_. i discern very clearly the fourfold passion of our nature, which, first of all, we divide in two as it has respect to past and future, and then subdivide again in respect of good and evil. and so, by these four winds distraught, the rest and quietness of man's soul is perished and gone. _s. augustine._ you discern rightly, and the words of the apostle are fulfilled in us, which say, "the corruptible body presseth down the soul, and the earthly tabernacle weigheth down the mind that museth upon many things."[14] of a truth the countless forms and images of things visible, that one by one are brought into the soul by the senses of the body, gather there in the inner centre in a mass, and the soul, not being akin to these or capable of learning them, they weigh it down and overwhelm it with their contrariety. hence that plague of too many impressions tears apart and wounds the thinking faculty of the soul, and with its fatal, distracting complexity bars the way of clear meditation, whereby it would mount up to the threshold of the one chief good. _petrarch_. you have spoken admirably of that plague in many places, and especially in your book on _true religion_ (with which it is, indeed, quite incompatible). it was but the other day that i lighted on that work of yours in one of my digressions from the study of philosophy and poetry, and it was with very great eagerness that i began to peruse it. indeed, i was like a man setting out from his own country to see the world, and coming to the gate of some famous city quite new to him, where, charmed by the novelty of all around, he stops now here, now there, and looks intently on all that meets his gaze. _s. augustine._ and yet in that book, allowing for a difference of phraseology such as becomes a teacher of catholic truth, you will find a large part of its doctrine is drawn from philosophers, more especially from those of the platonist and socratic school. and, to keep nothing from you, i may say that what especially moved me to undertake that work was a word of your favourite cicero. god blessed that work of mine so that from a few seeds there came an abundant harvest. but let us come back to the matter in hand. _petrarch._ as you wish; but, o best of fathers, do not hide from me what that word was which gave you the starting-point of so excellent a work. _s. augustine._ it was the passage where in a certain book cicero says, by way of expressing his detestation of the errors of his time: "they could look at nothing with their mind, but judged everything by the sight of their eyes; yet a man of any greatness of understanding is known by his detaching his thought from objects of sense, and his meditations from the ordinary track in which others move."[15] this, then, i took as my foundation, and built upon it the work which you say has given you pleasure. _petrarch._ i remember the place; it is in the _tusculan orations._ i have been delighted to notice what a habit it is of yours to quote those words here and elsewhere in your works; and they deserve it, for they are words that seem to blend in one phrase truth and dignity and grace. now, since it seems good to you, pray return to our subject. _s. augustine._ this, then, is that plague that has hurt you, this is what will quickly drive you to destruction, unless you take care. overwhelmed with too many divers impressions made on it, and everlastingly fighting with its own cares, your weak spirit is crushed so that it has not strength to judge what it should first attack or to discern what to cherish, what to destroy, what to repel; all its strength and what time the niggard hand of fate allows are not sufficient for so many demands. so it suffers that same evil which befalls those who sow too many seeds in one small space of ground. as they spring up they choke each other. so in your overcrowded mind what there is sown can make no root and bear no fruit. with no considered plan, you are tossed now here now there in strange fluctuation, and can never put your whole strength to anything. hence it happens that whenever the generous mind approaches (if it is allowed) the contemplation of death, or some other meditation that might help it in the path of life, and penetrates by its own acumen to the depths of its own nature, it is unable to stand there, and, driven by hosts of various cares, it starts back. and then the work, that promised so well and seemed so good, flags and grows unsteady; and there comes to pass that inward discord of which we have said so much, and that worrying torment of a mind angry with itself; when it loathes its own defilements, yet cleanses them not away; sees the crooked paths, yet does not forsake them; dreads the impending danger, yet stirs not a step to avoid it. _petrarch._ ah, woe is me! now you have probed my wound to the quick. there is the seat of my pain, from there i fear my death will come. _s. augustine._ it is well. you are awakening to life. but as we have now prolonged our discussion enough for to-day, let us, if you will, defer the rest until to-morrow, and let us take a breathing space in silence. _petrarch._ yes, i am tired somewhat, and most gladly shall i welcome quiet and rest. [1] _æneid,_ ix. 641. [2] _s. augustine confessions_, viii. 8. [3] _s. augustine confessions,_ viii. 12. [4] _æneid_, iv. 449. [5] publius cyrus. [6] ovid, _pontic._, iii i. 35. [7] horace, _epist.,_ i. 18, 83. [8] _æneid,_ vi 365. [9] _ibid.,_ vi 370. [10] _æneid,_ x. 649. [11] _ibid.,_ v. 849. [12] seneca, _letters,_ xix. [13] _æneid,_ vi. 730-34. [14] book of wisdom, ix. 15 [15] _tusculan orations,_ i. 16. dialogue the second s. augustine--petrarch _s. augustine_. well, have we rested long enough? _petrarch._ certainly, if it so please you. _s. augustine._ let me hear if you feel now in good heart and confidence. for when a man has been ill, a hopeful spirit in him is no small sign of returning health. _petrarch._ what hope i have is no whit in myself: god is my hope. _s. augustine._ it is wisely spoken. and now i return to our theme. many things are against you, many temptations assail, but you yourself still seem ignorant both of their numbers and their strength. and what in warfare generally happens to one who, from a distance, sees some closely marshalled battalion, has happened to you. such a man is often deceived into thinking his foes fewer in number than they are. but when they draw nearer, when they have deployed their serried ranks before his eyes in all their martial pomp, then his fears soon increase, and he repents him of his boldness. so likewise will it be with you when i shall display before your eyes, on this side and on that, all the evils that are pressing upon you and hemming you in from every quarter. you will be ashamed of your own boldness, you will be sorry you were so light-hearted, and begin to bewail that in its sore straits your soul has been unable to break through the wedged phalanx of your foes. you will discover presently how many foolish fancies of too easy victory you have let come into your mind, excluding that wholesome dread to which i am endeavouring to bring you. _petrarch_. indeed, you make me horribly afraid. that my danger was great i have always been aware; and now, in spite of this, you tell me i have very much under-estimated it, and indeed that, compared with what they should be, my fears have been nothing at all. what hope have i then left? _s. augustine_. it is never time to despair. be sure of that. despair is the very last and worst of evils, and therefore i would have you make it a first principle to put it away wholly. _petrarch_. i knew the truth of the maxim, but in my dread forgot it at the moment. _s. augustine_. now give me all your attention, look and listen while i recall words of your favourite seer. "behold what foemen gather round your walls and at your gates make sharp their gleaming sword to murder you and yours."[1] look what snares the world spreads for you; what vanities it dangles before your eyes; what vain cares it has to weigh you down. to begin at the beginning, consider what made those most noble spirits among all creatures fall into the abyss of ruin; and take heed lest in like manner you also fall after them. all your forethought, all your care will be needed to save you from this danger. think how many temptations urge your mind to perilous and soaring flights. they make you dream of nobleness and forget your frailty; they choke your faculties with fumes of self-esteem, until you think of nothing else; they lead you to wax so proud and confident in your own strength that at length you hate your creator. so you live for self-pleasing and imagine that great things are what you deserve. whereas if you had a truer remembrance, great blessings ought to make you not proud but humble, when you realise that they came to you for no merit of your own. what need for me to speak of the eternal lord god when even to earthly lords men feel their minds more humbly bound if they experience any bounty of theirs which they are conscious of being undeserved. do we not see them striving to merit afterwards what they feel they should have earned before? now let your mind realise, as it easily can, on what paltry grounds your pride is set up. you trust in your intellect; you boast of what eloquence much reading has given you; you take pleasure in the beauty of your mortal body. yet do you not feel that in many things your intellect fails you? are there not many things in which you cannot rival the skill of the humblest of mankind? nay, might i not go further and, without mentioning mankind, may i not say that with all your labour and study you will find yourself no match in skill for some of the meanest and smallest of god's creatures? will you boast, then, of intellect after that? and as for reading, what has it profited you? of the multitude of things you have perused how many have remained in your mind? how many have struck root and borne fruit in due season? search well your heart and you will find that the whole of what you know is but like a little shrunken stream dried by the summer heat compared to the mighty ocean. and of what relevance is it to know a multitude of things? suppose you shall have learned all the circuits of the heavens and the earth, the spaces of the sea, the courses of the stars, the virtues of herbs and stones, the secrets of nature, and then be ignorant of yourself? of what profit is it? if by the help of scripture you shall have discovered the right and upward path, what use is it if wrath and passion make you swerve aside into the crooked, downward way? supposing you shall have learned by heart the deeds of illustrious men of all the ages, of what profit will it be if you yourself day by day care not what you do? what need for me to speak of eloquence? will not you yourself readily confess how often the putting any confidence in this has proved vain? and, moreover, what boots it that others shall approve what you have said if in the court of your own conscience it stands condemned? for though the applause of those who hear you may seem to yield a certain fruit which is not to be despised, yet of what worth is it after all if in his heart the speaker himself is not able to applaud? how petty is the pleasure that comes from the plaudits of the multitude! and how can a man soothe and flatter others unless he first soothe and flatter himself? therefore you will easily understand how often you are deluded by that glory you hope for from your eloquence, and how your pride therein rests but upon a foundation of wind. for what can be more childish, nay, might i not say more insane, than to waste time and trouble over matters where all the things themselves are worthless and the words about them vain? what worse folly than to go on blind to one's real defects, and be infatuated with words and the pleasure of hearing one's own voice, like those little birds they tell of who are so ravished with the sweetness of their own song that they sing themselves to death? and furthermore, in the common affairs of every-day life does it not often happen to you to find yourself put to the blush to discover that in the use of words you are no match even for some whom you think are very inferior men? consider also how in nature there are many things for which names are altogether wanting, and many more to which names have indeed been given, but to express the beauty of them--as you know by experience--words are altogether inadequate. how often have i heard you lament, how often seen you dumb and dissatisfied, because neither your tongue nor your pen could sufficiently utter ideas, which nevertheless to your reflecting mind were very clear and intelligible? what, then, is this eloquence, so limited and so weak, which is neither able to compass and bring within its scope all the things that it would, nor yet to hold fast even those things that it has compassed? the greeks reproach you, and you in turn the greeks, with having a paucity of words. seneca, it is true, accounts their vocabulary the richer, but cicero at the beginning of his treatise _on the distinctions of good and evil_ makes the following declaration, "i cannot enough marvel whence should arise that insolent scorn of our national literature. though this is not the place to discuss it, yet i will express my conviction, which i have often maintained, not only that the latin tongue is not poor, as it is the fashion to assert, but that it is, in fact, richer than the greek;"[2] and as he frequently repeats elsewhere the same opinion, so, especially in the _tusculan orations_, he exclaims, "thou greek that countest thyself rich in words, how poor art thou in phrases."[3] this is the saying, mark you, of one who know quite well that he was the prince of latin oratory, and had already shown that he was not afraid to challenge greece for the palm of literary glory. let me add that seneca, so notable an admirer of the greek tongue, says in his _declamations_, "all that roman eloquence can bring forward to rival or excel the pride of greece is connected with the name of cicero."[4] a magnificent tribute, but unquestionably true! there is, then, as you see, on the subject of the primacy in eloquence a very great controversy, not only between you and the greeks, but among our own most learned writers themselves. there are in our camp those who hold for the greeks, and it may be among them there are some who hold for us, if at least we may judge from what is reported of the illustrious philosopher plutarch. in a word, seneca, who is ours, while doing all justice to cicero, gives his final verdict for the greeks, notwithstanding that cicero is of the contrary opinion. as to my own opinion on the question in debate, i consider that both parties to the controversy have some truth on their side when they accuse both latin and greek of poverty of words: and if this judgment be correct in regard to two such famous languages, what hope is there for any other? bethink you therefore what sort of confidence you can have in your own simple powers when the whole resources of that people of which you are but a little part are adjudged poor, and how ashamed you should be to have spent so much time in pursuing something which cannot be attained, and which, if it could be, would prove after all but vanity itself. i will pass on to other points. are you perhaps inclined to plume yourself on your physical advantages? but think what a thread they hang upon! what is it you are most pleased with in this way? is it your good health and strength? but truly nothing is more frail. it is proved by the fatigue you suffer from even little things. the various maladies to which the body is liable; the stings of insects; a slight draught of air, and a thousand other such small vexations all tell the same tale. will you perchance be taken in by your own good-looking face, and when you behold in the glass your smooth complexion and comely features are you minded to be smitten, entranced, charmed? the story of narcissus has no warning for you, and, content with gazing only at the outward envelope of the body, you consider not that the eyes of the mind tell you how vile and plain it is within. moreover, if you had no other warning, the stormy course of life itself, which every day robs you of something, ought to show you how transient and perishing that flower of beauty is. and if, perhaps, which you will hardly dare affirm, you fancy yourself invincible by age, by illness, and whatever else may change the grace of bodily form, you have at least not forgotten that last enemy which destroys all, and you will do well to engrave in your inmost heart and mind this word of the satirist- "'tis death alone compels us all to see what little things we are."[5] here, unless i am mistaken, are the causes that inflate your mind with pride, forbid you to recognise your low estate, and keep you from the recollection of death. but others there still are that i now propose to pass in review. _petrarch._ stop a little, i beg you, lest, overwhelmed by the weight of so many reproaches, i have no strength or spirit to reply. _s. augustine._ by all means say on. gladly will i hold my peace. _petrarch._ you have astonished me not a little by casting in my teeth a multitude of things of which i am perfectly sure they have never entered my head at all. you allege that i trusted in my own intelligence. but surely the one sign i have given of possessing some little intelligence is that never have i counted on that faculty at all. shall i pride myself on much reading of books, which with a little wisdom has brought me a thousand anxieties? how can you say i have sought the glory of eloquence, i, who, as you yourself acknowledged a moment ago, am wont above all things to complain that speech is inadequate to my thoughts? unless you wish to try and prove the contrary, i may say that you know i am always conscious of my own littleness, and that if by chance i have ever thought myself to be anything, such a thought has come but rarely and then only from seeing the ignorance of other men; for, as i often remark, we are reduced to acknowledge, according to cicero's celebrated phrase, that "what powers we may possess come rather from the feebleness of others than from any merit in ourselves." but even were i endowed as richly as you imagine with those advantages of which you speak, what is there so magnificent about them that i should be vain? i am surely not so forgetful of myself nor so feather-brained as to let myself trouble about cares of that sort. for what use in the world are intellect, knowledge, eloquence, if they can bring no healing to a soul diseased? i remember having given expression already in one of my letters to my sad sense of this truth. as to what you remarked with an air of quasi gravity about my physical advantages, i must confess it makes me smile. that i of all men should be thought to have plumed myself on my mortal and perishing body, when every day of my life i feel in it the ravages of time at work! heaven save me from such folly! i will not deny that in the days of my youth i took some care to trim my head and to adorn my face; but the taste for that kind of thing has gone with my early years, and i recognise now the truth of that saying of the emperor domitian who, writing of himself in a letter to a lady friend, and complaining of the too swift decay of the goodliness of man, said, "know you that nothing is so sweet, but nothing also is so fleeting, as the beauty of the body."[6] _s. augustine._ it would be an easy task to refute all you have advanced, but i prefer that your own conscience should send the shaft of shame to your heart rather than words of mine. i will not labour the point or draw the truth from you by torture; but as those who take revenge magnanimously, i will merely prefer a simple request that you will continue to avoid what you profess you have hitherto avoided. if by any chance the fashion of your countenance should at any time have stirred the least motion of conceit, then i beg you to reflect what soon those bodily members must become, though now they please your eye: think how their destiny is to be foul and hideous, and what repulsion they would cause even in yourself were you able to see them then. then call often to mind this maxim of the philosopher: "i was born for some higher destiny than to be the slave of my body."[7] assuredly it is the very climax of folly to see men neglect their real selves in order to cosset the body and limbs in which they dwell. if a man is imprisoned for a little while in some dungeon, dark, damp, and dirty, would he not seem to have lost his senses if he did not shield himself as far as he was able from any contact with the walls and soil? and with the expectation of freedom would he not eagerly listen for the footsteps of his deliverer? but if giving up that expectation, covered with filth and plunged in darkness, he dreads to leave his prison; if he turns all his attention to painting and adorning the walls which shut him in, in a vain endeavour to counteract the nature of his dripping prison-house, will he not rightly be counted a wretched fool? well, you yourself know and love your prison-house, wretched that you are! and on the very eve of your issuing or being dragged therefrom you chain yourself more firmly in it, labouring to adorn what you ought to despise, if you would follow the advice you yourself had tendered to the father of the great scipio in your poem called _africa._ "the bonds and fetters known and suffered long, the clogs on liberty are hateful to us, and the new freedom now attained we love."[8] wonderful is it if you made others give the counsel which you yourself refuse! but i cannot disguise from you one word in your discourse which to you may seem very humble, but to me seems full of pride and arrogance. _petrarch._ i am sorry if i have in any way expressed myself arrogantly, but if the spirit is the true rule of one's deeds and words, then my own bears me witness that i intended nothing in that sense. _s. augustine._ to depreciate others is a kind of pride more intolerable than to exalt oneself above one's due measure; i would much rather see you exalt others and then put yourself above them than degrade all the world in a heap at your feet, and by a refinement of pride fashion for yourself a shield of humanity out of scorn for your neighbour. _petrarch._ take it how you will, i profess but small esteem either for others or myself. i am ashamed to tell you what experience has made me think of the majority of mankind. _s. augustine_. it is very prudent to despise oneself; but it is very dangerous and very useless to despise others. however, let us proceed. are you aware of what still makes you turn from the right way? _petrarch._ pray say anything you like, only do not accuse me of envy. _s. augustine_. please god may pride have done you as little hurt as envy! so far as i judge, you have escaped this sin, but i have others whereof to accuse you. _petrarch_. still you will not vex me whatever reproaches you may bring. tell me freely everything that leads me astray. _s. augustine._ the desire of things temporal. _petrarch._ come, come! i truly have never heard anything so absurd. _s. augustine._ there! you see everything vexes you. you have forgotten your promise. this is not, however, any question of envy. _petrarch._ no, but of cupidity, and i do not believe there is a man in the world more free of this fault than myself. _s. augustine._ you are great at self-justification, but, believe me, you are not so clear of this fault as you think you are. _petrarch._ what? do you mean to say that i, i am not free from the reproach of cupidity? _s. augustine._ i do, and that you are likewise guilty of ambition. _petrarch._ go on, ill-treat me more still, double your reproaches, make full proof of your work of an accuser. i wonder what fresh blow you have in store for me. _s. augustine._ what is mere truth and right testimony you call accusation and ill-treatment. the satirist was quite right who wrote- "to speak the truth to men is to accuse."[9] and the saying of the comic poet is equally true- "'tis flattery makes friends and candour foes."[10] but tell me, pray, what is the use of this irritation and anger that makes you so on edge? was it necessary in a life so short to weave such long hopes? "have no long hopes! life's shortness cries to man."[11] you read that often enough but take no count of it. you will reply, i suppose, that you do this from a tender solicitude for your friends, and so find a fair pretext for your error; but what madness it is, under pretext of friendship to others, to declare war on yourself and treat yourself as an enemy. _petrarch._ i am neither covetous nor inhuman enough to be without solicitude for my friends, especially for those whose virtue or deserts attach me to them, for it is those whom i admire, revere, love, and compassionate; but, on the other hand, i do not pretend to be generous enough to court my own ruin for the sake of my friends. what i desire is so to manage my affairs as to have a decent subsistence while i live; and as you have delivered a shot at me from horace, let me also from the same poet put up a shield in self-defence and profess my desire is the same as his,-"let me have books and stores for one year hence, nor make my life one flutter of suspense!"[12] and further how i shape my course so that i may in the same poet's words-"pass my old age and not my honour lose, and, if i may, still serve the lyric muse."[13] let me own also that i dread very much the rocks ahead if life should be prolonged, and so would provide beforehand for this double wish of mine to blend with my work for the muses some simpler occupation in household affairs. but this i do with such indifference that it is plain enough i only descend to such necessities because i am so obliged. _augustine._ i see clearly how these pretexts texts which serve as an excuse for your folly have penetrated deeply into your very spirit. how is it, then, you have not engraved equally deeply in your heart the words of the satirist- "why keep such hoarded gold to vex the mind? why should such madness still delude mankind? to scrape through life on water and dry bread that you may have a fortune when you're dead?"[14] undoubtedly it is more because you think that it is a fine thing to die in a winding-sheet of purple, and rest in a marble tomb, and leave to your heirs the business of disputing over a great succession, than that you yourself care for the money which wins such advantages. it is a futile trouble, believe me, and quite devoid of good sense. if you will steadily observe human nature, you will discover that in a general way it is content with very little, and, in your case particularly, there is hardly a man who needs less for his satisfaction, unless you had been blinded by prejudices. doubtless the poet was thinking of the average run of men, or possibly his own actual self, when he said- "my sorry fare is dogwood fruit; i pluck wild herbs and roots that in the fields do grow, and a few berries."[15] but, unlike him, you will acknowledge yourself that such a mode of life is far from sorry, and that in fact nothing would be pleasanter if you were to consult only your own taste and not the customs of a deluded world. why, then, continue to torment yourself? if you order your life as your nature dictates, you were rich long ago, but you never will be able to be rich if you follow the standard of the world; you will always think something wanting, and in 'rushing after it you will find yourself swept away by your passion. do you remember with what delight you used to wander in the depth of the country? sometimes, laying yourself down on a bed of turf, you would listen to the water of a brook murmuring over the stones; at another time, seated on some open hill, you would let your eye wander freely over the plain stretched at your feet; at others, again, you enjoyed a sweet slumber beneath the shady trees of some valley in the noontide heat, and revelled in the delicious silence. never idle, in your soul you would ponder over some high meditation, with only the muses for your friends--you were never less alone than when in their company, and then, like the old man in virgil who reckoned himself "as rich askings, when, at the close of day, home to his cot he took his happy way, and on his table spread his simple fare, fresh from the meadow without cost or care,"[16] you would come at sunset back to your humble roof; and, contented with your good things, did you not find yourself the richest and happiest of mortal men? _petrarch._ ah, well-a-day! i recall it all now, and the remembrance of that time makes me sigh with regret. _s. augustine._ why--why do you speak of sighing? and who, pray, is the author of your woes? it is, indeed, your own spirit and none other which too long has not dared to follow the true law of its nature, and has thought itself a prisoner only because it would not break its chain. even now it is dragging you along like a runaway horse, and unless you tighten the rein it will rush you to destruction. ever since you grew tired of your leafy trees, of your simple way of life, and society of country people, egged on by cupidity, you have plunged once more into the midst of the tumultuous life of cities. i read in your face and speech what a happy and peaceful life you lived; for what miseries have you not endured since then? too rebellious against the teachings of experience, you still hesitate! it is without a doubt the bonds of your own sins that keep you back, and god allows that, as you passed your childhood under a harsh muster, so, though you once became free, you have again fallen into bondage, and there will end your miserable old age. verily, i was at your side once, when, quite young, unstained by avarice or ambition, you gave promise of becoming a great man; now, alas, having quite changed your character, the nearer you get to the end of your journey the more you trouble yourself about provisions for the way. what remains then but that you will be found, when the day comes for you to die--and it may be even now at hand, and certainly cannot be any great way off--you will be found, i say, still hungering after gold, poring half-dead over the calendar? for those anxious cares, which increase day after day, must by necessity at last have grown to a huge figure and a prodigious amount. _petrarch_. well, after all, if i foresee the poverty of old age, and gather some provision against that time of weariness, what is there so much to find fault with? _s. augustine._ ah! ludicrous anxiety and tragic neglect, to worry and trouble yourself about a time at which you may never arrive and in which you assuredly will not have long to stay, and yet to be quite oblivious of that end at which you cannot help arriving, and of which there is no remedy when you once have reached it. but such is your execrable habit--to care for what's temporal, and be careless for all that's eternal. as for this delusion of providing a shield against old age, no doubt what put it into your head was the verse in virgil which speaks of "the ant who dreads a destitute old age."[17] and so you have made an ant your mentor and you are as excusable as the satiric poet who wrote- "some people, like the ant, fear hunger and cold,"[18] but if you are going to put no limit to the following of ants, you will discover that there is nothing more melancholy and nothing more absurd than to ward off poverty one day by loading yourself with it all your days. _petrarch._ what will you say next! do you counsel me to court poverty? i have no longing for it, but i will bear it with courage if fortune, who delights to overturn human affairs, reduces me to it. _s. augustine._ my opinion is that in every condition man should aim at the golden mean. i would not then restrict you to the rules of those who say, "all that is needed for man's life is bread and water; with these none is poor; whosoever desires no more than these will rival in felicity the father of the gods."[19] no, i do not tie man's life down to dry bread and water; such maxims are as extreme as they are troublesome and odious to listen to. also, in regard to your infirmity, what i enjoin is not to over-indulge natural appetite, but to control it. what you already have would be sufficient for your wants if you had known how to be sufficient to yourself. but as it is you are yourself the cause of your own poverty. to heap up riches is to heap up cares and anxieties. this truth has been proved so continually that there is no need to bring more arguments. what a strange delusion, what a melancholy blindness of the soul of man, whose nature is so noble, whose birth is from above, that it will neglect all that is lofty and debase itself to care for the metals of the earth. every time you have been drawn by these hooks of cupidity you come down from your high meditations to these grovelling thoughts, and do you not feel each time as if hurled from heaven to earth, from the bosom of the stars to a bottomless pit of blackness? _petrarch_. yes; in truth, i feel it, and one knows not how to express what i have suffered in my fall. _s. augustine_. why, then, are you not afraid of a danger you have so often experienced? and when you were raised up to the higher life, why did you not attach yourself to it more firmly? _petrarch_. i make all the efforts i can to do so; but inasmuch as the various exigencies of our human lot shake and unsettle me, i am torn away in spite of myself. it is not without reason, i imagine, that the poets of antiquity dedicated the double peaks of parnassus to two different divinities. they desired to beg from apollo, whom they called the god of genius, the interior resources of the mind, and from bacchus a plentiful supply of external goods, way of regarding it is suggested to me not only by the teaching of experience, but by the frequent testimony of wise men whom i need not quote to you. moreover, although the plurality of deities may be ridiculous, this opinion of the poets is not devoid of common sense. and in referring a like twofold supplication to the one god from whom all good comes down, i do not think i can be called unreasonable, unless indeed you hold otherwise. _s. augustine_. i deny not you are right in your view, but the poor way you divide your time stirs my indignation. you had already devoted your whole life to honourable work; if anything compelled you to spend any of your time on other occupations, you regarded it as lost. but i now you only concede to what is good and beautiful the moments you can spare from avarice. any man in the world would desire to reach old age on such terms as that; but what limit or check would be to such a state of mind? choose for yourself some defined goal, and when you have attained it, then stay there and breathe awhile. doubtless you know that the saying i am about to quote is from lips of man, but has all the force of a divine oracle- "the miser's voice for ever cries, give, give; then curb your lusts if you would wisely live."[20] _petrarch._ neither to want nor to abound, neither to command others or obey them--there you have my heart's wish. _s. augustine_. then you must drop your humanity and become god, if you would want nothing. can you be ignorant that of all the creatures man is the one that has most wants? _petrarch_. many a time have i heard that said, but i would still like to hear it afresh from your lips and lodge it in my remembrance. _s. augustine._ behold him naked and unformed, born in wailings and tears, comforted with a few drops of milk, trembling and crawling, needing the hand of another, fed and clothed from the beasts of the field, his body feeble, his spirit restless, subject to all kinds of sickness, the prey of passions innumerable, devoid of reason, joyful to-day, to-morrow sorrowful, in both full of agitation, incapable of mastering himself, unable to restrain his appetite, ignorant of what things are useful to him and in what proportion, knowing not how to control himself in meat or drink, forced with great labour to gain the food that other creatures find ready at their need, made dull with sleep, swollen with food, stupefied with drink, emaciated with watching, famished with hunger, parched with thirst, at once greedy and timid, disgusted with what he has, longing after what he has lost, discontented alike with past, present and future, full of pride in his misery, and aware of his frailty, baser than the vilest worms, his life is short, his days uncertain, his fate inevitable, since death in a thousand forms is waiting for him at last. _petrarch._ you have so piled up his miseries and beggary that i feel it were good if i had never been born. _s. augustine._ yet, in the midst of such wretchedness and such deep destitution of good in man's estate, you go on dreaming of riches and power such as neither emperors nor kings have ever fully enjoyed. _petrarch_. kindly tell me who ever made use of those words? who spoke either of riches or of power? _s. augustine._ you imply both, for what greater riches can there be than to lack nothing? what greater power than to be independent of every one else in the world? certainly those kings and masters of the earth whom you think so rich have wanted a multitude of things. the generals of great armies depend on those whom they seem to command, and, kept in check by their armed legions, they find the very soldiers who render them invincible also render them in turn helpless. give up, therefore, your dreams of the impossible, and be content to accept the lot of humanity; learn to live in want and in abundance, to command and to obey, without desiring, with those ideas of yours, to shake off the yoke of fortune that presses even on kings. you will only be free from this yoke when, caring not a straw for human passions, you bend your neck wholly to the rule of virtue. then you will be free, wanting nothing, then. you will be independent; in a word, then you will be a king, truly powerful and perfectly happy. _petrarch_. now i do indeed repent for all that is past, and i desire nothing. but i am still in bondage to one evil habit and am conscious always of a certain need at the bottom of my heart. _s. augustine._ well, to come back to our subject, there is the very thing which keeps you back from the contemplation of death. it is that which makes you harassed with earthly anxieties; you do not lift up your heart at all to higher things. if you will take my counsel you will utterly cast away these anxieties, which are as so many dead weights upon the spirit, and you will find that it is not so hard after all to order your life by your nature, and let that rule and govern you more than the foolish opinions of the crowd. _petrarch_. i will do so very willingly, but may i ask you to finish what you were beginning to say about ambition, which i have long desired to hear? _s. augustine_. why ask me to do what you can quite well do for yourself? examine your own heart; you will see that among its other faults it is not ambition which holds the least place there. _petrarch._ it has profited me nothing then to have fled from towns whenever i could, to have thought scorn of the world and public affairs, to have gone into the recesses of the woods and silence of the fields, to have proved my aversion from empty honours, if still i am to be accused of ambition. _s. augustine._ you renounce many things well,--all you mortal men; but not so much; because you despise them as because you despair of getting them. hope and desire inflame each other by the mutual stings of those passions, so that when the one grows cold the other dies away, and when one gets warm the other boils over. _petrarch._ why, then, should i not hope? was i quite destitute of any accomplishment? _s. augustine._ i am not now speaking of your accomplishments, but certainly you had not those by help of which, especially in the present day, men mount to high places; i mean the art of ingratiating yourself in the palaces of the great, the trick of flattery, deceit, promising, lying, pretending, dissembling, and putting up with all kinds of slights and indignities. devoid of these accomplishments and others of the kind, and seeing clearly that you could not overcome nature, you turned your steps elsewhere. and you acted wisely and with prudence, for, as cicero expresses it, "to contend against the gods as did the giants, what is it but to make war with nature itself."[21] _petrarch_. farewell such honours as these, if they have to be sought by such means! _s. augustine._ your words are golden, but you have not convinced me of your innocence, for you do not assert your indifference to honours so much as to the vexations their pursuit involves, like the man who pretended he did not want to see rome because he really would not endure the trouble of the journey thither. observe, you have not yet desisted from the pursuit of honour, as you seem to believe and as you try to persuade me. but leave off trying to hide behind your finger, as the saying goes; all your thoughts, all your actions are plain before my eyes: and when you boast of having fled from cities and become enamoured of the woods, i see no real excuse, but only a shifting of your culpability. we travel many ways to the same end, and, believe me, though you have left the road worn by feet of the crowd, you still direct your feet by a side-path towards this same ambition that you say you have thought scorn of; it is repose, solitude, a total disregard of human affairs, yes, and your own activities also, which just at present take you along that chosen path, but the end and object is glory. _petrarch_. you drive me into a corner whence i think, however, i could manage to escape; but, as the time is short and we must discriminate between many things, let us proceed, if you have no objection. _s. augustine_. follow me, then, as i go forward. we will say nothing of gourmandising, for which you have no more inclination than a harmless pleasure in an occasional meeting with a few friends at the hospitable board. but i have no fear for you on this score, for when the country has regained its denizen, now snatched away to the towns, these temptations will disappear in a moment; and i have noticed, and have pleasure in acknowledging, that when you are alone you live in such a simple way as to surpass your friends and neighbours in frugality and temperance. i leave on one side anger also, though you often get carried away by it more than is reasonable, yet at the same time, thanks to your sweet natural temperament, you commonly control the motions of your spirit, and recall the advice of horace- "anger's a kind of madness, though not long; master the passion, since it's very strong; and, if you rule it not, it will rule you, so put the curb on quickly."[22] _petrarch._ that saying of the poet, and other words of philosophy like it, have helped me a little, i own; but what has helped me above all is the thought of the shortness of life. what insensate folly to spend in hating and hurting our fellow-men the few days we pass among them! soon enough the last day of all will arrive, which will quite extinguish this flame in human breasts and put an end to all our hatred, and if we have desired for any of them nothing worse than death, our evil wish will soon be fulfilled. why, then, seek to take one's life or that of others? why let pass unused the better part of a time so short? when the days are hardly long enough for honest joys of this life, and for meditating on that which is to come, no matter what economy of time we practise, what good is there in robbing any of them of their right and needful use, and turning them to instruments of sorrow and death for ourselves and others? this reflection has helped me, when i found myself under any temptation to anger, not to fall utterly under its dominion, or if i fell has helped me quickly to recover; but hitherto i have not been able quite to arm myself at all points from some little gusts of irritation. _s. augustine._ as i am not afraid that this wind of anger will cause you to make shipwreck of yourself or others, i agree willingly that without paying attention to the promises of the stoics, who set out to extirpate root and branch all the maladies of the soul, you content yourself with the milder treatment of the peripatetics. leaving, then, on one side for the moment these particular failings, i hasten to treat of others more dangerous than these and against which you will need to be on guard with more care. _petrarch_. gracious heaven, what is yet to come that is more dangerous still? _s. augustine._ well, has the sin of lust never touched you with its flames? _petrarch_. yes, indeed, at times so fiercely us to make me mourn sorely that i was not born without feelings. i would sooner have been a senseless stone than be tormented by so many stings of the flesh. _s. augustine_. ah, there is that which turns you most aside from the thought of things divine. for what does the doctrine of the heavenly plato show but that the soul must separate itself far from the passion of the flesh and tread down its imaginings before it can rise pure and free to the contemplation of the mystery of the divine; for otherwise the thought of its mortality will make it cling to those seducing charms. you know what i mean, and you have learned this truth in plato's writings, to the study of which you said not long ago you had given yourself up with ardour. _petrarch_. yes, i own i had given myself to studying him with great hopefulness and desire, but the novelty of a strange language and the sudden departure of my teacher cut short my purpose.[23] for the rest this doctrine of which you speak is very well known to me from your own writings and those of the platonists. _s. augustine._ it matters little from whom you learned the truth, though it is a fact that the authority of a great master will often have a profound influence. _petrarch._ yes, in my own case i must confess i feel profoundly the influence of a man of whom cicero in his _tusculan orations_ made this remark, which has remained graven in the bottom of my heart: "when plato vouchsafes not to bring forward any proof (you see what deference i pay him), his mere authority would make me yield consent."[24] often in reflecting on this heavenly genius it has appeared to me an injustice when the disciples of pythagoras dispense their chief from submitting proofs, that plato should be supposed to have less liberty than he. but, not to be carried away from our subject, authority, reason and experience alike have for a long time so much commended this axiom of plato to me that i do not believe anything more true or more truly holy could be said by any man. every time i have raised myself up, thanks to the hand of god stretched out to me, i have recognised with infinite joy, beyond belief, who it was that then preserved me and who had cast me down in times of old. now that i am once more fallen into my old misery, i feel with a keen sense of bitterness that failing which again has undone me. and this i tell you, that you may see nothing strange in my saying i had put plato's maxim to the proof. _s. augustine._ indeed, i think it not strange, for i have been witness of your conflicts; i have seen you fall and then once again rise up, and now that you are down once more i determined from pity to bring you my succour. _petrarch._ i am grateful for your compassionate feeling, but of what avail is any human succour? _s. augustine._ it avails nothing, but the succour of god is much every way. none can be chaste except god give him the grace of chastity.[25] you must therefore implore this grace from him above all, with humbleness, and often it may be with tears. he is wont never to deny him who asks as he should. _petrarch_. so often have i done it that i fear i am as one too importunate. _s. augustine_. but you have not asked with due humbleness or singleness of heart. you have ever kept a corner for your passions to creep in; you have always asked that your prayers may be granted presently. i speak from experience, for i did likewise in my old life. i said, "give me chastity, but not now. put it off a little while; the time will soon come. my life is still in all its vigour; let it follow its own course, obey its natural laws; it will feel it more of a shame later, to return to its youthful folly. i will give up this failing when the course of time itself shall have rendered me less inclined that way, and when satiety will have delivered me from the fear of going back."[26] in talking thus do you not perceive that you prayed for one thing but wished another in your heart? _petrarch_. how so? _s. augustine._ because to ask for a thing to-morrow is to put it aside for to-day. _petrarch._ with tears have i often asked for it to-day. my hope was that after breaking the chain of my passions and casting away the misery of life, i should escape safe and sound, and after so many storms of vain anxieties, i might swim ashore in some haven of safety; but you see, alas, how many shipwrecks i have suffered among the same rocks and shoals, and how i shall still suffer more if i am left to myself. _s. augustine._ trust me, there has always been something wanting in your prayer; otherwise the supreme giver would have granted it or, as in the case of the apostle, would have only denied you to make you more perfect in virtue and convince you entirely of your own frailty.[27] _petrarch._ that is my conviction also; and i will go on praying constantly, unwearied, unashamed, undespairing. the almighty, taking pity on my sorrows, will perchance lend an ear to my prayer, sent up daily to his throne, and even as he would not have denied his grace if my prayers had been pure, so he will also purify them. _s. augustine._ you are quite right, but redouble your efforts; and, as men wounded and fallen in battle raise themselves on their elbow, so do you keep a look out on all sides for the dangers that beset you, for fear that some foe; unseen come near and do you hurt yet more, where you lie on the ground. in the mean time, pray instantly for the aid of him who is able to raise you up again. he will perchance be nearer to you just then when you think him furthest off. keep ever in mind that saying of plato we were speaking of just now, "nothing so much hinders the knowledge of the divine as lust and the burning desire of carnal passion." ponder well, therefore, this doctrine; it is the very basis of our purpose that we have in hand. _petrarch._ to let you see how much i welcome this teaching, i have treasured it with earnest care, not only when it dwells in the court of plato's royal demesne, but also where it lurks hidden in the forests of other writers, and i have kept note in my memory of the very place where it was first perceived by my mind. _s. augustine._ i wonder what is your meaning. do you mind being more explicit? _petrarch._ you know virgil: you remember through what dangers he makes his hero pass in that last awful night of the sack of troy? _s. augustine._ yes, it is a topic repeated over and over again in all the schools. he makes him recount his adventures thus- "what tongue could tell the horrors of that night, paint all the forms of death, or who have tears enough to weep so many wretched wights? hath the great city that so long was queen fallen at last? behold in all the streets the bodies of the dead by thousands strewn, and in their homes and on the temple's steps! yet is there other blood than that of troy, what time her vanquished heroes gathering up their quenchless courage smite anon their foes, they, though triumphant, fall. everywhere grief, dread everywhere, and in all places death!"[28] _petrarch._ now wherever he wandered accompanied by the goddess of love, through crowding foes, through burning fire, he could not discern, though his eyes were open, the wrath of the angered gods, and so long as venus was speaking to him he only had understanding for things of earth. but as soon as she left him you remember what happened; he immediately beheld the frowning faces of the deities, and recognised what dangers beset him round about. "then i beheld the awe-inspiring form of gods in anger for the fall of troy."[29] from which my conclusion is that commerce with venus takes away the vision of the divine. _s. augustine._ among the clouds themselves you have clearly discerned the light of truth. it is in this way that truth abides in the fictions of the poets, and one perceives it shining out through the crevices of their thought. but, as we shall have to return to this question later on, let us reserve what we have to say for the end of our discourse. _petrarch._ that i may not get lost in tracks unknown to me, may i ask when you propose to return to this point? _s. augustine._ i have not yet probed the deepest wounds of your soul, and i have purposely deferred to do so, in order that, coming at the end, my counsels may be more deeply graven in your remembrance. in another dialogue we will treat more fully of the subject of the desires of the flesh, on which we have just now lightly touched. _petrarch._ go on, then, now as you proposed. _s. augustine._ yes, there need be nothing to hinder me, unless you are obstinately bent on stopping me. _petrarch._ indeed, nothing will please me better than to banish for ever every cause of dispute from the earth. i have never engaged in disputation, even on things perfectly familiar, without regretting it; for the contentions that arise, even between friends, have a certain character of sharpness and hostility contrary to the laws of friendship. but pass on to those matters in which you think i shall welcome your good counsel. _s. augustine._ you are the victim of a terrible plague of the soul--melancholy; which the moderns call _accidie_, but which in old days used to be called _ægritudo._ _petrarch._ the very name of this complaint makes me shudder. _s. augustine._ nor do i wonder, for you have endured its burden long enough. _petrarch._ yes, and though in almost all other diseases which torment me there is mingled a certain false delight, in this wretched state everything is harsh, gloomy, frightful. the way to despair is for ever open, and everything goads one's miserable soul to self-destruction. moreover, while other passions attack me only in bouts, which, though frequent, are but short and for a moment, this one usually has invested me so closely that it clings to and tortures me for whole days and nights together. in such times i take no pleasure in the light of day, i see nothing, i am as one plunged in the darkness of hell itself, and seem to endure death in its most cruel form. but what one may call the climax of the misery is, that i so feed upon my tears and sufferings with a morbid attraction that i can only be rescued from it by main force and in despite of myself. _s. augustine._ so well do you know your symptoms, so familiar are you become with their cause, that i beg you will tell me what is it that depresses you most at the present hour? is it the general course of human affairs? is it some physical trouble, or some disgrace of fortune in men's eyes? _petrarch._ it is no one of these separately. had i only been challenged to single combat, i would certainly have come off victorious; but now, as it is, i am besieged by a whole host of enemies. _s. augustine_. i pray you will tell me fully all that torments you. _petrarch._ every time that fortune pushes me back one step, i stand firm and courageous, recalling to myself that often before i have been struck in the same way and yet have come off conqueror; if, after that, she presently deals me a sterner blow, i begin to stagger somewhat; if then she returns to the charge a third and fourth time, driven by force, i retreat, not hurriedly but step by step, to the citadel of reason. if fortune still lays siege to me there with all her troops, and if, to reduce me to surrender, she piles up the sorrows of our human lot, the remembrance of my old miseries and the dread of evils yet to come, then, at lost, hemmed in on all sides, seized with terror at these heaped-up calamities, i bemoan my wretched fate, and feel rising in my very soul this bitter disdain of life. picture to yourself some one beset with countless enemies, with no hope of escape or of pity, with no comfort anywhere, with every one and everything against him; his foes bring up their batteries, they mine the very ground beneath his feet, the towers are already falling, the ladders are at the gates, the grappling-hooks are fastened to the walls, the fire is seen crackling through the roofs, and, at sight of those gleaming swords on every side, those fierce faces of his foes, and that utter ruin that is upon him, how should he not be utterly dismayed and overwhelmed, since, even if life itself should be left, yet to men not quite bereft of every feeling the loss of liberty alone is a mortal stroke? _s. augustine._ although your confession is a little confused, i make out that your misfortunes all proceed from a single false conception which has in the past claimed and in futuro will still claim innumerable victims. you have a bad conceit of yourself. _petrarch._ yes, truly, a very bad one. _s. augustine._ and why? _petrarch._ not for one, but a thousand reasons. _s. augustine._ you are like people who on the slightest offence rake up all the old grounds of quarrel they ever had. _petrarch._ in my case there is no wound old enough for it to have been effaced and forgotten: my sufferings are all quite fresh, and if anything by chance were made better through time, fortune has so soon redoubled her strokes that the open wound has never been perfectly healed over. i cannot, moreover, rid myself of that hate and disdain of our life which i spoke of. oppressed with that, i cannot but be grieved and sorrowful exceedingly. that you call this grief _accidie_ or _ægritudo_ makes no difference; in substance we mean one and the same thing. _s. augustine._ as from what i can understand the evil is so deep-seated, it will do no good to heal it slightly, for it will soon throw out more shoots. it must be entirely rooted up. yet i know not where to begin, so many complications alarm me. but to make the task of dividing the matter easier, i will examine each point in detail. tell me, then, what is it that has hurt you most? _petrarch_. whatever i see, or hear, or feel. _s. augustine._ come, come, does nothing please you? _petrarch_. nothing, or almost nothing. _s. augustine._ would to god that at least the better things in your life might be dear, to you. but tell me what is it that is to you the most displeasing of all? i beg you give me an answer. _petrarch._ i have already answered. _s. augustine._ it is this melancholy i spoke of which is the true cause of all your displeasure with yourself. _petrarch._ i am just as displeased with what i see in others as with what i see in myself. _s. augustine._ that too comes from the same source. but to get a little order into our discourse, does what you see in yourself truly displease you as much as you say? _petrarch._ stop worrying me with your petty questions, that are more than i know how to reply to. _s. augustine._ i see, then, that those things which make many other people envy you are nevertheless in your own eyes of no account at all? _petrarch._ any one who envies a wretch like me must indeed himself be wretched. _s. augustine._ but now please tell me what is it that most displeases you? _petrarch._ i am sure i do not know. _s. augustine._ if i guess right will you acknowledge it? _petrarch._ yes, i will, quite freely. _s. augustine._ you are vexed with fortune. _petrarch._ and am i not right to hate her? proud, violent, blind, she makes a mock of mankind. _s. augustine._ it is an idle complaint. let us look now at your own troubles. if i prove you have complained unjustly, will you consent to retract? _petrarch._ you will find it very hard to convince me. if, however, you prove me in the wrong, i will give in. _s. augustine._ you find that fortune is to you too unkind. _petrarch_. not too unkind; too unjust, too proud, too cruel. _s. augustine_. the comic poets have more than one comedy called "the grumbler." there are scores of them. and now you are making yourself one of the crowd. i should rather find you in more select company. but as this subject is so very threadbare that no one can add anything new on it, will you allow me to offer you an old remedy for an old complaint? _petrarch_. as you wish. _s. augustine_. well then, has poverty yet made you endure hunger and thirst and cold? _petrarch_. no, fortune has not yet brought me to this pass. _s. augustine._ yet such is the hard lot of a great many people every day of their lives. is it not? _petrarch_. use some other remedy than this if you can, for this brings me no relief. i am not one of those who in their own misfortunes rejoice to behold the crowd of other wretched ones who sob around them; and not seldom i mourn as much for the griefs of others as for my own. _s. augustine_. i wish no man to rejoice in witnessing the misfortunes of others, but they ought at any rate to give him some consolation, and teach him not to complain of his own lot. all the world cannot possibly occupy the first and best place. how could there be any first unless there was also a second following after? only be thankful, you mortal men, if you are not reduced to the last of all; and that of so many blows of outrageous fortune you only bear her milder strokes. for the rest, to those who are doomed to endure the extremes of misery, one must offer more potent remedies than you have need of whom fortune has wounded but a little. that which casts men down into these doleful moods is that each one, forgetting his own condition, dreams of the highest place, and, like every one else, as i just now pointed out, cannot possibly attain it; then when he fails he is discontented. if they only knew the sorrows that attend on greatness they would recoil from that which they now pursue. let me call as witnesses those who by dint of toil have reached the pinnacle, and who no sooner have arrived than they forthwith bewail the too easy accomplishment of their wish. this truth should be familiar to every one, and especially to you, to whom long experience has shown that the summit of rank, surrounded as it is with trouble and anxieties, is only deserving of pity. it follows that no earthly lot of man is free from complaint, since those who have attained what they desire and those who have missed it alike show some reason for discontent. the first allege they have been cheated, and the second that they have suffered neglect. take seneca's advice then, "when you see how many people are in front of you, think also how many are behind. if you would be reconciled with providence and your own lot in life, think of all those you have surpassed;" and as the same wise man says in the same place, "set a goal to your desires such as you cannot overleap, even if you wish." _petrarch._ i have long ago set such a goal to my desires, and, unless i am mistaken, a very modest one; but in the pushing and shameless manners of my time, what place is left for modesty, which men now call slackness or sloth? _s. augustine._ can your peace of mind be disturbed by the opinion of the crowd, whose judgment is never true, who never call anything by its right name? but unless my recollection is at fault, you used to look down on their opinion. _petrarch._ never, believe me, did i despise it more than i do now. i care as much for what the crowd thinks of me as i care what i am thought of by the beasts of the field. _s. augustine._ well, then? _petrarch._ what raises my spleen is that having, of all my contemporaries whom i know, the least exalted ambitions, not one of them has encountered so many difficulties as i have in the accomplishment of my desires. most assuredly i never aspired to the highest place; i call the spirit of truth as witness who judges us, who sees all, and who has always read my most secret thoughts. she knows very well that whenever after the manner of men i have gone over in my mind all the degrees and conditions of our human lot. i have never found in the highest place that tranquillity and serenity of soul which i place above all other goods; and for that matter, having a horror of a life full of disquiet and care, i have ever chosen, in my modest judgment, some middle position, and given, not lip-service, but the homage of my heart to that truth expressed by horace- "whoso with little wealth will live content, easy and free his days shall all be spent; his well-built house keeps out the winter wind, too modest to excite an envious mind."[30] and i admire the reasons he gives in the same ode not less than the sentiment itself. "the tallest trees most fear the tempest's might, the highest towers come down with most affright, the loftiest hills feel first the thunder smite." alas! it is just the middle place that it has never been my lot to enjoy. _s. augustine._ and what if that which you think is a middle position is in truth below you? what if as a matter of fact you have for a long while enjoyed a really middle place, enjoyed it abundantly? nay, what if you have in truth left the middle far behind, and are become to a great many people a man more to be envied than despised? _petrarch._ well, if they think my lot one to be envied, i think the contrary. _s. augustine._ yes, your false opinion is precisely the cause of all your miseries, and especially of this last. as cicero puts it, "you must flee charybdis, with all hands to the oars, and sails as well!"[31] _petrarch._ whither can i flee? where direct my ship? in a word, what am i to think except what i see before my eyes? _s. augustine._ you only see from side to side where your view is limited. if you look behind you will discover a countless throng coming after, and that you are somewhat nearer to the front rank than to that in the rear, but pride and stubbornness suffer you not to turn your gaze behind you. _petrarch._ nevertheless from time to time i have done so, and have noticed many people coming along behind. i have no cause to blush at my condition, but i complain of having so many cares. i deplore, if i may yet again make use of a phrase of horace, that i must live "only from day to day."[32] as to this restlessness of which i have suffered more than enough, i gladly subscribe to what the same poet says in the same place. "what prayers are mine? o may i yet possess the goods i have, or, if heaven pleases, less! let the few years that fate may grant me still be all my own, not held at others' will."[33] always in a state of suspense, always uncertain of the future, fortune's favours have no attraction for me. up to now, as you see, i have lived always in dependence on others; it is the bitterest cup of all. may heaven grant me some peace in what is left of my old age, and that the mariner who has lived so long amid the stormy waves may die in port! _s. augustine._ so then in this great whirlpool of human affairs, amid so many vicissitudes, with the future all dark before you; in a word, placed as you are at the caprice of fortune, you will be the only one of so many millions of mankind who shall live a life exempt from care! look what you are asking for, o mortal man! look what you demand! as for that complaint you have brought forward of never having lived a life of your own, what it really amounts to is not that you have lived in poverty, but more or less in subservience. i admit, as you say, that it is a thing very troublesome. however, if you look around you will find very few men who have lived a life of their own. those whom one counts most happy, and for whom numbers of others live their lives, bear witness by the constancy of their vigils and their toils that they themselves are living for others. to quote you a striking instance, julius cæsar, of whom some one has reported this true but arrogant saying, "the human race only lives for a small number,"[34] julius cæsar, after he had subdued the human race to live for himself alone, did himself live for other people. perhaps you will ask me for whom did he live? and i reply, for those who slew him--for brutus, cimber, and other traitorous heads of that conspiracy, for whom his inexhaustible munificence proved too small to satisfy their rapacity. _petrarch_. i must admit you have brought me to my senses, and i will never any more complain either of my obligations to others or of my poverty. _s. augustine._ complain rather of your want of wisdom, for it is this alone that can obtain for you liberty and true riches. for the rest, the man who quietly endures to go without the cause of those good effects, and then makes complaint of not having them, cannot truly be said to have any intelligent understanding of either the cause or the effects. but now tell me what is it that makes you suffer, apart from what we have been speaking of? is it any weakness of health or any secret trouble? _petrarch_. i confess that my body has always been a burden every time i think of myself; but when i cast my eyes on the unwieldiness of other people's bodies, i acknowledge that i have a fairly obedient slave. i would to heaven i could say as much of my soul, but i am afraid that in it there is what is more than a match for me. _s. augustine_. may it please god to bring that also under the rule of reason. but to come back to your body, of what do you complain? _petrarch._ of that of which most other people also complain. i charge it with being mortal, with implicating me in its sufferings, loading me with its burdens, asking me to sleep when my soul is awake, and subjecting me to other human necessities which it would be tedious to go through. _s. augustine._ calm yourself, i entreat you, and remember you are a man. presently your agitation will cease. if any other thing troubles you, tell me. _petrarch._ have you never heard how cruelly fortune used me? this stepdame, who in a single day with her ruthless hand laid low all my hopes, all my resources, my family and home?[35] _s. augustine._ i see your tears are running down, and i pass on. the present is not the time for instruction, but only for giving warning; let, then, this simple one suffice. if you consider, in truth, not the disasters of private families only, but the ruins also of empires from the beginning of history, with which; you are so well acquainted; and if you call to mind the tragedies you have read, you will not perhaps be so sorely offended when you see your own humble roof brought to nought along with so many palaces of kings. now pray go on, for these few warning words will open to you a field for long meditation. _petrarch._ who shall find words to utter my daily disgust for this place where i live, in the most melancholy and disorderly of towns,[36] the narrow and obscure sink of the earth, where all the filth of the world is collected? what brush could depict the nauseating spectacle --streets full of disease and infection, dirty pigs and snarling dogs, the noise of cart-wheels grinding against the walls, four-horse chariots coming dashing down at every cross-road, the motley crew of people, swarms of vile beggars side by side with the flaunting luxury of the wealthy, the one crushed down in sordid misery, the others debauched with pleasure and riot; and then the medley of characters--such diverse rôles in life--the endless clamour of their confused voices, as the passers-by jostle one another in the streets? all this destroys the soul accustomed to any better kind of life, banishes all serenity from a generous heart, and quite upsets the student's habit of mind. so my prayers to god are earnest as well as frequent that he would save my barque from imminent wreck, for whenever i look around i seem to myself to be going down alive into the pit. "now," i say in mockery, "now betake yourself to noble thoughts "- "now go and meditate the tuneful lyre."[37] s. _augustine._ that line of horace makes me realise what most afflicts you. you lament having lighted on a place so unfavourable for study, for as the same poet says- "bards fly from town, and haunt the wood and glade."[38] and you yourself have expressed the same truth in other words- "the leafy forests charm the sacred muse, and bards the noisy life of towns refuse."[39] if, however, the tumult of your mind within should once learn to calm itself down, believe me this din and bustle around you, though it will strike upon your senses, will not touch your soul. not to repeat what you have been long well aware of, you have seneca's letter[40] on this subject, and it is very much to the point. you have your own work also on "tranquillity of soul"; you have beside, for combating this mental malady, an excellent book of cicero's which sums up the discussions of the third day in his _tusculan orations_, and is dedicated to brutus.[41] _petrarch._ you know i have read all that work and with great attention. _s. augustine_. and have you got no help from it? _petrarch._ well, yes, at the time of reading, much help; but no sooner is the book from my hands than all my feeling for it vanishes. _s. augustine._ this way of reading is become common now; there is such a mob of lettered men, a detestable herd, who have spread themselves everywhere and make long discussions in the schools on the art of life, which they put in practice little enough. but if you would only make notes of the chief points in what you read you would then gather the fruit of your reading. _petrarch._ what kind of notes? _s. augustine._ whenever you read a book and meet with any wholesome maxims by which you feel your spirit stirred or enthralled, do not trust merely to the resources of your wits, but make a point of learning them by heart and making them quite familiar by meditating on them, as the doctors do with their experiments, so that no matter when or where some urgent case of illness arises, you have the remedy written, so to speak, in your head. for in the maladies of the soul, as in those of the body, there are some in which delay is fatal, so that if you defer the remedy you take away all hope of a cure. who is not aware, for instance, that certain impulses of the soul are so swift and strong that, unless reason checks the passion from which they arise, they whelm in destruction the soul and body and the whole man, so that a tardy remedy is a useless one? anger, in my judgment, is a case in point. it is not for nothing that, by those who have divided the soul into three parts, anger has been placed below the seat of reason, and reason set in the head of man as in a citadel, anger in the heart, and desire lower still in the loins. they wished to show that reason was ever ready to repress instantly the violent outbreaks of the passions beneath her, and was empowered in some way from her lofty estate to sound the retreat. as this check was more necessary in the case of anger, it has been placed directly under reason's control. _petrarch._ yes, and rightly; and to show you i have found this truth not only in the works of philosophers but also in the poets, by that fury of winds that virgil describes hidden in deep caves, by his mountains piled up, and by his king æolus sitting above, who rules them with his power, i have often thought he may have meant to denote anger and the other passions of the soul which seethe at the bottom of our heart, and which, unless controlled by the curb of reason, would in their furious haste, as he says, drag us in their train and sweep us over sea and land and the very sky itself.[42] in effect, he has given us to understand he means by the earth our bodily frame; by the sea, the water through which it lives; and by the depths of the sky, the soul that has its dwelling in a place remote, and of which elsewhere he says that its essence is formed out of a divine fire.[43] it is as though he said that these passions will hurl body, soul, and man himself into the abyss. on the other side, these mountains and this king sitting on high--what can they mean but the head placed on high where reason is enthroned? these are virgil's words- "there, in a cave profound, king æolus holds in the tempests and the noisy wind, which there he prisons fast. those angry thralls rage at their barrier, and the mountain side roars with their dreadful noise, but he on top sits high enthroned, his sceptre in his hand."[44] so writes the poet. as i carefully study every word, i have heard with my ears the fury, the rage, the roar of the winds; i have heard the trembling of the mountain and the din. notice how well it all applies to the tempest of anger. and, on the other hand, i have heard the king, sitting on his high place, his sceptre grasped in his hand, subduing, binding in chains, and imprisoning those rebel blasts,--who can doubt that with equal appropriateness this applies to the reason? however, lest any one should miss the truth that all this refers to the soul and the wrath that vexes it, you see he adds the line-"and calms their passion and allays their wrath."[45] _s. augustine_. i cannot but applaud that meaning which i understand you find hidden in the poet's story, familiar as it is to you; for whether virgil had this in mind when writing, or whether without any such idea he only meant to depict a storm at sea and nothing else, what you have said about the rush of anger and the authority of reason seems to me expressed with equal wit and truth. but to resume the thread of our discourse, take notice in your reading if you find anything dealing with anger or other passions of the soul, and especially with this plague of melancholy, of which we have been speaking at some length. when you come to any passages that seem to you useful, put marks against them, which may serve as hooks to hold them fast in your remembrance, lest otherwise they might be taking wings to flee away. by this contrivance you will be able to stand firm against all the passions, and not least against sorrow of heart, which, like some pestilential cloud utterly destroys the seeds of virtue and all the fruits of understanding, and is, in the elegant phrase of cicero- "the fount and head of all miseries."[46] assuredly if you look carefully at the lives of others as well as your own, and reflect that there is hardly a man without many causes of grief in his life, and if you except that one just and salutary ground, the recollection of your own sins--always supposing it is not suffered to drive you to despair--then you will come to acknowledge that heaven has assigned to you many gifts that are for you a ground of consolation and joy, side by side with that multitude of things of which you murmur and complain. as for your complaint that you have not had any life of your own and the vexation you feel in the tumultuous life of cities, you will find no small consolation in reflecting that the same complaint has been made by greater men than yourself, and that if you have of your own free will fallen into this labyrinth, so you can of your own free will make your escape. if not, yet in time your ears will grow so used to the noise of the crowd that it will seem to you as pleasant as the murmur of a falling stream. or, as i have already hinted, you will find the same result easily if you will but first calm down the tumult of your imagination, for a soul serene and tranquil in itself fears not the coming of any shadow from without and is deaf to all the thunder of the world. and so, like a man on dry land and out of danger, you will look upon the shipwreck of others, and from your quiet haven hear the cries of those wrestling, with the waves, and though you will be moved with tender compassion by that sight, yet even that will be the measure also of your own thankfulness and joy at being in safety. and ere long i am sure you will banish and drive away all the melancholy that has oppressed your soul. _petrarch_. although not a few things rather give me a twinge, and especially your notion that it is quite easy and depends only on myself to get away from towns, yet, as you have on many points got the better of me in reasoning, i will here lay down my arms ere i am quite overthrown. _s. augustine_. do you feel able, then, now to cast off your sorrow and be more reconciled to your fortune? _petrarch_. yes, i am able, supposing always that there is any such thing as fortune at all. for i notice the two greek and latin poets are so little of one mind on this point that the one has not deigned to mention the word even once in all his works, whereas the other mentions the name of fortune often and even reckons her almighty.[47] and this opinion is shared by a celebrated historian and famous orator. sallust has said of fortune that "all things are under her dominion."[48] and cicero has not scrupled to affirm that "she is the mistress; of human affairs."[49] for myself, perhaps i will declare what i think on the subject at some other time and place. but so far as concerns the matter of our discussion, your admonitions have been of such service to me, that when i compare my lot with that of most other men it no longer seems so unhappy to me as once it did. _s. augustine_. i am glad indeed to have been of any service to you, and my desire is to do everything i can. but as our converse to-day has lasted a long while, are you willing that we should defer the rest for a third day, when we will bring it to a conclusion? _petrarch._ with my whole heart i adore the very number three itself, not so much because the three graces are contained in it, as because it is held to be nearest of kin to the deity; which is not only the persuasion of yourself and other professors of the true faith, who place all your faith in the trinity, but also that of gentile philosophers who have a traditional use of the same number in worshipping their own deities. and my beloved virgil seems to have been conversant with this when he wrote- "uneven number to the gods is dear."[50] for what goes before makes it clear that three is the number to which he alludes. i will therefore presently await from your hands the third part of this your threefold gift. [1] _æneid_, viii. 385-86. [2] _de bonis et malis_, i. 3. [3] _tusculan orations_, ii. 15. but cicero's words are more guarded, "_inops interdum._" [4] _declamations_, i. [5] juvenal, _sat._ x. 172-73. [6] suetonius domitian, xviii. [7] seneca, _epist.,_ 65. [8] scipio is speaking of the souls admitted to heaven, freed from the body. _africa,_ i. 329. [9] juvenal, i. 161 (not correctly quoted). [10] terence l'audrienne, 68. [11] horace, _odes_, i. 4, 15. [12] horace, _epist._ i. 18, 109. conington's translation. [13] horace, _odes_, i. xxxi. 19, 20. [14] juvenal, _sat.,_ xiv. 135. [15] _æneid,_ iii. 629. [16] _georgics,_ iv. 132. [17] _georgics_, i. 106. [18] juvenal, vi. 361. [19] seneca, _epist.,_ xxv. [20] horace, _epist.,_ i. 2, 56. [21] _de senectute,_ xi. [22] horace, _epist._ i. 2, 62-3. [23] petrarch refers to a calabrian monk who had begun giving him lessons in greek, but left him on being appointed to a bishopric. [24] _tusculan orations,_ i. 21. [25] wisdom, viii. 21. [26] _cor_. xii. 9. [27] _confessions_, viii. 7. [28] _æneid_, ii. 361-9. [29] _æneid_, ii. 622. [30] horace, _odes,_ xi. 10, 6-8. [31] _tusculan orations,_ iii. 11. [32] horace, _epist.,_ i. 18, 110. [33] horace, _epist.,_ i. 18, 106-8. [34] lucian, 343. [35] he refers to the fact that his father was banished from florence, and he himself was born in exile at arezzo. [36] avignon. [37] horace, _epist._, ii. 2, 76. [38] _epist.,_ ii. 2, 77 (conington). [39] petrarch's _epist.,_ ii. 2, 77. [40] seneca's _letters,_ lvi. [41] _tusculan orations,_ cxi. [42] _æneid,_ i. 58. [43] _ibid.,_ vi. 730. [44] _ibid.,_ i. 52-57. [45] _æneid_ i. 57. [46] _tusculan orations_, iv. 38. [47] _æneid,_ viii. 334. [48] _pro marcello,_ ii. [49] _catilina_, viii. [50] _eclogue_, vii. 75. dialogue the third petrarch--s. augustine _s. augustine_. supposing that hitherto you have found some good from my words, i beg and implore you in what i have still to say to lend me a ready ear, and to put aside altogether the spirit of dispute and contradiction. _petrarch._ you may be sure i will so do, for i feel that, owing to your good counsels, i have been set free from a large part of my distress, and am therefore the better disposed to listen to what you may still have to say. _s. augustine._ i have not at all as yet touched upon the deep-seated wounds which are within, and i rather dread the task when i remember what debate and murmuring were caused by even the lightest allusion to them. but, on the other hand, i am not without hope that when you have rallied your strength, your spirit will more firmly bear without flinching a severer handling of the trouble. _petrarch._ have no fear on that score. by this time i am used to hearing the name of my maladies and to bearing the touch of the surgeon's hand. _s. augustine_. well, you are still held in bondage, on your right hand and on your left, by two strong chains which will not suffer you to turn your thoughts to meditate on life or on death. i have always dreaded these might bring you to destruction; and i am not yet at all reassured, and i shall only be so when i have seen you break and cast away your bonds and come forth perfectly free. and this i think possible but difficult enough to achieve, and that until it is accomplished i shall only be moving in a futile round. they say that to break a diamond one must use the blood of a goat, and in the same way to soften the hardness of these kinds of passions, this blood is of strange efficacy. no sooner has it touched even the hardest heart but it breaks and penetrates it. but i will tell you what my fear is. in this matter i must have your own full assent as we proceed, and i am haunted by the fear you will not be able, or perhaps i should say will prove unwilling, to give it. i greatly dread lest the glittering brilliance of your chains may dazzle your eyes and hinder you, and make you like the miser bound in prison with fetters of gold, who wished greatly to be set free but was not willing to break his chains. now such are the conditions of your own bondage that you can only gain your freedom by breaking your chains. _petrarch_. alas, alas, i am more wretched than i thought. do you mean to tell me my soul is still bound by two chains of which i am unconscious? _s. augustine_. all the same they are plain enough to see; but, dazzled by their beauty, you think they are not fetters but treasures; and, to keep to the same figure, you are like some one who, with hands and feet fast bound in shackles of gold, should look at them with delight and not see at all that they are shackles. yes, you yourself with blinded eyes keep looking at your bonds; but, oh strange delusion! you are charmed with the very chains that are dragging you to your death, and, what is most sad of all, you glory in them! _petrarch._ what may these chains be of which you speak? _s. augustine._ love and glory. _petrarch._ great heavens! what is this i hear? you call these things chains? and you would break them from me, if i would let you? _s. augustine._ yes, i mean to try, but i doubt if i shall succeed. all the other things that held you back were less strong and also less pleasant to you, so you helped me to break them. these, on the contrary, are pleasant though they injure, and they deceive you by a false show of beauty; so they will demand greater efforts, for you will make resistance as if i were wishing to rob you of some great good. nevertheless i mean to try. _petrarch._ pray what have i done that you should desire to relieve me of the finest passions of my nature, and condemn to everlasting darkness the clearest faculties of my soul? _s. augustine._ ah, unhappy man, have you forgotten quite this axiom of philosophy, that the climax of all evils is when a man, rooted in some false opinion, by degrees grows fatally persuaded that such and such a course is right? _petrarch._ i have by no means forgotten that axiom, but it has nothing to do with the subject, for why in the world should i not think that the course which i indicated is right? no, i never have thought and i never shall think any truth more indisputable than that these two passions, which you cast at me as a reproach, are the very noblest of all. _augustine._ let us take them separately for the present, while i endeavour to find the remedies, so that i may not blunt the edge of my weapon by striking first at one and then the other indiscriminately. tell me then, since we have first mentioned love, do you or do you not hold it to be the height of all madness? _petrarch._ to tell you the whole truth as i conceive it, i judge that love may be either described as the vilest passion or the noblest action of the soul. _s. augustine._ do you mind giving me some example to confirm the view you have put forward? _petrarch._ if my passion is for some low woman of ill fame, my love is the height of folly. but if, fascinated by one who is the image of virtue, i devote myself to love and honour her, what have you to say to that? do you put no difference between things so entirely opposed? do you wish to banish all remains of honour from the case? to tell you my real feeling, just as i regard the first kind of love as a heavy and ill-starred burden on the soul, so of the second i think there is hardly any greater blessing to it; if it so happen that you hold an opposite view, let each one follow his own feeling, for, as you are well aware, truth is a large field and every man should have freedom to judge for himself. _s. augustine_. in matters directly contradictory opinions also may be diverse. but truth itself is one and always the same. _petrarch_. i admit that is so. but what makes us go wrong is that we bind ourselves obstinately to old opinions, and will not easily part from them. _s. augustine._ heaven grant you may think as wisely on the whole matter of love as you do on this point. _petrarch_. to speak briefly, i think i am so certainly right that those who think the opposite i believe to be quite out of their senses. _s. augustine_. i should certainly maintain that to take for truth some ancient falsehood, and to take as falsehood some newly-discovered truth, as though all authority for truth were a matter of time, is the very climax of madness. _petrarch._ you are wasting your labour. whoever asserts that view of love i shall never believe him. and i will rest on cicero's saying, "if i err here i err willingly, and i shall never consent to part with this error as long as i live."[1] _s. augustine._ when cicero uses those words he is speaking of the immortality of the soul, and referring to it as the noblest of conceptions, and declaring his own belief in it to be so firm that he would not endure to listen to any one who maintained the contrary. you, however, to urge the ignoblest and most false of all opinions, make use of those same terms. unquestionably, even if the soul were mortal, it would be better to think it immortal. for error though it were, yet would it inspire the love of virtue, and that is a thing to be desired for its own sake alone, even if all hope of future reward were taken away from us; and as to which the desire for it will certainly become weaker, as men come to think the soul a mortal thing; and, on the other hand, the promise of a life to come, even if it were to turn out a delusion, is none the less a powerful incentive to the soul, human nature being what it is. but you see what will be the consequences of that error in which you stand; it will precipitate your soul into all manner of folly, when shame, and fear, even reason, that now acts as some check on passion, and the knowledge of truth itself shall all have disappeared. _petrarch._ i have already told you you were wasting your time. my own remembrance tells mo that i have never loved anything to be ashamed of, and, on the contrary, have ever loved what is most noble. _s. augustine._ even noble things may be loved in a shameful way; it is beyond doubt. _petrarch._ neither in the object of love nor in the manner of loving am i guilty. so you may as well give up tormenting me. _s. augustine._ well, well! do you wish, like those with fever on the brain, to die laughing and joking? or will you rather take some remedy for your mind so pitiable and so far from its true health? _petrarch._ i will not refuse a remedy if you will prove to me that i am ill, but, when a man is quite well, to begin taking remedies is often fatal. _s. augustine._ as soon as you have reached the stage of convalescence you will perceive quickly enough, as men generally do, that you have been seriously ill. _petrarch._ after all, i cannot but show deference to one who often in the past, and especially in these last two days, has given me proof how good were his counsels. so please go on. _s. augustine._ in the first place i ask you to forgive me if, compelled by the subject, i have to deal severely with what has been so delightful to you. for i cannot but foresee that the truth will sound bitterly in your ears. _petrarch_. just one word before you begin. do you thoroughly know the matter you are to touch upon? _s. augustine._ i have gone into it all carefully beforehand. it is about a mortal woman, in admiring and celebrating whom you have, alas! spent a large part of your life. that a mind like yours should have felt such an insensate passion and for so long a time does greatly astonish me. _petrarch_. spare your reproaches, i pray. thais and livia were both mortal women; but you should be aware that she of whom you have set out to speak is a mind that has no care for things of earth, and burns only with the love of what is heavenly. in whose face, unless truth is an empty word, a certain divine loveliness shines out; whose character is the image and picture of perfect honour; whose voice and the living expression of whose eyes has nothing mortal in it; whose very form and motion is not as that of others. consider this again and again, i entreat you, and i trust you may have understanding in what words to speak. _s. augustine._ ah! out of all reason have you grown! have you then for sixteen long years been feeding: with false joys this flame of your heart? of a truth not longer did italy once suffer the assaults of her most famous enemy, the great hannibal; nor did she then endure more frequent onsets of her would-be lover, nor was consumed with more furious fires. you to-day carry within you as hot a flame of passion, you endure as fierce stings. yet was there found one who forced him to retreat and, though late, to take his leave! but who shall expel this invader from your soul if you yourself forbid him to depart; if you of your own will invite him to stay long with you; if you, unhappy as you are, delight in your own calamity? far other will be your thoughts when the fatal day shall come that will close for ever those eyes that are now so pleasing to you to look upon; when you shall see that face and those pale limbs changed by death; then you will be filled with shame to have so knit your mortal affections to a perishing body such as this, and what now you so obstinately maintain you will then blush to remember. _petrarch_. heaven forbid any such misery. i shall not see your threats fulfilled. _s. augustine_. they will inevitably come to pass. _petrarch_. i know it. but the stars in their courses will not so fight against me as to prevent the order of nature by hastening her death like that. first came i into this world and i shall be first to depart. _s. augustine._ i think you will not have forgotten that time when you feared the contrary event, and made a song of your beloved as if she were presently to die, a song full of moving sorrow. _petrarch._ certainly i remember very well, but the thought that filled me then with grief, and the memory of which makes me shiver, was a jealous indignation at the bare possibility of my outliving her who is the best part of my life and whose presence makes all its sweetness. for that is the motive of that song; i remember it well, and how i was overcome with tears. its spirit is still with me, if with you perchance are the words. _s. augustine._ i was not complaining how many tears the fear of her death made you shed, nor of how much grief you felt. i was only concerned that you should realise how this fear of yours in the past may certainly return; and more easily, in that every day is a step nearer to death, and that that fair form, worn by sicknesses and the bearing of many children, has already lost much of its first strength. _petrarch._ i also am borne down with cares and am worn with age, and in that onward path towards death i have outrun her whom i love. _s. augustine._ what folly it is to calculate the order of death by that of birth! for what are those sad lamentations of the old but because of the early deaths of their young children? what is it that yonder aged nurse is grieving over but that she sees the loss of her little nursling- "whom some dark day has stripped of his sweet life; and cruel fate snatched from his mother's breast and covered him in a too early grave."[2] in your own case the small number of years by which you have preceded her gives you a very uncertain hope that you will be gone before the fire of your passion shall be extinguished; and yet you indulge the fiction that this order of nature is unchangeable. _petrarch_. not exactly unchangeable, but i pray without ceasing that it may not be changed, and whenever i think of death i remember ovid's line- "late may her time arrive, and after mine."[3] _s. augustine._ i can listen to these trifles no more; but since you now admit that she may possibly die before you, i ask what should you say if she really were dead? _petrarch_. what should i say but that such a calamity would be the climax of all my miseries? yet i should try and comfort myself with what was past. but may the winds bear away the words from our lips and the hurricane scatter such an omen to the ends of the earth! _s. augustine._ ah, blindfold one! you see not yet what foolishness it is so to subject your soul to things of earth, that kindle in it the flames of desire, that have no power to give it rest, that cannot endure; and, while promising to charm you with their sweetness, torment you with perpetual agitations. _petrarch_. if you have any more effectual remedy, i beg you will point it out. you will never frighten me with talk like this; for i am not, as you suppose, infatuated with any creature that is mortal. you might have known that i have loved her physical charm loss than her soul, that what has captivated me has been a life above that of ordinary lives, the witnessing of which has shown me how the blessed live above. therefore, since you inquire of me (and the mere question is a torture to listen to) what i should do supposing she were to leave me and be the first to die--well, i should try and console myself in sorrow with lælius, the wisest of the romans. with him i should say, "it is her goodness that i loved and that is not dead;" and i would say to myself those other words that he pronounced after the death of him for whom he had conceived an affection surpassing all common affection.[4] _s. augustine._ you retire to error's inaccessible fastness, and it will not be easy to dislodge you. but as i notice you are inclined to listen much more patiently to the truth about yourself and her, sing the praises of your darling lady as much as you will, and i will gainsay nothing. were she a queen, a saint- "a very goddess, or to apollo's self own sister, or a mother of the nymphs,"[5] yet all her excellence will in nowise excuse your error. _petrarch_. let us see what fresh quarrel you seek with me? _s. augustine._ it is unquestionably true that oftentimes the loveliest things are loved in a shameful way. _petrarch._ i have already met that insinuation on a previous occasion. if any one could see the image of the love that reigns in my heart, he would recognise that there is no difference between it and that face that i have praised indeed much, but less by far than it deserves to be praised. i call to witness the spirit of truth in whose presence we are speaking when i assert that in my love there has never been anything dishonourable, never anything of the flesh, never anything that any man could blame unless it were its mere intensity. and if you add that even so it never passed the line of right, i think a fairer thing could never be conceived. _s. augustine._ i might reply to you with a word of cicero and tell you, "you are talking of putting boundary lines in vice itself."[6] _petrarch_. not in vice, but in love. _s. augustine_. but in that very passage he was speaking of love. do you remember where it occurs? _petrarch._ do i remember indeed? of course i have read it in the _tusculans_. but he was speaking of men's common love; mine is one by itself. _s. augustine._ other people, i fancy, might say the same of theirs; for true it is that in all the passions, and most of all in this, every man interprets his own case favourably, and there is point in the verse though from a common poet- "to every man his lady, then one to me assign; to every man his love affairs, and so let me have mine!"[7] _petrarch._ would you like, if you have time, to hear me tell you a few of those many charms of hers that would strike you with astonishment and admiration? _s. augustine._ do you think i am ignorant of all "those pleasant dreams that lovers use to weave"? every schoolboy knows the line, but i confess i am ashamed to hear such silliness from the lips of one whose words and thoughts should seek a higher range. _petrarch._ one thing i will not keep silence on,--call it silliness, call it gratitude, as you please,--namely, that to her i owe whatever i am, and i should never have attained such little renown and glory as i have unless she by the power of this love had quickened into life the feeble germ of virtue that nature had sown in my heart. it was she who turned my youthful soul away from all that was base, who drew me as it were by a grappling chain, and forced me to look upwards. why should you not believe it? it is a sure truth that by love we grow like what we love. now there is no backbiter alive, let his tongue be as sharp as it may, that has ventured to touch her good name, or dared to say he had seen a single fault, i will not say in her conduct, but even in any one of her gestures or words. moreover, those whisperers who leave no one's reputation untouched if they can help it, have been obliged in her, case to utter only reverence and respect. it is no wonder, then, if such a glory as hers should have fostered in my heart the longing for more conspicuous glory, and should have sweetened those hard toils which i had to endure if i would attain that which i desired. what were all the wishes of my youth but solely to please her who above all others had pleased me? and you are not ignorant that to gain my end i scorned delights a thousand times, i gave myself before my time to labour and to cares without number; and now you bid me forget or diminish somewhat of my love for her who first taught me how to escape the vulgar crowd, who guided all my steps, spurred on my lagging mind, and wakened into life my drowsy spirit. _s. augustine._ poor man! you would have done better to be silent than to speak, although even if you had been silent i should have discerned what you are within. but such stout words as these stir my indignation and anger. _petrarch._ i wonder why? _s. augustine._ to have a false opinion shows ignorance, but to keep on boldly proclaiming it shows pride as well as ignorance. _petrarch_. suppose you try and prove that what i think and say is false. _s. augustine._ it is all false; and, first, what you say as to owing all you are to her. if you mean that she has made you what you are, there you certainly lie; but if you were to say that it is she. who has prevented you being any more than you are, you would speak the truth. o what long contention would you have been spared if by the charm of her beauty she had not held you back. what you are you owe to the bounty of nature; what you might have been she has quite cut off, or rather let me say you yourself have cut it off, for she indeed is innocent. that beauty which seemed so charming and so sweet, through the burning flame of your desire, through the continual rain of your tears, has done away all that harvest that should have grown from the seeds of virtue in your soul. it is a false boast of yours that she has held you back from base things; from some perhaps she may, but only to plunge you into evils worse still. for if one leads you from some miry path to bring you to a precipice, or in lancing some small abscess cuts your throat, he deserves not the name of deliverer but assassin. likewise she whom you hold up as your guide, though she drew you away from some base courses, has none the less overwhelmed you in a deep gulf of splendid ruin. as for her having taught you to look upwards and separate yourself from the vulgar crowd, what else is it than to say by sitting at her feet you became so infatuated with the charm of her above as to studiously neglect everything else? and in the common intercourse of human life what can be more injurious than that? when you say she has involved you in toils without number, there indeed you speak truth. but what great gain is there in that? when there are such varied labours that a man is perforce obliged to engage in, what madness is it of one's own accord to go after fresh ones! as for your boasting that it is she who has made you thirst for glory, i pity your delusion, for i will prove to you that of all the burdens of your soul there is none more fatal than this. but the time for this is not yet come. _petrarch_. i believe the readiest of warriors first threatens and then strikes. i seem, however, to find threat and wound together. and already i begin to stagger. _s. augustine_. how much more will you stagger when i deliver my sharpest thrust of all? forsooth that woman to whom you profess you owe everything, she, even she, has been your ruin. _petrarch._ good heavens! how do you think you will persuade me of that? _s. augustine._ she has detached your mind from the love of heavenly things and has inclined your heart to love the creature more than the creator: and that one path alone leads, sooner than any other, to death. _petrarch._ i pray you make no rash judgment. the love which i feel for her has most certainly led me to love god. _s. augustine._ but it has inverted the true order. _petrarch._ how so? _s. augustine._ because 'every creature' should be dear to us because of our love for the creator. but in your case, on the contrary, held captive by the charm of the creature, you have not loved the creator as you ought. you have admired the divine artificer as though in all his works he had made nothing fairer than the object of your love, although in truth the beauty of the body should be reckoned last of all. _petrarch._ i call truth to witness as she stands here between us, and i take my conscience to witness also, as i said before, that the body. of my lady has been less dear to me than her soul. the proof of it is here, that the further she has advanced in age (which for the beauty of the body is a fatal thunderstroke) the more firm has been my admiration; for albeit the flower of her youth has withered visibly with time, the beauty of her soul has grown with the years, and as it was the beginning of my love for her, even so has it been its sustainer. otherwise if it had been her bodily form which attracted me, it was, ere this, time to make a change. _s. augustine._ are you mocking me? do you mean to assert that if the same soul had been lodged in a body ill-formed and poor to look upon, you would have taken equal delight therein? _petrarch._ i dare not say that. for the soul itself cannot be discerned, and the image of a body like that would have given no indication of such a soul. but were it possible for the soul to be visible to my gaze, i should most certainly have loved its beauty even though its dwelling-place were poor. _s. augustine._ you are relying on mere words; for if you are only able to love that which is visible to your gaze, then what you love is the bodily form. however, i deny not that her soul and her character have helped to feed your flame, for (as i will show you before long) her name alone has both little and much kindled your mad passion; for, as in all the affections of the soul, it happens most of all in this one that oftentimes a very little spark will light a great fire. _petrarch._ i see where you would drive me. you want to make me say with ovid- "i love at once her body and her soul."[8] _s. augustine._ yes, and you ought to confess this also, that neither in one or the other case has your love been temperate or what it should be. _petrarch._ you will have to put me to the torture ere i will make any such confession. _s. augustine._ and you will allow that this love has also cast you into great miseries. _petrarch._ though you place me on the block itself, i will not acknowledge any such thing. _s. augustine._ if you do not ignore my questions and conclusions, you will soon make both those confessions. tell me, then, can you recall the years when you were a little child, or have the crowding cares of your present life blotted all that time out? _petrarch._ my childhood and youth are as vividly before my eyes as if they were yesterday. _s. augustine._ do you remember, then, how in those times you had the fear of god, how you thought about death, what love you had for religion, how dear goodness and virtue were to you? _petrarch._ yes, i remember it all, and i am sorry when i see that as my years increased these virtues grew less and less in me. _s. augustine._ for my part i have ever been afraid lest the wind of spring should cut that early blossom off, which, if only it might be left whole and unhurt, would have produced a wondrous fruitage. _petrarch._ pray do not wander from the subject; for what has this to do with the question we were discussing? _s. augustine._ i will tell you. recall each step in your life, since your remembrance is so complete and fresh; recall all the course of your life, and recollect at what period this great change you speak of began. _petrarch._ i have run over in my mind all the course and number of my years. _s. augustine._ and what do you find? _petrarch._ i see that the doctrine in the treatise of pythagoras, of which i have heard tell and have read, is by no means void of truth. for when travelling the right road, still temperate and modest, i had reached the parting of the ways and had been bidden to turn to the right hand, whether from carelessness or perversity i know not, behold i turned to the left; and what i had read in my boyhood was of no profit to me- "here the ways part: the right will thee conduct to the walled palace of the mighty king and to elysium, but the left will lead where sin is punished and the malefactor goes to his dreaded doom."[9] although i had read of all this before, yet i understood it not until i found it by experience. afterwards i went wrong, in this foul and crooked pathway, and often in mind went back with tears and sorrow, yet could not keep the right way; and it was when i left that way, yes, that was certainly the time when all this confusion in my life began. _s. augustine_. and in what period of your age did this take place? _petrarch._ about the middle of my growing youth. but if you give me a minute or two, i think i can recall the exact year when it took place. _s. augustine_. i do not ask for the precise date, but tell me about when was it that you saw the form and feature of this woman for the first time? _petrarch._ never assuredly shall i forget that day. _s. augustine._ well now, put two and two together; compare the two dates. _petrarch._ i must confess in truth they coincide. i first saw her and i turned from my right course at one and the same time. _s. augustine._ that is all i wanted. you became infatuated. the unwonted dazzle blinded your eyes, so i believe. for they say the first effect of love is blindness. so one reads in the poet most conversant with nature- "at the first sight was that sidonian dame blinded," and then he adds presently- "with love was dido burning."[10] and though, as you well know, the story is but on ancient fable, yet did the poet in making it follow the order of nature. and when you had been struck blind by this meeting, if you chose the left-hand path it was because to you it seemed more broad and easy; for that to the right is steep and narrow, and of its hardship you were afraid. but that woman so renowned, whom you imagine as your most safe guide, wherefore did not she direct you upward, hesitating and trembling as you were? why did she not take you by the hand as one does the blind, and set you in the way where you should walk? _petrarch_. she certainly did so, as far as it was in her power. what but this was in her heart when, unmoved by my entreaties, unyielding to my caress, she safeguarded her woman's honour, and in spite of her youth and mine, in spite of a thousand circumstances that would have bent a heart of adamant, she stood her ground, resolute and unsubdued? yes, this womanly soul taught me what should be the honour and duty of a man; and to preserve her chastity she did, as seneca expresses it- "what was to me at once an example and a reproach."[11] and at last, when she saw the reins of my chariot were broken and that i was rushing to the abyss, she chose rather to part from me than follow where i went. _s. augustine_. base desires, then, sometimes you felt, though not long since you denied it? but it is the common folly of lovers, let me say of mad folk. one may say of them all alike- "i would not, yet i would; i would, yet would not."[12] you know not, any of you, what you want or what you want not. _petrarch_. without seeing, i fell into the snare. but if in past days my feelings were other than they are now, love and youth were the cause. now i know what i wish and what i desire, and i have at last made firm my staggering soul. she for her part has ever been firm in her mind and always the same. the more i understand this woman's constancy, the more i admire it; and if sometimes i regretted her resolution, now i rejoice in it and give her thanks. _s. augustine._ it is not easy to believe a man who has once taken you in. you may have changed the outside fashion of your life, but have not yet persuaded me that your soul is also changed. if your flame is calmed and softened somewhat, yet it is not for certain quite put out. but you who set such price on her you love, do you not see how deeply by absolving her you condemn yourself? you delight in seeing in her the model of purity, and you avow yourself to be without any feeling and a criminal; and you protest that she is the most happy of women, while her love has made you the most unhappy of men. if you remember, it is just what i said at the beginning. _petrarch._ yes, i remember. i cannot deny that what you say is true, and i see whither you are gradually leading me. _s. augustine._ to see it better still, lend me all your attention. nothing so much leads a man to forget or despise god as the love of things temporal, and most of all this passion that we call love; and to which, by the greatest of all desecrations, we even gave the name of god, without doubt only that we may throw a heavenly veil over our human follies and make a pretext of divine inspiration when we want to commit an enormous transgression. in the case of the other passions, the sight of the object, the hope of enjoying it, and the ardour of the will take us captive. love also demands all that, but in addition it asks also a reciprocal passion, without which it will be forced to die away. so, whereas in the other cases one loves singly and alone, in this case we must give love for love, and thus man's heart is stung and stung again. therefore, cicero was right when he wrote that "of all the passions of the soul, assuredly the most violent is love,"[13] and he must have been very certain of his ground when he added that "assuredly"--he who in four books shows he was aware how plato's academy doubted everything.[14] _petrarch_. i have often noticed that reference, and wondered that of the passions he should call this the most violent of all. _s. augustine._ your surprise would have vanished if you had not lost your powers of memory. but i must recall you by a short admonition to a recollection of its many evils. think what you were when that plague seized upon your soul; how suddenly you fell to bemoaning, and came to such a pitch of wretchedness that you felt a morbid pleasure in feeding on tears and sighs. passing sleepless nights, and murmuring ever the name of your beloved, scorning everything, hating life, desiring death, with a melancholy love for being alone, avoiding all your fellow-men, one might well apply to you, for they exactly fit your case, the lines in which homer describes bellerophon- "there in the pleasant fields he wandered sad, eating his heart, far from the ways of men."[15] what meant that pale face and wasted figure? that flower of your age withering before its time, those heavy eyes, ever bathed in tears, your mind in a state of agitation, your broken rest and troubled moans, even when you were asleep? why was your voice weak and altered through your sorrow of heart, and the very sound of your words, indistinct and broken, with whatever other token can be imagined, of a heart distressed and in disorder? do you call these the signs of one in good health? was it not this lady with whom for you every day, whether feast or fast, began and ended? was it not at her coming the sun shone forth, and when she left you, night returned? every change of her countenance brought a change in your heart; and if she were sad, you forthwith were filled with sadness. in a word, your life became wholly dependent upon hers. you know that i say but what is true and what is in every one's mouth. and what could be more senseless than that, not content with the presence of her living face, the cause of all your woes, you must needs obtain a painted picture by an artist[16] of high repute, that you might carry it everywhere with you, to have an everlasting spring of tears, fearing, i suppose, lest otherwise their fountain might dry up? of all such things you were only too vigilant, and you neglected everything else. but to come to that which is the very crowning instance of your folly, and of which i gave you warning a little while ago, who could sufficiently utter his indignation and amazement at this sign of a distempered mind, that, infatuated as much by the beauty of her name as of her person, you have with perfectly incredible silliness paid honour to anything that has the remotest connection with that name itself? had you any liking for the laurel of empire or of poetry, it was forsooth because the name they bore was hers; and from this time onwards there is hardly a verse from your pen but in it you have made mention of the laurel, as if indeed you were a denizen of peneus' stream,[17] or some priest on cirrha's[18] mount. and finally, discovering that the laurel of empire was beyond your reach, you have, with as little self-restraint as you showed in the case of your beloved herself, now coveted the laurel of poetry of which the merit of your works seemed to give more promise. although to gain your reward you were borne up on the wings of genius, yet will you shudder to remember with what trouble you attained it. i clearly divine what excuse you will make, and i see your thought the moment you open your lips. you will allege that you were devoted to these studies some time before you became a lover at all, and that desire for the glory of the poet's crown had kindled your heart from childhood. i neither deny it or forget it; but the fact of the usage being obsolete for centuries, and this being an epoch very unfavourable for studies like yours, the dangers also of long voyages, which would have brought you to the threshold of prison and of death itself, not to mention other obstacles of fortune no less violent than those--all these difficulties, i say, would perhaps have broken your resolve entirely, if the remembrance of a name so sweet, always entwining itself with your inmost soul, had not banished every other care, and drawn you over sea, over land, across mountains of difficulty, to rome and to naples, where at length you attained what you had longed for with such ardour. if all this seems to you the token of but a moderate passion, then at least shall be quite certain you are the victim of the moderate delusion. i purposely leave out what cicero was not ashamed to imitate from terence when he wrote, "wrongs, suspicions, fierce quarrels, jealousies, war, and then again peace--behold the miseries of love." do you not recognise at once in his words the madness and, above all, the madness of jealousy which, as one knows too well, is the ruling power in love as love is the ruling passion among all others? perhaps you may reply: "i admit it is so, but reason will be there to temper such excess." terence himself had anticipated your answer when he added- "such fickle things to settle by sane rule is to be sanely insane."[19] the phrase, the truth of which you will scarcely question, puts an end, unless i am mistaken, to all those subterfuges of yours. such, then, are the miseries of love, the particulars of which it is needless to mention to those who have proved them, and which would not be believed by those who never tried. but the worst of them all, to come back to our subject, is that it engenders a forgetfulness of god and of man's real state. for how should the soul thus crushed beneath these weights ever arise to that one and only most pure fountain of true good? and since it is so, you may lay aside your wonder that cicero should tell us no passion of man's soul seemed to him more violent than love. _petrarch_. i must own myself beaten; for it appears all you have said is taken from the very heart of the book of experience. and as you have quoted from the play of terence, let me please myself by bringing from there also this sad complaint- "o deed of shame! now am i foil of woe. weary i burn with love; with open eyes, brain clear, i am undone; and what to do i know not."[20] i would also call to mind this counsel from the same poet's words- "think, while there's time, again and yet again."[21] _s. augustine._ and i likewise from the lips of terence will give you my reply- "what in itself contains no rule or reason, by rule or reason you can never hold."[22] _petrarch._ what is to be done, then? am i to despair? _s. augustine._ that is the last thing in the world to do. however, let me briefly tell you the remedy i propose. you know that on this subject there are not only special treatises compiled by philosophers of eminence, but that some of the most famous poets have written on it whole books. it would be almost an insult to point out which they are, above all, to you who are a past-master in the whole field, or to offer any advice as to reading them; but perhaps i might say a word without offence to suggest in what way their study might be applied for your own welfare. first, then, notice what is said by cicero- "some think that an old love can best be driven out by a new, as one nail is by another."[23] and ovid agrees, giving this general rule- "old love affairs must always yield to new."[24] and without a doubt it is the truth, for the mind thus divided and parcelled out between different objects feels itself moved with less force towards each one. so the river ganges, they tell us, was divided up by the persian king into countless channels, and this river, that was so deep and formidable, was cut up into a thousand inconsiderable streamlets. and so an army, broken up and scattered, becomes vulnerable by the enemy; so fire dispersed dies down; in a word, every power in the world, if concentrated, increases, but by dispersion is reduced. on the other hand, i think this is not to be overlooked, that there may be great danger when you lay aside a passion and, if one may say so, a passion of the nobler kind; you may, if you are not watchful, fall into dissipation of another sort, run after women and become a loose libertine. in my judgment, then, if one must die for certain, there is some consolation in dying of a nobler rather than a less noble wound. so if you ask my advice, it is this: take your courage in both hands. fly, if you possibly can; and i would even say, go from one prison to another; perchance you might escape by the way or else find a milder discipline to be under. only beware, when your neck is freed from one such yoke as this, that you place it not under the weight of a crowd of more base and vile oppressions. _s. petrarch._ while the doctor is finishing his advice, will he allow the patient, in the throes of his malady, to interrupt him for a minute? _augustine._ of course. why not? many a doctor, guided by the symptoms of his patient thus declared, has been able to find the very remedy he needed. _petrarch._ then what i want to say is just this: for me to love another is impossible. my mind has grown only to love her; my eyes to look only for her; excepting her, all to them is nothing, or is mere darkness. and so if your remedy is that in order to be healed of this love i should love another, your condition is an impossible one. in that case all is over, and i am lost. _s. augustine._ your senses are dulled, your appetite is lost; since then you can take no internal remedy, one must have recourse to other treatment and see what can be done by change of scene. can you bring your mind to think of flight or exile and going right away from the places that you know? _petrarch_. though i feel that her attraction draws me to her with hooks of steel, nevertheless if i have to go, i can. _s. augustine_. if you can, you will be safe. what else can i say, then, but this advice of virgil's, changing only two little words- "ah! flee this land beloved, and leave behind shore to thee so dear."[25] for how can you continue in safety in these scenes where there are so many memories of your wounds, where things present and the memory of things past cling always to you? so that i say, as cicero also advises, "seek change of scene; take care to do as one does who is recovering from some illness."[26] _petrarch_. think of what you are prescribing. for how often and often, longing to get well, and familiar with advice like this, have i tried this remedy of flight; and though i have feigned various other reasons for it, yet the end and aim of all my peregrinations and all my retirement to the country was this one thing--to become free! for that i have wandered far away to the west, to the north, to the very confines of the ocean. far and wide have i roamed. you see what good it has done me. and so virgil's simile has many a time come home to my heart,- "e'en as the stricken deer, that unaware rooming afar in pleasant groves of crete, the hunter pierces with his weapon keen. and she unknowing o'er mount dicte's side flees wounded, and the fatal arrow cleaves to her poor side."[27] i am even as that deer. i have fled, but i bear everywhere my wound with me. _s. augustine._ yourself have given me the answer for which you look. _petrarch._ how so? _s. augustine_. why, do you not see that if a man bears his wound with him, change of scone is but an aggravation of his pain and not a means of healing it? one might say your case is just that of the young man who complained to socrates that he had been a tour and it had done him no good whatever. "you went touring with yourself,"[28] said the sage. you must first break off the old load of your passions; you must make your soul ready. _then_ you must fly. for it is proved to demonstration, not only in things physical but in moral also, that unless the patient is well disposed, the doctor's help is in vain. otherwise were you to go to the far-off indies, you will find that horace only spoke truth when he said- "who cross the ocean making peace their goal, change but their sky and cannot change their soul." or thus- "we come to this; when o'er the world we range, 'tis but our climate, not our mind, we change."[29] _petrarch_. i must say i cannot follow you. you give me a prescription to cure and heal my soul and tell me i must first heal it and then flee. now, my difficulty is i do not know how to heal it. if it is cured, what more do i need? but if, again, it is not cured, what good will change of scene bring me? the help you offer me is useless. tell me briefly what are the remedies i must use? _s. augustine._ i did not say that you must cure and heal your soul. what i said was you must make it ready. as for the rest, either you will be cured, and the change of scene will then establish your health on a firm footing; or you will not yet be cured, but only made ready, and then the change of scene will have the same ultimate result. but, if your soul is neither cured nor made ready, this change and frequent moving from place to place will only stir up its grief. i will still advise you to take a leaf out of horace's book- "for if the cure of mental ills is due to sense and wisdom, not a fine sea view,"[30] --what he says is true. you will set out full of the hope and the wish to return, carrying along with you all that has ensnared your soul. in whatever place you are, to whatever side you turn, you will behold the face, you will hear the voice of her whom you have left. by that sad enchantment that belongs to lovers, you will have power to see her though you are absent, and to hear her though she is far away; and do you imagine that love is to be extinguished by subterfuges like this? believe me, it will rather burn more fiercely. those who call themselves masters in the art of love enjoin among their other maxims short absences one from another on the part of lovers, for fear they should become tired of seeing each other face to face or from their importunity. therefore i advise, i recommend, i enjoin upon you that you learn to wholly sever your soul from that which weighs it down and go away without hope of return. you will discover then, but not before, what absence is able to do for the soul's healing. if fate had placed your lot in some unhealthy plague-stricken region where you were liable to constant illness, should you not flee from it never to return? and so i counsel you to do now, unless, as i much fear, men care more for their body than their soul. _petrarch_. that is their affair. but undoubtedly if i found myself ill on account of the unhealthiness of the place i was in, i should choose for my recovery some place with a healthier climate, and i should act in the same way, and with stronger reasons still, in case of maladies of the soul. yet, as far as i can see, the cure of these is a more difficult matter. _s. augustine_. the united testimony of the greatest philosophers proves the falsity of that assertion. it is evident that all the maladies of the soul can be healed if only the patient puts no obstacle in the way, although many diseases of the body are incurable by any known means. for the rest, and not to go too far from our subject, i stick to my judgment. you must, as i said, make your soul ready, and teach it to renounce the object of its love, never once to turn back, never to see that which it was wont to look for. this is the only sure road for a lover; and if you wish to preserve your soul from ruin, this is what you must do. _petrarch._ that you may see how perfectly i have learned all you have said, let me recapitulate that to go for change of scene is useless, unless the soul is first made ready; such journeys will cure it when made ready, and will establish it when once cured. is not that the conclusion of your threefold precept? _s. augustine._ yes, it is precisely that, and you sum up very well what i have unfolded. _petrarch._ i could have divined your two first truths by myself, without you pointing them out; but as for the third, that the soul, when it is cured and established in health, still needs absence, i do not understand it, unless it is the fear of a relapse that is the motive of what you say. _s. augustine._ but you surely do not suppose that to be a slight point even in bodily health? and how much more grave a matter ought one to think it in regard to the soul, where a relapse is so much more rapid and dangerous. so i would say, let us refer once more to what seems one of the soundest remarks of seneca, where in a letter he writes, "if any man wishes to have done with love he must avoid all recollection of the beloved form," and adds as his reason, "for nothing is so easily rekindled to life again as love."[31] o how true a saying is that, and from what profound experience of life is he speaking! but it is needless to call any other witness of this than your own knowledge will supply. _petrarch._ yes, i agree he speaks truth, but if you notice he is speaking not of one who already has done with love, but of one who wishes to have done with it. _s. augustine_. he speaks of any man who is in danger. any kind of blow is more dangerous if there is some wound before unhealed, or some disease not yet cured; and even afterwards it is not safe. and since we remember most, instances that have come home to us in our own experience, let me ask how often have you who speak to me not found yourself, as you went about these well-known spots, by their mere look, though no person met you, reminded of your former vanities; standing speechless, full of sighs, as you pace this town that has been, i will not say the cause, but at any rate the scene of all your evils; though before you came back to it you thought you were cured, and would have been to a very great extent if only you had remained away? and then with difficulty restraining your tears, half-wounded to death, you have fled, and cried to your own heart, "here in these places i see at every turn the ambush of my ancient foe. the signs of death are ever about me!" so, then, were you healed already, if you would take counsel of me, i should say, "do not stay long in this place. it is not wise for the prisoner who has broken his chains to go wandering round the prison gates, ever ready to take him in again, before which the jailer is ever on guard, laying his traps with special care to recapture those whose escape he regrets. "the downward path to hell is ever smooth, its dismal gate is open night and day."[32] if precautions like these are needful for men in health, how much more are they in the case of those who have not yet shaken off their sickness. it is of the latter that seneca was thinking when he wrote that maxim. he was giving counsel to those who were most in danger, for it was no use to speak of those whom the flame had already devoured and who were past all care for their safety. he addressed himself to those in another stage, who still felt the heat but tried to come forth of the flame. many a sick man on the way to recovery has been thrown back by a draught of water which before his illness would have done him no harm; and often has one wearied out, with a long day's work, been knocked down by some trifling shake which when he was in his full strength would not have moved him at all. it needs but a trifle sometimes, when the soul is emerging from its miseries, to plunge it quite back once more into the abyss. to see the purple on the shoulders of another will rouse again all our sleeping ambition; the sight of a little pile of money sets up our thirst for gold; one look at some fair lady will stir again our desire; the light glance of an eye will awaken sleeping love. it is no wonder plagues like these take possession of your minds, when you see the madness of the world; and when once they have found their way back to the soul, they come with fatal ease. and since it is so, it is not enough merely to leave a plague-stricken spot, but you, o man, must keep on in your flight for life, till you have escaped everything that might drag the soul back to its old passions; for fear lest, when you return from the pit with orpheus and look back, you lose your eurydice once more. such is the sum of my counsel. _petrarch_. i accept it heartily and with thankfulness, for i feel that the remedy is suited to my wound. my intention is to fly, but i know not yet where lies the direction i should choose. _s. augustine._ a thousand ways are open to you to make choice of on every side; a thousand ports are ready to receive you. i know that, more than to other lands, your heart turns to italy, and that a love of your native soil is inborn in you; and you are right, for- "not media's forests rich, nor ganges' stream, though fair it be, nor hermus rolling gold, may vie with italy; bactria and ind, and all pachaia with its odours rare shall not be mentioned."[33] i think you have yourself not long ago, in a letter to one of your friends,[34] treated this theme of the famous poet at fuller length in a latin poem. italy then would be my choice for you; because the ways of its people, its climate, the sea washing its shores, the apennine range coming between them, all promise that a sojourn there would be better suited to extirpate your troubles than going anywhere else in the world. i would not, however, wish to confine you only to one corner of the land. go under good auspices wherever inclination may lead; go without fear and with a free mind; take no backward glances, forget the past and step forward to the future. see how long you have been a stranger to your own country and your own self. it is time to return, for- "o now 'tis evening, and the night is chiefly friend to thieves."[35] i warn you in words of your own. one further counsel i must urge which i had nearly forgotten. you must avoid solitude, until you are quite sure that you have not a trace of your old ailment left. you told me that a country life had done you no good. there is nothing surprising in that. what remedy were you likely to find in a place all lonely and remote? let me confess that often when you were retreating thither all by yourself, sighing, and turning longing eyes back to the town, i have laughed heartily and said to myself: "what a blindfold fool love has made of this unhappy wight! and led him to quite forget the verse that every schoolboy knows, about flying from his trouble and finding his death." _petrarch_. i am afraid you are right, but what are the lines to which you allude? _s. augustine._ ovid, of course. "lover! whoe'er you be, dwell not alone; in solitude you're sure to be undone. you're safer in a crowd; the word is true, lone woods are not the place for such as you."[36] _petrarch_. yes, i remember them perfectly, and knew them almost by heart from my childhood. _s. augustine._ much good has it done you to know so many things yet not know how to suit them to your need. when you not only know all the testimony of the ancients, but have yourself proved the evils of solitude, it astonishes me that you should commit such a blunder as to seek it. you have, in fact, often complained that there was no good in being alone. you have expressed it in a thousand places, and especially in the fine poem you composed on your own misfortune. the sweet accents of it charmed me while you were writing.[37] it surprised me to hear a song so harmonious arise from a soul so full of agitation, and come from the lips of a man so far out of his senses and i asked myself what power of love can stay the offended muses from abandoning so dire a nest of troubles, and, scared by such aberration of mind in their host, forsaking utterly their wonted dwelling? i thought of words of plato, "let no man wholly sane knock at poe try'd door," and then of aristotle, who followed him and said, "all great genius has a touch of madness in it,"[38] but i remembered that in these sayings of theirs they were thinking of a frenzy far indeed removed from yours. however, we will return to this subject at some other time. _petrarch_. i must fain own what you say is the truth; but i never thought to have made verses so harmonious as to be worth your praise and commendation. they will be all the dearer to me now that i know it. if you have other remedy to offer me, i beg you withhold it not from him who is in need. _s. augustine_. to unfold all one knows is the act of a braggart more than of a wise friend. and remember that men did not invent all the sundry kinds of remedies, internal and external, for diverse kinds of sickness, on purpose that each and every one should be tried on every occasion; but that, as seneca remarks to lucilius, "nothing is so contrary to the work of healing as a frequent change of remedy; and no wound will ever be healed perfectly, to which first one and then another medicine is continually applied. the true way is only to try the new when the old remedy has failed."[39] so, then, although the remedies for this kind of ailment are many and varied, i will content myself with only pointing out a few, and i will choose those which in my judgment will best suit your need. for indeed, i have no wish merely to show you what is new, but only to tell you, of all those which are known, what remedies, so far as i can judge, are most likely in your case to be efficacious. there are three things, as cicero says, that will avert the mind of man from love,--satiety, shamefastness, reflection.[40] there may indeed be more; there may be less. but, to follow the steps of so great an authority, let us suppose there are three. it will be useless for me to speak of the first in your case, because you will judge it is impossible you should ever come to satiety of your love. but still if your passion will hear the voice of reason and judge the future from the past, you will readily agree that an object, even the most beloved, can produce, i do not say satiety only, but even weariness and disgust. now, as i am quite sure i should be entering on a vain quest if i embark on this track, because, even if it were granted that satiety is a possible thing, and that it kills love, you will pretend that by the ardour of your passion you are a thousand leagues removed from any such possibility, and, as i am not at all disposed to deny it, what remains is for me to touch only upon the other two remedies that are left. you will not wish to dispute my assertion that nature has endowed you with a certain power of reason, and also with some talent for forming a weighty judgment. _petrarch._ unless i am deceived by acting as judge in my own cause, what you say is so true that i am often inclined to fear i am too wanting in what is due both to my sex and this age; wherein, as you doubtless observe, everything goes to the shameless. honours, prosperity, wealth--all these hold the field; and to these, virtue itself, nay even fortune, must give way.[41] _s. augustine._ do you not see what conflict there is between love and shamefastness? while the one urges the soul forward, the other holds it back; the one drives in the spur, the other pulls hard at the bridle; the one looks at nothing, the other watches carefully on every side. _petrarch_. this is only too familiar to me, and i feel to my cost how distracted is my life by passions so contrary. they come upon me by turn, so that my poor spirit, tossed hither and thither, knows not which impulse to obey. _s. augustine._ do you mind telling me if you have looked in your glass lately? _petrarch._ and, pray, what do you ask that question for? i have only done as usual. _s. augustine._ heaven grant you do it no oftener, neither with more self-complacency, than you should! well, and have you not noticed that your face is changing from day to day, and that from time to time grey hairs begin to show themselves around your temples? _petrarch._ is that all? i thought you were about to ask me something out of the common; but to grow up, to grow old, to die is the common lot of all that are born. i have observed what befalls almost all my contemporaries; for nowadays men seem to age more quickly than they used to, though i know not why or wherefore. _s. augustine._ the growing old of others will not give you back your youth, neither will their dying bring you immortality. so let us leave on one side everything else and return to your own case. tell me; when you have noticed these signs of change in your body, has it not brought some change also in your soul? _petrarch._ it has certainly made some impression on me, but not exactly a change. _s. augustine._ what, then, were your thoughts, and what did you say to yourself? _petrarch._ what would you have me say, except what was said by domitian the emperor, "with even mind i brook the sight of watching, though still young, my hairs grow grey."[42] so illustrious an example has consoled me for what grey hairs i too behold. and if i needed more, i brought to mind a king beside that emperor; i mean numa pompilius the second, who, as the historian relates, had grey hair even from his youth. and poetry as well as history comes to my aid, since in his bucolics our own virgil, writing when he was but five-and-twenty, speaking of himself in the person of a shepherd, exclaims- "when now my whitening beard the razor knew."[43] _s. augustine._ what vast abundance of examples you can command! pray heaven you have as many recollections of your own death. for i praise not those exemplars that lead one to dissemble grey hairs which are the heralds of old age, and the _avant-couriers_ of death. and good those examples are not, if their effect is to take you off the trouble of remembering how time flies, and to lead you to forget your own last hour; to the recollection of which the whole of my discourse is entirely and without ceasing directed. when i bid you think on your own whitening forehead, do you quote me a crowd of famous men whose locks were white also? what does it prove? ah, if you were able to say these were immortal, then you might from their example put away the dread of your changing brow. if instead of mentioning greyness i had ventured to hint that you were getting bald, you would, i suppose, have thrown julius cæsar in my teeth! _petrarch_. certainly. what more illustrious example could i need? now, unless i am mistaken, it is in fact a great comfort to find oneself surrounded by companions so famous. yes, i will freely admit that i am not disposed for a moment to reject such examples, which are, for me, part of the luggage i carry daily in my mind; for it is a pleasure to me not only in such misfortunes as nature or chance have already allotted me, but also in those which they may still have in store; it is a pleasure, i say, to have ever at hand such matter of comfort and consolation as i can obtain only from some truly cogent reason or outstanding example. if, then, you meant to reproach me for being afraid of thunder--a charge i could not deny (and one of the chief reasons why i love the laurel is because it is said that thunder will not strike this tree), then i shall reply to you that this was a weakness cæsar augustus shared; if you allege that i am getting blind (and there also you would be right), i should quote you appius cæcus and also homer, the prince of poets; if you call me one-eyed, i will, shield myself behind hannibal, the punic leader, or philip, king of macedon; call me deaf, and marcus crassus shall be my defence; say i cannot stand the heat, and i will say i am but like alexander, prince of macedonia. it were tedious to go through all the list; but after these you can judge who they would be. _s. augustine._ yes, perfectly. i am nowise displeased with your wealth of instances, provided it does not make you self-negligent and only serves to disperse the clouds of fear and sadness. i applaud anything that helps a man to face with courage the coming of old age, and keeps him from bewailing its presence when it has arrived. but i loathe and abominate profoundly everything that conceals from him the truth that old age is the port of departure from this life, and blinds him to the need of reflecting on death. to take with equanimity the going grey before one's time is the sign of a good natural disposition; but to try and interpose artificial checks, to cheat time of his years, to raise an outcry and declare grey hairs are come too soon, to begin dyeing or plucking them out, is a piece of folly, which, common as it may be, is none the less egregious for all that. you perceive not, o blind that you are, how swiftly the stars roll in their course, and how soon the flight of time consumes the space of your short life, and you marvel when you see old age coming on, hastening quickly the despatch of all your days. two causes seem to foster this delusion. the first is that even the shortest life is partitioned out by some people into four, by others into six, and by others again into a still larger number of periods; that is to say, the reality is so small, and as you cannot make it longer, you think you will enlarge it by division. but of what profit tis all this dividing? make as many particles as you like, and they are all gone in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. "yesterday was born the baby, see to-day the lovely boy, then the young man quick as may be, then an end of life and joy." you observe with what quick hurrying words the subtle poet has sketched out the swift course of our life. so it is in vain you strive to lengthen out what nature, the mother of us all, has made so short. the second cause is that you will persist in letting old age find you still in the midst of games and empty pleasures; like the old trojans who in their customary ways passed the last night without perceiving. "the cunning, fatal horse, who bore within those armed bands, had overleapt the wall of pergamos."[44] yes, even so you perceive not that old age, bringing in his train the armed warrior death, unpitying and stem, has over-leapt the weakly-guarded rampart of your body; and then you find your foe has already glided by stealth along his rope- "and now the invader climbs within the gate and takes the city in its drunken sleep."[45] for in the gross body and the pleasure of things temporal, not less drunk are you than those old trojans were, as virgil saw them, in their slumber and their wine. or, looking to another quarter, no less truth is to be found in the neat lines of the satirist-"our lives unfold in morning air as lilies of a day, 'come bring us wine,' we shout. 'ho, there, fetch garlands, odours, damsels fair.' but ah! before we are aware, old age sweeps all away."[46] now, to come back to our subject and to yourself, when this old age comes stealing on and knocks at your door, you make an effort to bar him out. you pretend that by some infraction of the order of nature he has come too soon. you are delighted when you come across some rather elderly person who declares he knew you when you were a child, especially if, as people generally do, he makes out it was but yesterday or the day before. you find it convenient to forget that one can say as much about any old dotard however decrepit. who was not a child yesterday, or to-day, as far as that goes? we can look here and there and find infants of ninety quarrelling about trifles and even now occupied with infantine toys. the days flee away, the body decays, the soul is where it was. though everything is rotten with age, the soul has never grown up, never come to maturity, and it is a truth, as the proverb says, "one soul uses up many bodies." infancy passes, but, as seneca remarks, "childishness remains."[47] and, believe me, perhaps you are not so young as you imagine, for the greater part of mankind have not yet reached the age which you have. blush, therefore, to pass for an aged lover; blush to be so long the public's jest; and if true glory has no charm for you and ridicule no terror, at least let change of heart come to the rescue and save you from disgrace. for, if i see things at all truly, a man should guard his reputation, if only to spare his own friends the shameful necessity of telling lies. all the world owes this to itself, but especially such a man as yourself, who have so great a public to justify, and one which is always talking of you. "great is the task to guard a great man's name."[48] if in your poem of _africa_ you make a truculent enemy tender such good counsel to your beloved scipio, you may well allow, for your own profit, a father, who loves you tenderly, to utter with his lips the very same monition. put away the childish things of infancy; quench the burning desires of youth; think not all the time of what you are going to be and do next; look carefully what you are now; do not imagine that the mirror has been put before your eyes for nothing, but remember that which is written in the book of questions on nature:-"mirrors were invented that men might know themselves. much profit comes thereby. first, knowledge of self; second, wise counsel. you are handsome, then beware of what disfigures: plain, then make up by virtue what is wanting in good looks. you are young, then remember youth's springtime is the time for study and for manly work: old, then lay aside the ugly vices off the flesh and turn your thoughts to what will be the latter end."[49] _petrarch_. it has dwelt in my remembrance always, from the first day that ever i read it; for the thing itself is worth remembering and its warning is wise. _s. augustine._ of what profit has it been to you to read and remember? you had better excused yourself had you pleaded ignorance for your shield. knowing what you do, are you not ashamed to see that your grey hairs have brought no change in you? _petrarch._ i am ashamed, i regret it, i repent of it, but as for doing more, i cannot. moreover, you know i have this much of consolation, that she too is growing old with me. _s. augustine._ the very word of julia, cæsar augustus' daughter! doubtless it has lain fixed in your mind, has it not? when her father found fault because she would not have older people round her, as did livia, she parried the paternal reproof by the neat rejoinder--"they will be older as soon as i am."[50] but pray, tell me, do you suppose that at your age it will be more becoming to doat upon an old woman than to love a young one? on the contrary, it is the more unbecoming, as the reason for loving is less. well may you take shame to yourself never to grow any wiser though you see your body daily growing older. that is all i can say on the subject of shame. but, as cicero tells us, it is but a poor thing to make shame do the work of reason; and so to reason, the true source of all remedies, let us now turn for help. you will assuredly find it through using deep reflection--the third of the things that turn the soul away from love. remember what you are now called to is that citadel wherein alone you can be quite safe against the incursions of passion and by which alone you will deserve the name of man. consider, then, first how noble a thing is the soul, and that so great is it that were i to discourse as i should wish, i must needs make a whole book thereon. consider, again, the frailty and vileness of the body, which would demand no less full treatment than the other. think also of the shortness of our life, concerning which many great men have left their books. think of the flight of time, that no one yet has been able to express in words. think of death, the fact so certain, the hour so uncertain, but everywhere and at all times imminent. think how men are deceived just in this one point, that they believe they can put off what in fact never can be put off: for no one is really such a fool as, supposing the question is asked him, not to answer that of course some day he will die. and so let not the hope of longer life mock you, as it mocks so many others, but rather lay up in your heart the verse that seems as it were an oracle of heaven- "count every day that dawns to be your last,"[51] for is it not so that to mortal men every day is in truth the last, or all but the last? consider, moreover, how shameful it is to have men point the finger at you, and to become a public laughing-stock; remember, too, how ill your profession accords with a life like this. think how this woman has injured your soul, your body, your fortune. remember what you have borne for her, all to no purpose: how many times you have been mocked, despised, scorned; think what flatteries, what lamentations, and of all the tears you have cast upon the wind; think how again and again she has heaped all this on you with an air of haughty disdain, and how if for a moment she showed herself more kind, it was but for the passing of a breath and then was gone. think, moreover, how much you have added to her fame, and of what she has subtracted from your life: how you have ever been jealous for her good name, but she has been always regardless of your very self and condition. remember how she has turned you aside from loving god, and into how great miseries you have fallen, known to me, but which i pass in silence lest the birds of the air carry the matter abroad. think, moreover, what tasks on all sides are claiming your attention, and by which you may do far more good and deserve far more honour: how many things you have on hand, as yet uncompleted, to which it would be far better for you to return, and devote more time, instead of attempting them so perfunctorily as you have en doing lately. finally, ponder well what that thing is for which you have such consuming desire. but think like a man and with your wits about you; for fear lest while you are in the act of flying you be cunningly entangled, as not a few have been when beauty's fascinating charm steals upon them by some little, unlooked-for channel, and then is fed and strengthened by evil remedies. for how be there that have once tasted this seductive pleasure and can retain enough manliness, not to say courage, to rate at its true value that poor form of woman of which i speak. only too easily man's strength of mind gives way, and with nature pressing on, he falls soonest on that side to which he has long leaned. take most earnest heed that this happen not to you. banish every recollection of those old cares of yours: put far away from you every vision of the past, and, as one has said in a certain place, "dash the little children against the stones,"[52] lest if they grow up you yourself be cast into the mire. and defer not to knock at heaven's door with prayers; let your supplications weary the ears of the heavenly king; day and night lift up your petition with tears and crying, if perchance the almighty will take compassion upon you and give an end to your sore trouble and distress. these are the things that you must do, these the safeguards you must employ; if you will observe them faithfully the divine help will be at hand, as i trust; and the right hand of the deliverer whom none can resist will succour you. but albeit i have spoken on this one malady what is too short for your needs but too long for the briefness of our time, let us pass now to another matter. one evil still is left, to heal you of which i now will make a last endeavour. _petrarch._ even so do, most gentle father. for though i be not yet wholly set free from my burdens, yet, nevertheless, from great part of them i do feel in truth a blessed release. _s. augustine._ ambition still has too much hold on you. you seek too eagerly the praise of men, and to leave behind you an undying name. _petrarch._ i freely confess it. i cannot beat down that passion in my soul. for it, as yet, i have found no cure. _s. augustine_. but i greatly fear lest this pursuit of a false immortality of fame may shut for you the way that leads to the true immortality of life. _petrarch._ that is one of my fears also, but i await your discovering to me the means to save my life; you, of a truth, will do it, who have furnished me with means for the healing of evils greater still. _s. augustine_. think not that any of your ills is greater than this one, though i deny not that some may be more vile. but tell me, i pray you, what in your opinion is this thing called glory, that you so ardently covet? _petrarch._ i know not if you ask me for a definition. but if so, who so capable to give one as yourself? _s. augustine._ the name of glory is well enough known to you; but to the real thing, if one may judge by your actions, you are a stranger. if you had known what it is you would not long for it so eagerly. suppose you define glory, with cicero, as being "the illustrious and world-wide renown of good services rendered to one's fellow citizens, to one's country, or to all mankind"; or as he expresses it elsewhere, "public opinion uttering its voice about a man in words of praise."[53] you will notice that in both these cases glory is said to be reputation. now, do you know what this reputation is? _petrarch._ i cannot say any good description of it occurs to me at the moment; and i shrink from putting forward things i do not understand. i think, therefore, the truer and better course is for me to keep silence. _s. augustine_. you act like a wise and modest man. in every serious question, and especially when the matter is ambiguous, one should pay much less attention to what one will say than to what one will not say, for the credit of having said well is something much less than the discredit of having said ill. now i submit to you that reputation is nothing but talk about some one, passing from mouth to mouth of many people. _petrarch._ i think your definition, or, if you prefer the word, your description, is a good one. _s. augustine_. it is, then, but a breath, a changing wind; and, what will disgust you more, it is the breath of a crowd. i know to whom i am speaking. i have observed that no man more than you abhors the manners and behaviour of the common herd. now see what perversity is this! you let yourself be charmed with the applause of those whose conduct you abominate; and may heaven grant you are only charmed, and that you put not in their power your own everlasting welfare! why and wherefore, i ask, this perpetual toil, these ceaseless vigils, and this intense application to study? you will answer, perhaps, that you seek to find out what is profitable for life. but you have long since learned what is needful for life and for death. what was now required of you was to try and put in practice what you know, instead of plunging deeper and deeper into laborious inquiries, where new problems are always meeting you, and insoluble mysteries, in which you never reach the end. add to which the fact that you keep toiling and toiling to satisfy the public; wearying yourself to please the very people who, to you, are the most displeasing; gathering now a flower of poesy, now of history--in a word, employing all your genius of words to tickle the ears of the listening throng. _petrarch_. i beg your pardon, but i cannot let that pass without saying a word. never since i was a boy have i pleased myself with elegant extracts and flowerets of literature. for often have i noted what neat and excellent things cicero has uttered against butchers of books, and especially, also, the phrase of seneca in which he declares, "it is a disgrace for a man to keep hunting for flowers and prop himself up on familiar quotations, and only stand on what he knows by heart."[54] _s. augustine._ in saying what i did, i neither accuse you of idleness nor scant memory. what i blame you for is that in your reading you have picked out the more flowery passages for the amusement of your cronies, and, as it were, packed up boxes of pretty things out of a great heap, for the benefit of your friends--which is nothing but pandering to a desire of vainglory; and, moreover, i say that, not being contented with your duty of every day (which, in spite of great expense of time, only promised you some celebrity among your contemporaries), you have let your thoughts run on ages of time and given yourself up to dreams of fame among those who come after. and in pursuit of this end, putting your hand to yet greater tasks, you entered on writing a history from the time of king romulus to that of the emperor titus, an enormous undertaking that would swallow up an immensity of time and labour. then, without waiting till this was finished, goaded by the pricks of your ambition for glory, you sailed off in your poetical barque towards africa; and now on the aforesaid books of your _africa_ you are hard at work, without relinquishing the other. and in this way you devote your whole life to those two absorbing occupations--for i will not stop to mention the countless others that come in also--and throw utterly away what is of most concern and which, when lost, cannot be recovered. you write books on others, but yourself you quite forget. and who knows but what, before either of your works be finished, death may snatch the pen from your tired hand, and while in your insatiable hunt for glory you hurry on first by one path, then the other, you may find at last that by neither of them have you reached your goal? _petrarch._ fears of that kind have sometimes come over me, i confess. and knowing i suffered from grave illness, i was afraid death might not be far off. nothing then was more bitter to me than the thought of leaving my _africa_ half finished. unwilling that another hand should put the finishing touch, i had determined that with my own i would cast it to the flames, for there was none of my friends whom i could trust to do me this service after i was gone. i knew that a request like that was the only one of our virgil's which the emperor cæsar augustus declined to grant. to make a long story short, this land of africa, burnt already by that fierce sun to which it is for ever exposed, already three times by the roman torches devastated far and wide, had all but yet again, by my hands, been made a prey to the flames. but of that we will say no more now, for too painful are the recollections that it brings. _s. augustine._ what you have said confirms my opinion. the day of reckoning is put off for a short time, but the account remains still to be paid. and what can be more foolish than thus to waste such enormous labour over a thing of uncertain issue? i know what prevents you abandoning the work is simply that you still hope you may complete it. as i see that there will be some difficulty (unless i am mistaken) in getting you to diminish this hope, i propose we try to magnify it and so set it out in words that you will see how disproportionate it is to toils like yours. suppose, therefore, that you have full abundance of time, leisure, and freedom of mind; let there be no failure of intellect, no languor of body, none of those mischances of fortune which, by checking the first onrush of expression, so often stop the ready writer's pen; let all things go better even than you had dared to wish--still, what considerable work do you expect to achieve? _petrarch._ oh, certainly, one of great excellence, quite out of the common and likely to attract attention. _s. augustine._ i have no wish to seem contradictory: let us suppose it may be a work of great excellence. but if you knew of what greater excellence still is the work which this will hinder, you would abhor what you now desire. for i will go so far as to assert that this work of yours is, to begin with, taking off your attention from cares of a nobler kind; and, greatly excellent as you think it, has no wide scope nor long future before it, circumscribed as it must be by time and space. _petrarch._ well do i know that old story bandied about by the philosophers, how they declare that all the earth is but a tiny point, how the soul alone endures for infinite millions of years, how fame cannot fill either the earth or the soul, and other paltry pleas of this sort, by which they try to turn minds aside from the love of glory. but i beg you will produce some more solid arguments than these, if you know any; for experience has shown me that all this is more specious than convincing. i do not think to become as god, or to inhabit eternity, or embrace, heaven and earth. such glory as belongs to man is enough for me. that is all i sigh after. mortal myself, it is but mortal blessings i desire. _s. augustine._ oh, if that is what you truly mean, how wretched are you! if you have no desire for things immortal, if no regard for what is eternal, then you are indeed wholly of the earth earthy: then all is over for you; no hope at all is left. _petrarch._ heaven defend me from such folly! but my conscience is witness, and knows what have been my desires, that never have i ceased to love with burning zeal the things eternal. i said--or if, perchance, i am mistaken, i intended to say--that my wish was to use mortal things for what they were worth, to do no violence to nature by bringing to its good things a limitless and immoderate desire, and so to follow after human fame as knowing that both myself and it will perish. _s. augustine._ there you speak as a wise man. but when you declare you are willing to rob yourself of the riches that will endure merely for the sake of what you own is a perishing breath of applause--then you are a fool indeed. _petrarch_. true, i may be postponing those riches, but not relinquishing them altogether. _s. augustine._ but how dangerous is such delay, remembering that time flies fast and how uncertain our short life is. let me ask you a question, and i beg you to answer it. suppose that he who alone can fix our time of life and death were this day to assign you one whole year, and you had the definite certainty of how would you propose to use that year? _petrarch_. assuredly i should use great economy of time, and be extremely, careful to employ it on serious things; and i suppose no man alive would be so insolent or foolish as to answer your question in any other way. _s. augustine._ you have answered rightly. and yet the folly men display in this case is matter of astonishment, not to me only but to all those who have ever written on this subject. to set forth what they feel, they have combined every faculty they possess and employed all their eloquence, and even then the truth itself will leave their utmost efforts far behind. _petrarch._ i fear i do not understand the motive of so great astonishment. _s. augustine._ it is because you are covetous of uncertain riches and altogether wasteful of those which are eternal, doing the very contrary of what you ought to do, if you were not quite devoid of wisdom. so this space of a year, though short enough indeed, being promised you by him who deceives not, neither is deceived, you would partition out and dissipate on any kind of folly, provided you could keep the last hour for the care of your salvation! the horrible and hateful madness of you all is just this, that you waste your time on ridiculous vanities, as if there were enough and to spare, and though you do not in the least know if what you have will be long enough for the supreme necessities of the soul in face of death. the man who has one year of life possesses something certain though short; whereas he who has no such promise and lies under the power of death (whose stroke may fall at any moment), which is the common lot of all men--this man, i say, is not sure of a year, a day; no, not even of one hour. he who has a year to live, if six months shall have slipped away, will still have another half-year left to run; but for you, if you lose the day that now is, who will promise you to-morrow?[55] it is cicero who says: "it is certain that we must die: what is uncertain is whether it will be to-day; and there is none so young that-he can be sure he will live until the evening."[56] i ask, then, of you, and i ask it likewise of all those who stand gaping after the future and pay no heed to the present, "who knows if the high gods will add even one morrow to this your little day of life?"[57] _petrarch_. if i am to answer for myself and for all: no one knows, of a truth. but let us hope for a year at least; on which, if we are still to follow cicero, even the most aged reckons! _s. augustine._ yes; and, as he also adds, not old men only but young ones too are fools in that they cherish false hope, and promise themselves uncertain goods as though they were certain.[58] but let us take for granted (what is quite impossible) that the duration of life will be long and assured: still, do you not find it is the height of madness to squander the best years and the best parts of your existence on pleading only the eyes of others and tickling other men's ears, and to keep the last and worst--the years that are almost good for nothing--that bring nothing but distaste for life and then its end--to keep these, i say, for god and yourself, as though the welfare of your soul were the last thing you cared for? even supposing the time were certain, is it not reversing the true order to put off the best to the last? _petrarch._ i do not think my way of looking at it is so unreasonable as you imagine. my principle in that, as concerning the glory which we may hope for here below, it is right for us to seek while we are here below. one may expect to enjoy that other more radiant glory in heaven, when we shall have there arrived, and when one will have no more care or wish for the glory of earth. therefore, as i think, it is in the true order that mortal men should first care for mortal things; and that to things transitory things eternal should succeed; because to pass from those to these is to go forward in most certain accordance with what is ordained for us, although no way is open for us to pass back again from eternity to time. _s. augustine._ o man, little in yourself, and of little wisdom! do you, then, dream that you shall enjoy every pleasure in heaven and earth, and everything will turn out fortunate and prosperous for you always and everywhere? but that delusion has betrayed thousands of men thousands of times, and has sunk into hell a countless host of souls. thinking to have one foot on earth and one in heaven, they could neither stand here below nor mount on high. therefore they fell miserably, and the moving breeze swept them suddenly away, some in the flower of their age, and some when they were in midst of their years and all their business. and do you suppose what has befallen so many others may not befall you? alas! if (which may god forefend!) in the midst of all your plans and projects you should be cut off--what grief, what shame, what remorse (then too late!) that you should have grasped at all and lost all! _petrarch._ may the most high in his mercy save me from that misery! _s. augustine._ though divine mercy may deliver a man from his folly, yet it will not excuse it. presume not upon this mercy overmuch. for if god abhors those who lose hope, he also laughs at those who in false hope put their trust. i was sorry when i heard fall from your lips that phrase about despising what you called the old story of the philosophers on this matter. is it, then, an old story, pray, by figures of geometry, to show how small is all the earth, and to prove it but an island of little length and width? is it an old story to divide the earth into five zones, the largest of which, lying in the centre, is burned by the heat of the sun, and the two utmost, to right and left, are a prey to binding frost and eternal snow, which leave not a corner where man can dwell; but those other two, between the middle and two utmost zones, are inhabited by man? is it an old story that this habitable part is divided again into two parts, whereof one is placed under your feet, guarded by a vast sea, and the other is left you to inhabit everywhere, or, according to some authorities, is again in two parts subdivided, with but one part habitable and the other surrounded by the winding intricacies of the northern ocean, preventing all access to it? as to that part under your feet, called the antipodes, you are aware that for a long time the most learned men have been of two opinions whether it is inhabited or not: for myself, i have set forth my opinion in the book called _the city of god_, which you have doubtless read. is it also an old story that your habitable part, already so restricted, is yet further diminished to such an extent by seas, marshes, forests, sand and deserts, that the little corner left you, of which you are so proud, is brought down to almost nothing? and, finally, is it an old story to point out to you that on this narrow strip, where you dwell, there are divers kinds of life, different religions which oppose one another, different languages and customs, which render it impossible to make the fame of your name go far? but if these things are to you nought but fables, so, to me, all i had promised myself of your future greatness must be a fable also; for i had thought, hitherto, that no man had more knowledge of these things than you yourself to say nothing of the conceptions of cicero and virgil and other systems of knowledge, physical or poetic, of which you seemed to have a competent knowledge, i knew that not long since, in your _africa,_ you had expressed the very same opinions in these pretty lines- "the universe itself is but an isle confined in narrow bounds, small, and begirt by ocean's flowing waves."[59] you have added other developments later on, and now that i know you think them all fables, i am astonished you have put them forth with such hardihood. what shall i say now of the brief existence of human fame, the short, short span of time, when you know too well how small and recent even the oldest memory of man is if compared to eternity? i spare to call to your mind those opinions of the men of old, laid up in plato's _timæus_ and in the sixth book of cicero's _republic,_ where it is foretold what floods and conflagrations shall be coming not seldom on the earth. to many men such things have seemed probable; but they wear a different aspect to those who, like yourself, have come to know the true religion. and besides these, how many other things there are that militate against, i do not say the eternity, but even the survival of one's name. first there is the death of those with whom one has passed one's life; and that forgetfulness which is the common bane of old age: then there is the rising fame, ever growing greater, of new men; which always, by its freshness, is somewhat derogatory to that of those who went before, and seems to mount up higher just in so far as it can depress this other down. then you must add, also, that persistent envy which ever dogs the steps of those who embark on any glorious enterprise; and the hatred of truth itself, and the fact that the very life of men of genius is odious to the crowd. think, too, how fickle is the judgment of the multitude. and alas for the sepulchres of the dead! to shatter which- "the wild fig's barren branch is strong enough,"[60] as juvenal has told us. in your own _africa_ you call this, elegantly enough, "a second death"; and if i may here address to you the same words you have put in the mouth of another- "the animated bust and storied urn shall fall, and with them fall thy memory, and thou, my son, thus taste a second death."[61] lo, then, how excellent, how undying that glory must be which the fall of one poor stone can bring to nought! and, then, consider the perishing of books wherein your name has been written, either by your own hand or another's. even though that perishing may appear so much more delayed as books outlast monuments, nevertheless it is sooner or later inevitable; for, as is the case with everything else, there are countless natural or fortuitous calamities to which books are ever exposed. and even if they escape all these, they, like us, grow old and die- "for whatsoever mortal hand has made, with its vain labour, shall be mortal too,"[62] if one may be allowed, for choice, to refute your childish error by your own words. what need to say more? i shall never cease to bring to your recollection lines of your own making which only too truly fit the case. "when your books perish you shall perish too; this is the third death, still to be endured."[63] and now you know what i think about glory. perhaps i have used more words in expressing it than was needful for you or me; and yet fewer, i believe, than the importance of the subject demands--unless perchance you still think all these things only an old story? _petrarch_. no indeed. what you have been saying--so far from seeming to me like old stories--has stirred in me a new desire to get rid of my old delusions. for albeit that these things were known to me long ago, and that i have heard them oftentimes repeated, since, as terence puts it- "everything that one can say has all been said before,"[64] nevertheless the stateliness of phrase, the orderly narration, the authority of him who speaks, cannot but move me deeply. but i have yet a last request to make, which is that you will give me your definite judgment on this point. is it your wish that i should put all my studies on one side and renounce every ambition, or would you advise some middle course? _s. augustine._ i will never advise you to live without ambition; but i would always urge you to put virtue before glory. you know that glory is in a sense the shadow of virtue. and therefore, just as it is impossible that your body should not cast a shadow if the sun is shining, so it is impossible also in the light of god himself that virtues should exist and not make their glory to appear. whoever, then, would take true glory away must of necessity take away virtue also; and when that is gone man's life is left bare, and only resembles that of the brute beasts that follow headlong their appetite, which to them is their only law. here, therefore, is the rule for you to live by--follow after virtue and let glory take care of itself; and as for this, as some one said of cato, the less you seek it the more you will find it. i must once more allow myself to invoke your own witness- "thou shalt do well from honour's self to flee, for then shell honour follow after thee."[65] do you not recognise the verse? it is your own. one would surely think that man a fool who at midday should run here and there in the blaze of the sun, wearing himself out to see his shadow and point it out to others; now the man shows no more sense or reason who, amid the anxieties of life, takes huge trouble, first one way, then another, to spread his own glory abroad. what then? let a man march steadily to the goal set before him, his shadow will follow him step by step: let him so act that he shall make virtue his prize, and lo! glory also shall be found at his side. i speak of that glory which is virtue's true companion; as for that which comes by other means, whether from bodily grace or mere cleverness, in the countless ways men have invented, it does not seem to me worthy of the name. and so, in regard to yourself, while you are wearing your strength out by such great labours in writing books, if you will allow me to say so, you are shooting wide of the mark. for you are spending all your efforts on things that concern others, and neglecting those that are your own; and so, through this vain hope of glory, the time, so precious, though you know it not, is passing away. _petrarch._ what must i do, then? abandon my unfinished works? or would it be better to hasten them on, and, if god gives me grace, put the finishing touch to them? if i were once rid of these cares i would go forward, with a mind more free, to greater things; for hardly could i bear the thought of leaving half completed a work so fine and rich in promise of success. _s. augustine._ which foot you mean to hobble on, i do not know. you seem inclined to leave yourself derelict, rather than your books. as for me, i shall do my duty, with what success depends on you; but at least i shall have satisfied my conscience. throw to the winds those great loads of histories; the deeds of the romans have been celebrated quite enough by others, and are known by their own fame. get out of africa and leave it to its possessors. you will add nothing to the glory of your scipio or to your own. he can be exalted to no higher pinnacle, but you may bring down his reputation, and with it your own. therefore leave all this on one side, and now at length take possession of yourself; and to come back to our starting-point, let me urge you to enter upon the meditation of your last end, which comes on step by step without your being aware. tear off the veil; disperse the shadows; look only on that which is coming; with eyes and mind give all your attention there: let nought else distract you. heaven, earth, the sea--these all suffer change. what can man, the frailest of all creatures, hope for? the seasons fulfil their courses and change; nothing remains as it was. if you think you shall remain, you are deceived. for, horace beautifully says- "the losses of the changing heaven, the changing moons repair; but we, when we have gone below, and our rich land no longer know, and hear no more its rivers flow, are nought but dust and air."[66] therefore, as often as you watch the fruits of summer follow the flowers of spring, and the pleasant cool of autumn succeed the summer heat, and winter's snow come after autumn's vintage, say to yourself: "the seasons pass, yet they will come again; but i am going, never again to return." as often as you behold at sunset the shadows of the mountains lengthening on the plain, say to yourself: "now life is sinking fast; the shadow of death begins to overspread the scene; yonder sun to-morrow will again be rising the same, but this day of mine will never come back." who shall count the glories of the midnight sky, which, though it be the time that men of evil heart choose for their misdoing, yet is it to men of good heart the holiest of all times? well, take care you be not less watchful than that admiral of the trojan fleet;[67] for the seas you sail upon are no more safe than his; rise up at the mid hour of night, and "all the stars, that in the silent sky roll on their way, observe with careful heed."[68] as you see them hasten to their setting in the west, think how you also are moving with them; and that as for your abiding you have no hope, saving only in him who knows no change and suffers no decline. moreover, when you meet with those whom you knew but yesterday as children, and see them now growing up in stature to their manhood, stage by stage, remember how you in like manner, in the same lapse of time, are going down the hill, and at greater speed, by that law in nature under which things that are heavy tend to fall. when your eyes behold some ancient building, let your first thought be, where are those who wrought it with their hands? and when you see new ones, ask, where, soon, the builders of them will be also? if you chance to see the trees of some orchard, remember how often it falls out that one plants it and another plucks the fruit; for many a time the saying in the _georgics_ comes to pass- "one plants the tree, but eh, the slow-grown shade his grandchild will enjoy."[69] and when you look with pleased wonder at some swiftly flowing stream, then, that i bring no other poet's thought, keep ever in mind this one of your own- "no river harries with more rapid flight than life's swift current."[70] neither let multitude of days or the artificial divisions of time deceive your judgment; for man's whole existence, let it be never so prolonged, is but as one day, and that not a day entire. have oftentimes before your eyes one similitude of aristotle's, whom i know to be a favourite of yours; and his words i am sure you never read or hear without feeling them deeply. you will find it reported by cicero in the _tusculan orations_, and in words possibly even more clear and impressive than the original. here is what he says, or very nearly so, for at the moment i have not his book at hand:-"aristotle tells us that on the banks of the river hypanis, which on one side of europe empties itself into the euxine sea, there exists a race of little animals who only live one day. any one of them that dies at sunrise dies young; he that dies at noon is middle-aged; and should one live till sunset, he dies in old age: and especially is this so about the time of the solstice. if you compare the time of man's life with eternity, it will seem no longer than theirs."[71] so far i give you cicero; but what he says seems to me so beyond all cavil that now for a long time the saying has passed from the tongue of philosophers into common speech. every day you hear even ignorant and unlearned men, if they chance to see a little child, make use of some expression like this--"well, well, it's early morning with him yet"; if they see a man they will say, "oh, it's high noon with him now," or "he's well in the middle of his day"; if they see one old and broken down they will remark, "ah! he's getting toward evening and the going down of the sun." ponder well on these things, my very dear son, and on others akin to them, which will, i doubt not, flock into your thoughts, as these on the spur of the moment have come into mine. and one more thing i beseech you to have in mind: look at the graves of those older, perhaps, than you, but whom nevertheless you have known; look diligently, and then rest assured that the same dwelling-place, the same house, is for you also made ready. thither are all of us travelling on; that is our last home. you who now, perchance, are proud and think that your springtime has not quite departed, and are for trampling others underfoot, you in turn shall underfoot be trampled. think over all this; consider it by day and by night; not merely as a man of sober mind and remembering what nature he is of, but as becomes a man of wisdom, and so holding it all fast, as one who remembers it is written "a wise man's life is all one preparation for death."[72] this saying will teach you to think little of what concerns earthly things, and set before your eyes a better path of life on which to enter. you will be asking me what is that kind of life, and by what ways you can approach it? and i shall reply that now you have no need of long advice or counsel. listen only to that holy spirit who is ever calling, and in urgent words saying, "here is the way to your native country, your true home." you know what he would bring to mind; what paths for your feet, what dangers to avoid. if you would be safe and free obey his voice. there is no need for long deliberations. the nature of your danger calls for action, not words. the enemy is pressing you from behind, and hastening to the charge in front; the walls of the citadel, where you are besieged, already tremble. there is no time for hesitation. of what use is it to make sweet songs for the ears of others, if you listen not to them yourself? i must draw to an end. shun the rocks ahead, at all costs; drop anchor in a place of safety; follow the lead which the inspirations of your own soul give you. they may, on the side of what is evil, be evil; but towards that which is good they are themselves of the very best. _petrarch_. ah! would that you had told me all this before i had surrendered myself over to these studies! _s. augustine._ i have told you, many a time and oft. from the moment when i saw you first take up your pen, i foresaw how short life would be, and how uncertain: how certain, too, and how long the toil. i saw the work would be great and the fruit little, and i warned you of all these things. but your ears were filled with the plaudits of the public, which, to my astonishment, took you captive, although you talked as if you despised them. but as we have now been conferring together long enough, i beg that if any of my counsels have seemed good to you, you will not allow them to come to nothing for want of energy or recollection; and if, on the other hand, i have sometimes been too rough, i pray you take it not amiss. _petrarch_. indeed i owe you a deep debt of gratitude, as for many other things, so, especially, for this three days' colloquy; for you have cleansed my darkened sight and scattered the thick clouds of error in which i was involved. and how shall i express my thankfulness to her also, the spirit of truth, who, unwearied by our much talking, has waited upon us to the end? had she turned away her face from us we should have wandered in darkness: your discourse had then contained no sure truth, neither would my understanding have embraced it. and now, as she and you have your dwelling-place in heaven, and i must still abide on earth, and, as you see, am greatly perplexed and troubled, not knowing for how long this must be, i implore you, of your goodness, not to forsake me, in spite of that great distance which separates me from such as you; for without you, o best of fathers, my life would be but one long sadness, and without her i could not live at all. _s. augustine._ you may count your prayer already granted, if you will only to yourself be true: for how shall any one be constant to him who is inconstant to himself? _petrarch._ i will be true to myself, so far as in me lies. i will pull myself together and collect my scattered wits, and make a great endeavour to possess my soul in patience. but even while we speak, a crowd of important affairs, though only of the world, is waiting my attention. _s. augustine._ for the common herd of men these may be what to them seem more important; but in reality there is nothing of more importance, and nothing ought to be esteemed of so much worth. for, of other trains of thought, you may reckon them to be not essential for the soul, but the end of life will prove that these we have been engaged in are of eternal necessity. _petrarch._ i confess they are so. and i now return to attend to those other concerns only in order that, when they are discharged, i may come back to these. i am not ignorant that, as you said a few minutes before, it would be much safer for me to attend only to the care of my soul, to relinquish altogether every bypath and follow the straight path of the way of salvation. but i have not strength to resist that old bent for study altogether. _s. augustine_. we are falling into our old controversy. want of will you call want of power. well, so it must be, if it cannot be otherwise. i pray god that he will go with you where you go, and that he will order your steps, even though they wander, into the way of truth. _petrarch._ o may it indeed be as you have prayed! may god lead me safe and whole out of so many crooked ways; that i may follow the voice that calls me; that i may raise up no cloud of dust before my eyes; and, with my mind calmed down and at peace, i may hear the world grow still and silent, and the winds of adversity die away. _francis petrarch, poet, most illustrious orator; his book, which he entitled secretum; in which a three days' discussion concerning contempt of the world is carried on._ finis. [1] _de senectute_, xxiii. [2] _æneid_, vi. 428-29. [3] "tarda sit illa dies et nostro serior ævo."--_met._ xv. 868. [4] this refers to the second scipio africanus, and the words alluded to are these: "it is his goodness that i loved, and that is not dead; it lives not alone for me, who have had it ever before my eyes, but it will go down in all its beauty to those who come after. whenever a man is meditating some great undertaking, or shall be nourishing in his breast great hopes, his shall be the memory, and his the image that such a man shall take for a pattern."--cicero, _de amicitiâ_, xxvii. [5] _æneid,_ i. 328-29. [6] cicero, _tusculan orations,_ iv. 18. [7] quoted from attilius in cicero's _letters to atticus,_ xiv. [8] ovid, _amores_, i. x. 13. [9] _æneid_, vi. 540-43. [10] _æneid_, i. 613 [11] seneca, _de beneficiis,_ vii. 8. [12] terence, _phormio_, 949. [13] _tusculan orations_, iv. 35 [14] academica. [15] quoted from tusculan orations, iii. 26. [16] simone martini, of siena. [17] a river in thessaly. [18] a town in phocis, near delphi. [19] terence, _eunuch,_ 59-63. [20] terence, _eunuch,_ 70-73. [21] _ibid.,_ 56. [22] _ibid._ 57, 58. [23] _tusculan orations_, iv. 35. [24] _de remediis amoris,_ i. 162. [25] _æneid,_ iii. 44. [26] _tusculan orations,_ iv. 35. [27] _æneid_, iv. 69-73. [28] seneca, _epist._, xxviii. [29] horace, _epistles_, book i., _epist._, xi. 27 (conington). [30] horace, _epist.,_ book i., xi. 25-26 (conington). [31] seneca's _epist.,_ lxiv. [32] _æneid,_ vi. 126-27. [33] _georgics,_ ii. 136-39. [34] ildebrandino di conte, bishop of padua, _epist._ cxi. 25. [35] petrarch's _penitential psalms,_ iii. (translated by george chapman). [36] ovid's _de remediis amoris_, 579-80. [37] petrarch's _epistles,_ i. 7. [38] quoted in seneca's treatise, _de animæ tranquillitate_, xv. [39] seneca's _epistles,_ ii. [40] _tusculan orations,_ iv. 35. [41] the text here is obscure. [42] suetonius domitian, xviii. [43] virgil, _eclogues,_ i. 29. [44] _æneid,_ vi. 615-16. [45] _ibid.,_ ii. 265. [47] seneca, _epistles,_ iv. [48] petrarch's _africa_, vii. 292. [49] seneca, _de natura quæstiones,_ i. 17. [50] macrobius _saturnalia,_ ii 5. [51] horace, _epistles_, i 4, 13. [52] ps. cxxxi. 9. [53] cicero, _pro marcello_, viii. [54] seneca, _letters_. [55] _de senectute_, xx. [56] _ibid.,_ xix. [57] horace, _odes,_ iv. 7,17. [58] _de senectute_, xix. [59] _africa_, ii. 361, 363. [60] _satira,_ x. 145. [61] _africa,_ ii. 481, &c. [62] _africa_, ii. 455-6. [63] _ibid._, ii. 464-5. [64] terence's _eunuch,_ 41. [65] _africa_, ii 486. [66] horace, _odes_, iv. 7, 13-16. [67] palinurus. [68] <b>æneid</b>, iii. 515. [69] _georgics_, ii. 58. [70] petrarch's epist., i. iv. 91-2. [71] _tusculan orations_, i. 39. [72] _tusculan orations_, i. 30. proofreading team. the colloquies of erasmus. translated by n. bailey. _edited, with notes, by the rev. e. johnson, m.a._ vol. i. london: 1878. contents. vol. i. _prefatory note_ _dedication_ _admonitory note_ _to the divines of_ louvain _copy of_ bailey's _title_ bailey's _preface_ _life of_ erasmus _courtesy in saluting_ _family discourse_ _of rash vows_ _of benefice-hunters_ _of a soldier's life_ _the commands of a master_ _the school-master's admonitions_ _of various plays_ _the child's piety_ _the art of hunting_ _scholastic studies_ _the profane feast_ _the religious treat_ _the apotheosis of_ capnio _a lover and maiden_ _the virgin averse to matrimony_ _the penitent virgin_ _the uneasy wife_ _the soldier and carthusian_ philetymus _and_ pseudocheus _the shipwreck_ _diversoria_ _young man and harlot_ _the poetical feast_ _an enquiry concerning faith_ _the old mens dialogue_ _the franciscans,_ [greek: ptôchoplousioi], _or rich beggars_ _the abbot and learned woman_ _the epithalamium of petrus ægidius_ _the exorcism or apparition_ _the alchymist_ _the horse-cheat_ _the beggars' dialogue_ _the fabulous feast_ _the lying-in woman_ prefatory note. the present english version of erasmus' _colloquies_ is a reprint of the translation of n. bailey, the compiler of a well-known dictionary. in his preface bailey says, "i have labour'd to give such a translation as might in the general, be capable of being compar'd with the original, endeavouring to avoid running into a paraphrase: but keeping as close to the original as i could, without latinizing and deviating from the english idiom, and so depriving the english reader of that pleasure that erasmus so plentifully entertains his reader with in latin." this is a modest and fair account of bailey's work. the chief peculiarity of his version is its reproduction of the idiomatic and proverbial latinisms, and generally of the classical phrases and allusions in which erasmus abounds, in corresponding or analogous english forms. bailey had acquired, perhaps from his lexicographical studies, a great command of homely and colloquial english; the words and phrases by which he frequently _represents_ rather than construes erasmus' text have perhaps in many instances not less piquancy than the original. thus his translation, as a piece of racy english, has a certain independent value of its own, and may be read with interest even by those who are familiar with the original. in preparing this volume for the press, bailey's text has been carefully revised, and clerical errors have been corrected, but the liberty has not been taken of altering his language, even to the extent of removing the coarsenesses of expression which disfigure the book and in which he exaggerates the plain speaking of the original. literary feeling is jealous, no doubt justly, on general grounds, of expurgations. further, throughout the greater part of the work, the translation has been closely compared with the latin original. occasional inaccuracies on bailey's part have been pointed out in the appendix of notes at the end of the volume. the literal sense of the original, sometimes its language, has in many of these notes been given, with the view of increasing the interest of perusal to the general reader. the remainder of the notes are, like the contents of the volume, of a miscellaneous character: philological, antiquarian, historical. they do not, of course, profess to supply an exhaustive commentary; but are designed to afford elucidations and illustrations of the text that may be intelligible and instructive to the english reader, and possibly to some extent to the scholar. the colloquies of erasmus form a rich quarry of intellectual material, from which each student will extract that which he regards to be of peculiar value. the linguist, the antiquary, the observer of life and manners, the historian, the moralist, the theologian may all find themselves attracted to these pages. it is hoped that there are many who at the present time will welcome the republication, in english, of a book which not only produced so great a sensation in europe on its appearance, but may be said to have had something to do with the making of history. it is unnecessary to do more than refer to the fact that the editor undertook his task under certain inconveniences, and limitations as to space and time, which have prevented him from satisfying his own idea of what the book should be. he trusts it will not be found wanting in accuracy, however falling short of completeness. the latin text used has been that of p. scriver's edition, printed by the elzevirs. 1643. a translation of erasmus' dedication to young froben has been added; also of several pieces from the _coronis apologetica_, not given by bailey, which contain matters of interest bearing upon the history or contents of the book. dedication. _d. erasmus_ rot. to _john erasmius froben_, _a boy of excellent promise: greeting._ the book dedicated to you has surpassed my expectation, my dearest erasmius: it will be your part to take care that _you_ do not disappoint my expectation. our studious youth are so in love with the book, seize upon it so eagerly, handle it so constantly, that your father has had repeatedly to print it, and i to enrich it with new additions. you might say it too was an [greek: herasmion], the delight of the muses, who foster sacred things. it will be the more your endeavour that you also may be what you are called, that is, that you may be, by learning and probity of manners, "most endeared" to all good men. it were deep cause for shame, if, while this book has rendered so many both better latin scholars and better men, you should so act that the same use and profit should not return to yourself, which by your means has come to all. and since there are so many young fellows, who thank you for the sake of the colloquies, would it not be justly thought absurd, if through your fault the fact should seem that you could not thank me on the same account? the little book has increased to the fair size of a volume. you must also endeavour, in proportion as your age increases, to improve in sound learning and integrity of manners. no ordinary hopes are placed upon you: it is indispensable that you should answer to them; it would be glorious for you to surpass them; disappoint them you surely cannot without the greatest disgrace. nor do i say this, because your course thus far gives me occasion for regret, but by way of spurring the runner, that you may run more nimbly; especially since you have arrived at an age, than which none happier occurs in the course of life for imbibing the seeds of letters and of piety. act then in such a way, that these colloquies may be truly called yours. the lord jesus keep the present season of your life pure from all pollutions, and ever lead you on to better things! farewell. basil, _august 1st._, 1524. an admonitory note of erasmus on the tricks and impostures of a certain dominican, who had published in france the colloquies of erasmus ridiculously interpolated by himself. _a book of colloquies had appeared, the material of which was collected partly from domestic talks, partly from my papers; but with a mixture of certain trivialities, not only without sense, but also in bad latin,--perfect solecisms. this trash was received with wonderful applause; for in these matters too fortune has her sport. i was compelled therefore to lay hands on these trumperies. at length, having applied somewhat greater care, i added considerable matter, so that the book might be of fair size, and in fact might appear worthy even of the honour of being dedicated to john erasmius, son of froben, a boy then six years old, but of extraordinary natural ability. this was done in the year 1522. but the nature of this work is such, that it receives addition as often as it is revised. accordingly i frequently made an addition for the sake of the studious, and of john froben; but so tempered the subject-matters, that besides the pleasure of reading, and their use in polishing the style, they might also contain that which would conduce to the formation of character. even while the book i have referred to contained nothing but mere rubbish, it was read with wonderful favour by all. but when it had gained a richer utility, it could not escape [greek: tôn sykophantôn dêgmata]. a certain divine of louvain, frightfully blear of eye, but still more of mind, saw in it four heretical passages. there was also another incident connected with this work worth relating. it was lately printed at paris with certain passages corrected, that is to say, corrupted, which appeared to attack monks, vows, pilgrimages, indulgences, and other things of that kind which, if held in great esteem among the people, would be a source of more plentiful profit to gentlemen of that order. but he did this so stupidly, so clumsily, that you would swear he had been some street buffoon: although the author of so silly a piece is said to be a certain divine of the dominican order, by nation a saxon. of what avail is it to add his name and surname, which he himself does not desire to have suppressed? a monster like him knows not what shame is; he would rather look for praise from his villany. this rogue added a new preface in my name, in which he represented three men sweating at the instruction of one boy: capito, who taught him hebrew, beatus greek, and me, latin. he represents me as inferior to each of the others alike in learning and in piety; intimating that there is in the colloquies a sprinkling of certain matters which savour of luther's dogmas. and here i know that some will chuckle, when they read that capito is favoured by such a hater of luther with the designation of an excellent and most accomplished man. these and many things of the like kind he represents me as saying, taking the pattern of his effrontery from a letter of jerome, who complains that his rivals had circulated a forged letter under his name amongst a synod of bishops in africa; in which he was made to confess that, deceived by certain jews, he had falsely translated the old testament from the hebrew. and they would have succeeded in persuading the bishops that the letter was jerome's, had they been able in any tolerable degree, to imitate jerome's style. although jerome speaks of this deed as one of extreme and incurable roguery, our phormio takes peculiar delight in this, which is more rascally than any notorious book. but his malicious will was wanting in power to carry out what he had intended. he could not come up to erasmus' style, unpolished though it be: for he thus closes his flowery preface:_ thus age has admonished, piety has bidden me, while life is still spared in my burdensome age, to cleanse my writings, lest those who follow my mournful funeral should transcribe my departed soul! _such being the man's style throughout, he has nevertheless not shrunk from interweaving his flowers with my crowns; either pleasing himself in a most senseless manner, or having a very ill opinion of the judgment of divines. for these things were composed for their benefit, all of whom he supposes to be such blockheads that they will not instantly detect the patch-work he has so awkwardly sewn together. so abjectly does he everywhere flatter france, paris, the theologians, the sorbonne, the colleges, no beggar could be more cringing. accordingly, if anything uncomplimentary seems to be said against the french, he transfers it to the british; or against paris, he turns it off to london. he added some odious sayings as if coming from me, with the view of stirring up hatred against me amongst those by whom he is grieved to know me beloved. it is needless to dwell upon the matter. throughout he curtails, makes additions, alterations after his fashion, like a sow smeared with mud, rolling herself in a strange garden, bespattering, disturbing, rooting up everything. meanwhile, he does not perceive that the points made by me are quite lost. for example, when to one who says_, 'from a dutchman you are turned into a gaul,'[a] _the answer is made_, 'what? was i a capon then, when i went hence?': _he alters_ 'from a dutchman you are turned into a briton. what? was i a saxon, then, when i went hence?' _again, when the same speaker had said_, 'your garb shows that you are changed from a batavian into a gaul,' _he puts_ 'briton' _for_ 'gaul'; _and when the speaker had replied_, 'i had rather that metamorphosis, than into a hen,' _alluding to_ 'cock:' _he changed_ 'hen' _into_ 'bohemian.' _presently, when there is a joke_, 'that he pronounces latin in french style,' _he changes_ 'french' _into_ 'british,' _and yet allows the following to stand_, 'then you will never make good verses, because you have lost your quantities'; _and this does not apply to the british. again, when my text reads_, 'what has happened to the gauls' _(cocks)_ 'that they should wage war with the eagle?' _he thus spoils the joke_, 'what has happened to the pards, that they should go to war with the lilies? _as if lilies were in the habit of going forth to war. occasionally he does not perceive that what follows his alterations does not hang together with them. as in the very passage i had written_, 'is paris free from the plague?' _he alters_, 'is london free[b] from the plague?' _again, in another place, where one says_, 'why are we afraid to cut up this capon?' _he changes_ 'capon' _into_ 'hare'; _yet makes no alteration in what follows_, 'do you prefer wing or leg?' _forsooth, although he so kindly favours the dominican interest that he desired to sit among the famous commissaries: nevertheless he bears with equal mind a cruel attack on scotus. for he made no change in what one says in my text_, 'i would sooner let the whole of scotus perish than the books of one cicero.' _but as these things are full of folly, so very many of the contents bear an equal malice joined to folly. a speaker in my text rallies his comrade, who, although of abandoned life, nevertheless puts faith in indulgentiary bulls. my corrector makes the former confess that he, along with his master luther, was of opinion that the pope's indulgences were of no value; presently he represents the same speaker as recanting and professing penitence for his error. and these he wants to appear my corrections. o wondrous atlases of faith! this is just as if one should feign, by means of morsels dipped in blood, a wound in the human body, and presently, by removing what he had supplied, should cure the wound. in my text a boy says_, 'that the confession which is made to god is the best;' _he made a correction, asserting_ 'that the confession which is made to the priest is the best.' _thus did he take care for imperilled confession. i have referred to this one matter for the sake of example, although he frequently indulges in tricks of this kind. and these answer to the palinode (recantation) which he promises in my name in his forged preface. as if it were any man's business to sing a palinode for another's error; or as if anything that is said in that work of mine under any character whatever, were my own opinion. for it does not at all trouble me, that he represents a man not yet sixty, as burdened with old age. formerly, it was a capital offence to publish anything under another man's name; now, to scatter rascalities of this kind amongst the public, under the pretended name of the very man who is slandered, is the sport of divines. for he wishes to appear a divine when his matter cries out that he does not grasp a straw of theological science. i have no doubt but that yonder thief imposed with his lies upon his starved printer; for i do not think there is a man so mad as to be willing knowingly to print such ignorant trash. i ceased to wonder at the incorrigible effrontery of the fellow, after i learnt that he was a chick who once upon a time fell out of a nest at berne, entirely [greek: hek kakistou korakost kakiston hôon]. this i am astonished at, if the report is true: that there are among the parisian divines those who pride themselves on having at length secured a man who by the thunderbolt of his eloquence is to break asunder the whole party of luther and restore the church to its pristine tranquility. for he wrote also against luther as i hear. and then the divines complain that they are slandered by me, who aid their studies in so many night-watches; while they themselves willingly embrace monsters of this description, who bring more dishonour to the order of divines and even of monks, than any foe, however foul-mouthed, can do. he who has audacity for such an act as this, will not hesitate to employ fire or poison. and these things are printed at paris, where it is unlawful to print even the gospel, unless approved by the opinion of the faculty. this last work of the colloquies, with the addition of an appendix, is issued in the month of september, 1524._ [footnote a: gallus: meaning also a cock.] [footnote b: _immunis_ instead of _immune_ agreeing with londinum.] * * * * * _from a letter of erasmus dated 5th oct. 1532, we gather some further particulars about the obnoxious person above referred to. his name was lambert campester. subsequently to his exploit at paris in printing a garbled edition of the colloquies, he "fled to leyden; and pretending to be a great friend of erasmus, found a patron, from whom having soon stolen 300 crowns, fled, was taken in his flight amongst some girls, and would have been nailed to a cross, had not his sacred dominican cowl saved him. he, i say, many other offences and crimes having been proved against him, is at length in a certain town of germany, called, i think, zorst, in the duchy of juliers,--his cowl thrown aside, teaching the gospel, that is, mere sedition. the duke begged them to turn the fellow out. they answered that they could not do without their preacher. and this sort of plague spreads from day to day."_ #erasmus roterodamus# to the _divines of louvain_, _his dearly beloved brethren in the lord, greeting._ a matter has been brought to my knowledge, not only by rumour, but by the letters of trustworthy friends, expressly stating in what words, in what place, a calumny was directed against me in our midst, through the agency of a well-known person, who is ever true to himself; whose very character and former doings lead one to assume as ascertained fact what in another would have been but probable. accordingly, i thought i ought to make no concealment of the matter; especially from you, whose part it was to restrain the unbridled impudence of the fellow, if not for my sake, at all events for that of your order. he boasts and vociferates that in the book of colloquies there are four passages more than heretical: concerning the _eating of meats_ and _fasting_, concerning _indulgences_, and concerning _vows_, although such be his bold and impudent assertion, whoever reads the book in its entirety will find the facts to be otherwise. if, however, leisure be wanting for the reading of trifles of this description, i will briefly lay the matter open. but before i approach it, i think well to make three prefatory remarks. first, in this matter contempt of the emperor's edict[c] cannot be laid to my charge. for i understand it was published may 6th, 1522, whereas this book was printed long before: and that at basle, where no imperial edict had up to the time been made known, whether publicly or privately. [footnote c: edict of the emperor charles v.: 1523.] secondly, although in that book i do not teach dogmas of faith, but formulae for speaking latin; yet there are matters intermixed by the way, which conduce to good manners. now if, when a theme has been previously written down in german or french, a master should teach his boys to render the sense in latin thus: _utinam nihil edant praeter allia, qui nobis hos dies pisculentos invexerunt_. ("would they might eat naught but garlic, who imposed these fish-days upon us.") or this: _utinam inedia pereant, qui liberos homines adigunt ac jejunandi necessitatem_. ("would they might starve to death, who force the necessity of fasting on free men.") or this: _digni sunt ut fumo pereant qui nobis dispensationum ad indulgentiarum fumos tam care vendunt_. ("they deserve to be stifled to death who sell us the smokes (pretences) of dispensations and indulgences at so dear a rate.") or this: _utinam vere castrentur, qui nolentes arcent à matrimonio_. ("would they might indeed be made eunuchs of, who keep people from marrying, against their will")--i ask, whether he should be forced to defend himself, for having taught how to turn a sentence, though of bad meaning, into good latin words? i think there is no one so unjust, as to deem this just. thirdly, i had in the first instance to take care what sort of person it should be to whom i ascribe the speech in the dialogue. for i do not there represent a divine preaching, but good fellows having a gossip together. now if any one is so unfair as to refuse to concede me the quality of the person represented, he ought, by the same reasoning, to lay it to my charge, that there one augustine (i think) disparages the stoics' principle of the _honestum_, and prefers the sect of the epicureans, who placed the highest good in pleasure. he may also bring it against me, that in that passage a soldier, amongst many things which he speaks about in true soldier-fashion, says that he will look for a priest to confess to, who shall have as little of good as possible about him. the same objector would, i imagine, bring it up against me, were i to ascribe to arius in a dialogue a discourse at variance with the church. if such charges against me would be absurd, why in other matters should not regard be had to the quality of the person speaking? unless perchance, were i to represent a turk speaking, they should decide to lay at my door whatever he might say. with this preface, i will make a few general remarks on the passages criticised by the person to whom i refer. in the first passage, a boy of sixteen years says that he confesses only sins that are unquestionably capital, or gravely suspected; while the lutherans teach, as i understand, that it is not necessary to confess all capital offences. thus the very facts show, that this boy's speech is in great disagreement with the dogma which you condemn. presently, the same boy being asked, whether it be sufficient to confess to christ himself, answers that it will satisfy his mind, if the fathers of the church were of the same opinion. from this my critic argues, not with dialectic art, but with rascally cunning, that i suggest that this _confession_ which we now practise was not instituted by christ, but by the leaders of the church. such an inference might appear sound, were not christ one of the primates of the church, since according to peter's saying he is chief shepherd, and according to the word of the gospel, good shepherd. therefore he who speaks of princes of the church, does not exclude christ, but includes him along with the apostles, and the successors of the apostles, in the same manner as he who names the principal members of the body does not exclude the head. but if any one shall deem this reply to savour of artifice: well now, let us grant that the boy was thinking of pure men, heads of the church: is it then not enough for the boy that he follows in the matter of confession their authority, even although he is not assured whether the popes could ordain this on their own authority, or handed it down to us from the ordinance of christ? for he has a mind to obey, in whatever way they have handed it down. i am not even myself fully convinced as yet, that the church defined the present practice of confession to be of christ's ordinance. for there are very many arguments, to me in fact insoluble, which persuade to the contrary. nevertheless, i entirely submit this feeling of my own to the judgment of the church. gladly will i follow it, so soon as on my watch, for certainty i shall have heard its clear voice. nay, had leo's bull given the fullest expression of this doctrine, and any one should either be ignorant of it, or should have forgotten it, it would meanwhile suffice (i imagine) to obey in this matter the authority of the church, with a disposition of obedience, should the point be established. nor in truth can it be rightly inferred, _this confession is of human ordinance, therefore christ is not its author_. the apostles laid down the discipline of the church, without doubt from christ's ordinances: they ordained baptism, they ordained bishops, &c., but by the authority of christ. and yet it cannot be denied, that many particulars of this confession depend on the appointment of the pontiffs, viz., that we confess once a year, at easter, to this or that priest; that any priest absolves us from any trespasses whatever. hence i judge it to be clear how manifest is the calumny in what relates to _confession_. further, no mention is there made of _fasting_, to which the gospel and the apostolic epistles exhort us, but _concerning the choice of foods_, which christ openly sets at naught in the gospel, and the pauline epistles not seldom condemn; especially that which is jewish and superstitious. some one will say, this is to accuse the roman pontiff who teaches that which the apostle condemns. what the gospel teaches, is perfectly plain. the pontiff himself must declare with what intention he commands what the gospel does not require. yet no one there says--what i know not whether luther teaches--that the constitutions of the pontiffs do not render us liable to guilt, unless there has been contempt besides. in fact, he who speaks in that passage grants that the pope may appoint an observance; he simply enquires, whether this were the intention of the pope, to bind all equally to abstinence from meats, so that one who should partake would be liable to hell-fire, even although no perverse contempt should be committed. and he who says this in the colloquies, adds that he hates fishes not otherwise than he does a serpent. now, there are some so affected that fish is poison to them, just as there are found those who in like manner shrink from wine. if one who is thus affected with regard to fishes, should be forbidden to feed on flesh and milk-food, will he not be hardly treated? is it possible that any man can desire him to be exposed to the pains of hell, if for the necessity of his body he should live on flesh? if any constitution of popes and bishops involves liability to the punishment of hell, the condition of christians is hard indeed. if some impose the liability, others not; no one will better declare his intention than the pope himself. and it would conduce to the peace of consciences to have it declared. what if some pope should decree that priests should go girt; would it be probable that he declared this with the intention that if one because of renal suffering should lay aside the girdle, he should be liable to hell? i think not. st. gregory laid down, that if any one had had intercourse with his wife by night, he should abstain the next day from entering church: in this case, supposing that a man, concealing the fact of intercourse having taken place, should have gone to church for no other reason than that he might hear the preaching of the gospel, would he be liable to hell? i do not think the holiest man could be so harsh. if a man with a sick wife should live on meat, because otherwise she could not be provoked to eat, and her health required food, surely the pope would not on that account determine him to be liable to hell! this matter is simply made a subject of enquiry in the passage referred to, and no positive statement is made. and certainly before the imperial edict, men were at liberty to enquire concerning these matters. in point of fact, neither in that place nor elsewhere do i absolutely condemn the _indulgences_ of the popes, although hitherto more than sufficient indulgence has been shown them. it is simply that a speaker ridicules his comrade, who, although in other respects the most frivolous of triflers (for so he is depicted), yet believed that by the protection of a bull he would get safely to heaven. so far from thinking this to be heretical, i should imagine there was no holier duty than to warn the people not to put their trust in bulls, unless they study to change their life and correct their evil desires. but _vows_ are ridiculed in that passage. yes, they are ridiculed, and those (of whom there is a vast multitude) are admonished, who, leaving wife and children at home, under a vow made in their cups, run off along with a few pot-companions to rome, compostella, or jerusalem. but, as manners now are, i think it a holier work to dissuade men altogether from such vows than to urge to the making of them. these, forsooth, are the execrable heresies which yonder lynceus descries in the puerile colloquy. i wonder why he does not also give my catunculus and the publian mimes[d] a dusting. who does not perceive that these attacks proceed from some private grudge? yet in nothing have i done him an injury, except that i have favoured good literature, which he hates more than sin; and knows not why. meantime he boasts that he too has a weapon, by which he may take his revenge. if a man at a feast calls him choroebus or a drunkard, he in his turn will in the pulpit cry heretic, or forger, or schismatic upon him. i believe, if the cook were to set burnt meat on the dinner-table, he would next day bawl out in the course of his sermon that she was suspected of heresy. nor is he ashamed, nor does he retreat, though so often caught, by the very facts, in manifest falsehood. [footnote d: publius syrus (b.c. 45), a writer of _mimes_, or familiar prose dramas. a collection of apophthegms from his works is said to have been used as a school-book in jerome's days.] in the first place what a foolish, what a mad blather he made against my revised new testament! next, what could be more like madness than that remark which he threw out against j. faber and myself, when the very facts bespoke that he did not understand what agreement there was between me and faber, or what was the subject of controversy! what more shameless than his fixing a charge of forgery and heresy in the course of a public address on me, because i rendered according to the greek: omnes quidem non resurgemus, sed omnes immutabimur ("we shall not all rise again, but we shall all be changed.") what more like a raging madman, then his warning the people at mechlin, in a public address, to beware of the heresy of luther and erasmus! why should i now recall the ravings that he belches out rather than utters in the midst of his high feasting as often as his zeal for the house of the lord is inflamed from his cups? he lately said in holland, that i was set down for a forger among the divines of louvain. (one who was present and heard it wrote to me.) when asked, why? because, says he, he so often corrects the new testament! what a dolt of a tongue! jerome so often corrected the psalter: is he therefore a forger? in short if he is a forger, who either rashly or from ignorance translates anything otherwise than it should be, he was a forger, whose translation we use at the present day in the church. but what good does this sort of behavior do him? all men laugh at him as a morychus,[e] shun him as a crackbrain,--get out of his way as a peevish fellow you can do nothing with. nor can they think ill of him, of whom he says such spiteful things. and though he displeases all, himself alone he cannot displease. [footnote e: lit.: one stained or smeared: an epithet of bacchus (dionysos) in sicily, "smeared with wine-lees." ([greek: moryssô].)] this doubtless he holds to be an imperial edict, that he with raging insolence of tongue should rave at whomsoever he pleases. thus does this wise and weighty man support the interests of the orthodox faith. this is not a zeal of god, to hurt the harmless; but it is a rage of the devil. the jewish zeal of phinehas was once extolled, but not that it might pass as a pattern with christians. and yet phinehas openly slew impious persons. to your colleague whatever he hates is lutheran and heretical. in the same way, i suppose, he will call small-beer, flat wine, and tasteless broth, lutheran. and the greek tongue, which is his _unique_ aversion,--i suppose for this reason, that the apostles dignified it with so great an honour as to write in no other,--will be called lutheran. poetic art, for he hates this too, being fonder of the _potatic_, will be lutheran. he complains that his authority is lessened by our means, and that he is made a laughing-stock in my writings. the fact is, he offers himself as an object of ridicule to all men of education and sense; and this without end. i _repel slander_. but if learned and good men think ill of _a man_ who directs a slander at one who has not deserved it, which is it fair to consider the accountable person, he who rightly repels what he ought not to acknowledge, or he who injuriously sets it afoot? if a man were to be laughed at for saying that asses in brabant have wings, would he not himself make the laughing-matter? he cries out that _the whole of luther is in my books_, that on all sides they swarm with heretical errors. but when those who read my writings find nothing of the kind, even if ignorant of dialectics, they readily infer the true conclusion. he has authority from the emperor. let him therefore conduct himself in the spirit of the emperor, who would rather that wrong-doers should be cured than punished, and certainly does not desire that the harmless should be injured. he has entrusted this function to a man he did not know; when he shall have ascertained the fellow's character, he will doubtless recall what he has entrusted. it is not the disposition of the mildest of emperors, nor of the most upright of popes, that those who spend their night-watches in studying how to adorn and assist the state, should be exposed to the spite of such men; even although there were some human infirmity in the case. so far are they from desiring to estrange good and honest men, and force them to take a different side. these matters are more your concern than mine. for this man's manners invite much discredit upon your order, while the mass of the people judge of you all by this one sample. unjustly so, i admit; but so the world wags. and the harshness of your brother estranges no small number from the study of divinity. i know that the man is utterly disliked by you, with the exception of two or three boon companions, and one old hand, who abuses the man's folly in the interests of his own lusts. but all would definitely understand that you disapprove of him, if, since he cannot be restrained, you were to expel him from your table. i well know such a step will be very difficult to take. for men of his stamp are reluctantly torn away from the smell of stated, sumptuous, and free repasts. nevertheless this concerns the honour of your order, towards which i have good reason to be well-disposed. farewell. supposed to have been written in 1531. all the #familiar colloquies# of _#desiderius erasmus#_, of #roterdam,# concerning men, manners, and things, translated into _english_. * * * * * by n. bailey. * * * * * unlike in method, with conceal'd design, did crafty _horace_ his low numbers join; and, with a sly insinuating grace, laugh'd at his friend, and look'd him in the face: would raise a blush, when secret vice he found; and tickled, while he gently prob'd the wound: with seeming innocence the crowd beguil'd; but made the desperate passes, when he smil'd. _persius sat. i. dryden_. * * * * * _london_ 1725. #the preface.# _there are two things i would take some notice of: the first relates to my author, and the second to myself, or the reasons why i have attempted this translation of him. and in speaking of the first, i presume i shall save myself much of what might be said as to the second. tho'_ erasmus _is so well known, especially to those versed in the_ latin _tongue, that there seems to be but little occasion to say any thing in his commendation; yet since i have taken upon me to make him an_ english-man, _give me leave to say, that in my opinion, he as well deserves this naturalization, as any modern foreigner whose works are in_ latin, _as well for the usefulness of the matter of his colloquies, as the pleasantness of style, and elegancy of the_ latin. _they are under an egregious mistake, who think there is nothing to be found in them, but things that savour of puerility, written indeed ingeniously, and in elegant_ latin. _for this book contains, besides those, things of a far greater concern; and indeed, there is scarce any thing wanting in them, fit to be taught to a_ christian _youth design'd for liberal studies. the principles of faith are not only plainly and clearly laid down, but establish'd upon their own firm and genuine basis. the rules of piety, justice, charity, purity, meekness, brotherly concord, the subjection due to superiors, are so treated of, that, in a word, scarce any thing is omitted that belongs to a man, a subject, or a christian. neither are those things omitted, which respect a medium of life, by which every one may chuse out safely what ratio of life he has most mind to, and by which he may be taught, not only civility and courtesy, but also may know how to behave himself in the world, so as to gain himself the good will of many, and, a good name among all, and may be able to discern the follies and childishnesses of fools, and the frauds and villanies of knaves, so as to guard against 'em all. and neither are there wanting sketches, and that ample ones too, of poetical story, or pagan theology, universal history, sacred and profane, poetry, criticism, logick, natural and moral philosophy, oeconomics and politics; to which are added, a good number of proverbs and apothegms used by the most celebrated of the antients. but there is one thing in an especial manner, that should recommend this book to all_ protestants _in general, and cause them to recommend it to be read by their children, that there is no book fitter for them to read, which does in so delightful and instructing a manner utterly overthrow almost all the popish opinions and superstitions, and erect in their stead, a superstructure of opinions that are purely protestant. and notwithstanding whatsoever_ erasmus _hath said in his apology concerning the utility of his colloquies, that he could say with modesty, according to his wonted dexterity, to temper, and alleviate the bitterness of the wormwood that he gave the_ papists _to drink in the colloquies, it is past a question, that he lays down a great many things agreeable to the_ protestant _hypothesis, so that (if you except transubstantiation) he reprehends, explodes and derides almost all the_ popish _opinions, superstitions and customs. therefore if this golden book be read with attention, i doubt not but it will plainly appear, that the scripture was in all things preferr'd by the author before them all; and that he accounted that alone truly infallible, and of irrefragable authority, and did not account the councils, popes or bishops so. and as to the praying to saints, it was his opinion, the christian world would be well enough without it, and that he abhor'd that common custom of asking unworthy things of them, and flying to them for refuge more than to the father and christ. that he look'd upon all external things of very small account, of whatsoever species they were: either the choice of meats, processions, stations, and innumerable other ordinances and ceremonies, and that they were in themselves unprofitable, although he, for the sake of peace and order, did conform himself to all harmless things that publick authority had appointed. not judging those persons, who out of a scrupulousness of conscience thought otherwise, but wishing that those in authority would use their power with more mildness. and that he esteem'd, as trifles and frauds, the community of good works, of all men whatsoever, or in any society whatsoever; that he abhor'd the sale of pardons for sins, and derided the treasury of indulgences, from whence it is a plain inference, that he believ'd nothing of purgatory. and that he more than doubted, whether auricular confession was instituted by christ or the apostles; and he plainly condemns absolution, and laugh'd at the giving it in an unknown tongue. from whence we may fairly infer, that he was against having the liturgy (which ought to be read to edification) in an unknown tongue. but he either thought it not safe, or not convenient, or at least not absolutely necessary to speak his mind plainly as to that matter. likewise, he particularly laugh'd at all the species of popular and monastical piety; such as prayers repeated over and over, without the mind, but recited by a certain number with their_ rosaries, _and_ ave-maria's, _by which, god being neglected, they expected to obtain all things, though none were particularly nam'd: their_ tricenary, _and_ anniversary masses, _nay, and all those for the dead: the dying and being buried in a_ franciscan's _and_ dominican's _garment or cowl, and all the trumpery belonging to it; and did, in a manner condemn all sorts of monastical life and order, as practis'd among the papists. he shews it likewise to have been his opinion, as to the reliques of_ christ, _and he and she saints, that he judg'd the worship of them a vain and foolish thing, and believ'd no virtue to be in any of them, nay, that the most, if not all of them, were false and counterfeit. and to crown the whole, he did not spare that beloved principle and custom of the papists, so zealously practis'd by them upon protestants, viz. the persecution and burning of hereticks. and now, of how much use and advantage such things, and from such a person as_ erasmus, _may be, and how much they may conduce to the extirpating those seeds of popery, that may have been unhappily sown, or may be subtilly instill'd into the minds of uncautious persons, under the specious shew of sanctity, will, i presume, easily appear. tho' the things before-mention'd may be reason sufficient for the turning these colloquies of_ erasmus _into_ english, _that so useful a treatise may not be a book seal'd, either to persons not at all, or not enough acquainted with the_ latin _tongue, as to read them with edification; yet i did it from another motive,_ i.e. _the benefit of such as having been initiated, desire a more familiar acquaintance with the_ latin _tongue (as to the speaking part especially, to which_ erasmus's _colloquies are excellently adapted) that by comparing this version with the original, they may be thereby assisted, to more perfectly understand, and familiarize themselves with those beauties of the_ latin _language, in which_ erasmus _in these colloquies abounds. and for that end, i have labour'd to give such a translation of them, as might in the general, be capable of being compar'd with the original, endeavouring to avoid running into a paraphrase: but keeping as close to the original as i could, without latinizing and deviating from the_ english _idiom, and so depriving the_ english _reader of that pleasure, that_ erasmus _so plentifully entertains his reader with in_ latin. _it is true, sir_ roger l'estrange _and mr._ tho. brown, _have formerly done some select colloquies, and mr._ h.m. _many years since has translated the whole; but the former being rather paraphrases than translations, are not so capable of affording the assistance before-mention'd; and as to the latter, besides that his version is grown very scarce, the style is not only antient, but too flat for so pleasant and facetious an author as_ erasmus _is_. _i do not pretend to have come up in my_ english, _to that life and beauty of_ erasmus _in latin, which as it is often inimitable in the_ english _language, so it is also a task fit to be undertaken by none but an_ english erasmus _himself_, i.e. _one that had the same felicity of expression that he had; but i hope it will appear that i have kept my author still in my eye, tho' i have followed him_ passibus haud æquis, _and could seldom come up to him. i shall not detain you any longer; but subscribe my self, yours to serve you_, _jan. 25th_, n. bailey. 1724-5. _the_ life _of_ erasmus. _desiderius erasmus_, surnamed _roterodamus_, was born at _roterdam_, a town of _holland_, on the vigil of _simon and jude_, or _october_ the 20th or 28th, 1465, according to his epitaph at _basil_; or according to the account of his life, _erasmo auctore, circa annum, &c._ about the year 1467, which agrees with the inscription of his statue at _roterdam_, which being the place of his nativity, may be suppos'd to be the most authentick. his mother's name was _margaret_, the daughter of one _peter_, a physician of _sevenbergen_. his father's name was _gerard_, who carried on a private correspondence with her, upon promise of marriage; and as it should seem from the life which has _erasmus's_ name before it, was actually contracted to her, which seems plainly to be insinuated by these words; _sunt qui intercessisse verba ferunt_: however, it is not to be denied that _erasmus_ was born out of wedlock, and on that account, father _theophilus ragnaud_, has this pleasant passage concerning him: _if one may be allow'd to droll upon a man, that droll'd upon all the world_, erasmus, _tho' he was not the son of a king, yet he was the son of a crown'd head_, meaning a priest. but in this he appears to have been mistaken, in that his father was not in orders when he begat him. his father _gerard_ was the son of one _elias_, by his mother _catherine_, who both liv'd to a very advanc'd age; _catherine_ living to the age of 95. _gerard_ had nine brethren by the same father and mother, without one sister coming between them; he himself was the youngest of the ten, and liv'd to see two of his brothers at _dort_ in _holland_, near 90 years of age each. all his brothers were married but himself; and according to the superstition of those times, the old people had a mind to consecrate him to god, being a tenth child, and his brothers lik'd the motion well enough, because by that means they thought they should have a sure friend, where they might eat and drink, and be merry upon occasion. they being all very pressing upon him to turn ecclesiastick, (which was a course of life that he had no inclination to,) _gerard_ finding himself beset on all sides, and by their universal consent excluded from matrimony, resolving not to be prevail'd upon by any importunities, as desperate persons do, fled from them, and left a letter for his parents and brothers upon the road, acquainting them with the reason of his elopement, bidding them an eternal farewell, telling them he would never see them more. he prosecuted his journey to _rome_, leaving _margaret_, his spouse that was to be, big with child of _erasmus. gerard_ being arriv'd at _rome_, betook himself to get his living by his pen, (by transcribing books) being an excellent penman; and there being at that time a great deal of that sort of business to do (for as the life that is said to be _erasmo auctore_ has it, _tum nondum ars typographorum erat_, i.e. _the art of printing was not then found out_; which was a mistake, for it had been found out twenty-four years before, in the year 1442. but perhaps the meaning may be, tho' it was found out, it was not then commonly used) he got money plentifully, and for some time, as young fellows us'd to do, liv'd at large; but afterwards apply'd himself in good earnest to his studies, made a considerable progress in the _latin_ and _greek_ tongues, which was very much facilitated by his employment of transcribing authors, which could not but strongly impress them on his memory; and he had also another great advantage, in that a great many learned men then flourish'd at _rome_ and he heard particularly one _guarinus_. but to return to _erasmus_, his mother _margaret_ being delivered of him, he was after his father called _gerard_, which in the _german_ tongue, signifies _amiable_; and as it was the custom among learned men in those times, (who affected to give their names either in _latin_ or _greek_,) it was turn'd into _desiderius_ (_didier_) in _latin_, and into _erasmus_ [greek: herasmios] in _greek_, which has the same signification. he was at first brought up by his grandmother, till _gerard's_ parents coming to the knowledge that he was at _rome_, wrote to him, sending him word, that the young gentlewoman whom he courted for a wife was dead; which he giving credit to, in a melancholy fit, took orders, being made a presbyter, and apply'd his mind seriously to the study of religion. but upon his return into his own country, he found that they had impos'd upon him. having taken orders, it was too late to think of marriage; he therefore quitted all further pretensions to her, nor would she after this, be induced to marry. _gerard_ took care to have his son _erasmus_ liberally educated, and put him to school when he was scarce four years old. (they have in _holland_, an ill-grounded tradition; that _erasmus_, when he was young, was a dull boy, and slow at learning; but monsieur _bayle_ has sufficiently refuted that error, tho' were it true, it were no more dishonour to him, than it was to _thomas aquinas, suarez_, and others.) he was a chorister at _utrecht_, till he was nine years old, and afterwards was sent to _daventer_, his mother also going thither to take care of him. that school was but barbarous, the most that was minded, was _matins_, even-song, &c. till _alexander hegius_ of _westphalia_, and _zinthius_, began to introduce something of better literature. (this _alexander hegius_, was an intimate friend to the learned _rodolphus agricola_, who was the first that brought the _greek_ tongue over the mountains of _germany_, and was newly returned out of _italy_, having learned the _greek_ tongue of him.) _erasmus_ took his first taste of solid learning from some of his playfellows, who being older than himself, were under the instruction of _zinthius_: and afterwards he sometimes heard _hegius_; but that was only upon holy days, on which he read publickly, and so rose to be in the third class, and made a very good proficiency: he is said to have had so happy a memory, as to be able to repeat all _terence_ and _horace_ by heart. the plague at that time raging violently at _daventer_, carry'd off his mother, when _erasmus_ was about thirteen years of age; which contagion increasing more and more every day, having swept away the whole family where he boarded, he returned home. his father _gerard_ hearing of the death of his wife, was so concern'd at it, that he grew melancholy upon it, fell sick, and died soon after, neither of them being much above forty years of age. he assign'd to his son _erasmus_ three guardians, whom he esteem'd as trusty friends, the principal of whom was _peter winkel_, the schoolmaster of _goude_. the substance that he left for his education, had been sufficient for that purpose, if his guardians had discharg'd their trust faithfully. by them he was remov'd to _boisleduc_, tho' he was at that time fit to have gone to the university. but the trustees were against sending him to the university, because they had design'd him for a monastick life. here he liv'd (or, as he himself says, rather lost three years) in a _franciscan_ convent, where one _rombold_ taught humanity, who was exceedingly taken with the pregnant parts of the youth, and began to sollicit him to take the habit upon him, and become one of their order. _erasmus_ excused himself, alledging the rawness and unexperiencedness of his age. the plague spreading in these parts, and after he had struggled a whole year with an ague, he went home to his guardians, having by this time furnished himself with an indifferent good style, by daily reading the best authors. one of his guardians was carried off by the plague; the other two not having manag'd his fortune with the greatest care, began to contrive how they might fix him in some monastery. _erasmus_ still languishing under this indisposition, tho' he had no aversion to the severities of a pious life, yet he had an aversion for a monastery, and therefore desired time to consider of the matter. in the mean time his guardians employ'd persons to sollicit him, by fair speeches, and the menaces of what he must expect, if he did not comply, to bring him over. in this interim they found out a place for him in _sion_, a college of canons regulars near _delft_, which was the principal house belonging to that chapter. when the day came that _erasmus_ was to give his final answer, he fairly told them, he neither knew what the world was, nor what a monastery was, nor yet, what himself was, and that he thought it more advisable for him to pass a few years more at school, till he came to know himself better. _peter winkel_ perceiving that he was unmoveable in this resolution, fell into a rage, telling him, he had taken a great deal of pains to a fine purpose indeed, who had by earnest sollicitations, provided a good preferment for an obstinate boy, that did not understand his own interest: and having given him some hard words, told him, that from that time he threw up his guardianship, and now he might look to himself. _erasmus_ presently reply'd, that he took him at his first word; that he was now of that age, that he thought himself capable of taking care of himself. when his guardian saw that threatening would not do any thing with him, he set his brother guardian, who was his tutor, to see what he could do with him: thus was _erasmus_ surrounded by them and their agents on all hands. he had also a companion that was treacherous to him, and his old companion his ague stuck close to him; but all these would not make a monastick life go down with him; till at last, by meer accident, he went to pay a visit at a monastery of the same order at _emaus_ or _steyn_ near _goude_, where he found one _cornelius_, who had been his chamber-fellow at _daventer_. he had not yet taken the habit, but had travelled to _italy_, and came back without making any great improvements in learning. this _cornelius_, with all the eloquence he was master of, was continually setting out the advantages of a religious life, the conveniency of noble libraries, retirement from the hurry of the world, and heavenly company, and the like. some intic'd him on one hand, others urg'd him on the other, his ague stuck close to him, so that at last he was induc'd to pitch upon this convent. and after his admission he was fed up with great promises to engage him to take upon him the holy cloth. altho' he was but young, he soon perceived how vastly short all things there fell of answering his expectations; however, he set the whole brotherhood to applying their minds to study. before he professed himself he would have quitted the monastery; but his own modesty, the ill usage he was treated with, and the necessities of his circumstances, overcame him, so that he did profess himself. not long after this, by the means of _gulielmus hermannus_ of _buda_, his intimate associate, he had the honour to be known to _henry a bergis_ bishop of _cambray_, who was then in hopes of obtaining a cardinal's hat, which he had obtained, had not money been wanting: in order to sollicit this affair for him, he had occasion for one that was master of the _latin_ tongue; therefore being recommended by the bishop of _utrecht_, he was sent for by him; he had also the recommendation of the _prior_, and general, and was entertained in the bishop's family, but still wore the habit of his order: but the bishop, disappointed in his hope of wearing the cardinal's hat, _erasmus_ finding his patron fickle and wavering in his affections, prevail'd with him to send him to _paris_, to prosecute his studies there. he did so, and promised him a yearly allowance, but it was never paid him, according to the custom of great men. he was admitted of _montague_ college there, but by reason of ill diet and a damp chamber, he contracted an indisposition of body, upon which he return'd to the bishop, who entertain'd him again courteously and honourably: having recover'd his health, he return'd into _holland_, with a design to settle there; but being again invited, he went back to _paris_. but having no patron to support him, he rather made a shift to live (to use his own expression) than to study there; and undertook the tuition of an _english_ gentleman's two sons. and the plague returning there periodically for many years, he was obliged every year to return into his own country. at length it raging all the year long, he retir'd to _louvain_. after this he visited _england_, going along with a young gentleman, to whom he was tutor, who, as he says himself, was rather his friend than his patron. in _england_ he was received with universal respect; and, as he tells us himself in his life, he won the affections of all good men in our island. during his residence here, he was intimately acquainted with _sir thomas more_, _william warham_, archbishop of _canterbury_, _john colet_, dean of st. _pauls_, the founder of st. _paul's school_, a man remarkable for the regularity of his life, great learning and magnificence; with _hugh latimer_ bishop of _winchester_, _linacre_, _grocinus_, and many other honourable and learned persons, and passed some years at _cambridge_, and is said to have taught there; but whether this was after his first or second time of visiting _england_, i do not determine: however, not meeting with the preferment he expected, he went away hence to make a journey to _italy_, in the company of the sons of _baptista boetius_, a _genoese_, royal professor of physick in _england_; which country, at that time, could boast of a set of learned men, not much inferior to the _augustan_ age: but as he was going to _france_, it was his ill fortune, at _dover_, to be stripp'd of all he had; this he seems to hint at in his _colloquy_, intitled, the _religious pilgrimage_: but yet he was so far from revenging the injury, by reflecting upon the nation, that he immediately published a book in praise of the king and country; which piece of generosity gained him no small respect in _england_. and it appears by several of his epistles, that he honoured _england_ next to the place of his nativity. it appears by _epist. 10. lib. 16_. that when he was in _england_ learning flourished very much here, in that he writes, _apud anglos triumphant bonæ literæ recta studia_; and in _epist. 12. lib. 16_. he makes no scruple to equal it to _italy_ itself; and _epist. 26. lib. 6._ commends the _english_ nobility for their great application to all useful learning, and entertaining themselves at table with learned discourses, when the table-talk of churchmen was nothing but ribaldry and profaneness. in _epist_. 10. _lib_. 5, which he addresses to _andrelinus_, he invites him to come into _england_, recommending it as worth his while, were it upon no other account, than to see the charming beauties with which this island abounded; and in a very pleasant manner describes to him the complaisance and innocent freedom of the _english_ ladies, telling him, that when he came into a gentleman's house he was allowed to salute the ladies, and also to do the same at taking leave: and tho' he seems to talk very feelingly on the subject, yet makes no reflections upon the virtue of _english_ women. but to return to him; as to his voyage to _italy_, he prosecuted his journey to _turin_, and took the degree of doctor of divinity in that university; he dwelt a whole year in _bolognia_, and there obtain'd a dispensation from pope _julian_ to put off his canon's habit, but upon condition not to put off the habit of priest; and after that went to _venice_, where was the printing-house of the famous _manutius aldus_, and there he published his book of _adagies_, and staying some time there, wrote several treatises, and had the conversation of many eminent and learned men. from thence he went to _padua_, where at that time _alexander_ the son of _james_ king of _scotland_, and bishop of st. _andrews_ in _scotland_, studied, who chose _erasmus_ for his tutor in rhetorick, and went to _seana_, and thence to _rome_, where his great merits had made his presence expected long before. at _rome_ he gained the friendship and esteem of the most considerable persons in the city, was offered the dignity of a penitentiary, if he would have remained there: but he returned back to the archbishop, and not long after went with him again to _italy_, and travelling farther into the country, went to _cuma_, and visited the cave of _sybilla_. after the death of the archbishop he began to think of returning to his own country, and coming over the _rhetian alps_, went to _argentorat_, and thence by the way of the _rhine_ into _holland_, having in his way visited his friends at _antwerp_ and _louvain_; but _henry_ viii. coming to the crown of england, his friends here, with many invitations and great promises, prevailed upon him to come over to _england_ again, where it was his purpose to have settled for the remaining part of his life, had he found things according to the expectation they had given him: but how it came about is uncertain, whether _erasmus_ was wanting in making his court aright to cardinal _wolsey_, who at that time manag'd all things at his pleasure; or, whether it were that the cardinal look'd with a jealous eye upon him, because of his intimate friendship with _william warham_, archbishop of _canterbury_, who had taken him into his favour, between whom and _wolsey_ there was continual clashing, (the cardinal after he had been made the pope's legate, pretending a power in the archbishoprick of _canterbury_.) on this disappointment he left _england_, and went to _flanders_; archbishop _warham_ had indeed shewed his esteem for him, in giving him the living of _aldington_. in short, _erasmus_ takes notice of the friendship between himself and _warham_ in the _colloquy_ called, _the religious pilgrimage_. as to his familiarity with sir _thomas more_, there are several stories related, and especially one concerning the disputes that had been between them about _transubstantiation_, or the _real presence_ of christ in the consecrated wafer, of which sir _thomas_ was a strenuous maintainer, and _erasmus_ an opponent; of which, when _erasmus_ saw he was too strongly byassed to be convinced by arguments, he at last made use of the following facetious retortion on him. it seems in their disputes concerning the real presence of christ in the sacrament, which were in _latin_, sir _thomas_ had frequently used this expression, and laid the stress of his proof upon the force of believing, _crede quod edis et edis_, _i.e._ believe you eat [christ] and you do eat him; therefore _erasmus_ answers him, _crede quod habes et habes, believe that you have_ [_your horse_] _and you have him_. it seems, at _erasmus's_ going away, sir _thomas_ had lent him his horse to carry him to the sea-side or _dover_; but he either carried him with him over sea to _holland_, or sent him not back to sir _thomas_, at least for some time; upon which sir _thomas_ writing to _erasmus_ about his horse, _erasmus_ is said to have written back to him as follows. _ut mihi scripsisti de corpore christi, crede quod edis et edis. sic tibi rescribo de tuo palfrido; crede quod habes et habes_. being arriv'd at _flanders_ by the interest of _sylvagius_ chancellor to _charles of austria_, afterwards emperor of _germany_, known by the name of _charles_ v: he was made one of his counsellors. in the mean time _johannes frobenius_, a famous printer, having printed many of his works at _basil_ in _switzerland_, and being much taken with the elegancy of his printing, and the neatness of his edition, he went thither, pretending that he undertook that journey for the performance of some vow he had made; he was kindly entertain'd by him, and publish'd several books there, and dedicated this his book of colloquies to _frobenius's_ son, and resided till the mass had been put down there by the reformers. when he left that place, he retir'd to _friburg_ in _alsace_. before his going to _friburg_, he visited the low countries to settle certain affairs there. and was at _cologn_ at the time that the assembly was at _worms_, which being dissolv'd, he went again to _basil_, either, as some say, for the recovery of his health, or, as others, for the publishing of several books. he receiv'd the bounty and munificence of several kings, princes, and popes, and was honourably entertain'd by many of the chief cities which he pass'd through. and by his procurement, a college of three languages was instituted at _louvain_, at the charge of _hieronimus buslidius_, governour of _aria_, out of certain monies he at his death bequeath'd to the use of studious and learned men. an account of which coming to the ears of _francis_ king of _france_, he invited him by letters to _paris_, in order, by his advice to erect the like college there. but certain affairs happening, his journey thither was hindred. he went to _friburg_ in _alsace_, where he bought him an house, and liv'd seven years in great esteem and reputation, both with the chief magistrates and citizens of the place, and all persons of any note in the university. but his distemper, which was the gout, coming rudely upon him, he, thinking the change of air would afford him relief, sold his house, and went again to _basil_, to the house of _frobenius_; but he had not been there above nine months before his gout violently assaulted him, and his strength having gradually decay'd, he was seized with a dysentery, under which having laboured for a month, it at last overcame him, and he died at the house of _jerome frobenius_, the son of _john_ the famous printer, the 12th of _july_ 1536, about midnight, being about seventy years of age: after his last retreat to _basil_, he went seldom abroad; and for some of the last months stirred not out of his chamber. he retained a sound mind, even to the last moments of his life; and, as a certain author saith, bid farewell to the world, and passed into the state of another life, after the manner of a protestant, without the papistical ceremonies of rosaries, crosses, confession, absolution, or receiving the transubstantiated wafer, and in one word, not desiring to have any of the _romish_ superstitions administered, but according to the true tenor of the gospel, taking sanctuary in nothing but the mercies of god in christ. and finding himself near death, he gave many testimonies of piety and christian hope in god's mercy, and oftentimes cry'd out in the _german_ language, _liever godt_, _i.e._ dear god; often repeating, o jesus have mercy on me! o lord, deliver me! lord, put an end to my misery! lord, have mercy upon me. in his last will, he made the celebrated lawyer _bonifacius amerbachius_ his executor, bequeathing the greatest part of his substance to charitable uses; as for the maintenance of such as were poor and disabled through age or sickness; for the marrying of poor young virgins, to keep them from temptations to unchastity; for the maintaining hopeful students in the university, and such like charitable uses. in the overseeing of his will, he join'd with _amerbachius_, two others, _jerome frobenius_, and _nicholas episcopius_, who were his intimate friends, and whom a certain author says, had then espoused the reformation began by _luther_ and other reformers. the city of _basil_ still pays _erasmus_ the respect which is due to the memory of so eminent a person; they not only call'd one of the colleges there after his name, but shew the house where he died to strangers, with as much veneration as the people of _roterdam_ do the house where he was born. i shall not here pretend to give a catalogue of all _erasmus's_ genuine pieces, which they shew at _basil_: as to his colloquies and _moria encomium_, they have seen more editions than any other of his works; and _moreri_ says, that a bookseller at _paris_, who thoroughly understood his trade, sold twenty four thousand of them at one impression, by getting it whisper'd to his customers, that the book was prohibited, and would suddenly be call'd in. he was buried at _basil_, in the cathedral church, on the left side near the choir, in a marble tomb; on the fore side of which was this inscription: christo servatoris. desid. erasmo roterodamo. _viro_ omnibus modis maximo; cujus incomparabilem in omni disciplinarum genere eruditionem, pari conjunctam prudentia, _posteri_ et admirabuntur et prædicabunt bonifacius amerbachius, hieronymus frobenius, nicholas episcopius hæredes, et nuncupati supremæ suæ voluntatis _vindices_ _patrono optimo_, non _memoriæ_, quam immortalem sibi editis lucubrationibus comparavit, iis, tantisper dum orbis terrarum stabit, superfuturo, ac eruditis ubique gentium colloquuturo: sed _corporis mortalis_, quo reconditum sit ergo, hoc saxum posuere. mortuus est iv. eidus julias jam septuagenarius, anno à christo nato, m.d. xxxvi. upon the upper part of the tomb is a quadrangular base, upon which stands the effigies of the deity of _terminus_, which _erasmus_ chose for the impress of his seal, and on the front of that base is this inscription. des. erasmum roterodamum _amici_ sub hoc saxo condebant, iv, eid. julias m.d. xxxvi. in the year 1549, a wooden statue, in honour of so great a man, was erected in the market-place at _roterdam_; and in the year 1557, a stone one was erected in the stead of it; but this having been defaced by the _spaniards_ in the year 1572, as soon as the country had recovered its liberty it was restored again. but in the year 1622, instead of it, a very compleat one of brass eight foot high with the pedestal, was erected, which is now standing on the bridge at _roterdam_, and likely long to remain there, on the foot of which is the following inscription. desiderio erasmo magno, scientiarum atque literature politioris _vindici et instauratori_: _viro_ sæculi sui _primario_, _civi_ omnium præstantissimo, ac nominis immortalitatem scriptis æviternis jure _consecuto_, s.p.q. roterodamus. ne quod tantis apud se suosque posteros _virtutibus_ præmium deesset, _statuam_ hanc ex sere publico erigendam curaverunt. on the right side are these verses of _nicholas heinsius_. _barbariæ talem se debellator_ erasmus, _maxima laus batavi nominis, ore tulit. reddidit, en, fatis, ars obluctata sinistris, de tanto spolium nacta quod urna viro est. ingenii cæleste jubar, majusque caduco tempore qui reddat, solus_ erasmus _erit_. on the left side, and behind, there is an inscription in the _dutch_ language, much to the purport of the first inscription. on the house where _erasmus_ was born, formerly was this inscription. _hæc est parva domus, magnus quâ natus_ erasmus. the same house being rebuilt and enlarged, has the following inscription. _ædibus his ortus mundum decoravit_ erasmus, _artibus ingenuis, religione, fide_. as for his stature, he was neither very low nor very tall, his body well set, proportioned and handsome, neither fat nor lean, but of a nice and tender constitution, and easily put out of order with the least deviation from his ordinary way of living; he had from his childhood so great an aversion to eating of fish, that he never attempted it without the danger of his life, and therefore obtain'd a dispensation from the pope from eating fish in _lent_, as appears by the story of _eras_, (as he stiles himself) in the colloquy call'd _ichthyophagia_. he was of a fair and pale complexion, had a high forehead, his hair, in his younger years, inclining to yellow, his nose pretty long, a little thick at the end, his mouth something large, but not ill made, his eyes grey but lively, his countenance chearful and pleasant, his voice small, but musical, his speech distinct and plain, pleasant and jocose, his gaite handsome and grave; he had a, most happy memory and acute wit, he was very constant to his friend, and exceeding liberal to those that were under necessity, especially to studious and hopeful youths, and to such as were destitute in their journey: in his conversation he was very pleasant and affable, free from peevish and morose humours, but very witty and satyrical. it is related, that when _erasmus_ was told, that _luther_ had married and gotten the famous _catharine bora_ with child, he should in a jesting manner say, that, if according to the popular tradition, _antichrist_ was to be begotten between a monk and a nun, the world was in a fair way now to have a litter of antichrists. i shall conclude with the character given of _erasmus_ by mr. _thomas brown_, who comparing him with _lucian_, says, that whereas _erasmus_ had translated part of his dialogues into _latin_, he had made _lucian_ the pattern of his colloquies, and had copied his graces with that success, that it is difficult to say which of the two was the original. that both of them had an equal aversion to austere, sullen, designing knaves, of what complexion, magnitude, or party soever. that both of them were men of wit and satyr, but that _erasmus_, according to the genius of his country, had more of the humourist in him than _lucian_, and in all parts of learning was infinitely his superior. that _lucian_ liv'd in an age, when fiction and fable had usurp'd the name of religion, and morality was debauch'd by a set of sowr scoundrels, men of beard and grimace, but scandalously lewd and ignorant, who yet had the impudence to preach up virtue, and stile themselves philosophers, perpetually clashing with one another about the precedence of their several founders, the merits of their different sects, and if it is possible, about trifles of less importance; yet all agreeing in a different way, to dupe and amuse the poor people by the fantastick singularity of their habits, the unintelligible jargon of their schools, and their pretentions to a severe and mortified life. this motly herd of jugglers _lucian_ in a great measure help'd to chase out of the world, by exposing them in their proper colours. but in a few generations after him, a new generation sprung up in the world, well known by the name of monks and friars, differing from the former in religion, garb, and a few other circumstances, but in the main, the same individual imposters; the same everlasting cobweb-spinners as to their nonsensical controversies, the same abandon'd rakehells as to their morals; but as for the mysterious arts of heaping up wealth, and picking the peoples pockets, as much superior to their predecessors the _pagan_ philosophers, as an overgrown favourite that cheats a whole kingdom, is to a common malefactor. these were the sanctified cheats, whose follies and vices _erasmus_ has so effectually lash'd, that some countries have entirely turn'd these drones out of their cells, and in other places where they are still kept, they are grown contemptible to the highest degree, and oblig'd to be always upon their guard. the _familiar colloquies_ of desiderius erasmus, of _roterdam_. * * * * * the argument. _this colloquy teaches courtesy and civility in saluting, who, when, and by what title we ought to salute_. _at the first meeting_. a certain person teaches, and not without reason, that we should salute freely. for a courteous and kind salutation oftentimes engages friendship, and reconciles persons at variance, and does undoubtedly nourish and increase a mutual benevolence. there are indeed some persons that are such churls, and of so clownish a disposition, that if you salute them, they will scarcely salute you again. but this vice is in some persons rather the effect of their education, than their natural disposition. it is a piece of civility to salute those that come in your way; either such as come to us, or those that we go to speak with. and in like manner such as are about any sort of work, either at supper, or that yawn, or hiccop, or sneeze, or cough. but it is the part of a man that is civil even to an extreme, to salute one that belches, or breaks wind backward. but he is uncivilly civil that salutes one that is making water, or easing nature. god save you father, god save you little mother, god save you brother, god save you my worthy master, god save you heartily uncle, god save you sweet cousin. it is courteous to make use of a title of relation or affinity, unless when it carries something of a reflection along with it, then indeed it is better not to use such titles, tho' proper; but rather some that are more engaging, as when we call a mother in law, mother; a son in law, son; a father in law, father; a sister's husband, brother; a brother's wife, sister: and the same we should do in titles, either of age or office. for it will be more acceptable to salute an antient man by the name of father, or venerable sir, than by the sirname of age; altho' in antient times they used to make use of [greek: hô geron], as an honourable title. god save you lieutenant, god save you captain; but not god save you hosier or shoe-maker. god save you youth, or young man. old men salute young men that are strangers to them by the name of sons, and young men again salute them by the name of fathers or sirs. _a more affectionate salutation between lovers_. god save you my little _cornelia_, my life, my light, my delight, my sweet-heart, my honey, my only pleasure, my little heart, my hope, my comfort, my glory. _either for the sake of honour or otherwise_. _sal._ o master, god bless ye. _ans._ oh! good sir, i wish you the same. _sal._ god bless you most accomplish'd, and most famous sir. god bless you again and again thou glory of learning. god save you heartily my very good friend. god save you my _mæcenas_. _ans._ god save you my singular patron, god save you most approv'd sir. god save you, the only ornament of this age. god bless you, the delight of _germany_. _sal._ god bless you all together. god bless you all alike. _ans._ god bless you my brave boys. _sal._ god save you merry companion. god bless you destroyer of wine. _ans._ god bless you glutton, and unmerciful devourer of cakes. _sal._ god bless you heartily president of all virtue. _ans._ god bless you in like manner, pattern of universal honesty. _sal._ god save you little old woman of fifteen years of age. _ans._ god save you girl, eighty years old. _sal._ much good may it do you with your bald pate. _ans._ and much good may it do you with your slit nose. as you salute, so you shall be saluted again. if you say that which is ill, you shall hear that which is worse. _sal._ god save you again and again. _ans._ god save you for ever and ever. _sal._ god save you more than a thousand times. _ans._ in truth i had rather be well once for all. _sal._ god bless you as much as you can desire. _ans._ and you as much as you deserve. _sal._ i wish you well. _ans._ but what if i won't be so? in truth i had rather be sick, than to enjoy the health that you want. god bless your holiness, your greatness, your highness, your majesty, your beatitude, your high mightiness, are salutations rather us'd by the vulgar, than approv'd by the learned. _in the third person_. _sapidus_ wishes health to his _erasmus_. _sapidus_ salutes his _beatus_, wishing him much health. * * * * * _another form_. _sal._ god bless you _crito_, i wish you well good sir. _ans._ and i wish you better. peace be to thee brother, is indeed a christian salutation, borrow'd from the _jews_: but yet not to be rejected. and of the like kind is, a happy life to you. _sal._ hail master. _ans._ in truth i had rather have than crave. _sal._ [greek: chaire]. _ans._ remember you are at _basil_, and not _athens_. _sal._ how do you then dare to speak _latin_ when you are not at _rome_? * * * * * _forms of well wishing_. and to wish well is a sort of salutation. _to a woman with child_. god send you a good delivery, and that you may make your husband father of a fine child. may the virgin mother make you a happy mother. i wish that this swell'd belly may asswage happily. heaven grant that this burthen you carry, whatsoever it is, may have as easy an out-coming as it had an in-going. god give you a good time. _to guests_. happy be this feast. much good may it do all the company. i wish all happiness to you all. god give you a happy banquet. _to one that sneezes._ may it be lucky and happy to you. god keep you. may it be for your health. god bless it to you. _to one that is about to begin any business._ may it prove happy and prosperous for the publick good. may that you are going about be an universal good. god prosper what you are about. god bless your labours. god bless your endeavours. i pray that by god's assistance you may happily finish what you have begun. may christ in heaven prosper what is under your hand. may what you have begun end happily. may what you are set about end happily. you are about a good work, i wish you a good end of it, and that propitious heaven may favour your pious undertakings. christ give prosperity to your enterprise. may what you have undertaken prosper. i heartily beg of almighty god that this design may be as successful as it is honourable. may the affair so happily begun, more happily end. i wish you a good journey to _italy_, and a better return. i wish you a happy voyage, and a more happy return. i pray god that, this journey being happily perform'd, we may in a short time have the opportunity of congratulating you upon your happy return. may it be your good fortune to make a good voyage thither and back again. may your journey be pleasant, but your return more pleasant. i wish this journey may succeed according to your heart's desire. i wish this journey may be as pleasant to you, as the want of your good company in the mean time will be troublesome to us. may you set sail with promising presages. i wish this journey may succeed according to both our wishes. i wish this bargain may be for the good and advantage of us both. i wish this may be a happy match to us all. the blessed jesus god keep thee. kind heaven return you safe. god keep thee who art one half of my life. i wish you a safe return. i wish that this new-year may begin happily, go on more happily, and end most happily to you, and that you may have many of them, and every year happier than other. _ans._ and i again wish you many happy ages, that you mayn't wish well to me _gratis_. _sal._ i wish you a glorious day to day. may this sun-rising be a happy one to you. _ans._ i wish you the same. may this be a happy and a prosperous morning to both of us. _sal._ father, i wish you a good night. i wish you good repose to night. may you sleep sweetly. god give you good rest. may you sleep without dreaming. god send you may either sleep sweetly or dream pleasantly. a good night to you. _ans._ since you always love to be on the getting hand, i wish you a thousand happinesses to one you wish to me. * * * * * _farewell at parting._ fare ye all well. farewell. take care of your health. take a great care of your health. i bid you good by, time calls me away, fare ye well. i wish you as well as may be. farewell mightily, or if you had rather have it so, lustily. fare you well as you are worthy. fare you as well as you deserve. farewell for these two days. if you send me away, farewell till to-morrow. would you have any thing with me? have you any thing else to say to me? _ans._ nothing but to wish you well. _sal._ take care to preserve your health. take care of your health. look well to your health. see that at the next meeting we see you merry and hearty. i charge you make much of your self. see that you have a sound mind in a healthful body. take care you be universally well both in body and mind. _ans._ i'll promise you i will do my endeavour. fare you well also; and i again wish you prosperous health. _of saluting by another._ remember my hearty love to _frobenius_. be sure to remember my love to little _erasmus_. remember me to _gertrude's_ mother with all imaginable respect; tell them i wish 'em all well. remember me to my old companions. remember me to my friends. give my love to my wife. remember me to your brother in your letter. remember my love to my kinsman. have you any service to command by me to your friends? _ans._ tell them i wish them all heartily well. _sal._ have you any recommendations to send by me to your friends? _ans._ much health to them all, but especially to my father. _sal._ are there any persons to whom you would command me any service? _ans._ to all that ask how i do. the health you have brought from my friends to me, carry back again with much interest. carry my hearty service to all them that have sent their service to me. pray do so much as be my representative in saluting my friends. i would have written to my son in law, but you will serve me instead of a letter to him. _sal._ soho, soho, whither are you going so fast? _ans._ strait to _louvain_. _sal._ stay a little, i have something to send by you. _ans._ but it is inconvenient for a footman to carry a fardel? what is it? _sal._ that you recommend me to _goclenius, rutgerus, john campensis_, and all the society of trilinguists. _ans._ if you put nothing into my snapsack but healths, i shall carry them with ease. _sal._ and that you may not do that for nothing, i pray that health may be your companion both going and coming back. _how we ought to congratulate one that is return'd from a journey._ we are glad you are come well home. it is a pleasure that you are come home safe. it is a pleasure to us that you are come well home. we congratulate your happy return. we give god thanks that you are come safe home to us. the more uneasy we were at the want of you, the more glad we are to see you again. we congratulate you and ourselves too that you are come home to us alive and well. your return is the more pleasant by how much it was less expected. _ans._ i am glad too that as i am well myself i find you so. i am very glad to find you in good health. i should not have thought myself well come home if i had not found you well; but now i think myself safe, in that i see you safe and in good health. * * * * * _a form of asking questions at the first meeting._ the argument. _this colloquy teaches forms of enquiring at the first meeting. whence come you? what news bring you? how do you do? &c._ _george, livinus._ _george._ out of what hen-coop or cave came you? _liv._ why do you ask me such a question? _ge._ because you have been so poorly fed; you are so thin a body may see thro' you, and as dry as a kecks. whence came you from? _liv._ from montacute college. _ge._ then sure you are come loaden with letters for us. _liv._ not so, but with lice i am. _ge._ well then you had company enough. _liv._ in truth it is not safe for a traveller now a days to go without company. _ge._ i know well enough a louse is a scholar's companion. well but do you bring any news from _paris_? _liv._ ay, i do, and that in the first place that i know you won't believe. at _paris_ a _bete_ is wise, and an _oak_ preaches. _ge._ what's that you tell me? _liv._ that which you hear. _ge._ what is it i hear? _liv._ that which i tell you. _ge._ o monstrous! sure mushrooms and stones must be the hearers where there are such preachers. _liv._ well, but it is even so as i tell you, nor do i speak only by hear say, but what i know to be true. _ge._ sure men must needs be very wise there where _betes_ and _oaks_ are so. _liv._ you are in the right on't. * * * * * _of enquiring concerning health._ _ge._ are you well? _liv._ look in my face. _ge._ why do you not rather bid me cast your water? do you take me for a doctor? i don't ask you if you are in health, for your face bespeaks you so to be; but i ask you how you like your own condition? _liv._ i am very well in my body, but sick in my mind. _ge._ he's not well indeed that is sick in that part. _liv._ this is my case, i'm well in my body, but sick in my pocket. _ge._ your mother will easily cure that distemper. how have you done for this long time? _liv._ sometimes better, and sometimes worse, as human affairs commonly go. _ge._ are you very well in health? are your affairs in a good condition? are your circumstances as you would have them? have you always had your health well? _liv._ very well, i thank god. by god's goodness i have always had my health very well. i have always been very well hitherto. i have been in very good, favourable, secure, happy, prosperous, successful, perfect health, like a prince, like a champion, fit for any thing. _ge._ god send you may always enjoy the same. i am glad to hear it. you give me a pleasure in saying so. it is very pleasant to me to hear that. i am glad at my heart to hear this from you. this is no bad news to me. i am exceeding glad to hear you say so. i wish you may be so always. i wish you may enjoy the same health as long as you live. in congratulating you, i joy myself, thanks to heaven for it. _li._ indeed i am very well if you are so. _ge._ well, but have you met with no trouble all this while? _li._ none but the want of your good company. _ge._ well, but how do you do though? _li._ well enough, finely, bravely, very well as may be, very well indeed, happily, commodiously, no way amiss. i enjoy rather what health i wish, than what i deserved, princely, herculean, champion-like. _ge._ i was expecting when you would say bull-like too. * * * * * _of being ill._ _ge._ are you in good health? _li._ i wish i were. not altogether so well as i would be. indeed i am so, so. pretty well. i am as well as i can be, since i can't be so well as i would be. as i use to be. so as it pleases god. truly not very well. never worse in all my life. as i am wont to be. i am as they use to be who have to do with the doctor. _ge._ how do you do? _li._ not as i would do. _ge._ why truly not well, ill, very ill, in an unhappy, unprosperous, unfavourable, bad, adverse, unlucky, feeble, dubious, indifferent, state of health, not at all as i would, a tolerable, such as i would not wish even to my enemies. _ge._ you tell me a melancholy story. heavens forbid it. god forbid. no more of that i pray. i wish what you say were not true. but you must be of good chear, you must pluck up a good heart. a good heart is a good help in bad circumstances. you must bear up your mind with the hope of better fortune. what distemper is it? what sort of disease is it? what distemper is it that afflicts you? what distemper are you troubled with? _li._ i can't tell, and in that my condition is the more dangerous. _ge._ that's true, for when the disease is known, it is half cured. have you had the advice of any doctor? _li._ ay, of a great many. _ge._ what do they say to your case? _li._ what the lawyers of _demiphon_ (in the play) said to him. one says one thing, another he says another, and the third he'll consider of it. but they all agree in this, that i am in a sad condition. _ge._ how long have you been taken with this illness? how long have you been ill of this distemper? how long has this illness seiz'd you? _li._ about twenty days more or less, almost a month. it's now near three months. it seems an age to me since i was first taken ill. _ge._ but i think you ought to take care that the distemper don't grow upon you. _li._ it has grown too much upon me already. _ge._ is it a dropsy? _li._ they say it is not. _ge._ is it a dissentery? _li._ i think not. _ge._ is it a fever? _li._ i believe it is a kind of fever; but a new one, as ever and anon new ones spring up that were unknown before. _ge._ there were more old ones than enough before. _li._ thus it pleases nature to deal with us, which is a little too severe. _ge._ how often does the fit come? _li._ how often do you say? every day, nay every hour indeed. _ge._ o wonderful! it is a sad affliction. how did you get this distemper? how do you think you came by it? _li._ by reason of want. _ge._ why you don't use to be so superstitious as to starve yourself with fasting. _li._ it is not bigotry but penury. _ge._ what do you mean by penury? _li._ i mean i could get no victuals, i believe it came by a cold. i fancy i got the distemper by eating rotten eggs. by drinking too much water in my wine. this crudity in my stomach came by eating green apples. _ge._ but consider whether you han't contracted this distemper by long and late studying, by hard drinking, or immoderate use of venery? why don't you send for a doctor? _li._ i am afraid he should do me more harm than good. i am afraid he should poison me instead of curing me. _ge._ you ought to chuse one that you can confide in. _li._ if i must dye, i had rather dye once for all, than to be tormented with so many slops. _ge._ well then, be your own doctor. if you can't trust to a doctor, pray god be your physician. there have been some that have recover'd their health, by putting on a dominican or a franciscan fryars cowl. _li._ and perhaps it had been the same thing, if they had put on a whore-master's cloak. these things have no effect upon those that have no faith in 'em. _ge._ why then, believe that you may recover. some have been cur'd by making vows to a saint. _li._ but i have no dealings with saints. _ge._ then pray to christ that you may have faith, and that he would be pleased to bestow the blessing of health upon you. _li._ i can't tell whether it would be a blessing or no. _ge._ why, is it not a blessing to be freed from a distemper? _li._ sometimes it is better to dye. i ask nothing of him, but only that he'd give me what would be best for me. _ge._ take something to purge you. _li._ i am laxative enough already. _ge._ take something to make you go to stool. you must take a purge. _li._ i ought to take something that is binding rather, for i am too laxative. * * * * * _of enquiring of a person upon his return_. the argument. _of interrogating a person returning from a journey, concerning war, private affairs, a disappointment, great promises, a wife lying-in, dangers, losses_, &c. _george._ have you had a good and prosperous journey? _li._ pretty good; but that there is such robbing every where. _ge._ this is the effect of war. _li._ it is so, but it is a wicked one. _ge._ did you come on foot or on horse-back? _li._ part of the way a foot, part in a coach, part on horse-back, and part by sea. _ge._ how go matters in _france?_ _li._ all's in confusion, there's nothing but war talk'd of. what mischiefs they may bring upon their enemies i know not; but this i'm sure of, the _french_ themselves are afflicted with unexpressible calamities. _ge._ whence come all these tumultuary wars? _li._ whence should they come but from the ambition of monarchs? _ge._ but it would be more their prudence to appease these storms of human affairs. _li._ appease 'em! ay, so they do, as the south wind does the sea. they fancy themselves to be gods, and that the world was made for their sakes. _ge._ nay, rather a prince was made for the good of the commonwealth, and not the commonwealth for the sake of the prince. _li._ nay, there are clergymen too, who blow up the coals, and sound an alarm to these tumults. _ge._ i'd have them set in the front of the battel. _li._ ay, ay, but they take care to keep out of harm's way. _ge._ but let us leave these publick affairs to providence. how go your own matters? _li._ very well, happily, indifferently well, tolerably. _ge._ how goes it with your own business? as you would have it? _li._ nay, better than i could have wish'd for, better than i deserve, beyond what i could have hop'd for. _ge._ are all things according to your mind? is all well? has every thing succeeded? _li._ it can't be worse. it is impossible it should be worse than it is. _ge._ what then, han't you got what you sought for? han't you caught the game you hunted? _li._ hunt! ay, i did hunt indeed, but with very ill success. _ge._ but is there no hope then? _li._ hope enough, but nothing else. _ge._ did the bishop give you no hopes? _li._ yes, whole cart loads, and whole ship loads of hope; but nothing else. _ge._ has he sent you nothing yet? _li._ he promis'd me largely, but he has never sent me a farthing. _ge._ then you must live in hopes. _li._ ay, but that won't fill the belly; they that feed upon hope may be said to hang, but not to live. _ge._ but however then, you were the lighter for travelling, not having your pockets loaded. _li._ i confess that, nay, and safer too; for an empty pocket is the best defence in the world against thieves; but for all that, i had rather have the burthen and the danger too. _ge._ you was not robb'd of any thing by the way, i hope? _li._ robb'd! what can you rob a man of that has nothing? there was more reason for other folks to be afraid of me, than i of them, having never a penny in my pocket. i might sing and be starved all the way i went. have you anything more to say? _ge._ where are you going now? _li._ strait home, to see how all do there, whom i han't seen this long time. _ge._ i wish you may find all well at home. _li._ i pray god i may. has any thing new happen'd at our house since i went away? _ge._ nothing but only you'll find your family bigger than it was; for your _catulla_ has brought you a little _catulus_ since you have been gone. your hen has laid you an egg. _li._ that's good news, i like your news, and i'll promise to give you a gospel for it. _ge._ what gospel? the gospel according to st. _matthew_? _li._ no, but according to _homer_. here take it. _ge._ keep your gospel to yourself, i have stones enough at home. _li._ don't slight my present, it is the eagle's stone; it is good for women with child; it is good to bring on their labour. _ge._ say you so? then it is a very acceptable present to me, and i'll endeavour to make you amends. _li._ the amends is made already by your kind acceptance. _ge._ nay, nothing in the world could come more seasonably, for my wife's belly is up to her mouth almost. _li._ then i'll make this bargain with you; that if she has a boy, you will let me be the godfather. _ge._ well i'll promise you that, and that you shall name it too. _li._ i wish it may be for both our good. _ge._ nay, for all our good. * * * * * _maurice, cyprian._ _ma._ you are come back fatter than you used to be: you are returned taller. _cy._ but in truth i had rather it had been wiser, or more learned. _ma._ you had no beard when you went away; but you have brought a little one back with you. you are grown somewhat oldish since you went away. what makes you look so pale, so lean, so wrinkled? _cy._ as is my fortune, so is the habit of my body. _ma._ has it been but bad then? _cy._ she never is otherwise to me, but never worse in my life than now. _ma._ i am sorry for that. i am sorry for your misfortune. but pray, what is this mischance? _cy._ i have lost all my money. _ma._ what in the sea? _cy._ no, on shore, before i went abroad. _ma._ where? _cy._ upon the _english_ coast. _ma._ it is well you scap'd with your life; it is better to lose your money, than that; the loss of ones good name, is worse than the loss of money. _cy._ my life and reputation are safe; but my money is lost. _ma._ the loss of life never can be repair'd; the loss of reputation very hardly; but the loss of money may easily be made up one way or another. but how came it about? _cy._ i can't tell, unless it was my destiny. so it pleas'd god. as the devil would have it. _ma._ now you see that learning and virtue are the safest riches; for as they can't be taken from a man, so neither are they burthensome to him that carries them. _cy._ indeed you philosophize very well; but in the mean time i'm in perplexity. * * * * * _claudius, balbus._ _cl._ i am glad to see you well come home _balbus_. _ba._ and i to see you alive _claudius_. _cl._ you are welcome home into your own country again. _ba._ you should rather congratulate me as a fugitive from _france_. _cl._ why so? _ba._ because they are all up in arms there. _cl._ but what have scholars to do with arms? _ba._ but there they don't spare even scholars. _cl._ it is well you're got off safe. _ba._ but i did not get off without danger neither. _cl._ you are come back quite another man than you went away. _ba._ how so? _cl._ why, of a _dutch_ man, you are become a _french_ man. _ba._ why, was i a capon when i went away? _cl._ your dress shows that you're turn'd from a _dutch_ man into a _french_ man. _ba._ i had rather suffer this metamorphosis, than be turn'd into a hen. but as a cowl does not make a monk, so neither does a garment a _french_ man. _cl._ have you learn'd to speak _french?_ _ba._ indifferently well. _cl._ how did you learn it? _ba._ of teachers that were no dumb ones i assure you. _cl._ from whom. _ba._ of little women, more full of tongue, than turtle doves. _cl._ it is easy to learn to speak in such a school. do you pronounce the _french_ well? _ba._ yes, that i do, and i pronounce _latin_ after the _french_ mode. _cl._ then you will never write good verses. _ba._ why so? _cl._ because you'll make false quantities. _ba._ the quality is enough for me. _cl._ is _paris_ clear of the plague? _ba._ not quite, but it is not continual, sometimes it abates, and anon it returns again; sometimes it slackens, and then rages again. _cl._ is not war itself plague enough? _ba._ it is so, unless god thought otherwise. _cl._ sure bread must be very dear there. _ba._ there is a great scarcity of it. there is a great want of every thing but wicked soldiers. good men are wonderful cheap there. _cl._ what is in the mind of the _french_ to go to war with the _germans_? _ba._ they have a mind to imitate the beetle, that won't give place to the eagle. every one thinks himself an _hercules_ in war. _cl._ i won't detain you any longer, at some other time we'll divert ourselves more largely, when we can both spare time. at present i have a little business that calls me to another place. _family discourse._ the argument. _this colloquy presents us with the sayings and jokes of intimate acquaintance, and the repartees and behaviour of familiar friends one with another. 1. of walking abroad, and calling companions. 2. of seldom visiting, of asking concerning a wife, daughter, sons. 3. concerning leisure, the tingling of the ear, the description of a homely maid. invitation to a wedding. 4. of studying too hard, &c._ peter, midas, _a boy_, jodocus. _peter_, soho, soho, boy! does no body come to the door? _mi._ i think this fellow will beat the door down. sure he must needs be some intimate acquaintance or other. o old friend _peter_, what hast brought? _pe._ myself. _mi._ in truth then you have brought that which is not much worth. _pe._ but i'm sure i cost my father a great deal. _mi._ i believe so, more than you can be sold for again. _pe._ but is _jodocus_ at home? _mi._ i can't tell, but i'll go see. _pe._ go in first, and ask him if he pleases to be at home now. _mi._ go yourself, and be your own errand boy. _pe._ soho! _jodocus_, are you at home? _jo._ no, i am not. _pe._ oh! you impudent fellow i don't i hear you speak? _jo._ nay, you are more impudent, for i took your maid's word for it lately, that you were not at home, and you won't believe me myself. _pe._ you're in the right on't, you've serv'd me in my own kind. _jo._ as i sleep not for every body, so i am not at home to every body, but for time to come shall always be at home to you. _pe._ methinks you live the life of a snail. _jo._ why so? _pe._ because you keep always at home and never stir abroad, just like a lame cobler always in his stall. you sit at home till your breech grows to your seat. _jo._ at home i have something to do, but i have no business abroad, and if i had, the weather we have had for several days past, would have kept me from going abroad. _pe._ but now it is fair, and would tempt a body to walk out; see how charming pleasant it is. _jo._ if you have a mind to walk i won't be against it. _pe._ in truth, i think we ought to take the opportunity of this fine weather. _jo._ but we ought to get a merry companion or two, to go along with us. _pe._ so we will; but tell me who you'd have then. _jo._ what if we should get hugh? _pe._ there is no great difference between _hugo_ and _nugo._ _jo._ come on then, i like it mighty well. _pe._ what if we should call _alardus?_ _jo._ he's no dumb man i'll assure you, what he wants in hearing he'll make up in talking. _pe._ if you will, we'll get _nævius_ along with us too. _jo._ if we have but him, we shall never want merry stories. i like the company mainly, the next thing is to pitch upon a pleasant place. _pe._ i'll show you a place where you shall neither want the shade of a grove, nor the pleasant verdure of meadows, nor the purling streams of fountains, you'll say it is a place worthy of the muses themselves. _jo._ you promise nobly. _pe._ you are too intent upon your books; you sit too close to your books; you make yourself lean with immoderate study. _jo._ i had rather grow lean with study than with love. _pe._ we don't live to study, but we therefore study that we may live pleasantly. _jo._ indeed i could live and dye in my study. _pe._ i approve well enough of studying hard, but not to study myself to death. _pe._ has this walk pleas'd you? _jo._ it has been a charming pleasant one. * * * * * _2. giles, leonard._ _gi._ where is our leonard a going? _le._ i was coming to you. _gi._ that you do but seldom. _le._ why so? _gi._ because you han't been to see me this twelve months. _le._ i had rather err on that hand to be wanted, than to be tiresome. _gi._ i am never tired with the company of a good friend: nay, the oftner you come the more welcome you are. _le._ but by the way, how goes matters at your house. _gi._ why truly not many things as i would have them. _le._ i don't wonder at that, but is your wife brought to bed yet? _gi._ ay, a great while ago, and had two at a birth too. _le._ how, two at once! _gi._ 'tis as i tell you, and more than that she's with child again. _le._ that's the way to increase your family. _gi._ ay, but i wish fortune would increase my money as much as my wife does my family. _le._ have you disposed of your daughter yet? _gi._ no, not yet. _le._ i would have you consider if it be not hazardous to keep such a great maid as she at home, you should look out for a husband for her. _gi._ there's no need of that, for she has sweet-hearts enough already. _le._ but why then don't you single out one for her, him that you like the best of them? _gi._ they are all so good that i can't tell which to chuse: but my daughter won't hear of marrying. _le._ how say you! if i am not mistaken, she has been marriageable for some time. she has been fit for a husband a great while, ripe for wedlock, ready for a husband this great while. _gi._ why not, she is above seventeen, she's above two and twenty, she's in her nineteenth year, she's above eighteen years old. _le._ but why is she averse to marriage? _gi._ she says she has a mind to be married to christ. _le._ in truth he has a great many brides. but is she married to an evil genius that lives chastly with a husband? _gi._ i don't think so. _le._ how came that whimsey into her head? _gi._ i can't tell, but there's no persuading her out of it by all that can be said to her. _le._ you should take care that there be no tricksters that inveagle or draw her away. _gi._ i know these kidnappers well enough, and i drive this kind of cattel as far from my house as i can. _le._ but what do you intend to do then? do you intend to let her have her humour? _gi._ no, i'll prevent it if possible; i'll try every method to alter her mind; but if she persists in it, i'll not force her against her will, lest i should be found to fight against god, or rather to fight against the monks. _le._ indeed you speak very religiously; but take care to try her constancy throughly, lest she should afterwards repent it, when it is too late. _gi._ i'll do my utmost endeavours. _le._ what employment do your sons follow? _gi._ the eldest has been married this good while, and will be a father in a little time; i have sent the youngest away to _paris_, for he did nothing but play while he was here. _le._ why did you send him thither? _gi._ that he might come back a greater fool than he went. _le._ don't talk so. _gi._ the middlemost has lately enter'd into holy orders. _le._ i wish 'em all well. * * * * * 3. _mopsus, dromo._ _mo._ how is it? what are you doing dromo? _dr._ i'm sitting still. _mo._ i see that; but how do matters go with you? _dr._ as they use to do with unfortunate persons. _mo._ god forbid that that should be your case. but what are you doing? _dr._ i am idling, as you see; doing just nothing at all. _mo._ it is better to be idle than doing of nothing; it may be i interrupt you, being employ'd in some matters of consequence? _dr._ no, really, entirely at leisure; i just began to be tir'd of being alone, and was wishing for a merry companion. _mo._ it may be i hinder, interrupt, disturb you, being about some business? _dr._ no, you divert me, being tired with being idle. _mo._ pray pardon me if i have interrupted you unseasonably. _dr._ nay, you came very seasonably; you are come in the nick of time; i was just now wishing for you; i am extreme glad of your company. _mo._ it may be you are about some serious business, that i would by no means interrupt or hinder? _dr._ nay, rather it is according to the old proverb, _talk of the devil and he'll appear_; for we were just now speaking of you. _mo._ in short, i believe you were, for my ear tingled mightily as i came along. _dr._ which ear was it? _mo._ my left, from which i guess there was no good said of me. _dr._ nay, i'll assure you there was nothing but good said. _mo._ then the old proverb is not true. but what good news have you? _dr._ they say you are become a huntsman. _mo._ nay, more than that, i have gotten the game now in my nets that i have been hunting after. _dr._ what game is it? _mo._ a pretty girl, that i am to marry in a day or two; and i intreat you to honour me with your good company at my wedding. _dr._ pray, who is your bride? _mo. alice_, the daughter of _chremes_. _dr._ you are a rare fellow to chuse a beauty for one! can you fancy that black-a-top, snub-nos'd, sparrow-mouth'd, paunch-belly'd creature. _mo._ prithee hold thy tongue, i marry her to please myself, and not you. pray, is it not enough that i like her? the less she pleases you, the more she'll please me. * * * * * 4. _syrus, geta._ _sy._ i wish you much happiness. _ge._ and i wish you double what you wish me. _sy._ what are you doing? _ge._ i am talking. _sy._ what! by yourself? _ge._ as you see. _sy._ it may be you are talking to yourself, and then you ought to see to it that you talk to an honest man. _ge._ nay, i am conversing with a very facetious companion. _sy._ with whom? _ge._ with _apuleius_. _sy._ that i think you are always doing, but the muses love intermission; you study continually. _ge._ i am never tired with study. _sy._ it may be so, but yet you ought to set bounds; though study ought not to be omitted, yet it ought sometimes to be intermitted; studies are not to be quite thrown aside, yet they ought for a while to be laid aside; there is nothing pleasant that wants variety; the seldomer pleasures are made use of the pleasanter they are. you do nothing else but study. you are always studying. you are continually at your books. you read incessantly. you study night and day. you never are but a studying. you are continually at your study. you are always intent upon your books. you know no end of, nor set no bound to study. you give yourself no rest from your studies. you allow yourself no intermission in, nor ever give over studying. _ge._ very well! this is like you. you banter me as you use to do. you make a game of me. you joke upon me. you satyrize me. you treat me with a sneer. i see how you jeer me well enough. you only jest with me. i am your laughing-stock. i am laugh'd at by you. you make yourself merry with me. you make a meer game and sport of me. why don't you put me on asses ears too? my books, that are all over dusty and mouldy, shew how hard a studier i am. _sy._ let me die if i don't speak my mind. let me perish if i don't speak as i think. let me not live if i dissemble. i speak what i think. i speak the truth. i speak seriously. i speak from my heart. i speak nothing but what i think. * * * * * _why don't you come to see me_? _ge._ what's the matter you ha'n't come to see me all this while? what's the matter you visit me so seldom? what has happen'd to you that you never have come at me for so long time? why are you so seldom a visitor? what is the meaning that you never come near one for so long time? what has hinder'd you that you have come to see me no oftner? what has prevented you that you have never let me have the opportunity of seeing you for this long time? * * * * * _i could not by reason of business._ _sy._ i had not leisure. i would have come, but i could not for my business. business would not permit me hitherto to come to see you. these floods of business that i have been plung'd in would not permit me to pay my respects to you. i have been so busy i could not come. i have been harass'd with so many vexatious matters that i could not get an opportunity. i have been so taken up with a troublesome business that i could never have so much command of myself. you must impute it to my business, and not to me. it was not for want of will, but opportunity. i could not get time till now. i have had no time till now. i never have had any leisure till this time. i have been so ill i could not come. i could not come, the weather has been so bad. _ge._ indeed i accept of your excuse, but upon this condition, that you don't make use of it often. if sickness has been the occasion of your absence, your excuse is juster than i wish it had been; i'll excuse you upon this condition, that you make amends for your omission by kindness, if you make up your past neglect by your future frequent visits. _sy._ you don't esteem these common formalities. our friendship is more firm than to need to be supported by such vulgar ceremonies. he visits often enough that loves constantly. _ge._ a mischief take those incumbrances that have depriv'd us of your company. i can't tell what to wish for bad enough to those affairs that have envy'd us the company of so good a friend. a mischief take that fever that hath tormented us so long with the want of you. i wish that fever may perish, so thou thyself wert but safe. * * * * * _of commanding and promising._ _james, sapidus._ _ja._ i pray you take a special care of this matter. i earnestly intreat you to take care of this affair. if you have any respect for me, pray manage this affair diligently. pray be very careful in this affair. pray take a great deal of care about this business for my sake. if you are indeed the man i always took you to be, let me see in this concern what esteem you have for me. _sa._ say no more, i'll dispatch this affair for you, and that very shortly too. i can't indeed warrant you what the event shall be, but this i promise you, that neither fidelity nor industry shall be wanting in me. i will take more care of it than if it were mine own affair; tho' indeed that which is my friend's i account as my own. i will so manage the affair, that whatever is wanting, care and diligence shall not be wanting. take you no care about the matter, i'll do it for you. do you be easy, i'll take the management of it upon myself. i am glad to have an opportunity put into my hand of shewing you my respect. i do not promise you in words, but i will in reality perform whatsoever is to be expected from a real friend, and one that heartily wishes you well. i won't bring you into a fool's paradise. i'll do that which shall give you occasion to say you trusted the affair to a friend. * * * * * _success._ _sa._ the matter succeeded better than i could have expected. fortune has favour'd both our wishes. if fortune had been your wife she could not have been more observant to you. your affair went on bravely with wind and tide. fortune has out-done our very wishes. you must needs be a favourite of fortune, to whom all things fall out just as you would have them. i have obtain'd more than i could presume to wish for. this journey has been perform'd from beginning to end with all the fortunate circumstances imaginable. the whole affair has fallen out according to our wish. this chance fell out happily for us. i think we have been lucky to admiration, that what has been so imprudently enterpriz'd, has so happily succeeded. * * * * * _a giving one thanks._ _ja._ indeed i thank you, and shall thank you heartily as long as i live for that good service you have done me. i can scarce give you the thanks you deserve, and shall never be able to make you amends. i see how much i am oblig'd to you for your kindness to me. indeed i don't wonder at it, for it is no new thing, and in that i am the more oblig'd to you. my _sapidus_ i do, and it is my duty to love you heartily for your kindness to me. in as much as in this affair you have not acted the part of a courtier, i do, and always shall thank you. i respect you, and thank you, that you made my affair your care. you have oblig'd me very much by that kindness of yours. it is a great obligation upon me that you have manag'd my concern with fidelity. of all your kindnesses, which are indeed a great many, you have shew'd me none has oblig'd me more than this. i cannot possibly make you a return according to your merit too much ceremony between you and i is unnecessary, but that which is in my power i'll do. i'll be thankful as long as i live. i confess myself highly oblig'd to you for your good service. for this kindness i owe you more than i am able to pay. by this good office you have attach'd me to you so firmly, that i can never be able to disengage myself. you have laid me under so many and great obligations, that i shall never be able to get out of your debt. no slave was ever so engag'd in duty to his master as you have engag'd me by this office. you have by this good turn brought me more into your debt than ever i shall be able to pay. i am oblig'd to you upon many accounts, but upon none more than upon this. thanks are due for common kindness, but this is beyond the power of thanks to retaliate. * * * * * _the answer._ _sa._ forbear these compliments, the friendship between you and i is greater than that we should thank one another for any service done. i have not bestow'd this kindness upon you, but only made a return of it to you. i think the amends is sufficiently made, if my most sedulous endeavours are acceptable to you. there is no reason you should thank me for repaying this small kindness, for those uncommon kindnesses i have so often receiv'd from you. indeed i merit no praise, but should have been the most ungrateful man in the world if i had been wanting to my friend. whatsoever i have, and whatsoever i can do, you may call as much your own as any thing that you have the best title to. i look upon it as a favour that you take my service kindly. you pay so great an acknowledgment to me for so small a kindness, as tho' i did not owe you much greater. he serves himself that serves his friend. he that serves a friend does not give away his service, but puts it out to interest. if you approve of my service, pray make frequent use of it; then i shall think my service is acceptable, if as often as you have occasion for it you would not request but command it. _of rash vows._ the argument. _this colloquy treats chiefly of three things, 1. of the superstitious pilgrimages of some persons to_ jerusalem, _and other holy places, under pretence of devotion. 2. that vows are not to be made rashly over a pot of ale: but that time, expence and pains ought to be employ d otherwise, in such matters as have a real tendency to promote trite piety. 3. of the insignificancy and absurdity of popish indulgencies_. arnoldus, cornelius. _arnoldus._ o! _cornelius_, well met heartily, you have been lost this hundred years. _co._ what my old companion _arnoldus_, the man i long'd to see most of any man in the world! god save you. _ar._ we all gave thee over for lost. but prithee where hast been rambling all this while? _co._ in t'other world. _ar._ why truly a body would think so by thy slovenly dress, lean carcase, and ghastly phyz. _co._ well, but i am just come from _jerusalem_, not from the _stygian_ shades. _ar._ what wind blew thee thither? _co._ what wind blows a great many other folks thither? _ar._ why folly, or else i am mistaken. _co._ however, i am not the only fool in the world. _ar._ what did you hunt after there? _co._ why misery. _ar._ you might have found that nearer home. but did you meet with any thing worth seeing there? _co._ why truly, to speak ingenuously, little or nothing. they shew us some certain monuments of antiquity, which i look upon to be most of 'em counterfeits, and meer contrivances to bubble the simple and credulous. i don't think they know precisely the place that _jerusalem_ anciently stood in. _ar._ what did you see then? _co._ a great deal of barbarity every where. _ar._ but i hope you are come back more holy than you went. _co._ no indeed, rather ten times worse. _ar._ well, but then you are richer? _co._ nay, rather poorer than _job_. _ar._ but don't you repent you have taken so long a journey to so little purpose? _co._ no, nor i am not asham'd neither, i have so many companions of my folly to keep me in countenance; and as for repentance, it's too late now. _ar._ what! do you get no good then by so dangerous a voyage? _co._ yes, a great deal. _ar._ what is it? _co._ why, i shall live more pleasantly for it for time to come. _ar._ what, because you'll have the pleasure of telling old stories when the danger is over? _co._ that is something indeed, but that is not all. _ar._ is there any other advantage in it besides that? _co._ yes, there is. _ar._ what is it? pray tell me. _co._ why, i can divert myself and company, as oft as i have a mind to it, in romancing upon my adventures over a pot of ale, or a good dinner. _ar._ why, truly that is something, as you say. _co._ and besides, i shall take as much pleasure myself when i hear others romancing about things they never heard nor saw; nay, and that they do with that assurance, that when they are telling the most ridiculous and impossible things in nature, they persuade themselves they are speaking truth all the while. _ar._ this is a wonderful pleasure. well then, you have not lost all your cost and labour, as the saying is. _co._ nay, i think this is something better still than what they do, who, for the sake of little advance-money, list themselves for soldiers in the army, which is the nursery of all impiety. _ar._ but it is an ungentleman-like thing to take delight in telling lies. _co._ but it is a little more like a gentleman than either to delight others, or be delighted in slandering other persons, or lavishing away a man's time or substance in gaming. _ar._ indeed i must be of your mind in that. _co._ but then there is another advantage. _ar._ what is that? _co._ if there shall be any friend that i love very well, who shall happen to be tainted with this phrensy, i will advise him to stay at home; as your mariners that have been cast away, advise them that are going to sea, to steer clear of the place where they miscarried. _ar._ i wish you had been my moniter in time. _co._ what man! have you been infected with this disease too? _ar._ yes, i have been at _rome_ and _compostella_. _co._ good god! how i am pleas'd that you have been as great a fool as i! what _pallas_ put that into your head? _ar._ no _pallas_, but _moria_ rather, especially when i left at home a handsome young wife, several children, and a family, who had nothing in the world to depend upon for a maintenance but my daily labour. _co._ sure it must be some important reason that drew you away from all these engaging relations. prithee tell me what it was. _ar._ i am asham'd to tell it. _co._ you need not be asham'd to tell me, who, you know, have been sick of the same distemper. _ar._ there was a knot of neighbours of us drinking together, and when the wine began to work in our noddles, one said he had a mind to make a visit to st. _james_, and another to st. _peter_; presently there was one or two that promis'd to go with them, till at last it was concluded upon to go all together; and i, that i might not seem a disagreeable companion, rather than break good company, promised to go too. the next question was, whether we should go to _rome_ or _compostella_? upon the debate it was determin'd that we should all, god willing, set out the next day for both places. _co._ a grave decree, fitter to be writ in wine than engrav'd in brass. _ar._ presently a bumper was put about to our good journey, which when every man had taken off in his turn, the vote passed into an act, and became inviolable. _co._ a new religion! but did you all come safe back? _ar._ all but three, one dy'd by the way, and gave us in charge to give his humble service to _peter_ and _james_; another dy'd at _rome_, who bad us remember him to his wife and children; and the third we left at _florence_ dangerously ill, and i believe he is in heaven before now. _co._ was he so good a man then? _ar._ the veriest droll in nature. _co._ why do you think he is in heaven then? _ar._ because he had a whole satchel full of large indulgencies. _co._ i understand you, but it is a long way to heaven, and a very dangerous one too, as i am told, by reason of the little thieves that infest the middle region of the air. _ar._ that's true, but he was well fortify'd with bulls. _co._ what language were they written in? _ar._ in _latin_. _co._ and will they secure him? _ar._ yes, unless he should happen upon some spirit that does not understand _latin_, in that case he must go back to _rome_, and get a new passport. _co._ do they sell bulls there to dead men too? _ar._ yes. _co._ but by the way, let me advise you to have a care what you say, for now there are a great many spies abroad. _ar._ i don't speak slightingly of indulgencies themselves, but i laugh at the folly of my fuddling companion, who tho' he was the greatest trifler that ever was born, yet chose rather to venture the whole stress of his salvation upon a skin of parchment than upon the amendment of his life. but when shall we have that merry bout you spoke of just now? _co._ when opportunity offers we'll set a time for a small collation, and invite some of our comrades, there we will tell lies, who can lye fastest, and divert one another with lies till we have our bellies full. _ar._ come on, a match. _of benefice-hunters._ the argument. _in this colloquy those persons are reprehended that run to and again to_ rome _hunting after benefices, and that oftentimes with the hazard of the corruption of their morals, and the loss of their money. the clergy are admonished to divert themselves with reading of good books, rather than with a concubine. jocular discourse concerning a long nose_. pamphagus, cocles. _pam._ either my sight fails me, or this is my old pot-companion _cocles_. _co._ no, no, your eyes don't deceive you at all, you see a companion that is yours heartily. nobody ever thought to have seen you again, you have been gone so many years, and no body knew what was become of you. but whence come you from? prithee tell me. _pa._ from the _antipodes_. _co._ nay, but i believe you are come from the fortunate islands. _pa._ i am glad you know your old companion, i was afraid i should come home as _ulysses_ did. _co._ why pray? after what manner did he come home? _pa._ his own wife did not know him; only his dog, being grown very old, acknowledg'd his master, by wagging his tail. _co._ how many years was he from home? _pa._ twenty. _co._ you have been absent more than twenty years, and yet i knew your face again. but who tells that story of _ulysses_? _pa._ _homer._ _co._ he? they say he's the father of all fabulous stories. it may be his wife had gotten herself a gallant in the mean time, and therefore did not know her own _ulysses_. _pa._ no, nothing of that, she was one of the chastest women in the world. but _pallas_ had made _ulysses_ look old, that he might not be known. _co._ how came he to be known at last? _pa._ by a little wart that he had upon one of his toes. his nurse, who was now a very old woman, took notice of that as she was washing his feet. _co._ a curious old hagg. well then, do you admire that i know you that have so remarkable a nose. _pa._ i am not at all sorry for this nose. _co._ no, nor have you any occasion to be sorry for having a thing that is fit for so many uses. _pa._ for what uses? _co._ first of all, it will serve instead of an extinguisher, to put out candles. _pa._ go on. _co._ again, if you want to draw any thing out of a deep pit, it will serve instead of an elephant's trunk. _pa._ o wonderful. _co._ if your hands be employ'd, it will serve instead of a pin. _pa._ is it good for any thing else? _co._ if you have no bellows, it will serve to blow the fire. _pa._ this is very pretty; have you any more of it? _co._ if the light offends you when you are writing, it will serve for an umbrella. _pa._ ha, ha, ha! have you any thing more to say? _co._ in a sea-fight it will serve for a grappling-hook. _pa._ what will it serve for in a land-fight? _co._ instead of a shield. _pa._ and what else? _co._ it will serve for a wedge to cleave wood withal. _pa._ well said. _co._ if you act the part of a herald, it will be for a trumpet; if you sound an alarm, a horn; if you dig, a spade; if you reap, a sickle; if you go to sea, an anchor; in the kitchen it will serve for a flesh-hook; and in fishing a fish-hook. _pa._ i am a happy fellow indeed, i did not know i carry'd about me a piece of houshold stuff that would serve for so many uses. _co._ but in the mean time, in what corner of the earth have you hid yourself all this while? _pa._ in _rome_. _co._ but is it possible that in so publick a place no body should know you were alive? _pa._ good men are no where in the world so much _incognito_ as there, so that in the brightest day you shall scarce see one in a throng'd market. _co._ well, but then you're come home loaden with benefices. _pa._ indeed i hunted after them diligently, but i had no success; for the way of fishing there is according to the proverb, with a golden hook. _co._ that's a foolish way of fishing. _pa._ no matter for that, some folks find it a very good way. _co._ are they not the greatest fools in nature that change gold for lead? _pa._ but don't you know that there are veins of gold in holy lead? _co._ what then! are you come back nothing but a _pamphagus_? _pa._ no. _co._ what then, pray? _pa._ a ravenous wolf. _co._ but they make a better voyage of it, that return laden with budgets full of benefices. why had you rather have a benefice than a wife? _pa._ because i love to live at ease. i love to live a pleasant life. _co._ but in my opinion they live the most pleasant life that have at home a pretty girl, that they may embrace as often as they have a mind to it. _pa._ and you may add this to it, sometimes when they have no mind to it. i love a continual pleasure; he that marries a wife is happy for a month, but he that gets a fat benefice lives merrily all his life. _co._ but solitude is so melancholy a life, that _adam_, in _paradise_ could not have liv'd happily unless god had given him an _eve_. _pa._ he'll ne'er need to want an _eve_ that has gotten a good benefice. _co._ but that pleasure can't really be call'd pleasure that carries an ill name and bad conscience with it. _pa._ you say true, and therefore i design to divert the tediousness of solitude by a conversation with books. _co._ they are the pleasantest companions in the world. but do you intend to return to your fishing again? _pa._ yes, i would, if i could get a fresh bait. _co._ would you have a golden one or a silver one? _pa._ either of them. _co._ be of good cheer, your father will supply you. _pa._ he'll part with nothing; and especially he'll not trust me again, when he comes to understand i have spent what i had to no purpose. _co._ that's the chance of the dice. _pa._ but he don't like those dice. _co._ if he shall absolutely deny you, i'll shew you where you may have as much as you please. _pa._ you tell me good news indeed, come shew it me, my heart leaps for joy. _co._ it is here hard by. _pa._ why, have you gotten a treasure? _co._ if i had, i would have it for myself, not for you. _pa._ if i could but get together 100 ducats i should be in hopes again. _co._ i'll shew you where you may have 100,000. _pa._ prithee put me out of my pain then, and do not teaze me to death. tell me where i may have it. _co._ from the _asse budæi_, there you may find a great many ten thousands, whether you'd have it gold or silver. _pa._ go and be hang'd with your banter, i'll pay you what i owe you out of that bank. _co._ ay, so you shall, but it shall be what i lend you out of it. _pa._ i know your waggish tricks well enough. _co._ i'm not to be compar'd to you for that. _pa._ nay, you are the veriest wag in nature, you are nothing but waggery; you make a jest of a serious matter. in this affair it is far easier matter to teaze me than it is to please me. the matter is of too great a consequence to be made a jest on. if you were in my case you would not be so gamesome; you make a mere game of me; you game and banter me. you joke upon me in a thing that is not a joking matter. _co._ i don't jeer you, i speak what i think. indeed i do not laugh, i speak my mind. i speak seriously. i speak from my heart. i speak sincerely. i speak the truth. _pa._ so may your cap stand always upon your head, as you speak sincerely. but do i stand loitering here, and make no haste home to see how all things go there? _co._ you'll find a great many things new. _pa._ i believe i shall; but i wish i may find all things as i would have them. _co._ we may all wish so if we will, but never any body found it so yet. _pa._ our rambles will do us both this good, that we shall like home the better for time to come. _co._ i can't tell that, for i have seen some that have play'd the same game over and over again; if once this infection seizes a person he seldom gets rid of it. _of a soldier's life._ the argument. _the wicked life of soldiers is here reprehended, and shewn to be very miserable: that war is confusion, and a sink of all manner of vices, in as much as in it there is no distinction made betwixt things sacred and profane. the hope of plunder allures many to become soldiers. the impieties of a military life are here laid open, by this confession of a soldier, that youth may be put out of conceit of going into the army._ hanno, thrasymachus. _hanno._ how comes it about that you that went away a _mercury_, come back a _vulcan_? _thr._ what do you talk to me of your _mercuries_ and your _vulcans_ for? _ha._ because you seem'd to be ready to fly when you went away, but you're come limping home. _thr._ i'm come back like a soldier then. _ha._ you a soldier, that would out-run a stag if an enemy were at your heels. _thr._ the hope of booty made me valiant. _ha._ well, have you brought home a good deal of plunder then? _thr._ empty pockets. _ha._ then you were the lighter for travelling. _thr._ but i was heavy loaden with sin. _ha._ that's heavy luggage indeed, if the prophet says right, who calls sin lead. _thr._ i have seen and had a hand in more villanies this campaign than in the whole course of my life before. _ha._ how do you like a soldier's life? _thr._ there is no course of life in the. world more wicked or more wretched. _ha._ what then must be in the minds of those people, that for the sake of a little money, and some out of curiosity, make as much haste to a battel as to a banquet? _thr._ in truth, i can think no other but they are possess'd; for if the devil were not in them they would never anticipate their fate. _ha._ so one would think, for if you'd put 'em upon any honest business, they'll scarce stir a foot in it for any money. but tell me, how went the battel? who got the better on't? _thr._ there was such a hallooing, hurly-burly, noise of guns, trumpets and drums, neighing of horses, and shouting of men, that i was so far from knowing what others were a doing, that i scarcely knew where i was myself. _ha._ how comes it about then that others, after a fight is over, do paint you out every circumstance so to the life, and tell you what such an officer said, and what t'other did, as tho' they had been nothing but lookers on all the time, and had been every where at the same time? _thr._ it is my opinion that they lye confoundedly. i can tell you what was done in my own tent, but as to what was done in the battel, i know nothing at all of that. _ha._ don't you know how you came to be lame neither? _thr._ scarce that upon my honour, but i suppose my knee was hurt by a stone, or a horse-heel, or so. _ha._ well, but i can tell you. _thr._ you tell me? why, has any body told you? _ha._ no, but i guess. _thr._ tell me then. _ha._ when you were running away in a fright, you fell down and hit it against a stone. _thr._ let me die if you han't hit the nail on the head. _ha._ go, get you home, and tell your wife of your exploits. _thr._ she'll read me a juniper-lecture for coming home in such a pickle. _ha._ but what restitution will you make for what you have stolen? _thr._ that's made already. _ha._ to whom? _thr._ why, to whores, sutlers, and gamesters. _ha._ that's like a soldier for all the world, it's but just that what's got over the devil's back should be spent under his belly. _ha._ but i hope you have kept your fingers all this while from sacrilege? _thr._ there's nothing sacred in hostility, there we neither spare private houses nor churches. _ha._ how will you make satisfaction? _thr._ they say there is no satisfaction to be made for what is done in war, for all things are lawful there. _ha._ you mean by the law of arms, i suppose? _thr._ you are right. _ha._ but that law is the highest injustice. it was not the love of your country, but the love of booty that made you a soldier. _thr._ i confess so, and i believe very few go into the army with any better design. _ha._ it is indeed some excuse to be mad with the greater part of mankind. _thr._ i have heard a parson say in his pulpit that war was lawful. _ha._ pulpits indeed are the oracles of truth. but war may be lawful for a prince, and yet not so for you. _thr._ i have heard that every man must live by his trade. _ha._ a very honourable trade indeed to burn houses, rob churches, ravish nuns, plunder the poor, and murder the innocent! _thr._ butchers are hired to kill beasts; and why is our trade found fault with who are hired to kill men? _ha._ but was you never thoughtful what should become of your soul if you happen'd to be kill'd in the battel? _thr._ not very much; i was very well satisfied in my mind, having once for all commended myself to st. _barbara_. _ha._ and did she take you under her protection? _thr._ i fancied so, for methought she gave me a little nod. _ha._ what time was it? in the morning? _thr._ no, no, 'twas after supper. _ha._ and by that time i suppose the trees seem'd to walk too? _thr._ how this man guesses every thing! but st. _christopher_ was the saint i most depended on, whose picture i had always in my eye. _ha._ what in your tent? _thr._ we had drawn him with charcoal upon our sail-cloth. _thr._ then to be sure that _christopher_ the collier was a sure card to trust to? but without jesting, i don't see how you can expect to be forgiven all these villanies, unless you go to _rome_. _thr._ yes, i can, i know a shorter way than that. _ha._ what way is that? _thr._ i'll go to the _dominicans_, and there i can do my business with the commissaries for a trifle. _ha._ what, for sacrilege? _thr._ ay, if i had robb'd christ himself, and cut off his head afterwards, they have pardons would reach it, and commissions large enough to compound for it. _ha._ that is well indeed, if god should ratify your composition. _thr._ nay, i am rather afraid the devil should not ratify it; god is of a forgiving nature. _ha._ what priest will you get you? _thr._ one that i know has but little modesty or honesty. _ha._ like to like. and when that's over, you'll go strait away to the communion, like a good christian, will you not? _thr._ why should i not? for after i have once discharg'd the jakes of my sins into his cowl, and unburden'd myself of my luggage, let him look to it that absolv'd me. _ha._ but how can you be sure that he does absolve you? _thr._ i know that well enough. _ha._ how do you know it? _thr._ because he lays his hand upon my head and mutters over something, i don't know what. _ha._ what if he should give you all your sins again when he lays his hand upon your head, and these should be the words he mutters to himself? _i absolve thee from all thy good deeds, of which i find few or none in thee; i restore thee to thy wonted manners, and leave thee just as i found thee_. _thr._ let him look to what he says, it is enough for me that i believe i am absolv'd. _ha._ but you run a great hazard by that belief, for perhaps that will not be satisfaction to god, to whom thou art indebted. _thr._ who a mischief put you in my way to disturb my conscience, which was very quiet before? _ha._ nay, i think it is a very happy encounter to meet a friend that gives good advice. _thr._ i can't tell how good it is, but i am sure it is not very pleasant. _the commands of a master._ the argument. _this colloquy treats of the commands of a master, and the business of a servant, 1. the master calls up his sleepy servant, commands him to set the house to rights; the servant answers again, that he speaks not a word about dinner, &c. 2. of sending him on various errands. 3. concerning riding_. 1. _of calling up the sleeper._ rabanus, syrus. _ra._ soho, soho, rascal, i am hoarse a bawling to you, and you lye snoring still, you'll sleep for ever i think in my conscience; either get up presently or i'll rouze you with a good cudgel. when will you have slept out your yesterday's debauch? are you not asham'd, you sleepy sot, to lye a-bed till this time of day? good servants rise as soon as it is day, and take care to get every thing in order before their master rises. how loth this drone is to leave his warm nest! he is a whole hour a scratching, and stretching, and yawning. _sy._ it is scarce day yet. _ra._ i believe not to you; it is midnight yet to your eyes. _sy._ what do you want me to do? _ra._ make the fire burn, brush my cap and cloke, clean my shoes and galloshoes, take my stockings and turn them inside out, and brush them well, first within, and then without, burn a little perfume to sweeten the air, light a candle, give me a clean shirt, air it well before a clear fire. _sy._ it shall be done sir. _ra._ but make haste then, all this ought to have been done before now. _sy._ i do make haste sir. _ra._ i see what haste you make, you are never the forwarder, you go a snail's gallop. _sy._ sir, i cannot do two things at once. _ra._ you scoundrel, do you speak sentences too? take away the chamber-pot, lay the bed-clothes to rights, draw back the curtains, sweep the house, sweep the chamber-floor, fetch me some water to wash my hands. what are you a sliving about you drone? you are a year a lighting a candle. _sy._ i can't find a spark of fire. _ra._ is it so you rak'd it up last night? _sy._ i have no bellows. _ra._ how the knave thwarts me, as if he that has you can want bellows. _sy._ what an imperious master have i gotten! ten of the nimblest fellows in the world are scarce sufficient to perform his orders. _ra._ what's that you say you slow-back? _sy._ nothing at all, sir. _ra._ no, sirrah, did i not hear you mutter? _sy._ i was saying my prayers. _ra._ ay, i believe so, but it was the lord's-prayer backwards then. pray, what was that you were chattering about imperiousness? _sy._ i was wishing you might be an emperor. _ra._ and i wish you may be made a man of a stump of a tree. wait upon me to church, and then run home and make the bed, and put every thing in its place; let the house be set to rights from top to bottom, rub the chamber-pot, put these foul things out of sight, perhaps i may have some gentry come to pay me a visit; if i find any thing out of order i'll thresh you soundly. _sy._ i know your good humour well enough in that matter. _ra._ then it behoves you to look about you, if you are wise. _sy._ but all this while here is not one word about dinner. _ra._ out you villain, one may see what your mind runs on. i don't dine at home, therefore come to me a little before ten a-clock, that you may wait upon me where i am to go to dinner. _sy._ you have taken care of yourself, but there is not a bit of bread for me to put into my head. _ra._ if you have nothing to eat, you have something to hunger after. _sy._ but fasting won't fill the belly. _ra._ there is bread for you. _sy._ there is so, but it is as black as my hat, and as coarse as the bran itself. _ra._ you dainty chap'd fellow, you ought to be fed with hay, if you had such commons as you deserve. what, i warrant you, mr. ass, you must be fed with plumb cakes, must you? if you can't eat dry bread, take a leek to eat with it, or an onion, if you like that better. * * * * * _2. of sending about various businesses._ _ra._ you must go to market. _sy._ what, so far? _ra._ it is not a stone's throw off, but it seems two miles to such an idle fellow as you; but however, i'll save you as much labour as i can, you shall dispatch several businesses in one errand; count 'em upon your fingers, that mayn't forget any of 'em: first of all step to the salesman, and bring my water'd camblet doublet if it be done; then go and enquire for _cornelius_ the waggoner, he's commonly at the sign of the _roe-buck_, he uses that house, ask him if he has any letters for me, and what day he sets out on his journey; then go to the woollen draper, and tell him from me, not to be uneasy, that i have not sent him the money at the time appointed, for he shall have it in a very little time. _sy._ when? to morrow come never? _ra._ do you grin you pimp? yes, before the first of _march_: and as you come back, turn on the left-hand, and go to the bookseller, and enquire of him, if there be any new books come out of _germany_, learn what they are, and the price of them; then desire _goclenius_, to do me the honour to come to supper with me, tell him i must sup by myself if he don't. _sy._ what do you invite guests too? you han't victuals enough in the house to give a mouse a meal. _ra._ and when you have done all these, go to the market, and buy a shoulder of mutton, and get it nicely roasted: do you hear this? _sy._ i hear more than i like to hear. _ra._ but take you care you remember 'em all. _sy._ i shall scarce be able to remember half of 'em. _ra._ what do you stand loytering here, you idle knave? you might have been back before now. _sy._ what one person in the world can do all these? truly i must wait upon him out, and attend upon him home; i'm his swabber, his chamberlain, his footman, his clerk, his butler, his book-keeper, his brawl, his errand-boy, and last of all he does not think i have business enough upon my hands, unless i am his cook too. * * * * * _3. concerning riding._ _ra._ bring me my boots, i am to ride out. _sy._ here they are, sir. _ra._ you have look'd after them bravely, they are all over mouldy with lying by; i believe they han't been clean'd nor greased this twelve months day; they are so dry, they chap again; wipe them with a wet cloth, and liquor them well before the fire, and chafe them till they grow soft. _sy._ it shall be done, sir. _ra._ where are my spurs? _sy._ here they are. _ra._ ay, here they are indeed, but all eaten up with rust. where is my bridle and saddle? _sy._ they are just by. _ra._ see that nothing is wanting or broken, or ready to break, that nothing may be a hinderance to us, when we are upon our journey. run to the sadlers, and get him to mend that rein: when you come back, look upon the horses feet, and shoes, and see if there be any nails wanting, or loose. how lean and rough these horses are! how often do you rub 'em down, or kemb them in a year? _sy._ i'm sure i do it every day? _ra._ that may be seen, i believe they have not had a bit of victuals for three days together. _sy._ indeed they have, sir. _ra._ you say so, but the horses would tell me another tale, if they could but speak: though indeed their leanness speaks loud enough. _sy._ indeed i take all the care in the world of 'em. _ra._ how comes it about then, that they don't look as well as you do? _sy._ because i don't eat hay. _ra._ you have this to do still; make ready my portmanteau quickly. _sy._ it shall be done. _the school-master's admonitions._ the argument. _the school-master's instructions teach a boy modesty, civility, and manners becoming his age, in what posture he ought to stand while he talks to his superiors; concerning habit, discourse, and behaviour at table and in school._ _the school-master and boy._ _sch._ you seem not to have been bred at court, but in a cow-stall; you behave yourself so clownishly. a gentleman ought to behave himself like a gentleman. as often or whenever any one that is your superior speaks to you, stand strait, pull off your hat, and look neither doggedly, surlily, saucily, malapertly, nor unsettledly, but with a staid, modest, pleasant air in your countenance, and a bashful look fix'd upon the person who speaks to you; your feet set close one by t'other; your hands without action: don't stand titter, totter, first standing upon one foot, and then upon another, nor playing with your fingers, biting your lip, scratching your head, or picking your ears: let your cloaths be put on tight and neat, that your whole dress, air, motion and habit, may bespeak a modest and bashful temper. _bo._ what if i shall try, sir? _ma._ do so. _bo._ is this right? _ma._ not quite. _bo._ must i do so? _ma._ that's pretty well. _bo._ must i stand so? _ma._ ay, that's very well, remember that posture; don't be a prittle prattle, nor prate apace, nor be a minding any thing but what is said to you. if you are to make an answer, do it in few words, and to the purpose, every now and then prefacing with some title of respect, and sometimes use a title of honour, and now and then make a bow, especially when you have done speaking: nor do you go away without asking leave, or being bid to go: now come let me see how you can practise this. how long have you been from home? _bo._ almost six months. _ma._ you should have said, sir. _bo._ almost six months, sir. _ma._ don't you long to see your mother? _bo._ yes, sometimes. _ma._ have you a mind to go to see her? _bo._ yes, with your leave, sir. _ma._ now you should have made a bow; that's very well, remember to do so; when you speak, don't speak fast, stammer, or speak in your throat, but use yourself to pronounce your words distinctly and clearly. if you pass by any ancient person, a magistrate, a minister, or doctor, or any person of figure, be sure to pull off your hat, and make your reverence: do the same when you pass by any sacred place, or the image of the cross. when you are at a feast, behave yourself chearfully, but always so as to remember what becomes your age: serve yourself last; and if any nice bit be offer'd you, refuse it modestly; but if they press it upon you, take it, and thank the person, and cutting off a bit of it, offer the rest either to him that gave it you, or to him that sits next to you. if any body drinks to you merrily, thank him, and drink moderately. if you don't care to drink, however, kiss the cup. look pleasantly upon him that speaks to you; and be sure not to speak till you are spoken to. if any thing that is obscene be said, don't laugh at it, but keep your countenance, as though you did not understand it; don't reflect on any body, nor take place of any body, nor boast of any thing of your own, nor undervalue any thing of another bodies. be courteous to your companions that are your inferiors; traduce no body; don't be a blab with your tongue, and by this means you'll get a good character, and gain friends without envy. if the entertainment shall be long, desire to be excus'd, bid much good may it do the guests, and withdraw from table: see that you remember these things. _bo._ i'll do my endeavour, sir. is there any thing else you'd have me do? _ma._ now go to your books. _bo._ yes, sir. _of various plays._ the argument. _the boys sending_ cocles _their messenger to their master, get leave to go to play; who shews that moderate recreations are very necessary both for mind and body. the master admonishes them that they keep together at play, &c. 1. of playing at stool-ball: of chusing partners. 2. of playing at bowls, the orders of the bowling-green. 3. of playing at striking a ball through an iron ring. 4. of dancing, that they should not dance presently after dinner: of playing at leap-frog: of running: of swimming._ nicholas, jerome, cocles, _the_ master. _nic._ i have had a great mind a good while, and this fine weather is a great invitation to go to play. _jer._ these indeed invite you, but the master don't. _nic._ we must get some spokesman that may extort a holiday from him. _jer._ you did very well to say extort, for you may sooner wrest _hercules's_ club out of his hands than get a play-day from him; but time was when nobody lov'd play better than he did. _nic._ that is true, but he has forgot a great while ago since he was a boy himself; he is as ready and free at whipping as any body, but as sparing and backward at this as any body in the world. _jer._ we must pick out a messenger that is not very bashful that won't be presently dashed out of countenance by his surly words. _nic._ let who will go for me, i had rather go without play than ask him for it. _jer._ there is nobody fitter for this business than _cocles._ _nic._ nobody in the world, he has a good bold face of his own, and tongue enough; and besides, he knows his humour too. _jer._ go, _cocles_, you will highly oblige us all. _coc._ well, i'll try; but if i do not succeed, do not lay the fault on your spokesman. _jer._ you promise well for it, i am out in my opinion if you don't get leave. go on intreater, and return an obtainer. _coc._ i'll go, may _mercury_ send me good luck of my errand. god save you, sir. _ma._ what does this idle pack want? _coc._ your servant, reverend master. _ma._ this is a treacherous civility! i am well enough already. tell me what 'tis you came for. _coc._ your whole school beg a play-day. _ma._ you do nothing else but play, even without leave. _coc._ your wisdom knows that moderate play quickens the wit, as you have taught us out of _quintilian_. _ma._ very well, how well you can remember what's to your purpose? they that labour hard, had need of some relaxation: but you that study idly, and play laboriously, had more need of a curb, than a snaffle. _coc._ if any thing has been wanting in times past, we'll labour to make it up by future diligence. _ma._ o rare makers up! who will be sureties for the performing this promise? _coc._ i'll venture my head upon it. _ma._ nay, rather venture your tail. i know there is but little dependance upon your word; but however, i'll try this time what credit may be given to you; if you deceive me now, you shall never obtain any thing from me again. let 'em play; but let them keep together in the field, don't let them go a tippling or worse exercises, and see they come home betimes, before sun set. _coc._ we will, sir, i have gotten leave, but with much a do. _jer._ o brave lad! we all love you dearly. _coc._ but we must be sure not to transgress our orders, for if we do, it will be all laid upon my back; i have engaged for ye all, and if ye do, i'll never be your spokesman again. _jer._ we'll take care: but what play do you like best? _coc._ we'll talk of that when we come into the fields. * * * * * i. _of playing at ball._ _nicholas_ and _jerome._ _nic._ no play is better to exercise all parts of the body than stool-ball; but that's fitter for winter than summer. _jer._ there is no time of the year with us, but what's fit to play in. _nic._ we shall sweat less, if we play at tennis. _jer._ let's let nets alone to fishermen; it's prettier to catch it in our hands. _nic._ well, come on, i don't much matter; but how much shall we play for? _nic._ but i had rather spare my corps than my money. _jer._ and i value my corps more than my money: we must play for something, or we shall never play our best. _nic._ you say true. _jer._ which hand soever shall get the first three games, shall pay the sixth part of a groat to the other; but upon condition that what's won shall be spent among all the company alike. _nic._ well, i like the proposal; come done, let's chuse hands; but we are all so equally match'd, that it's no great matter who and who's together. _jer._ you play a great deal better than i. _nic._ but for all that, you have the better luck. _jer._ has fortune anything to do at this play? _nic._ she has to do everywhere. _jer._ well, come let's toss up. o boys, very well indeed. i have got the partners i would have. _nic._ and we like our partners very well. _jer._ come on, now for't, he that will win, must look to his game. let every one stand to his place bravely. do you stand behind me ready to catch the ball, if it goes beyond me; do you mind there, and beat it back when it comes from our adversaries. _nic._ i'll warrant ye, i'll hit it if it comes near me. _jer._ go on and prosper, throw up the ball upon the house. he that throws and do's not speak first shall lose his cast. _nic._ well, take it then. _jer._ do you toss it; if you throw it beyond the bounds, or short, or over the house, it shall go for nothing, and we won't be cheated: and truly you throw nastily. as you toss it, i'll give it you again; i'll give you _a rowland for an oliver_; but it is better to play fairly and honestly. _nic._ it is best at diversion, to beat by fair play. _jer._ it is so, and in war too; these arts have each their respective laws: there are some arts that are very unfair ones. _nic._ i believe so too, and more than seven too. mark the bounds with a shell, or brick-bat, or with your hat if you will. _jer._ i'd rather do it with yours. _nic._ take the ball again. _jer._ throw it; score it up. _nic._ we have two good wide goals. _jer._ pretty wide, but they are not out of reach. _nic._ they may be reach'd if no body hinders it. _jer._ o brave, i have gone beyond the first goal. we are fifteen. play stoutly, we had got this too, if you had stood in your place. well, now we are equal. _nic._ but you shan't be so long. well, we are thirty; we are forty five. _jer._ what, sesterces? _nic._ no. _jer._ what then? _nic._ numbers. _jer._ what signifies numbers, if you have nothing to pay? _nic._ we have gotten this game. _jer._ you are a little too hasty; _you reckon your chickens before they are hatch'd_. i have seen those lose the game that have had so many for love. war and play is a meer lottery. we have got thirty, now we are equal again. _nic._ this is the game stroke. o brave! we have got the better of you. _jer._ well, but you shan't have it long; did i not say so? we are equally fortunate. _nic._ fortune inclines first to one side, and then to t'other, as if she could not tell which to give the victory to. fortune, be but on our side, and we'll help thee to a husband. o rare! she has answer'd her desire, we have got this game, set it up, that we mayn't forget. _jer._ it is almost night, and we have play'd enough, we had better leave off, too much of one thing is good for nothing, let us reckon our winnings. _nic._ we have won three groats, and you have won two; then there is one to be spent. but who must pay for the balls? _jer._ all alike, every one his part. for there is so little won, we can't take any thing from that. * * * * * _2. bowl playing._ _adolphus, bernardus_, the arbitrators. _adol._ you have been often bragging what a mighty gamester you were at bowls. come now, i have a mind to try what a one you are. _ber._ i'll answer you, if you have a mind to that sport. now you'll find according to the proverb; _you have met with your match._ _adol._ well, and you shall find i am a match for you too. _ber._ shall we play single hands or double hands? _adol._ i had rather play single, that another may not come in with me for a share of the victory. _ber._ and i had rather have it so too, that the victory may be entirely my own. _adol._ they shall look on, and be judges. _ber._ i take you up; but what shall he that beats get, or he that is beaten lose? _adol._ what if he that beats shall have a piece of his ear cut off. _ber._ nay, rather let one of his stones be cut out. it is a mean thing to play for money; you are a _frenchman_, and i a _german_, we'll both play for the honour of his country. _adol._ if i shall beat you, you shall cry out thrice, let _france_ flourish; if i shall be beat (which i hope i shan't) i'll in the same words celebrate your _germany_. _ber._ well, a match. now for good luck; since two great nations are at stake in this game, let the bowls be both alike. _adol._ do you see that stone that lies by the port there. _ber._ yes i do. _adol._ that shall be the jack. _ber._ very well, let it be so; but i say let the bowls be alike. _adol._ they are as like as two peas. take which you please, it's all one to me. _ber._ bowl away. _adol._ hey-day, you whirl your bowl as if your arm was a sling. _ber._ you have bit your lip, and whirled your bowl long enough: come bowl away. a strong bowl indeed, but i am best. _adol._ if it had not been for that mischievous bit of a brick-bat there, that lay in my way, i had beat you off. _ber._ stand fair. _adol._ i won't cheat: i intend to beat you, by art, and not to cheat ye, since we contend for the prize of honour: rub, rub. _ber._ a great cast in troth. _adol._ nay, don't laugh before you've won. we are equal yet. _ber._ this is who shall: he that first hits the jack is up. i have beat you, sing. _adol._ stay, you should have said how many you'd make up, for my hand is not come in yet. _ber._ judgment, gentlemen. _arbitr._ 3. _adol._ very well. _ber._ well, what do you say now? are you beat or no? _adol._ you have had better luck than i, but yet i won't vail to you, as to strength and art; i'll stand to what the company says. _arb._ the _german_ has beat, and the victory is the more glorious, that he has beat so good a gamester. _ber._ now cock, crow. _adol._ i am hoarse. _ber._ that's no new thing to cocks; but if you can't crow like an old cock, crow like a cockeril. _adol._ let _germany_ flourish thrice. _ber._ you ought to have said so thrice. i am a-dry; let us drink somewhere, i'll make an end of the song there. _adol._ i won't stand upon that, if the company likes it. _arb._ that will be the best, the cock will crow clearer when his throat is gargled. * * * * * _3. the play of striking a ball through an iron ring. gaspar, erasmus. gas._ come, let's begin, _marcolphus_ shall come in, in the losers place. _er._ but what shall we play for? _gas._ he that is beat shall make and repeat _extempore_ a distich, in praise of him that beat him. _er._ with all my heart. _gas._ shall we toss up who shall go first? _er._ do you go first if you will, i had rather go last. _gas._ you have the better of me, because you know the ground. _er._ you're upon your own ground. _gas._ indeed i am better acquainted with the ground, than i am with my books; but that's but a small commendation. _er._ you that are so good a gamester ought to give me odds. _gas._ nay, you should rather give me odds; but there's no great honour in getting a victory, when odds is taken: he only can properly be said to get the game, that gets it by his own art; we are as well match'd as can be. _er._ yours is a better ball than mine. _gas._ and yours is beyond me. _er._ play fair, without cheating and cozening. _gas._ you shall say you have had to do with a fair gamester. _er._ but i would first know the orders of the bowling-alley. _gas._ we make 4 up; whoever bowls beyond this line it goes for nothing; if you can go beyond those other bounds, do it fairly and welcome: whoever hits a bowl out of his place loses his cast. _er._ i understand these things. _gas._ i have shut you out. _er._ but i'll give you a remove. _gas._ if you do that i'll give you the game. _er._ will you upon your word? _gas._ yes, upon my word: you have no other way for it but to bank your bowl so as to make it rebound on mine. _er._ i'll try: well, what say you now friend? are not you beaten away? (have i not struck you away?) _gas._ i am, i confess it; i wish you were but as wise as you are lucky; you can scarce do so once in a hundred times. _er._ i'll lay you, if you will, that i do it once in three times. but come pay me what i have won. _gas._ what's that? _er._ why, a distich. _gas._ well, i'll pay it now. _er._ and an extempore one too. why do you bite your nails? _gas._ i have it. _er._ recite it out. _gas._ as loud as you will. _young standers-by, dap ye the conqueror brave, who me has beat, is the more learned knave_. han't you a distich now? _er._ i have, and i'll give you as good as you bring. * * * * * 4. _leaping._ vincent, laurence. _vi._ have you a mind to jump with me? _lau._ that play is not good presently after dinner. _vi._ why so? _lau._ because that a fulness of belly makes the body heavy. _vi._ not very much to those that live upon scholars commons, for these oftentimes are ready for a supper before they have done dinner. _lau._ what sort of leaping is it that you like best? _vi._ let us first begin with that which is the plainest, as that of grasshoppers; or leap-frog, if you like that better, both feet at once, and close to one another; and when we have play'd enough at this, then we'll try other sorts. _lau._ i'll play at any sort, where there is no danger of breaking ones legs; i have no mind to make work for the surgeon. _vi._ what if we should play at hopping? _lau._ that the ghosts play, i am not for that. _vi._ it's the cleverest way to leap with a pole. _lau._ running is a more noble exercise; for _æneas_ in _virgil_ proposed this exercise. _vi._ very true, and he also propos'd the righting with whirly-bats too, and i don't like that sport. _lau._ mark the course, let this be the starting-place, and yonder oak the goal. _vi._ i wish _æneas_ was here, that he might propose what should be the conqueror's prize. _lau._ glory is a reward sufficient for victory. _vi._ you should rather give a reward to him that is beat, to comfort him. _lau._ then let the victor's reward be to go into the town crowned with a bur. _vi._ well, 'tis done, provided you'll go before playing upon a pipe. _lau._ it is very hot. _vi._ that is not strange when it is midsummer. _lau._ swimming is better. _vi._ i don't love to live like a frog, i am a land animal, not an amphibious one. _lau._ but in old time this was look'd upon to be one of the most noble exercises. _vi._ nay, and a very useful one too. _lau._ for what? _vi._ if men are forc'd to fly in battel, they are in the best condition that can run and swim best. _lau._ the art you speak of is not to be set light by; it is as praise-worthy sometimes to run away nimbly as it is to fight stoutly. _vi._ i can't swim at all, and it is dangerous to converse with an unaccustomed element. _lau._ you ought to learn then, for no body was born an artist. _vi._ but i have heard of a great many of these artists that have swum in, but never swam out again. _lau._ first try with corks. _vi._ i can't trust more to a cork than to my feet; if you have a mind to swim, i had rather be a spectator than an actor. _the child's piety._ the argument. _this discourse furnishes a childish mind with pious instructions of religion, in what it consists. what is to be done in the morning in bed, at getting up, at home, at school, before meat, after meat, before going to sleep. of beginning the day, of praying, of behaving themselves studiously at school, thriftiness of time: age flies. what is to be done after supper. how we ought to sleep. of behaviour at holy worship. all things to be applied to ourselves. the meditation of a pious soul at church. what preachers are chiefly to be heard. fasting is prejudicial to children. confession is to be made to christ. the society of wicked persons is to be avoided. of the prudent chusing a way of living. holy orders and matrimony are not to be entred into before the age of twenty-two. what poets are fit to be read, and how._ erasmus, gaspar. _erasmus._ whence came you from? out of some alehouse? _ga._ no, indeed. _er._ what from a bowling green? _ga._ no, nor from thence neither. _er._ what from the tavern then? _ga._ no. _er._ well, since i can't guess, tell me. _ga._ from st. _mary's_ church. _er._ what business had you there? _ga._ i saluted some persons. _er._ who? _ga._ christ, and some of the saints. _er._ you have more religion than is common to one of your age. _ga._ religion is becoming to every age. _er._ if i had a mind to be religious, i'd become a monk. _ga._ and so would i too, if a monk's hood carried in it as much piety as it does warmth. _er._ there is an old saying, a young saint and an old devil. _ga._ but i believe that old saying came from old satan: i can hardly think an old man to be truly religious, that has not been so in his young days. nothing is learn'd to greater advantage, than what we learn in our youngest years. _er._ what is that which is call'd religion? _ga._ it is the pure worship of god, and observation of his commandments. _er._ what are they? _ga._ it is too long to relate all; but i'll tell you in short, it consists in four things. _er._ what are they? _ga._ in the first place, that we have a true and pious apprehension of god himself, and the holy scriptures; and that we not only stand in awe of him as a lord, but that we love him with all our heart, as a most beneficent father. 2. that we take the greatest care to keep ourselves blameless; that is, that we do no injury to any one. 3. that we exercise charity, _i.e._ to deserve well of all persons (as much as in us lyes). 4. that we practise patience, _i.e._ to bear patiently injuries that are offered us, when we can't prevent them, not revenging them, nor requiting evil for evil. _er._ you hold forth finely; but do you practise what you teach? _ga._ i endeavour it manfully. _er._ how can you do it like a man, when you are but a boy? _ga._ i meditate according to my ability, and call myself to an account every day; and correct myself for what i have done amiss: that was unhandsomely done this saucily said, this was uncautiously acted; in that it were better to have held my peace, that was neglected. _er._ when do you come to this reckoning? _ga._ most commonly at night; or at any time that i am most at leisure. _er._ but tell me, in what studies do you spend the day? _ga._ i will hide nothing from so intimate a companion: in the morning, as soon as i am awake, (and that is commonly about six a clock, or sometimes at five) i sign myself with my finger in the forehead and breast with the sign of the cross. _er._ what then? _ga._ i begin the day in the name of the father, son, and holy spirit. _er._ indeed that is very piously done. _ga._ by and by i put up a short ejaculation to christ. _er._ what dost thou say to him? _ga._ i give him thanks that he has been pleased to bless me that night; and i pray him that he would in like manner prosper me the whole of that day, so as may be for his glory, and my soul's good; and that he who is the true light that never sets, the eternal sun, that enlivens, nourishes and exhilarates all things, would vouchsafe to enlighten my soul, that i mayn't fall into sin; but by his guidance, may attain everlasting life. _er._ a very good beginning of the day indeed. _ga._ and then having bid my parents good morrow, to whom next to god, i owe the greatest reverence, when it is time i go to school; but so that i may pass by some church, if i can conveniently. _er._ what do you do there? _ga._ i salute jesus again in three words, and all the saints, either men or women; but the virgin _mary_ by name, and especially that i account most peculiarly my own. _er._ indeed you seem to have read that sentence of _cato, saluta libenter_, to good purpose; was it not enough to have saluted christ in the morning, without saluting him again presently? are you not afraid lest you should be troublesome by your over officiousness? _ga._ christ loves to be often called upon. _er._ but it seems to be ridiculous to speak to one you don't see. _ga._ no more do i see that part of me that speaks to him. _er._ what part is that? _ga._ my mind. _er._ but it seems to be labour lost, to salute one that does not salute you again. _ga._ he frequently salutes again by his secret inspiration; and he answers sufficiently that gives what is ask'd of him. _er._ what is it you ask of him? for i perceive your salutations are petitionary, like those of beggars. _ga._ indeed you are very right; for i pray that he, who, when he was a boy of about twelve years of age, sitting in the temple, taught the doctors themselves, and to whom the heavenly father, by a voice from heaven, gave authority to teach mankind, saying, _this is my beloved son, in whom i am well pleased, hear ye him_; and who is the eternal wisdom of the most high father, would vouchsafe to enlighten my understanding, to receive wholesome learning, that i may use it to his glory. _er._ who are those saints that you call peculiarly yours? _ga._ of the apostles, st. _paul_; of the martyrs, st. _cyprian_; of the doctors, st. _jerome_; of the virgins, st. _agnes_. _er._ how came these to be yours, more than the rest. was it by choice or by chance? _ga._ they fell to me by lot. _er._ but you only salute them i suppose; do you beg any thing of them? _ga._ i pray, that by their suffrages they would recommend me to christ, and procure that by his assistance it may in time come to pass that i be made one of their company. _er._ indeed what you ask for is no ordinary thing: but what do you do then? _ga._ i go to school, and do what is to be done there with my utmost endeavour; i so implore christ's assistance, as if my study without it would signify nothing; and i study as if he offered no help but to him that labours industriously; and i do my utmost not to deserve to be beaten, nor to offend my master either in word or deed, nor any of my companions. _er._ you are a good boy to mind these things. _ga._ when school is done i make haste home, and if i can i take a church in my way, and in three words, i salute jesus again; and i pay my respects to my parents; and if i have any time, i repeat, either by myself, or with one of my school-fellows, what was dictated in school. _er._ indeed you are a very good husband of time. _ga._ no wonder i am of that, which is the most precious thing in the world, and when past is irrecoverable. _er._ and _hesiod_ teaches, that good husbandry ought to be in the middle, it is too soon in the beginning, and too late in the end. _ga._ _hesiod_ spoke right enough concerning wine, but of time no good husbandry is unseasonable. if you let a hogshead of wine alone it won't empty itself; but time is always a flying, sleeping or waking. _er._ i confess so, but what do you do after that? _ga._ when my parents sit down to dinner i say grace, and then wait at table till i am bid to take my own dinner; and having returned thanks, if i have any time left i divert myself with my companions with some lawful recreation till the time comes to go to school again. _er._ do you salute jesus again? _ga._ yes, if i have an opportunity; but if it so happen that i have not an opportunity, or it be not seasonable, as i pass by the church i salute him mentally; and then i do what is to be done at school with all my might; and when i go home again i do what i did before dinner: after supper i divert myself with some pleasant stories; and afterwards bidding my parents and the family good night, i go to bed betimes, and there kneeling down by the bedside, as i have said, i say over those things i have been learning that day at school; if i have committed any great fault, i implore christ's clemency, that he would pardon me, and i promise amendment: and if i have committed no fault, i thank him for his goodness in preserving me from all vice, and then i recommend myself to him with all my soul, that he would preserve me from the attempts of my evil genius and filthy dreams. when this is done, and i am got into bed, i cross my forehead and breast, and compose myself to rest. _er._ in what posture do you compose yourself? _ga._ i don't lye upon my face or my back, but first leaning upon my right-side, i fold my arms a-cross, so that they may defend my breast, as it were with the figure of a cross, with my right-hand upon my left shoulder, and my left upon my right, and so i sleep sweetly, either till i awake of myself, or am called up. _er._ you are a little saint that can do thus. _ga._ you are a little fool for saying so. _er._ i praise your method, and i would i could practise it. _ga._ give your mind to it and you will do it, for when once you have accustom'd yourself to it for a few months, these things will be pleasant, and become natural. _er._ but i want to hear concerning divine service. _ga._ i don't neglect that, especially upon holy days. _er._ how do you manage yourself on holy days? _ga._ in the first place i examine myself if my mind be polluted by any stain of sin. _er._ and if you find it is, what do you do then? do you refrain from the altar? _ga._ not by my bodily presence, but i withdraw myself, as to my mind, and standing as it were afar off, as tho' not daring to lift up my eyes to god the father, whom i have offended, i strike upon my breast, crying out with the publican in the gospel, _lord, be merciful to me a sinner_. and then if i know i have offended any man, i take care to make him satisfaction if i can presently; but if i cannot do that, i resolve in my mind to reconcile my neighbour as soon as possible. if any body has offended me, i forbear revenge, and endeavour to bring it about, that he that has offended me may be made sensible of his fault, and be sorry for it; but if there be no hope of that, i leave all vengeance to god. _er._ that's a hard task. _ga._ is it hard to forgive a small offence to your brother, whose mutual forgiveness thou wilt stand in frequent need of, when christ has at once forgiven us all our offences, and is every day forgiving us? nay, this seems to me not to be liberality to our neighbour, but putting to interest to god; just as tho' one fellow-servant should agree with another to forgive him three groats, that his lord might forgive him ten talents. _er._ you indeed argue very rationally, if what you say be true. _ga._ can you desire any thing truer than the gospel? _er._ that is unreasonable; but there are some who can't believe themselves to be christians unless they hear mass (as they call it) every day. _ga._ indeed i don't condemn the practise in those that have time enough, and spend whole days in profane exercises; but i only disapprove of those who superstitiously fancy that that day must needs be unfortunate to them that they have not begun with the mass; and presently after divine service is over they go either to trading, gaming, or the court, where whatsoever succeeds, though done justly or unjustly, they attribute to the mass. _er._ are there any persons that are so absurd? _ga._ the greatest part of mankind. _er._ but return to divine service. _ga._ if i can, i get to stand so close by the holy altar, that i can hear what the priest reads, especially the epistle and the gospel; from these i endeavour to pick something, which i fix in my mind, and this i ruminate upon for some time. _er._ don't you pray at all in the mean time? _ga._ i do pray, but rather mentally than vocally. from the things the priest reads i take occasion of prayer. _er._ explain that a little more, i don't well take in what you mean. _ga._ i'll tell you; suppose this epistle was read, _purge out the old leaven, that ye may be a new lump, as ye are unleavened_. on occasion of these words i thus address myself to christ, "i wish i were the unleavened bread, pure from all leaven of malice; but do thou, o lord jesus, who alone art pure, and free from all malice, grant that i may every day more and more purge out the old leaven." again, if the gospel chance to be read concerning the sower sowing his seed, i thus pray with my self, "happy is he that deserves to be that good ground, and i pray that of barren ground, he of his great goodness would make me good ground, without whose blessing nothing at all is good." these for example sake, for it would be tedious to mention every thing. but if i happen to meet with a dumb priest, (such as there are many in _germany_) or that i can't get near the altar, i commonly get a little book that has the gospel of that day and epistle, and this i either say out aloud, or run it over with my eye. _er._ i understand; but with what contemplations chiefly dost thou pass away the time? _ga._ i give thanks to jesus christ for his unspeakable love, in condescending to redeem mankind by his death; i pray that he would not suffer his most holy blood to be shed in vain for me, but that with his body he would always feed my soul, and that with his blood he would quicken my spirit, that growing by little and little in the increase of graces, i may be made a fit member of his mystical body, which is the church; nor may ever fall from that holy covenant that he made with his elect disciples at the last supper, when he distributed the bread, and gave the cup; and through these, with all who are engraffed into his society by baptism. and if i find my thoughts to wander, i read some psalms, or some pious matter, that may keep my mind from wandring. _er._ have you any particular psalms for this purpose? _ga._ i have; but i have not so tyed myself up to them, but that i can omit them, if any meditation comes into my mind that is more refreshing, than the recitation of those psalms. _er._ what do you do as to fasting? _ga._ i have nothing to do with fasting, for so _jerome_ has taught me; that health is not to be impair'd by fasting, until the body is arrived at its full strength. i am not quite 17 years old; but yet if i find occasion, i dine and sup sparingly, that i may be more lively for spiritual exercises on holy days. _er._ since i have begun, i will go through with my enquiries. how do you find yourself affected towards sermons? _ga._ very well, i go to them as devoutly as if i was a going to a holy assembly; and yet i pick and chuse whom to hear, for there are some, one had better not hear than hear; and if such an one happens to preach, or if it happen that no body preaches, i pass this time in reading the scriptures, i read the gospel or epistle with _chrysostom's_ or _jerome's_ interpretation, or any other pious and learned interpreter that i meet with. _er._ but word of mouth is more affecting. _ga._ i confess it is. i had rather hear if i can but meet with a tolerable preacher; but i don't seem to be wholly destitute of a sermon if i hear _chrysostom_ or _jerome_ speaking by their writings. _er._ i am of your mind; but how do you stand affected as to confession? _ga._ very well; for i confess daily. _er._ every day? _ga._ yes. _er._ then you ought to keep a priest to yourself. _ga._ but i confess to him who only truly remits sins, to whom all the power is given. _er._ to whom? _ga._ to christ. _er._ and do you think that's sufficient? _ga._ it would be enough for me, if it were enough for the rulers of the church, and receiv'd custom. _er._ who do you call the rulers of the church? _ga._ the popes, bishops and apostles. _er._ and do you put christ into this number? _ga._ he is without controversy the chief head of e'm all. _er._ and was he the author of this confession in use? _ga._ he is indeed the author of all good; but whether he appointed confession as it is now us'd in the church, i leave to be disputed by divines. the authority of my betters is enough for me that am but a lad and a private person. this is certainly the principal confession; nor is it an easy matter to confess to christ; no body confesses to him, but he that is angry with his sin. if i have committed any great offence, i lay it open, and bewail it to him, and implore his mercy; i cry out, weep and lament, nor do i give over before i feel the love of sin throughly purged from the bottom of my heart, and some tranquility and chearfulness of mind follow upon it, which is an argument of the sin being pardoned. and when the time requires to go to the holy communion of the body and blood of christ; then i make confession to a priest too, but in few words, and nothing but what i am well satisfy'd are faults, or such that carry in them a very great suspicion that they are such; neither do i always take it to be a capital or enormous crime, every thing that is done contrary to human constitutions, unless a wicked contemptuousness shall go along with it: nay, i scarce believe any crime to be capital, that has not malice join'd with it, that is, a perverse will. _er._ i commend you, that you are so religious, and yet not superstitious: here i think the old proverb takes place: _nec omnia, nec passim, nec quibuslibet_, that a person should neither speak all, nor every where, nor to all persons. _ga._ i chuse me a priest, that i can trust with the secrets of my heart. _er._ that's wisely done: for there are a great many, as is found by experience, do blab out what in confessions is discovered to them. and there are some vile impudent fellows that enquire of the person confessing, those things, that it were better if they were conceal'd; and there are some unlearned and foolish fellows, who for the sake of filthy gain, lend their ear, but apply not their mind, who can't distinguish between a fault and a good deed, nor can neither teach, comfort nor advise. these things i have heard from many, and in part have experienced my self. _ga._ and i too much; therefore i chuse me one that is learn'd, grave, of approv'd integrity, and one that keeps his tongue within his teeth. _er._ truly you are happy that can make a judgment of things so early. _ga._ but above all, i take care of doing any thing that i can't safely trust a priest with. _er._ that's the best thing in the world, if you can but do so. _ga._ indeed it is hard to us of ourselves, but by the help of christ it is easy; the greatest matter is, that there be a will to it. i often renew my resolution, especially upon sundays: and besides that, i endeavour as much as i can to keep out of evil company, and associate myself with good company, by whose conversation i may be better'd. _er._ indeed you manage yourself rightly: for _evil conversations corrupt good manners_. _ga._ i shun idleness as the plague. _er._ you are very right, for idleness is the root of all evil; but as the world goes now, he must live by himself that would keep out of bad company. _ga._ what you say is very true, for as the _greek_ wise men said the bad are the greatest number. but i chuse the best out of a few, and sometimes a good companion makes his companion better. i avoid those diversions that incite to naughtiness, and use those that are innocent. i behave myself courteous to all; but familiarly with none but those that are good. if i happen at any time to fall into bad company, i either correct them by a soft admonition, or wink at and bear with them, if i can do them no good; but i be sure to get out of their company as soon as i can. _er._ had you never an itching mind to become a monk? _ga._ never; but i have been often solicited to it by some, that call you into a monastery, as into a port from a shipwreck. _er._ say you so? were they in hopes of a prey? _ga._ they set upon both me and my parents with a great many crafty persuasions; but i have taken a resolution not to give my mind either to matrimony or priesthood, nor to be a monk, nor to any kind of life out of which i can't extricate myself, before i know myself very well. _er._ when will that be? _ga._ perhaps never. but before the 28th year of ones age, nothing should be resolved on. _er._ why so? _ga._ because i hear every where, so many priests, monks and married men lamenting that they hurried themselves rashly into servitude. _er._ you are very cautious not to be catch'd. _ga._ in the mean time i take a special care of three things. _er._ what are they? _ga._ first of all to make a good progress in morality, and if i can't do that, i am resolv'd to maintain an unspotted innocence and good name; and last of all i furnish myself with languages and sciences that will be of use in any kind of life. _er._ but do you neglect the poets? _ga._ not wholly, but i read generally the chastest of them, and if i meet with any thing that is not modest, i pass that by, as _ulysses_ passed by the _sirens_, stopping his ears. _er._ to what kind of study do you chiefly addict your self? to physic, the common or civil law, or to divinity? for languages, the sciences and philosophy are all conducive to any profession whatsoever. _ga._ i have not yet thoroughly betaken myself to any one particularly, but i take a taste of all, that i be not wholly ignorant of any; and the rather, that having tasted of all i may the better chuse that i am fittest for. medicine is a certain portion in whatsoever land a man is; the law is the way to preferment: but i like divinity the best, saving that the manners of some of the professors of it, and the bitter contentions that are among them, displease me. _er._ he won't be very apt to fall that goes so warily along. many in these days are frighted from divinity, because they are afraid they should not be found in the catholick faith, because they see no principle of religion, but what is called in question. _ga._ i believe firmly what i read in the holy scriptures, and the creed, called the apostles, and i don't trouble my head any farther: i leave the rest to be disputed and defined by the clergy, if they please; and if any thing is in common use with christians that is not repugnant to the holy scriptures, i observe it for this reason, that i may not offend other people. _er._ what _thales_ taught you that philosophy? _ga._ when i was a boy and very young, i happen'd to live in the house with that honestest of men, _john colet_, do you know him? _er._ know him, ay, as well as i do you. _ga._ he instructed me when i was young in these precepts. _er._ you won't envy me, i hope, if i endeavour to imitate you? _ga._ nay, by that means you will be much dearer to me. for you know, familiarity and good will, are closer ty'd by similitude of manners. _er._ true, but not among candidates for the same office, when they are both sick of the same disease. _ga._ no, nor between two sweet-hearts of the same mistress, when they are both sick of the same love. _er._ but without jesting, i'll try to imitate that course of life. _ga._ i wish you as good success as may be. _er._ it may be i shall overtake thee. _ga._ i wish you might get before me; but in the mean time i won't stay for you; but i will every day endeavour to out-go myself, and do you endeavour to out-go me if you can. _the art of hunting._ the argument. _this colloquy presents you with the art of hunting; fishing, of bringing earth-worms out of the ground, of sticking frogs._ paul, thomas, vincent, lawrence, bartholus. _pa. every one to his mind._ i love hunting. _th._ and so do i too, but where are the dogs? the hunting poles? and the hunting nets? _pa._ farewell boars, bears, bucks, and foxes, we'll lay snares for rabbets. _vi._ but i'll set gins for locusts and crickets. _la._ but i'll catch frogs. _ba._ i'll hunt butterflies. _la._ 'tis difficult to follow flying creatures. _ba._ it is difficult, but 'tis fine sport; unless you think it finer sport to hunt after earth-worms, snails or cockles, because they have no wings. _la._ indeed i had rather go a fishing; i have a neat hook. _ba._ but where will you get baits? _la._ there are earth-worms enough every where to be had. _ba._ so there is, if they would but creep out of the ground to you. _la._ but i'll make a great many thousand jump out presently. _ba._ how? by witch-craft? _la._ you shall see the art. fill this bucket with water, break these green peels of walnuts to pieces and put into it: wet the ground with the water. now mind a little, do you see them coming out? _ba._ i see a miracle. i believe the armed men started out of the earth after this manner from the serpents teeth that were sown: but a great many fish are of too fine and delicate a palate to be catch'd by such a vulgar bait. _la._ i know a certain sort of an insect that i us'd to catch such with. _ba._ see if you can impose upon the fishes so, i'll make work with the frogs. _la._ how, with a net? _ba._ no, with a bow. _la._ that's a new way of fishing! _ba._ but 'tis a pleasant one; you'll say so, when you see it. _vi._ what if we two should play at holding up our fingers? _ba._ that's an idle, clownish play indeed, fitter for them that are sitting in a chimney corner, than those that are ranging in the field. _vi._ what if we should play at cob-nut? _pa._ let us let nuts alone for little chits, we are great boys. _vi._ and yet we are but boys for all that. _pa._ but they that are fit to play at cob-nut, are fit to ride upon a hobby-horse. _vi._ well then, do you say what we shall play at; and i'll play at what you will. _pa._ and i'll be conformable. _scholastic studies._ the argument. _this colloquy treats of scholastic studies, and school plays, i. the boys going into the school. the striking of a clock. a whipping master. of saying a lesson. fear hurts the memory. 2. of writing, the paper sinks. of making a pen. of a hard nip. a soft nip. of writing quick, well._ sylvius, john. _sy._ what makes you run so, _john?_ _jo._ what makes a hare run before the dogs, as they use to say? _sy._ what proverb is this? _jo._ because unless i am there in time, before the bill is called over, i am sure to be whipp'd. _sy._ you need not be afraid of that, it is but a little past five: look upon the clock, the hand is not come to the half hour point yet. _jo._ ay, but i can scarce trust to clocks, they go wrong sometimes. _sy._ but trust me then, i heard the clock strike. _jo._ what did that strike? _sy._ five. _jo._ but there is something else that i am more afraid of than that, i must say by heart a good long lesson for yesterday, and i am afraid i can't say it. _sy._ i am in the same case with you; for i myself have hardly got mine as it should be. _jo._ and you know the master's severity. every fault is a capital one with him: he has no more mercy of our breeches, than if they were made of a bull's hide. _sy._ but he won't be in the school. _jo._ who has he appointed in his place? _sy. cornelius._ _jo._ that squint-ey'd fellow! wo to our back-sides, he's a greater whip-master than _busby_ himself. _sy._ you say very true, and for that reason i have often wish'd he had a palsy in his arm. _jo._ it is not pious to wish ill to ones master: it is our business rather to take care not to fall under the tyrant's hands. _sy._ let us say one to another, one repeating and the other looking in the book. _jo._ that's well thought on. _sy._ come, be of good heart; for fear spoils the memory. _jo._ i could easily lay aside fear, if i were out of danger; but who can be at ease in his mind, that is in so much danger. _sy._ i confess so; but we are not in danger of our heads, but of our tails. * * * * * 2. _of writing._ cornelius, andrew. _co._ you write finely, but your paper sinks. your paper is damp, and the ink sinks through it. _an._ pray make me a pen of this. _co._ i have not a pen-knife. _an._ here is one for you. _co._ out on't, how blunt it is! _an._ take the hoan. _co._ do you love to write with a hard-nip'd pen, or a soft? _an._ make it fit for your own hand. _co._ i use to write with a soft nip. _an._ pray write me out the alphabet. _co._ greek or latin? _an._ write me the latin first; i'll try to imitate it. _co._ give me some paper then. _an._ take some. _co._ but my ink is too thin, by often pouring in of water. _an._ but my cotton is quite dry. _co._ squeeze it, or else piss in it. _an._ i had rather get some body to give me some. _co._ it is better to have of one's own, than to borrow. _an._ what's a scholar without pen and ink? _co._ the same that a soldier is without shield or sword. _an._ i wish my fingers were so nimble, i can't write as fast as another speaks. _co._ let it be your first chief care to write well, and your next to write quick: no more haste than good speed. _an._ very well; say to the master when he dictates, no more haste than good speed. * * * * * _a form of giving thanks. peter, christian._ _pe._ you have oblig'd me, in that you have written to me sometimes. i thank you for writing to me often. i love you, that you have not thought much to send me now and then a letter. i give you thanks that you have visited me with frequent letters. i thank you for loading of me with packets of letters. i thank you heartily that you have now and then provoked me with letters. you have oblig'd me very much that you have honour'd me with your letters. i am much beholden to you for your most obliging letters to me. i take it as a great favour, that you have not thought much to write to me. _the answer._ _ch._ indeed i ought to beg pardon for my presumption, who dar'd presume to trouble a man of so much business, and so much learning with my unlearned letters. i acknowledge your usual humanity, who have taken my boldness in good part. i was afraid my letters had given you some offence, that you sent me no answer. there is no reason that you should thank me, it is more than enough for me, if you have taken my industry in good part. * * * * * _a form of asking after news._ _pe._ is there no news come from our country? have you had any news from our countrymen? what news? do you bring any news? is there any news come to town? is there any news abroad from our country? _the answer._ _ch._ there is much news; but nothing of truth. news enough indeed; but nothing certain. a great deal of news; but nothing to be depended upon. not a little news; but not much truth. there is no news come. i have had no news at all. something of news; but nothing certain. there are a great many reports come to town; but they are all doubtful. there is a great deal of talk; but nothing true, nothing certain. if lies please, i have brought you a whole cart-load of them. i bring you whole bushels of tales. i bring you as many lies as a good ship will carry. _pe._ then unlade yourself as fast as you can, for fear you should sink, being so over-freighted. _ch._ i have nothing but what's the chat of barbers shops, coaches and boats. _han't you received any letters. the form_. _pe._ have you had no letters? have you had any letters out of your own country? have no letters been brought to you? have you receiv'd any letters? have you had any letters? have you receiv'd any letters from your friends? are there no letters come from _france_? _the answer._ _ch._ i have received no letters. i han't had so much as a letter. i han't had the least bit of a letter. no body has sent me any letter. there is not the least word come from any body. i have received no more letters for this long time, than what you see in my eye. indeed i had rather have money than letters. i had rather receive money than letters. i don't matter letters, so the money does but come. i had rather be paid, than be written to. * * * * * _i believe so. the form._ _pe._ i easily believe you. that is not hard to be believ'd. it is a very easy thing to believe that. who would not believe you in that? he will be very incredulous, that won't believe you in that matter. in truth i do believe you. you will easily make me believe that. i can believe you without swearing. what you say is very likely. but for all that, letters bring some comfort. i had rather have either of them, than neither. * * * * * _of profit. a form._ _ch._ what signifies letters without money? what signifies empty letters? what do empty letters avail? what good do they do, what do they profit, advantage? to whom are letters grateful or acceptable without money? what advantage do empty letters bring? what are idle letters good for? what do they do? what use are they of? what are they good for? what do they bring with them of moment? what use are empty letters of? _the answer._ _pe._ they are useful, fit, proper, to wipe your breech with. they are good to wipe your backside with. if you don't know the use of them, they are good to wipe your arse with. to wipe your breech with. to wipe your backside with. they are good to cleanse that part of the body that often fouls itself. they are good to wrap mackrel in. good to make up grocery ware in. * * * * * _of wishing well._ 1. _to a man whose wife is with child._ _pe._ what? are our little friends well? how does your wife do? _ch._ very well, i left her with her mother, and with child. _pe._ i wish it may be well for you, and her too: to you, because you're shortly to be a father, and she a mother. god be with you. i pray and desire that it may be prosperous and happy to you both. i pray, i beg of god that she, having a safe delivery, may bear a child worthy of you both; and may make you a father of a fine child. i commend you that you have shewed yourself to be a man. i am glad you have prov'd yourself to be a man. you have shew'd yourself to be a gallus, but not _cybele_'s. now you may go, i believe you are a man. _ch._ you joke upon me, as you are used to do. well, go on, you may say what you please to me. * * * * * 2. _to one coming home into his own country._ _ch._ i hear, you have lately been in your own country. _pe._ i have so, i had been out of it a pretty while. i could not bear to be out of it long. i could not bear to be out of my parents sight any longer. i thought it long till i enjoy'd my friends company. _ch._ you have acted very piously. you are very good humour'd, to think of those matters. we have all a strange affection for the country that hath bred us, and brought us forth. _as_ ovid _says_: _nescio quâ natale solum dulcedine cunctos ducit, et immemores non sinit esse sui._ pray tell me how did you find all things there. * * * * * _all things new. the form._ _pe._ nothing but what was new. all things changed, all things become new. see how soon time changes all human affairs. methought i came into another world. i had scarce been absent ten years, and yet i admired at every thing, as much as _epimenides_ the prince of sleepers, when he first wak'd out of his sleep. _ch._ what story is that? what fable is that? _pe._ i'll tell you if you are at leisure. _ch._ there is nothing more pleasant. _pe._ then order me a chair and a cushion. _ch._ that's very well thought on, for you will tell lyes the better, sitting at ease. _pe._ historians tell us a story, of one _epimenides_ a man of _crete_, who taking a walk alone by himself without the city, being caught in a hasty shower of rain, went for shelter into a cave, and there fell asleep, and slept on for seven and forty years together. _i don't believe it. the form._ _ch._ what a story you tell? 'tis incredible. what you say is not very likely. you tell me a fiction. i don't think 'tis true. you tell me a monstrous story. are you not asham'd to be guilty of so wicked a lye? this is a fable fit to be put among _lucian's_ legends. _pe._ nay, i tell you what is related by authors of credit, unless you think _aulus gellius_ is not an author of approv'd credit. _ch._ nay, whatsoever he has written are oracles to me. _pe._ do you think that a divine dream'd so many years? for it is storied that he was a divine. _ch._ i am with child to hear. _the answer._ _pe._ what is it more than what _scotus_ and the school-men did afterwards? but _epimenides_, he came off pretty well, he came to himself again at last; but a great many divines never wake out of their dreams. _ch._ well go on, you do like a poet; but go on with your lye. _pe._ _epimenides_ waking out of his sleep, goes out of his cave, and looks about him, and sees all things chang'd, the woods, the banks, the rivers, the trees, the fields; and, in short, there was nothing but was new: he goes to the city, and enquires; he stays there a little while, but knows no body, nor did any body know him: the men were dress'd after another fashion, than what they were before; they had not the same countenances; their speech was alter'd, and their manners quite different: nor do i wonder it was so with _epimenides_, after so many years, when it was almost so with me, when i had been absent but a few years. _ch._ but how do your father and mother do? are they living? _pe._ they are both alive and well; but pretty much worn out with old age, diseases, and lastly, with the calamities of war. _ch._ this is the comedy of human life. this is the inevitable law of destiny. * * * * * _words, names of affinity._ _pe._ will you sup at home to day? _ch._ i am to sup abroad: i must go out to supper. _pe._ with whom? _ch._ with my father in law; with my son in law; at my daughter's in law; with my kinsman. they are call'd, _affines_, kinsmen, who are ally'd not by blood, but marriage. _pe._ what are the usual names of affinity? _ch._ a husband and wife are noted names. _socer_, is my wife's father. _gener_, my daughter's husband. _socrus_, my wife's mother. _nurus_, my son's wife. _levir_, a husband's brother. _levir_ is call'd by the wife, as _helen_ calls _hector_, _levir_, because she was married to _paris_. _fratria_, my brother's wife. _glos_, a husband's sister. _vitricus_, my mother's husband. _noverca_, my father's wife. _privignus_, the son of my wife or husband. _privigna_, the daughter of either of them. _rivalis_, he that loves the same woman another does. _pellex_, she that loves the same man another does; as _thraso_ is the rival of _phroedria_, and _europa_ the _pellex_ of _juno_. * * * * * _of inviting to a feast._ _dine with me to morrow._ _pe._ i give you thanks, i commend you, i invite you to supper against to morrow, i entreat your company at supper to morrow. i desire you'd come to dinner with me to morrow. i would have your company at dinner to morrow. _i fear i can't come._ _ch._ i fear i can't. i am afraid i can't. i will come if i can; but i am afraid i can't. _why?_ _pe._ why can't you? how so? why so? wherefore? for what reason? for what cause? what hinders you that you can't. _i must stay at home._ _ch._ indeed i must be at home at that time. i must needs be at home at night. i must not be abroad at that time. i shall not have an opportunity to go out any where to morrow. i must not be absent at dinner. i expect some guests myself upon that day. some friends have made an appointment to sup at our house that night. i have some guests to entertain that night, or else i would come with all my heart. unless it were so, i would not be unwilling to come. if it were not so, i should not want much entreating. i would make no excuse if i could come. if i could come, i would not be ask'd twice. if i could by any means come, i would come with a very little, or without any invitation at all. if i could, i would obey your command very readily. it is in vain to ask one that is not at his own disposal: and there would be no need to ask me if i could come: but at present, though i had never so much mind, i can't; and it would be altogether unnecessary to ask one that is willing. _pe._ then pray let me have your company the next day after: however, i must needs have your company at supper the next day after to morrow. you must not deny me your company four days hence. you must make no excuse as to coming next thursday. _i can't promise._ _ch._ i can't promise. i cannot positively promise you. i can't certainly promise you. i will come when it shall be most convenient for us both. _you ought to set the day._ _pe._ i would have you appoint a day when you will come to sup with me. you must assign a day. you must set the day. i desire a certain day may be prefix'd, prescrib'd, appointed, set; but set a certain day. i would have you tell me the day. _i would not have you know before hand._ _ch._ indeed i don't use to set a day for my friends. i am used to set a day for those i'm at law with. i would not have you know before hand. i'll take you at unawares. i'll come unexpectedly. i will catch you when you don't think on me. i shall take you when you don't think on me. i'll come unlooked for. i'll come upon you before you are aware. i'll come an uninvited and unexpected guest. _i would know before hand._ _pe._ i would know two days before hand. give me notice two days before you come. make me acquainted two days before. _ch._ if you will have me, i'll make a _sybaritical_ appointment, that you may have time enough to provide afore hand. _pe._ what appointment is that? _ch._ the _sybarites_ invited their guests against the next year, that they might both have time to be prepar'd. _pe._ away with the _sybarites_, and their troublesome entertainments: i invite an old chrony, and not a courtier. _you desire to your own detriment._ _ch._ indeed 'tis to your detriment. indeed 'tis to your own harm. to your own loss. you wish for it. you pray for that to your own ill-convenience. _pe._ why so? wherefore. _ch._ i'll come provided. i'll come prepar'd. i'll set upon you accoutred. i'll come furnish'd with a sharp stomach; do you take care that you have enough to satisfy a vulture. i'll prepare my belly and whet my teeth; do you look to it, to get enough to satisfy a wolf. _pe._ come and welcome, i dare you to it. come on, if you can do any thing, do it to your utmost, with all your might. _ch._ i'll come, but i won't come alone. _pe._ you shall be the more welcome for that; but who will you bring with you? _ch._ my _umbra_. _pe._ you can't do otherwise if you come in the day time. _ch._ ay, but i'll bring one _umbra_ or two that have got teeth, that you shan't have invited me for nothing. _pe._ well, do as you will, so you don't bring any ghosts along with you. but if you please explain what is the meaning of the word _umbra_. _ch._ among the learned they are call'd _umbræ_, who being uninvited, bear another person, that is invited, company to a feast. _pe._ well, bring such ghosts along with you as many as you will. * * * * * _i promise upon this condition._ _ch._ well, i will come, but upon this condition, that you shall come to supper with me the next day. i will do it upon this condition that you shall be my guest afterwards. upon that condition i promise to come to supper, that you again shall be my guest. i promise i will, but upon these terms, that you in the like manner shall be my guest the next day. i promise i will, i give you my word i will, upon this consideration, that you dine with me the next day. _pe._ come on, let it be done, let it be so. it shall be as you would have it. if you command me, i'll do it. i know the _french_ ambition, you won't sup with me, but you'll make me amends for it. and so by this means feasts use to go round. from hence it comes to pass, that it is a long time before we have done feasting one with another. by this interchangeableness feasts become reciprocal without end. _ch._ it is the pleasantest way of living in the world, if no more provision be made, but what is used to be made daily. but, i detain you, it may be, when you are going some whither. _pe._ nay, i believe, i do you. but we'll talk more largely and more freely to morrow. but we'll divert ourselves to morrow more plentifully. in the mean time take care of your health. in the mean time take care to keep yourself in good health. farewell till then. * * * * * _whither are you going? the form._ _ch._ where are you a going now? whither are you going so fast? where are you a going in such great haste. whither go you? what's your way? * * * * * _i go home. the form._ _pe._ i go home. i return home. i go to see what they are a doing at home. i go to call a doctor. i am going into the country. i made an appointment just at this time to go to speak with a certain great man. i made an appointment to meet a great man at this time. _ch._ whom? _pe._ talkative _curio_. _ch._ i wish you _mercury_'s assistance. _pe._ what need of _mercury_'s assistance? _ch._ because you have to do with a man of words. _pe._ then it were more proper to wish the assistance of the goddess _memoria_. _ch._ why so? _pe._ because you'll have more occasion for patient ears, than a strenuous tongue. and the ear is dedicated to the goddess _memoria_. _ch._ whither are you going? whither will you go? _pe._ this way, to the left hand. this way, that way, through the market. _ch._ then i'll bear you company as far as the next turning. _pe._ i won't let you go about. you shan't put yourself to so much trouble on my account. save that trouble till it shall be of use, it is altogether unnecessary at this time. don't go out of your way upon my account. _ch._ i reckon i save my time while i enjoy the company of so good a friend. i have nothing else to do, and i am not so lazy, if my company won't be troublesome. _pe._ no body is a more pleasant companion. but i won't suffer you to go on my left hand. i won't let you walk on my left hand. here i bid god be with you. i shall not bear you company any longer. you shan't go further with me. * * * * * _a form of recommending._ _ch._ recommend me kindly to _curio_. recommend me as kindly as may be to talkative _curio_. take care to recommend me heartily to _curio_. i desire you have me recommended to him. i recommend myself to him by you. i recommend myself to you again and again. i recommend myself to your favour with all the earnestness possible. leave _recommendo_ instead of _commendo_ to _barbarians_. see that you don't be sparing of your speech with one that is full of tongue. see that you be not of few words with him that is a man of many words. * * * * * _a form of obsequiousness._ _pe._ would you have me obey you? would you have me be obedient? shall i obey you? then you command me to imitate you. since you would have it so, i'll do it with all my heart. don't hinder me any longer; don't let us hinder one another. _ch._ but before you go, i intreat you not to think much to teach me how i must use these sentences, _in morâ, in causâ, in culpâ_; you use to be studious of elegancy. wherefore come on, i entreat you teach me; explain it to me, i love you dearly. * * * * * _in culpâ, in causâ, in morâ._ _pe._ i must do as you would have me. the fault is not in me. it is not in thee. the delay is in thee. thou art the cause, is indeed grammatically spoken; these are more elegant. _in culpâ._ i am not in the fault. the fault is not mine. i am without fault. your idleness has been the cause, that you have made no proficiency, not your master nor your father. you are all in fault. you are both in fault. you are both to be blam'd. ye are both to be accus'd. you have gotten this distemper by your own ill management. in like manner they are said to be _in vitio_, to whom the fault is to be imputed; and _in crimine_, they who are to be blam'd; and _in damno_, who are losers. this sort of phrase is not to be inverted commonly; _damnum in illo est. vitium in illo est._ * * * * * _in causâ._ sickness has been the occasion that i have not written to you. my affairs have been the cause that i have written to you so seldom, and not neglect. what was the cause? what cause was there? i was not the cause. the post-man was in the fault that you have had no letters from me. love and not study is the cause of your being so lean. this is the cause. _in morâ._ i won't hinder you. what has hinder'd you? you have hindred us. you are always a hindrance. what hindred you? who has hindred you? you have what you ask'd for. it is your duty to remember it. you have the reward of your respect. farewell, my _christian_. _ch._ and fare you well till to morrow, my _peter_. * * * * * _at meeting._ _christian, austin._ _ch._ god save you heartily, sweet _austin_. _au._ i wish the same to you, most kind _christian_. good morrow to you. i wish you a good day; but how do you do? _ch._ very well as things go, and i wish you what you wish for. _au._ i love you deservedly. i love thee. thou deservest to be lov'd heartily. thou speakest kindly. thou art courteous. i give thee thanks. * * * * * _i am angry with thee. the form._ _ch._ but i am something angry with you. but i am a little angry with you. but i am a little provok'd at you. i have something to be angry with you for. * * * * * _for what cause. the form._ _au._ i pray what is it? why so? but why, i beseech you? what crime have i committed? what have i done? _promereor bona_, i deserve good; _commereor mala_, i deserve ill, or punishment: the one is used in a good sense, and the other in an ill. _demeremur eum_, is said of him that we have attach'd to us by kindness. * * * * * _because you don't regard me._ _ch._ because you take no care of me. because you don't regard me. because you come to see us so seldom. because you wholly neglect us. because you quite neglect me. because you seem to have cast off all care of us. _au._ but there is no cause for you to be angry. but you are angry without my desert, and undeservedly; for it has not been my fault, that i have come to see you but seldom: forgive my hurry of business that has hindered me from seeing you, as often as i would have done. _ch._ i will pardon you upon this condition, if you'll come to supper with me to night. i'll quit you upon that condition, if you come to supper with me in the evening. _au. christian_, you prescribe no hard articles of peace, and therefore i'll come with all my heart. indeed i will do it willingly. indeed i would do that with all readiness in the world. i shan't do that unwillingly. i won't want much courting to that. there is nothing in the world that i would do with more readiness. i will do it with a willing mind. _ch._ i commend your obliging temper in this, and in all other things. _au._ i use always to be thus obsequious to my friends, especially when they require nothing but what's reasonable. o ridiculous! do you think i would refuse when offer'd me, that which i should have ask'd for of my own accord? * * * * * _don't deceive me. the form._ _ch._ well, but take care you don't delude me. see you don't deceive me. take care you don't make me feed a vain hope. see you don't fail my expectation. see you don't disappoint me. see you don't lull me on with a vain hope. _au._ there is no need to swear. in other things, in other matters you may be afraid of perfidy. in this i won't deceive you. but hark you, see that you provide nothing but what you do daily: i would have no holy day made upon my account. you know that i am a guest that am no great trencher man, but a very merry man. _ch._ i'll be sure to take care. i will entertain you with scholars commons, if not with slenderer fare. _au._ nay, if you'd please me, let it be with _diogenes_'s fare. _ch._ you may depend upon it, i will treat you with a _platonick_ supper, in which you shall have a great many learned stories, and but a little meat, the pleasure of which shall last till the next day: whereas they that have been nobly entertain'd, enjoy perhaps a little pleasure that day, but the next are troubled with the head-ach, and sickness at the stomach. he that supp'd with _plato_, had one pleasure from the easy preparation, and philosopher's stories; and another the next day, that his head did not ach, and that his stomach was not sick, and so had a good dinner of the sauce of last night's supper. _au._ i like it very well, let it be as you have said. _ch._ do you see that you leave all your cares and melancholy airs at home, and bring nothing hither but jokes and merriment; and as _juvenal_ says, _protenus ante meum, quicquid dolet, exue limen. lay all that troubles you down before my door, before you come into it._ _au._ what? would you have me bring no learning along with me? i will bring my muses with me, unless you think it not convenient. _ch._ shut up your ill-natured muses at home with your business, but bring your good-natured muses, all your witty jests, your by-words, your banters, your pleasantries, your pretty sayings, and all your ridiculosities along with you. _au._ i'll do as you bid me; put on all my best looks. we'll be merry fellows. we'll laugh our bellies full. we'll make much of ourselves. we'll feast jovially. we'll play the _epicureans_. we'll set a good face on't, and be boon blades. these are fine phrases of clownish fellows that have a peculiar way of speaking to themselves. _ch._ where are you going so fast? _au._ to my son's in law. _ch._ what do you do there? why thither? what do you with him? _au._ i hear there is disturbance among them; i am going to make them friends again, to bring them to an agreement; to make peace among them. _ch._ you do very well, though i believe they don't want you; for they will make the matter up better among themselves. _au._ perhaps there is a cessation of arms, and the peace is to be concluded at night. but have you any thing else to say to me? _ch._ i will send my boy to call you. _au._ when you please. i shall be at home. farewell. _ch._ i wish you well. see that you be here by five a-clock. soho _peter_, call _austin_ to supper, who you know promised to come to supper with me to day. _pe._ soho! poet, god bless you, supper has been ready this good while, and my master stays for you at home, you may come when you will. _au._ i come this minute. _the profane feast._ the argument. _our_ erasmus _most elegantly proposes all the furniture of this feast; the discourses and behaviour of the entertainer and the guests_, &c. _water and a bason before dinner. the_ stoics, _the_ epicureans; _the form of the grace at table. it is good wine that pleases four senses. why_ bacchus _is the poets god; why he is painted a boy. mutton very wholsome. that a man does not live by bread and wine only. sleep makes some persons fat. venison is dear. concerning deers, hares, and geese: they of old defended the capitol at_ rome. _of cocks, capons and fishes. here is discoursed of by the by, fasting. of the choice of meats. some persons superstition in that matter. the cruelty of those persons that require these things of those persons they are hurtful to; when the eating of fish is neither necessary, nor commanded by christ. the eating of fish is condemned by physicians. the chief luxury of old time consisted in fishes. we should always live a sober life. what number of guests there should be at an entertainment. the bill of fare of the second course. the magnificence of the_ french. _the ancient law of feasts. either drink, or begone. a variation of phrases. thanksgiving after meat._ austin, christian, _a_ boy. _au._ o, my _christian_, god bless you. _ch._ it is very well that you are come. i am glad you're come. i congratulate myself that you are come. i believe it has not struck five yet. _boy._ yes, it is a good while past five. it is not far from six. it is almost six. you'll hear it strike six presently. _au._ it is no great matter whether i come before five or after five, as long as i am not come after supper; for that is a miserable thing, to come after a feast is over. what's all this great preparation for? what means all this provision? what, do you think i'm a wolf? do you take me for a wolf? do you think i'm a vulture? _ch._ not a vulture, nor yet do i think you a grashopper, to live upon dew. here is nothing of extravagancy, i always lov'd neatness, and abhor slovenliness. i am for being neither luxurious nor niggardly. we had better leave than lack. if i dress'd but one dish of peas, and the soot should chance to fall in the pot and spoil it, what should we have to eat then? nor does every body love one thing; therefore i love a moderate variety. _au._ an't you afraid of the sumptuary laws? _ch._ nay, i most commonly offend on the contrary side. there is no need of the _fannian_ law at our house. the slenderness of my income teaches me frugality sufficiently. _au._ this is contrary to our agreement. you promised me quite otherwise. _ch._ well, mr. fool, you don't stand to your agreement. for it was agreed upon that you should bring nothing but merry tales. but let us have done with these matters, and wash, and sit down to supper. soho, boy, bring a little water and a bason; hang a towel over your shoulder, pour out some water. what do you loiter for? wash, _austin_. _au._ do you wash first. _ch._ pray excuse me. i had rather eat my supper with unwashen hands this twelve months. _au._ o ridiculous! 'tis not he that is the most honourable, but he that is the dirtiest that should wash first; then do you wash as the dirtiest. _ch._ you are too complaisant. you are more complaisant than enough; than is fitting. but to what purpose is all this ceremony? let us leave these trifling ceremonies to women, they are quite kick'd out of the court already, although they came from thence at first. wash three or four at a time. don't let us spend the time in these delays. i won't place any body, let every one take what place he likes best. he that loves to sit by the fire, will sit best here. he that can't bear the light let him take this corner. he that loves to look about him, let him sit here. come, here has been delays enough. sit down. i am at home, i'll take my supper standing, or walking about, which i like best. why don't you sit down, supper will be spoiled. _au._ now let us enjoy ourselves, and eat heartily. now let us be _epicures_. we have nothing to do with superciliousness. farewell care, let all ill-will and detraction be banished. let us be merry, pleasant, and facetious. _ch. austin_, pray who are those _stoics_ and _epicures_? _au._ the _stoics_ are a certain melancholy, rigid, parcimonious sect of philosophers, who make the _summum bonum_ of mankind, to consist in a certain, i can't tell what, _honestum_. the _epicures_ are the reverse of these, and they make the felicity of a man to consist in pleasure. _ch._ pray what sect are you of, a _stoic_ or an _epicure_? _au._ i recommend _zeno_'s rules; but i follow _epicurus_'s practice. _ch. austin_, what you speak in jest, a great many do in earnest, and are only philosophers by their cloaks and beards. _au._ nay, indeed they out-live the _asots_ in luxury. _ch. dromo_, come hither. do your office, say grace. _boy._ "may he that feeds all things by his bounty, command his blessing upon what is or shall be set upon this table. amen." _ch._ set the victuals on the table. why do we delay to eat up this capon? why are we afraid to carve this cock? _au._ i'll be _hercules_, and slay this beast. which had you rather have, a wing or a leg? _ch._ which you will, i don't matter which. _au._ in this sort of fowls the wing is look'd upon the best; in other fowls the leg is commonly esteemed the greater dainty bit. _ch._ i put you to a great deal of trouble. you take a great deal of trouble upon you, upon my account. you help every body else, and eat nothing yourself. i'll help you to this wing; but upon this condition, that you shall give me half of it back. _au._ say you so, that is serving yourself and not me; keep it for yourself. i am not so bashful as to want any body to help me. _ch._ you do very well. _au._ do you carve for a wolf? have you invited a vulture? _ch._ you fast. you don't eat. _au._ i eat more than any body. _ch._ nay, rather, you lye more than any body. pray be as free as if you were at your own house. _au._ i take myself to be there. i do so. i am resolv'd so to do. i design to do so. _ch._ how does this wine please you? does this wine please your palate? _au._ indeed it pleases me very well. indeed it pleases mightily. it pleases me well enough. it pleases me very well. _ch._ which had you rather have, red or white? _it is no matter what colour it is._ _au._ indeed i like both alike. it is no matter what colour 'tis, so the taste be pleasing. i don't much mind how the wine pleases the eye, so it do but please the palate. i an't much mov'd at the sight of it, if the taste be but grateful. it is no great matter what colour it is of, or what colour it has, if it does but taste well. i don't desire to please my eyes if i can but please my taste. if it do but please the palate, i don't regard the colour, if it be well relish'd. _ch._ i believe so: but there are some persons that are mighty deeply read in table philosophy, who deny that the wine can be good, unless it pleases four senses: the eye, with its colour; the nose, with its smell; the palate, with its taste; the ears, by its fame and name. _au._ o ridiculous! what signifies fame to drink? _ch._ as much as many that have a good palate mightily approve of _lovain_ wine, when they believe it to be _bern_ wine. _au._ it may be, they had spoiled their palate by much drinking. _ch._ no, before they had drank one drop. but i have a mind to hear your opinion, who are a man of great skill in these matters. _au._ our countrymen prefer white before red, because the red is a little more upon the acid, and the white a smaller wine; but that is the milder, and in my opinion the more wholsome. _ch._ we have a pale red wine, and a yellow wine, and a purple colour wine. this is new wine, this year's wine. this is two years old, if any body is for an old wine. we have some four years old, but it is grown flat and dead with age. the strength is gone with age. _au._ why, you're as rich as _lucullus_. _ch._ soho, boy, where are you a loitering? you give us no attendance; don't you see we have no wine here? what if a fire should happen now? how should we put it out? give every one a full glass. _austin_, what's the matter that you are not merry? what makes you sit so melancholy? what's the matter with you, that you an't chearful? you are either troubled at something, or you're making verses. you play the _crysippus_ now, you want a _melissa_ to feed you. _au._ what story is this you are telling me of? _ch. crysippus_ is reported to have been so intent upon his logical subtilties, that he would have been starved at table, unless his maid _melissa_ had put the meat into his mouth. _au._ he did not deserve to have his life sav'd; but if silence is an offence to you, and you love a noisy feast, you have gotten that will make one. _ch._ i remember i have. that's very well minded: we must drink more freely, we ought to drink more largely, more wine and less water. _you have hit on the matter._ _au._ you have hit the nail on the head. you are in the right. you have hit the mark. for, _foecundi calices quem non fecere disertum?_ _ch._ that is very learnedly spoken, _austin_, and so indeed is all that comes from you; but since we are fallen into a discourse concerning wine, since we have happen'd to make mention of wine, i have a mind to ask you, for what reason the ancients, who will have _bacchus_ the inventor of wine, call him the god of the poets? what has that drunken god to do with poets, who are the votaries of the virgin muses? _au._ by _bacchus_, this is a question fit to be put over a bottle. but i see very well, what your question drives at. _ch._ what, prithee? _au._ you very cunningly put a question about wine, by a _french_ trick, which i believe you learn'd at _paris_, that you may save your wine by that means. ah, go your way, i see you're a sophister; you have made a good proficiency in that school. _ch._ well, i take all your jokes; i'll return the like to you, when opportunity shall offer. but to the matter in hand. _au._ i'll go on, but i'll drink first, for it is absurd to dispute about a tippling question with a dry throat. here's to you _christian_. half this cup to you. _ch._ i thank you kindly. god bless it to you, much good may it do you. _au._ now i'm ready, at your service. i'll do it as well as i can after my manner. that they have given a boy's face to _bacchus_, has this mystery in it; that wine being drank, takes away cares and vexations from our minds, and adds a sort of a chearfulness to them. and for this reason, it adds a sort of youthfulness even to old men, in that it makes them more chearful, and of a better complexion. the same thing _horace_ in many places, and particularly testifies in these verses: _ad mare cum veni, generosum et lene requiro, quod curas abigat, quod cum spe divite manet. in venas, animumque meum, quod verba ministret. quod me lucanoe juvenem commendet amicæ._ for that they have assign'd the poets to this deity, i believe by it they design'd to intimate this, that wine both stirs up wit and administers eloquence; which two things are very fit for poets. whence it comes to pass, that your water drinkers make poor verses. for _bacchus_ is of a fiery constitution naturally, but he is made more temperate, being united with the nymphs. have you been answer'd to your satisfaction? _ch._ i never heard any thing more to the purpose from a poet. you deserve to drink out of a cup set with jewels. boy, take away this dish, and set on another. _au._ you have got a very clownish boy. _ch._ he is the unluckiest knave in the world. _au._ why don't you teach him better manners? _ch._ he is too old to learn. it is a hard matter to mend the manners of an old sinner. an old dog won't be easily brought to wear the collar. he's well enough for me. like master like man. * * * * * _if i knew what you lik'd, i would help you._ _au._ i would cut you a slice, if i knew what would please you. i would help you, if i knew your palate. i would help you, if i knew what you lik'd best. if i knew the disposition of your palate, i would be your carver. indeed my palate is like my judgment. _ch._ you have a very nice palate. no body has a nicer palate than you have. i don't think you come behind him of whose exquisite skill the satyrist says, _ostrea callebat primo deprendere morsu, et semel aspecti dicebat littus echini._ _au._ and you, my _christian_, that i may return the compliment, seem to have been scholar to _epicurus_, or brought up in the _catian_ school. for what's more delicate or nice than your palate? _ch._ if i understood oratory so well as i do cookery, i'd challenge _cicero_ himself. _au._ indeed if i must be without one, i had rather want oratory than cookery. _ch._ i am entirely of your mind, you judge gravely, wisely, and truly. for what is the prattle of orators good for, but to tickle idle ears with a vain pleasure? but cookery feeds and repairs the palate, the belly, and the whole man, let him be as big as he will. _cicero_ says, _concedat laurea lingæ_; but both of them must give place to cookery. i never very well liked those _stoicks_, who referring all things to their (i can't tell what) _honestum_, thought we ought to have no regard to our persons and our palates. _aristippus_ was wiser than _diogenes_ beyond expression in my opinion. _au._ i despise the _stoicks_ with all their fasts. but i praise and approve _epicurus_ more than that _cynic diogenes_, who lived upon raw herbs and water; and therefore i don't wonder that _alexander_, that fortunate king, had rather be _alexander_ than _diogenes_. _ch._ nor indeed would i myself, who am but an ordinary man, change my philosophy for _diogenes_'s; and i believe your _catius_ would refuse to do it too. the philosophers of our time are wiser, who are content to dispute like _stoicks_, but in living out-do even _epicurus_ himself. and yet for all that, i look upon philosophy to be one of the most excellent things in nature, if used moderately. i don't approve of philosophising too much, for it is a very jejune, barren, and melancholy thing. when i fall into any calamity or sickness, then i betake myself to philosophy, as to a physician; but when i am well again, i bid it farewell. _au._ i like your method. you do philosophize very well. your humble servant, mr. philosopher; not of the _stoick_ school, but the kitchen. _ch._ what is the matter with you, _erasmus_, that you are so melancholy? what makes you look so frowningly? what makes you so silent? are you angry with me because i have entertained you with such a slender supper? _er._ nay, i am angry with you that you have put your self to so much charge upon my account. _austin_ laid a strict charge upon you that you would provide nothing extraordinary upon his account. i believe you have a mind we should never come to see you again; for they give such a supper as this that intended to make but one. what sort of guests did you expect? you seem to have provided not for friends, but for princes. do you think we are gluttons? this is not to entertain one with a supper, but victualling one for three days together. _ch._ you will be ill-humour'd. dispute about that matter to-morrow; pray be good humour'd to-day. we'll talk about the charge to-morrow; i have no mind to hear any thing but what is merry at this time. _au. christian_, whether had you rather have, beef or mutton? _ch._ i like beef best, but i think mutton is the most wholsome. it is the disposition of mankind to be most desirous of those things that are the most hurtful. _au._ the _french_ are wonderful admirers of pork. _ch._ the _french_ love that most that costs least. _au._ i am a jew in this one thing, there is nothing i hate so much as swine's flesh. _ch._ nor without reason, for what is more unwholsome? in this i am not of the _french_ man's but of the _jew's_ mind. _er._ but i love both mutton and pork, but for a different reason; for i eat freely of mutton, because i love it; but hogs flesh i don't touch, by reason of love, that i may not give offence. _ch._ you are a clever man, _erasmus_, and a very merry one too. indeed i am apt to admire from whence it comes to pass that there is such a great diversity in mens palates, for if i may make use of this verse of _horace_, tres mihi convivæ propè dissentire videntur, poscentes vario multùm diversa palato. _er._ although as the comedian says, _so many men, so many minds_, and every man has his own way; yet no body can make me believe, there is more variety in mens dispositions, than there is in their palates: so that you can scarce find two that love the same things. i have seen a great many, that can't bear so much as the smell of butter and cheese: some loath flesh; one will not eat roast meat, and another won't eat boil'd. there are many that prefer water before wine. and more than this, which you'll hardly believe; i have seen a man who would neither eat bread, nor drink wine. _ch._ what did that poor man live on? _er._ there was nothing else but what he could eat; meat, fish, herbs and fruit. _ch._ would you have me believe you? _er._ yes, if you will. _ch._ i will believe you; but upon this condition, that you shall believe me when i tell a lye. _er._ well, i will do it, so that you lye modestly. _ch._ as if any thing could be more impudent than your lye. _er._ what would your confidence say, if i should shew you the man? _ch._ he must needs be a starveling fellow, a meer shadow. _er._ you'd say he was a champion. _ch._ nay, rather a _polyphemus_. _er._ i wonder this should seem so strange to you, when there are a great many that eat dry'd fish instead of bread: and some that the roots of herbs serve for the same use that bread does us. _ch._ i believe you; lye on. _er._ i remember, i saw a man when i was in _italy_, that grew fat with sleep, without the assistance either of meat or drink. _ch._ fie for shame; i can't forbear making use of that expression of the satyrist, tunc immensa cavi spirant mendacia folles. thou poeticisest. you play the part of a poet. i am loath to give you the lye. _er._ i am the greatest lyar in the world, if _pliny_, an author of undoubted credit, has not written, that a bear in fourteen days time will grow wonderfully fat with nothing but sleep: and that he will sleep so sound, that you can scarce wake him, by wounding him: nay, to make you admire the more, i will add what _theophrastus_ writes, that during that time, if the flesh of the bear be boil'd, and kept some time, it will come to life again. _ch._ i am afraid that _parmeno_ in _terence_ will hardly be able to comprehend these things. i believe it readily. i would help you to some venison, if i were well enough accomplished. _er._ where have you any hunting now? how came you by venison? _ch._ _midas_, the most generous spirited man living, and a very good friend of mine, sent it me for a present; but so, that i oftentimes buy it for less. _er._ how so? _ch._ because i am obliged to give more to his servants, than i could buy it for in the market. _er._ who obliges you to that? _ch._ the most violent tyrant in the world. _er._ who is he? _ch._ custom. _er._ indeed, that tyrant does frequently impose the most unjust laws upon mankind. _ch._ the same tyrant hunted this stag, but the day before yesterday. what did you do, who used to be a very great lover of that sport? _au._ indeed i have left off that sport, and now i hunt after nothing but learning. _ch._ in my opinion, learning is fleeter than any stag. _au._ but i hunt chiefly with two dogs, that is to say, with love and industry: for love affords a great deal of eagerness to learn, and as the most elegant poet says, ----_labor improbus omnia vincit._ _ch. austin_, you admonish after a friendly manner, as you use to do; and therefore, i won't give over, nor rest, nor tire, till i attain. _au._ venison is now in the prime. _pliny_ tells us a very admirable story concerning this animal. _ch._ what is it, i pray you? _au._ that as often as they prick up their ears, they are very quick of hearing; but on the contrary, when they let them down, they are deaf. _ch._ that very often happens to myself; for if i happen to hear a word spoken of receiving guineas, there is no body quicker of hearing than i; for then with _pamphilus_ in _terence_, i prick up my ears; but when there is any mention made of paying them away, i let them down, and am presently hard of hearing. _au._ well, i commend you; you do as you should do. _ch._ would you have some of the leg of this hare? _au._ take it yourself. _ch._ or had you rather have some of the back? _au._ this creature has nothing good but its flank and hind legs. _ch._ did you ever see a white hare? _au._ oftentimes. _pliny_ writes, that on the _alps_ there are white hares; and that it is believed in the winter time they feed upon snow: whether it be true or no, let _pliny_ see to that: for if snow makes a hare's skin white, it must make his stomach white too. _ch._ i don't know but it may be true. _au._ i have something for you that is stranger than that; but it may be you have heard of it. the same man testifies that there is the same nature in all of them; that is, of males and females, and that the females do as commonly breed without the use of the male, as with it. and many persons assert the same, and especially your skilful hunters. _ch._ you say right; but if you please, let us try these rabbets, for they are fat and tender. i would help that pretty lady if i sat nigher to her. _austin_, pray take care of that lady that sits by you, for you know how to please the fair sex. _au._ i know what you mean, you joker. _ch._ do you love goose? _au._ ay, i love 'em mightily, and i an't very nice. i don't know what's the matter, but this goose don't please me; i never saw any thing dryer in all my life; it is dryer than a pumice-stone, or _furius_'s mother in law, upon whom _catullus_ breaks so many jests. i believe it is made of wood; and in troth i believe 'tis an old soldier, that has worn itself out with being upon the guard. they say a goose is the most wakeful creature living. in truth, if i am not out in my guess, this goose was one of them, who when the watch and their dogs were fast asleep, in old time defended the _roman_ capitol. _ch._ as i hope to live i believe it was, for i believe it liv'd in that age. _au._ and this hen was either half starv'd, or else was in love, or was jealous; for this sort of creatures are much troubled with that distemper. this capon fatten'd much better; see what cares will do. if we were to geld our _theodoricus_, he would grow fat much the sooner. _th._ i an't a cock. _au._ i confess you are not _gallus cybeles_, nor a dunghil-cock; but it may be you are _gallus gallaceus_. _ch._ what word is that? _au._ i leave that word to be unriddled by you: i am _sphinx_, and you shall be _oedipus_. _ch. austin_, tell me truly, have you had no conversation with _french_ men, have you had no affinity with them? had you nothing to do with them? _au._ none at all, indeed. _ch._ then you are so much the worse. _au._ but perhaps i have had to do with _french_ women. _ch._ will you have any of this goose's liver? this was look'd upon as a great delicacy by the ancients. _au._ i will refuse nothing that comes from your hand. _ch._ you must not expect _roman_ dainties. _au._ what are they? _ch._ thistles, cockles, tortoises, conger-eels, mushrooms, truffles, etc. _au._ i had rather have a turnip than any of them. you are liberal and bountiful, _christian_. _ch._ no body touches these partridges nor the pigeons, to-morrow is a fast-day appointed by the church; prepare against that hunger; ballast your ship against the impending storm. war is a coming, furnish your belly with provision. _au._ i wish you had kept that word in, we should have risen from supper more merrily. you torment us before the time. _ch._ why so? _au._ because i hate fish worse than i do a snake. _ch._ you are not alone. _au._ who brought in this troublesome custom? _ch._ who order'd you to take aloes, wormwood and scammony in physick? _au._ but these things are given to folks that are sick. _ch._ so these things are given to them that are too well. it is better sometimes to be sick, than to be too well. _au._ in my opinion the _jews_ themselves did not labour under such a burden. indeed i could easily refrain from eels and swines flesh, if i might fill my belly with capons and partridges. _ch._ in a great many circumstances it is not the thing, but the mind that distinguishes us from _jews_; they held their hands from certain meats, as from unclean things, that would pollute the mind; but we, understanding that _to the pure, all things are pure_, yet take away food from the wanton flesh, as we do hay from a pamper'd horse, that it may be more ready to hearken to the spirit. we sometimes chastise the immoderate use of pleasant things, by the pain of abstinence. _au._ i hear you; but by the same argument, circumcision of the flesh may be defended; for that moderates the itch of coition, and brings pain. if all hated fish as bad as i do, i would scarce put a parricide to so much torture. _ch._ some palates are better pleas'd with fish than flesh. _au._ then they like those things that please their gluttony, but don't make for their health. _ch._ i have heard of some of the _æsops_ and _apitius_'s, that have look'd upon fish as the greatest delicacy. _au._ how then do dainties agree with punishment? _ch._ every body han't lampreys, scares, and sturgeons. _au._ then it is only the poor folks that are tormented, with whom it is bad enough, if they were permitted to eat flesh; and it often happens, that when they may eat flesh for the church, they can't for their purse. _ch._ indeed, a very hard injunction! _au._ and if the prohibition of flesh be turned to delicious living to the rich; and if the poor can't eat flesh many times, when otherwise they might, nor can't eat fish, because they are commonly the dearer; to whom does the injunction do good? _ch._ to all; for poor folks may eat cockles or frogs, or may gnaw upon onions or leeks. the middle sort of people will make some abatement in their usual provision; and though the rich do make it an occasion of living deliciously, they ought to impute that to their gluttony, and not blame the constitution of the church. _au._ you have said very well; but for all that, to require abstinence from flesh of poor folks, who feed their families by the sweat of their brows, and live a great way from rivers and lakes, is the same thing as to command a famine, or rather a _bulimia_. and if we believe _homer_, it is the miserablest death in the world to be starv'd to death. _ch._ so it seem'd to blind _homer_; but with _christians_, he is not miserable that dies well. _au._ let that be so; yet it is a very hard thing to require any body to die. _ch._ the popes don't prohibit the eating of flesh with that design, to kill men, but that they may be moderately afflicted if they have transgress'd; or that taking away their pleasant food, their bodies may be less fierce against the spirit. _au._ the moderate use of flesh would effect that. _ch._ but in so great a variety of bodies certain bounds of flesh can't be prescrib'd, a kind of food may. _au._ there are fishes that yield much aliment, and there are sorts of flesh that yield but little. _ch._ but in general flesh is most nourishing. _au._ pray tell me, if you were to go a journey any whither, would you chuse a lively horse that was a little wanton, or a diseased horse, who would often stumble and throw his rider? _ch._ what do you mean by that? _au._ because fish-eating, by its corrupt humours, renders the body liable to a great many diseases, that it can't subserve the spirit as it should do. _ch._ to what diseases? _au._ gouts, fevers, leprosies, the king's-evil. _ch._ how do you know? _au._ i believe physicians. i had rather do so than try the experiment. _ch._ perhaps that happens to a few. _au._ indeed i believe to a great many; besides, in as much as the mind acts by the material organs of the body, which are affected with good or bad humours, the instruments being vitiated, it can't exert its power as it would. _ch._ i know doctors do very much find fault with the eating of fish; but our ancestors thought otherwise, and it is our duty to obey them. _au._ it was a piece of religion formerly not to break the sabbath; but for all that, it was more eligible to save a man on the sabbath-day. _ch._ every one consults his own health. _au._ if we will obey st. _paul, let no body mind his own things, but every one the things of another_. _ch._ how come we by this new divine at our table? whence comes this new upstart master of ours? _au._ because i don't like fishes. _ch._ what, then won't you abstain from flesh? _au._ i do abstain, but grumblingly, and to my great detriment too. _ch. charity suffers all things._ _au._ it is true; but then the same requires but little. if it suffers all things, why won't it suffer us to eat those meats the gospel has given us a liberty to eat? why do those persons, from whom christ has so often required the love of himself, suffer so many bodies of men to be endanger'd by capital diseases, and their souls to be in danger of eternal damnation, because of a thing neither forbidden by _christ_, nor necessary in itself? _ch._ when necessity requires it, the force of a human constitution ceases, and the will of the lawgiver ceases. _au._ but the offence of the weak does not cease. the scruple of a tender conscience does not cease. and lastly, it is uncertain with what limits that necessity shall be bounded; shall it be when the fish-eater shall be a giving up the ghost? it is too late to give flesh to a man when he is dying; or shall it be when his body becomes all feverish? the choice of meats is not of so much consequence. _ch._ what would you have prescrib'd then? _au._ i can tell well enough, if i might be allow'd to be a dictator in ecclesiastical affairs. _ch._ what do you mean by that? _au._ if i were pope i would exhort all persons to a perpetual sobriety of life, but especially before an holy-day; and moreover, i would give every one leave to eat what he would, for the health of his body, so he did it moderately, and with thanksgiving; and i would endeavour that what was abated of these observations should be made up in the study of true piety. _ch._ that in my opinion is of so great weight, that we ought to make you pope. _au._ for all your laughing, this neck could bear a triple crown. _ch._ but in the mean time take care that these things be not enter'd down in the _sorbon_ at _paris_. _au._ nay, rather let what is said be written in wine, as it is fit those things should that are said over our cups; but we have had divinity enough for a feast we are at supper, not at the _sorbon_. _ch._ why mayn't that be call'd _sorbon_ where we sup plentifully? _au._ well, let us sup then, and not dispute, lest the _sorbon_ be called after us from _sorbis_, and not from _sorbendo_. _christian, guests, midas, erasmus, the boy, austin._ _ch._ well, come my kind guests, i pray you that you would take this little supper in good part, though it be but a slender one. be merry and good humour'd, though the supper be but mean and slender. i, relying upon your familiarity, made bold to invite you; and i will assure you, your company and presence is not only very grateful to me, but very pleasant. _gu._ we do assure you, good _christian_, that we esteem your supper to have been very pretty and noble; and we have nothing to find fault with, but that you make excuses for it, for that it was very magnificent; for indeed i look upon the entertainment to be splendid to the greatest degree, that in the first place consisted of courses agreeable to nature, and was season'd with mirth, laughter, jokes and witticisms, none of which have been wanting in our entertainment. but here is something comes into my mind, as to the number of the guests, which _varro_ writes, _should not be fewer than three, nor more than nine_. for the _graces_, who are the presidents of humanity and benevolence, are three; and the _muses_, that are the guides of commendable studies, are nine; and i see here we have ten guests besides the virgins. _au._ nothing could happen more agreeably; we are in that something wiser than _varro_, for we have gotten here three pretty maids for the three _graces_; and as it is not to be thought that _apollo_ is ever absent from the chorus of the _muses_, we have very much _à propos_ added the tenth guest. _ch._ you have spoken very much like a poet. if i had a laurel here i would crown you with it, and you should be poet laureat. _au._ if i were crown'd with mallows, i should be poet _maleat_; i do not arrogate that honour to myself. this is an honour that i don't deserve. ------_haud equidem tali me dignor honore._ _ch._ will you, every one of you, do as much for me as i will do for you? _gu._ ay, that we will with all our hearts. _ch._ then let every one drink off his cup round as i do. here's to you first, _midas_. _mi._ i thank you heartily. i pledge you heartily; for which the vulgar says _præstolor_. indeed i won't refuse. i won't refuse any thing for your sake. _ch._ now do you drink to the rest. _mi. erasmus_, half this cup to you. _er._ i pray it may do you good. may it do you good. much good may it do you. _proficiat_ is an out of the way word. _ch._ why does the cup stand still? why does it not go about? is our wine gone? where are your eyes, you rascal? run quickly, fetch two quarts of the same wine. _boy. erasmus_, your humble servant, there is one wants to speak with you at the door. _er._ who is it? _boy._ he says he is one mr. _more_'s, man, his master is come out of _britain_, and he desires you would make him a visit, because he sets out for _germany_ to-morrow by break of day. _er. christian_, gather the reckoning, for i must be going. _ch._ the reckoning, most learned _erasmus_, of this supper, i will discharge that. you have no need to put your hand in your pocket. i thank you that you honour'd me with your company; but i am sorry you are called away before the comedy is ended. _er._ have i any thing more to do but to bid you _farewell and be merry?_ _ch._ farewell, we can't take it amiss, because you don't leave a shoulder of mutton for a sheep's-head, but go from friends to a better friend. _er._ and i in like manner return you my thanks, that you have been so kind as to invite me to this most pleasant entertainment. my very good friends, fare ye well. drink heartily, and live merrily. _ch._ soho, _dromo_. you, all of you, have sitten still a good while. does any body please to have any thing else? _gu._ nothing at all. we have eat very plentifully. _ch._ then take away these things, and set on the desert. change the trenchers and the plates. take up my knife that is fallen down. pour some wine over the pears. here are some early ripe mulberries that grew in my own garden. _gu._ they will be the better for being of your own growth. _ch._ here are some wheaten plumbs: see, here are damascens, a rare sight with us: see, here are mellow apples; and here is a new sort of an apple, the stock of which i set with my own hands; and chestnuts, and all kinds of delicacies, which our gardens produce plentifully. _au._ but here are no flowers. _ch._ they are _french_ entertainments, who love that sort of splendor most that costs least; but that is not my humour. _au._ 'tis not only among _frenchmen_ that you will find those that love what is of little cost. _ch._ but hark you, _austin_, do you think to come off so? what, won't you pledge me when i drink to you? you ought to have taken off half the cup of him that drank to you. _au._ he excused me for that a great while ago. he discharg'd me of that obligation. _ch._ pray who gave him that power? the pope himself can hardly dispense with this obligation. you know the ancient law of drinking, _either drink or go your way_. _au._ he that an oath is made to has power to suspend it, and especially he, whose concern it was to have it kept. _ch._ but it is the duty of all guests to observe laws inviolably. _au._ well, come on, since this is the _german_ custom, i'll drink what is left. but what business have you with me? _ch._ you must pay for all. why do you look pale? don't be afraid, you may do it very easily, do as you have often done, that by some elegancy we may rise from table more learned; nor are you ignorant that the ancients over the second course used to dispute of some more diverting subjects. come on then, by what, and after how many ways may this sentence be vary'd, _indignum auditu?_ * * * * * _it is not worth hearing. the form._ _au._ you have very fitly made use of the latter supine. it is not worth hearing. it is unworthy to be heard. it is not worthy to be heard. it is so light it ought not to be heard. it is scarce worth while to relate. it is not of such value as to be heard. it is too silly to be heard. it is not worth while to tell it. _ch._ how many ways may this sentence be turn'd, _magno mihi constat?_ * * * * * _the ratio of varying this sentence._ _magno mihi constat._ _au._ by these words, _impendo, insumo, impertio, constat_, as: i have taken pains much in teaching you. i have taken much pains in that matter. i have not spent less money than i have care upon that matter. i have not spent a little money, but much time, and very much labour, and some study. i have spent much study. this thing has cost me many a night's sleep, much sweat, much endeavour, very much labour, a great expence, a great deal of money. it has cost me more than you believe. my wife stands me in less than my horse. _ch._ but what is the meaning, _austin_, that you put sometimes an ablative, and sometimes a genitive case to the verb _constat_? _au._ you have stated a very useful and very copious question. but that i may not be troublesome to the company by my too much talk, i will dispatch it in a few words. but i desire to hear every man's opinion, that i may not be troublesome to any man, as i have said. _ch._ but why may not the damsels desire the same? _au._ indeed they do nothing else but hear. i'll attempt it with _grammatica_'s assistance. "you know that verbs of buying and selling, and some others, are of a like signification, to which these genitives are put alone, without substantives, _tanti, quanti, pluris, minoris, tantidem, quantivis, quanticunque_: but in case substantives be not added, which, if they happen to be put, they are both turned into the ablative case; so that if a certain price be set down, you put it in the ablative case; if by an adjective put substantively, you put it in the ablative case, unless you had rather make use of an adverb." _ch._ what are those verbs that you speak of? _au._ "they are commonly _emo, mereor; redimo_, (that is a thing either taken or lost) _vendo, venundo; revendo_, (that is, i sell again that which was sold to me) _veneo_, (that is, i am sold) whose prater tense is _venivi_, or _venii_, the supine _venum_; hence comes _venalis_; and from that, _i.e._ _vendo_, comes _vendibilis; mereo_, for _inservio et stipendium_ _facio_, _i.e._ to serve under (as a soldier). _comparo_, that is, to buy, or commit. _computo_, i change, i exchange with. _cambire_ is wholly barbarous in this sense. _æstimo_, to tax. _indico_, for i estimate, rate. _liceor, liceris; licitor, licitaris_, to cheapen, to bid. _distrahor_, _i.e._ i am carried about to be sold. _metior_, for i estimate or rate. _constat_, for it is bought. _conducere_, to let to hire. _fænero_, i put to interest. _fæneror_, i take at interest (to usury.) _paciscor, pactus sum pango, pepigi_, _i.e._ i make a bargain." _ch._ give an example. * * * * * _of selling and buying._ _the forms._ _au._ how much do you lett that field for by the year. we will answer. for twenty _french_ pounds. whoo! you lett it too dear. nay, i have lett it for more before now. but i would not give so much for it. if you hire it for less i'll be hang'd. nay, your neighbour _chremes_ offer'd me a field, and asks for it--how much? just as much as you ask for yours. but it is much better. that's a lye. i do as they use to do who cheapen a thing. do you keep it yourself at that price. what, do you cheapen, ask the price, when you won't buy any thing. whatsoever you shall lett it me for shall be paid you very honestly. _of selling and buying._ _another example._ how much do you sell that conger eel for? _syra._ for five pence. that's too much, you nasty jade. nay, 'tis too little, no body will sell you for less. upon my life it cost me as much within a trifle. you witch, you tell a lie, that you may sell it for twice or three times as much as it cost you. ay, i'll sell it for a hundred times as much if i can, but i can't find such fools. what if i should ask the price of yourself? what do you value yourself at? according as i like the person. what do you prize yourself at? what price do you set upon yourself? tell me, what price do you rate yourself at? ten shillings. whoo, so much? o strange! do you value me at less? time was when i have had as much for one night. i believe you may, but i believe you an't now worth so much as a fish by a great deal. go hang yourself, you pimp. i value you as little as you do me. he that shall give a farthing for you buys you too dear. but i'll be sold for more, or i won't be sold at all. if you would be sold at a great rate you must get you a mask, for those wrinkles in your forehead won't let you be sold for much. he that won't give so much for me shan't have me. i would not give a straw for you. i cost more. _a third example._ i have been at an auction to-day. say you so? i bid money for a share in the customs. but how much? ten thousand pound. whoo! what, so much? there were those that bid a great deal more; very few that offer'd less. well, and who had the place at last? _chremes_, your wife's great friend. but guess what it was sold for. ten. nay, fifteen. o good god! i would not give half so much for him and all his family together. but he would give twice as much for your wife. "do you take notice, that in all these, wheresoever there is a substantive of the price, that is put in the ablative case; but that the rest are either put in the genitive case, or are changed into adverbs. you have never heard a comparative without a substantive, except in these two, _pluris_, and _minoris_. there are some other verbs, of which we have spoken, that are not very much unlike these, _sum, facio, habeo, duco, æstimo, pendo_, which signify (in a manner) the same thing; likewise _fio_, and they are for the most part join'd with these genitives, _multi, parvi, magni, pluris, plurimi, minoris, minimi, maximi, tanti, quanti, flocci, pili, nihili, nauci, hujus_, and any other like them." _ch._ give examples. _of valuing. the form._ _au._ do you know how much i have always valu'd you? you will always be made of such account by men as you make account of virtue. gold is valued at a great rate now a-days, learning is valued at a very little, or just nothing at all. i value gold less than you think for. i don't value your threats of a rush. i make a very little account of your promises. i don't value you of a hair. if wisdom were but valued at so great a rate as money, no body would want gold. with us, gold without wisdom is esteem'd to be of more worth than wisdom without gold. i esteem you at a greater rate, because you are learned. you will be the less esteem'd on here because you don't know how to lye. here are a great many that will persuade you that black is white. i set the greater value upon you because you love learning. so much as you have, so much you shall be esteem'd by all men; so much as you have, so much you shall be accounted of every where. it is no matter what you are accounted, but what you are. i value my _christian_ above any man else in the world. "there are some other verbs found with these genitives and ablatives, which in their own nature don't signify buying, or anything like it." _peter_ bought a kiss of the maid for a shilling. much good may it do him. i would not kiss at that rate. how much do you play for? what did you pay for supper? we read of some that have spent six hundred sesterces for a supper. but the _french_ often sup for a half-penny. what price does _faustus_ teach for? a very small matter. but for more than _delius_. for how much then? for nineteen guineas. i won't learn to lye at so dear a rate. _phædria_ in _terence_ lost both his substance and himself. but i would not love at that rate. some persons pay a great price for sleeping. _demosthenes_ had more for holding his tongue than others had for speaking. i pray you to take it in good part. "there is another sort of verbs, that require an accusative case, with a genitive or ablative, which are, _accuso_, _i.e._ i object a crime, or _culpo_, also one that's absent; _incuso_, _i.e._ i blame without judgment; _arguo_, i reprehend, _insimulo_, _i.e._ i throw in a suspicion of a fault. _postulo_, _i.e._ i require you to answer at law, _accerso_, i impeach, _damno_, i condemn, i pronounce him to be in fault. _admoneo_, i admonish." _ch._ for example sake? _forms of accusing._ _au. scipio_ is accused of courting the populace. thou who art the most impudent, accusest me of impudence. _lepidus_ is accused of bribery. you are accus'd of a capital crime. if you shall slily insinuate a man to be guilty of covetousness, you shall hear that which is worse again. put him in mind of his former fortune. men are put in mind of their condition, by that very word. put _lepidus_ in mind of his promise. "there are many that admit of a double accusative case. i teach thee letters. he entreats you to pardon him. i will unteach thee those manners." "here i must put you in mind of that matter, that in these the passives also obtain a second accusative case. the others will have a genitive." you are taught letters by me. they accuse me of theft. i am accused of theft. thou accusest me of sacrilege. i am accused of sacrilege. i know you are not satisfied yet. i know you are not satisfied in mind. for when will so great a glutton of elegancies be satisfy'd? but i must have regard to the company, who are not all equally diverted with these matters. after supper, as we walk, we will finish what is behind, unless you shall rather chuse to have it omitted. _ch._ let it be as you say. let us return thanks to divine bounty and afterwards we'll take a little walk. _mi._ you say very well, for nothing can be more pleasant, nor wholsome than this evening air. _ch. peter_, come hither, and take the things away in order, one after the other, and fill the glasses with wine. _pe._ do you bid me return thanks? _ch._ aye, do. _pe._ had you rather it should be done in _greek_, or in _latin_. _ch._ both ways. _pe. gratias agimus tibi, pater coelestis, qui tua ineffabili potentia condidisti omnia, tua inscrutabili sapientia gubernas universa, tua inexhausta bonitate cuncta pascis ac vegetas: largire filiis tuis, ut aliquando tecum bibant in regno tuo nectar illud immortalitatis, quod promisisti ac praeparasti vere diligentibus te, per iesum christum. amen._ we thank thee, heavenly father, who by thy unspeakable power, hast created all things, and by thy inexhaustible wisdom governest all things, and by thy inexhaustible goodness feedest and nourishest all things: grant to thy children, that they may in due time drink with thee in thy kingdom, that _nectar_ of immortality; which thou hast promis'd and prepar'd for those that truly love thee, through jesus christ, _amen_. _ch._ say in _greek_ too, that the rest mayn't understand what thou sayest. _pe._ [greek: heucharistoumen soi, pater ouranie, ho tê arrêtô sou dunamei ktisas ta panta, ho tê anexereunêtô sou sophia kubernôn hapaxapanta, ho tê anexantlêtô sou chrêstotêti hekasta trephomenos te kai auxanon. charizou tois yiois sou to meta sou pote piein to tês athanasias nektar, ho upechou kai êtoimasas tois alêthôs agapôsi se, dia iêsou christou, tou yiou sou, tou kyriou hêmôn, tou meta sou zôntos kai basileuontos en henotêti tou pneumatos hagiou, eis tous aiônas. amên.] _ch._ my most welcome guests, i give you thanks that you have honour'd my little entertainment with your company. i intreat you to accept it kindly. _gu._ and we would not only have, but return our thanks to you. don't let us be over ceremonious in thanking, but rather let us rise from table, and walk out a little. _au._ let us take these virgins along with us, so our walk will be more pleasant. _ch._ you propose very well. we'll not want flowers, if the place we walk in don't afford any. had you rather take a turn in our garden, in a poetical manner, or walk out abroad by the river-side. _au._ indeed, your gardens are very pleasant, but keep that pleasure for morning walks. when the sun is towards setting, rivers afford wonderful pleasant prospects. _ch. austin_, do you walk foremost as a poet should do, and i'll walk by your side. _au._ o good god, what a jolly company we have, what a retinue have i! _christian_, i can't utter the pleasure i take, i seem to be some nobleman. _ch._ now be as good as your word. perform the task you have taken upon you. _au._ what is it you'd have me speak of chiefly? _ch._ i us'd formerly to admire many things in _pollio_'s orations; but chiefly this, that he us'd so easily, so frequently and beautifully to turn a sentence, which seemed not only a great piece of wit, but of great use. _au._ you were much in the right on't, _christian_, to admire that in _pollio_. for he seems, in this matter, to have had a certain divine faculty, which i believe, was peculiar to him, by a certain dexterity of art, and by much use of speaking, reading and writing, rather than by any rules or instructions. _ch._ but i would fain have some rule for it, if there be any to be given. _au._ you say very well; and since i see you are very desirous of it, i'll endeavour it as much as i can: and i will give those rules, as well as i can, which i have taken notice of in _pollio_'s orations. _ch._ do, i should be very glad to hear 'em. _au._ i am ready to do it. * * * * * the argument. _a short rule concerning this copia, it teaches how to vary a sentence pleasantly, copiously, easily, frequently, and elegantly; by short rules given, and by a praxis upon these rules, in an elegant turning of one phrase._ in the first place, it is to be set forth in pure and choice _latin_ words; which to do is no mean piece of art: for there are a great many, who do, i don't know after what manner, affect the _copia_ and variation of phrase, when they don't know how to express it once right. it is not enough for them to have babbled once, but they must render the babble much more babbling, by first one, and then by another turning of it; as if they were resolv'd to try the experiment, how barbarously they were able to speak: and therefore, they heap together, certain simple synonymous words, that are so contrary one to the other, that they may admire themselves how they do agree together. for what is more absurd, than that a ragged old fellow, that has not a coat to his back, but what is so ragged that he may be ashamed to put it on, should every now and then change his rags, as though he design'd to shew his beggary by way of ostentation: and those affectators of variety seem equally ridiculous, who, when they have spoken barbarously once, repeat the same thing much more barbarously; and then over and over again much more unlearnedly. this is not to abound with sentences, but solæcisms: therefore, in the first place, as i have said, the thing is to be express'd in apt and chosen words. 2. and then we must use variety of words, if there are any to be found, that will express the same thing; and there are a great many. 3. and where proper words are wanting, then we must use borrow'd words, so the way of borrowing them be modest. 4. where there is a scarcity of words, you must have recourse to passives, to express what you have said by actives; which will afford as many ways of variation, as there were in the actives. 5. and after that, if you please, you may turn them again by verbal nouns and participles. 6. and last of all, when we have chang'd adverbs into nouns, and nouns sometimes into one part of speech, and sometimes into another; then we may speak by contraries. 7. we may either change affirmative sentences into negative, or the contrary. 8. or, at least, what we have spoken indicatively, we may speak interrogatively. now for example sake, let us take this sentence. _literæ tuæ magnopere me delectârunt. your letters have delighted me very much._ _litertæ._ epistle, little epistles, writings, sheets, letters. _magnopere._ after a wonderful manner, wonderfully, in a greater, or great manner, in a wonderful manner, above measure, very much, not indifferently (not a little) mightily, highly, very greatly. _me._ my mind, my breast, my eyes, my heart, _christian_. _delectârunt._ they have affected, recreated, exhilarated with pleasure, have been a pleasure, have delighted, have bath'd me with pleasure; have been very sweet, very pleasant, &c. now you have matter, it is your business to put it together: let us try. _ch._ thy letters have very greatly delighted me. thy epistle has wonderfully chear'd me. _au._ turn the active into a passive, then it will look with another face. as, it can't be said how much i have been chear'd by thy writings. _also by other verbs effecting the same thing._ i have received an incredible pleasure from thy writings. i have receiv'd very much pleasure from your highness's letter. your writings have brought me not an indifferent joy. your writings have overwhelmed me all over with joy. "but here you can't turn these into passives, only in the last, _perfusus gaudio_, as is commonly said, pleasure was taken by me, joy was brought, is not so commonly used, or you must not use so frequently." _by affido._ thy letter hath affected me with a singular pleasure. _change it into a passive._ i am affected with an incredible pleasure by thy letter. thy little epistle has brought not a little joy. _by_ sum _and nouns adjectives._ thy letters have been most pleasant to me many ways. that epistle of thine was, indeed, as acceptable, as any thing in the world. _by nouns substantives._ thy letter was to us an unspeakable pleasure. your letter was an incredible pleasure to us. _change it into a negative._ thy letter was no small joy. nothing in life could happen more delightful than thy letters. "although i have sometimes already made use of this way, which is not to be pass'd over negligently. for when we would use _multum, plurimum_, to signify, _singulariter_, we do it by a contrary verb." as, _henry_ loves you mightily: he loves you with no common love. wine pleases me very much: it pleases me not a little. he is a man of a singular wit: a man of no ordinary wit. he is a man of admirable learning: he is a man not of contemptible learning. _thomas_ was born in the highest place of his family: not in the lowest place. _austin_ was a most eloquent man: he was not ineloquent. _carneades_ the orator was noble: not an ignoble, not an obscure man. "and the like, which are very frequently used." but the mention of a thing so plain is enough: nor are you ignorant, that we make use of a two-fold manner of speech, of this kind: for modesty sake, especially, if we speak of our selves; also for amplification sake. for we use rightly and elegantly, not ungrateful, for very grateful; not vulgarly for singularly. _for modesty sake._ i have by my letters gain'd some reputation of learning. i have always made it my business not to have the last place in the glory of learning. the examples of amplification are mention'd before: now let us return to our own. nothing ever fell out to me more gratefully, acceptably, than thy letter. nothing ever was a greater pleasure than your letter. i never took so much pleasure in any thing, as in thy most loving letters. "after this manner all the before-mention'd sentences may be vary'd by an interrogation." what in life could be more pleasant than thy letters? what has happened to me more sweet, than thy letter? what has ever delighted me like your last letter? and after this manner you may vary almost any sentence. _ch._ what shall we do now? _au._ we will now turn the whole sentence a little more at large, that we may express one sentence, by a circumlocution of many words. _ch._ give examples. _au._ "that which was sometimes express'd by the noun _incredibile_, and then again, by the adverb _incredibiliter_, we will change the sentence in some words." i can't express how much i was delighted with your letters. it is very hard for me to write, and you to believe how much pleasure your letter was to me. i am wholly unable to express how i rejoic'd at your letter. "and so _in infinitum_: again, after another manner. for hitherto we have varied the sentences by negations and interrogations, and in the last place by infinitives. now we will vary by substantives or conditionals, after this manner." let me die if any thing ever was more desired and more pleasant than thy letters. let me perish if any thing ever was more desired, and more pleasant than thy letter. as god shall judge me, nothing in my whole life ever happen'd more pleasant than thy letters. "and also a great many more you may contrive after this manner." _ch._ what is to be done now? _au._ now we must proceed to translations, similitudes and examples. _there is a translation in these._ i have received your letters, which were sweet as honey. your writings seem to be nothing but meer delight. your letters are a meer pleasure; and a great many of the like kinds. "but care is to be taken not to make use of harder translations; such as this that follows, _jupiter hybernas canâ nive conspuit alpes._ such as this is." the suppers of thy writings have refreshed me with most delicious banquets. _a comparison by simile._ thy writings have been sweeter than either _ambrosia_ or _nectar_. thy letters have been sweeter to me than any honey. your kind letter has excell'd even liquorish, locusts, and _attic_ honey, and sugar; nay, even the _nectar_ and _ambrosia_ of the gods. "and here, whatsoever is ennobled with sweetness, may be brought into the comparison." _from examples._ i will never be induc'd to believe, that _hero_ receiv'd the letters of her _leander_, either with greater pleasure, or more kisses, than i received yours. i can scarce believe that _scipio_, for the overthrow of _carthage_, or _paulus æmylius_, for the taking of _perseus_, ever triumphed more magnificently than i did, when the post-man gave me your most charming letter. "there are a thousand things of this nature, that may be found in poets and historians. likewise similitudes are borrow'd from natural philosophy; the nature of a great many of which, it is necessary to keep in memory. now if you please, we will try in another sentence." _i will never forget you while i live._ i will always remember you, as long as i live. forgetfulness of you, shall never seize me as long as i live. i will leave off to live, before i will to remember you. _by comparisons._ if the body can get rid of its shadow, then this mind of mine may forget you. the river _lethe_ itself shall never be able to wash away your memory. "besides, by an impossibility, or after the manner of poets by contraries. _dum juga montis aper, fluvios dum piscis amabit. ante leves ergo pastentur in athere cervi._ which is no hard matter to invent." but lest i should seem tedious, at the present let these suffice: at another time, if you please, we will talk more copiously of this matter. _ch._ i thought, _austin_, you had been quite exhausted by this time. but thou hast shewn me a new treasure beyond what i expected, which if you shall pursue, i perceive you'll sooner want time than words. _au._ if i can perform this with my little learning, and indifferent genius, what do you think _cicero_ himself could do, who is storied to have vy'd with _roscius_ the player? but the sun is going to leave us; and the dew rises; it is best to imitate the birds, to go home, and hide ourselves in bed. therefore, sweet _christian_, farewell till to morrow. _ch._ fare you well likewise, most learned _austin._ _the religious treat._ the argument. _this religious treat teaches what ought to be the table-talk of christians. the nature of things is not dumb, but very loquacious, affording matter of contemplation. the description of a neat garden, where there is a variety of discourse concerning herbs. of marjoram, celandine, wolfs-bane, hellebore. of beasts, scorpions, the chamæleon, the basilisk; of sows_, indian _ants, dolphins, and of the gardens of_ alcinous. _tables were esteemed sacred by the very heathens themselves. of washing hands before meat. a grace before meat out of_ chrysostom. _age is to be honoured, and for what reason. the reading of the scriptures very useful at meals. that lay persons may discourse concerning the scriptures. the 21st of_ prov. _and 1st_ ver. _illustrated. how god hates sacrifices, in comparison of mercy_, hos. 6. _no body is hurt but by himself. that persons in wine speak true. that it was unlawful for the_ ægyptian _priests to drink wine. the_ i cor. 6. _opened. all things are lawful for me. the spirit of christ was in the heathens and poets._ scotus _is slighted in comparison of_ cicero _and_ plutarch. _a place is cited out of_ cicero _and_ cato major, _and commended;_ dare omni petenti, give to every one that asketh, _how it is to be understood. we ought to give to christ's poor, and not to monasteries. the custom of burying in churches blam'd. that we ought to give by choice, how much, to whom, and to what end. we ought to deny ourselves of something that we may give it to the poor_. no body can serve two masters, _is explained. a grace after meat out of st._ chrysostom. eusebius, timothy, theophilus, chrysoglottus, uranius, sophronius, eulalius, theodidactus, nephalius. _eu._ i admire that any body can delight to live in smoaky cities, when every thing is so fresh and pleasant in the country. _ti._ all are not pleased with the sight of flowers, springing meadows, fountains, or rivers: or, if they do take a pleasure in 'em, there is something else, in which they take more. for 'tis with pleasure, as it is with wedges, one drives out another. _eu._ you speak perhaps of usurers, or covetous traders; which, indeed, are all one. _ti._ i do speak of them; but not of them only, i assure you; but of a thousand other sorts of people, even to the very priests and monks, who for the sake of gain, make choice of the most populous cities for their habitation, not following the opinion of _plato_ or _pythagoras_ in this practice; but rather that of a certain blind beggar, who loved to be where he was crowded; because, as he said, the more people, the more profit. _eu._ prithee let's leave the blind beggar and his gain: we are philosophers. _ti._ so was _socrates_ a philosopher, and yet he preferr'd a town life before a country one; because, he being desirous of knowledge, had there the opportunity of improving it. in the country, 'tis true, there are woods, gardens, fountains and brooks, that entertain the sight, but they are all mute, and therefore teach a man nothing. _eu._ i know _socrates_ puts the case of a man's walking alone in the fields; although, in my opinion, there nature is not dumb, but talkative enough, and speaks to the instruction of a man that has but a good will, and a capacity to learn. what does the beautiful face of the spring do, but proclaim the equal wisdom and goodness of the creator? and how many excellent things did _socrates_ in his retirement, both teach his _phædrus_, and learn from him? _ti._ if a man could have such pleasant company, i confess, no life in the world could be pleasanter than a country life. _eu._ have you a mind to make tryal of it? if you have, come take a dinner with me to morrow: i have a pretty neat little country house, a little way out of town. _ti._ we are too many of us; we shall eat you out of house and home. _eu._ never fear that, you're to expect only a garden treat, of such chear as i need not go to market for. the wine is of my own growth; the pompions, the melons, the figs, the pears, the apples and nuts, are offered to you by the trees themselves; you need but gape, and they'll fall into your mouth, as it is in the _fortunate islands_, if we may give credit to _lucian_. or, it may be, we may get a pullet out of the hen-roost, or so. _ti._ upon these terms we'll be your guests. _eu._ and let every man bring his friend along with him, and then, as you now are four, we shall be the just number of the muses. _ti._ a match. _eu._ and take notice, that i shall only find meat, you are to bring your own sauce. _ti._ what sauce do you mean, pepper, or sugar? _eu._ no, no, something that's cheaper, but more savoury. _ti._ what's that? _eu._ a good stomach. a light supper to night, and a little walk to morrow morning, and that you may thank my country house for. but at what hour do you please to dine at? _ti._ at ten a clock. before it grows too hot. _eu._ i'll give order accordingly. _boy._ sir, the gentlemen are come. _eu._ you are welcome, gentlemen, that you are come according to your words; but you're twice as welcome for coming so early, and bringing the best of company along with you. there are some persons who are guilty of an unmannerly civility, in making their host wait for them. _ti._ we came the earlier, that we might have time enough to view all the curiosities of your palace; for we have heard that it is so admirably contrived every where, as that it speaks who's the master of it. _eu._ and you will see a palace worthy of such a prince. this little nest is to me more than a court, and if he may be said to reign that lives at liberty according to his mind, i reign here. but i think it will be best, while the wench in the kitchen provides us a salad, and it is the cool of the morning, to take a walk to see the gardens. _ti._ have you any other beside this? for truly this is a wonderful neat one, and with a pleasing aspect salutes a man at his entring in, and bids him welcome. _eu._ let every man gather a nosegay, that may put by any worse scent he may meet with within doors. every one likes not the same scent, therefore let every one take what he likes. don't be sparing, for this place lies in a manner common; i never shut it up but a-nights. _ti._ st. peter keeps the gates, i perceive. _eu._ i like this porter better than the _mercuries_, centaurs, and other fictitious monsters, that some paint upon their doors. _ti._ and 'tis more suitable to a christian too. _eu._ nor is my porter dumb, for he speaks to you in three languages. _ti._ what does he say? _eu._ read it yourself. _ti._ it is too far off for my eyes. _eu._ here's a reading glass, that will make you another _lynceus._ _ti._ i see the latin. _si vis ad vitam ingredi, serva mandata_, mat. 19, 17. if thou wilt, enter into life, keep the commandments. _eu._ now read the _greek_. _ti._ i see the _greek_, but i don't well know what to make on't; i'll refer that to _theophilus_, who's never without _greek_ in his mouth. _th._ [greek: metanoêsate kai epistrepsate. praxeôn tô tritô.] _repent and be converted._ acts 3. 19. _ch._ i'll take the _hebrew_ upon myself, [hebrew: vetsadik be'emunato yihyeh] _and the just shall live by faithfulness._ _eu._ does he seem to be an unmannerly porter, who at first dash, bids us turn from our iniquities, and apply our selves to godliness, and then tells us, that salvation comes not from the works of the law; but from the faith of the gospel; and last of all, that the way to eternal life, is by the observance of evangelical precepts. _ti._ and see the chapel there on the right hand that he directs us to, it is a very fine one. upon the altar there's _jesus christ_ looking up to heaven, and pointing with his right hand towards god the father, and the holy spirit; and with his left, he seems to court and invite all comers. _eu._ nor is he mute: you see the _latin; ego sum via, veritas, et vita; i am the way, the truth, and the life._ [greek: egô eimi to alpha kai to ômega.] in _hebrew_, [hebrew: lechu banim shim'uh li, yr'at adonai alamdeichem] _come, ye children, hearken unto me; i will teach you the fear of the lord._ _ti._ truly the lord _jesus_ salutes us with a good omen. _eu._ but that we may not seem uncivil, it is meet that we pay back an acknowledgment, and pray that since we can do nothing of ourselves, he would vouchsafe of his infinite goodness to keep us from ever straying out of the path of life; but that we casting away _jewish_ ceremonies, and the delusions of the world, he would guide us by the truth of the gospel to everlasting life, drawing us of himself to himself. _ti._ it is most reasonable that we should pray, and the place invites us to it. _eu._ the pleasantness of the garden draws a great many persons to it; and 'tis a rare thing that any passes by jesus without an ejaculation. i have made him keeper, not only of my garden, but of all my possessions, and of both body and mind, instead of filthy _priapus_. here is you see a little fountain pleasantly bubbling with wholsome waters, this in some measure represents that only fountain of life, that by its divine streams, refreshes all that are weary and heavy laden; which the soul, tired with the evils of this world, pants after, just as the hart in the psalmist does after the water brooks, having tasted of the flesh of serpents. from this fountain, whoever thirsts, may drink _gratis_. some make it a matter of religion to sprinkle themselves with it; and others for the sake of religion, and not of thirst, drink of it. you are loath, i perceive, to leave this place: but it is time to go to see this little square garden that is wall'd in, 'tis a neater one than the other. what is to be seen within doors, you shall see after dinner, when the heat of the sun keeps us at home for some hours like snails. _ti._ bless me! what a delightful prospect is here. _eu._ all this place was designed for a pleasure garden, but for honest pleasure; for the entertainment of the sight, the recreating the nostrils, and refreshing the mind; nothing grows here but sweet herbs, nor every sort of them, but only choice ones, and every kind has its bed by itself. _ti._ i am now convinced that plants are not mute with you. _eu._ you are in the right; others have magnificent houses, but mine is made for conversation, so that i can never be alone in it, and so you'll say, when you have seen it all. as the several plants are as it were form'd into several troops, so every troop has its standard to itself, with a peculiar motto, as this marjoram's is, _abstine, sus, non tibi spiro: keep off, sow, i don't breathe my perfume for thee_; for though it be of a very fragrant scent, yet sows have a natural aversion to it: and so every sort has its title, denoting the peculiar virtue of the plant. _ti._ i have seen nothing yet more delightful than this little fountain, which being in the midst of them, does as it were smile upon all the plants, and promises them refreshment against the scorching heat of the sun. but this little channel which shews the water to the eye so advantageously, and divides the garden every where at such equal distances, that it shews all the flowers over on both sides again, as in a looking-glass, is it made of marble? _eu._ marble, quoth thee, how should marble come hither? it is a counterfeit marble, made of a sort of loam, and a whitish colour given it in the glasing. _ti._ but where does this delicious rivulet discharge itself at last? _eu._ just as it is with human obligations, when we have served our own turns: after this has pleasured our eyes, it washes our kitchen, and passes through the sink into the common shore. _ti._ that's very hard-hearted, as i am a christian. _eu._ it had been hard-hearted, if the divine bounty of providence had not appointed it for this use. we are then hard-hearted, when we pollute the fountain of divine truth, that is much more pleasant than this, and was given us for the refreshing and purging our minds from our lusts and vicious appetites, abusing the unspeakable bounty of god: for we make no bad use of the water, if we put it to the several uses for which he appointed it, who supplies every thing abundantly for human use. _ti._ you say right: but how comes it about, that all your artificial hedges are green too? _eu._ because i would have every thing green here. some are for a mixture of red, because that sets off green: but i like this best, as every man has his fancy, though it be but in a garden. _ti._ the garden is very fine of itself; but methinks these three walks take off very much from the lightsomeness and pleasantness of it. _eu._ here i either study or walk alone, or talk with a friend, or eat, as the humour takes me. _ti._ those speckled, wonderful, pretty party-coloured pillars, that at equal distances support that edifice, are they marble? _eu._ of the same marble that this channel is made of. _ti._ in truth, a pretty cheat, i should have sworn they had been marble. _eu._ for this reason then, take care that you neither believe, nor swear any thing rashly: you see how a man may be mistaken. what i want in wealth, i supply by invention. _ti._ could you not be content with so neat, and well furnished a garden in substance, without other gardens in picture besides? _eu._ in the first place, one garden will not hold all sorts of plants; and in the second, 'tis a double pleasure, to see a painted flower vie with the life; and in one we contemplate the artifice of nature, in the other the skill of the painter; and in both, the goodness of god, who gives all things for our use, in every thing equally admirable and amiable: and in the last place, a garden is not always green; nor the flowers always fresh; but this garden is fresh and green all the winter. _ti._ but it is not fragrant. _eu._ but then on the other hand it wants no dressing. _ti._ it only delights the eye. _eu._ but then it does that always. _ti._ pictures themselves grow old. _eu._ they do so; but yet they out-live us; and besides, whereas we are the worse for age, they are the better for it. _ti._ that's too true, if it could be otherwise. _eu._ in this walk that looks toward the west, i take the benefit of the morning sun; in that which looks toward the east, i take the cool of the evening; in that which looks toward the south, but lies open to the north, i take sanctuary against the heats of the meridian sun; but we'll walk 'em over, if you please, and take a nearer view of them: see how green 'tis under foot, and you have the beauty of painted flowers in the very chequers of the pavement. this wood, that you see painted upon this wall, affords me a great variety of prospect: for in the first place, as many trees as you see, so many sorts of trees you see; and all express'd to the life. as many birds as you see, so many kinds you see; especially if there be any scarce ones, and remarkable upon any account. for as for geese, hens, and ducks, it is not worth while to draw them. underneath are four-footed creatures, or such birds as live upon the ground, after the manner of quadrupedes. _ti._ the variety indeed is wonderful, and every thing is in action, either doing or saying something. there's an owl sits peeping through the leaves, what says she? _eu._ she speaks _greek_; she says, [greek: sôphronei, ou pasin hiptêmi], she commands us to act advisedly; _i do not fly to all_; because an inconsiderate rashness does not fall out happily to all persons. there is an eagle quarrying upon a hare, and a beetle interceding to no purpose; there is a wren stands by the beetle, and she is a mortal enemy to the eagle. _ti._ what has this swallow got in her mouth? _eu._ the herb celandine; don't you know the plant? with it, she restores sight to her blind young ones. _ti._ what odd sort of lizard is this? _eu._ it is not a lizard, but a chamæleon. _ti._ is this the chamæleon, there is so much talk of? i thought it had been a beast twice as big as a lion, and the name is twice as long too. _en._ this chamæleon is always gaping, and always hungry. this is a wild fig-tree, and that is his aversion. he is otherwise harmless; and yet the little gaping creature has poison in him too, that you mayn't contemn him. _ti._ but i don't see him change his colour. _eu._ true; because he does not change his place; when he changes his place, you will see him change his colour too. _ti._ what's the meaning of that piper? _eu._ don't you see a camel there dancing hard by? _ti._ i see a very pleasant fancy; the ape pipes, and the camel dances. _eu._ but it would require at least three days to run through the particulars one by one; it will be enough at present to take a cursory view of them. you have in the first spot, all sorts of famous plants painted to the life: and to increase the wonder, here are the strongest poisons in the world, which you may not only look upon, but handle too without danger. _ti._ look ye, here is a scorpion, an animal very seldom seen in this country; but very frequent in _italy_, and very mischievous too: but the colour in the picture seems not to be natural. _eu._ why so? _ti._ it seems too pale methinks; for those in _italy_ are blacker. _eu._ don't you know the herb it has fallen upon? _ti._ not very well. _eu._ that's no wonder, for it does not grow in these parts: it is wolf's-bane, so deadly a poison, that upon the very touch of it, a scorpion is stupified, grows pale, and yields himself overcome; but when he is hurt with one poison, he seeks his remedy with another. do you see the two sorts of hellebore hard by; if the scorpion can but get himself clear of the wolf's-bane, and get to the white hellebore, he recovers his former vigour, by the very touch of a different poison. _ti._ then the scorpion is undone, for he is never like to get off from the wolfs'-bane. but do scorpions speak here? _eu._ yes, they do, and speak _greek_ too. _ti._ what does he say? _eu._ [greek: eure theos ton alitron], _god hath found out the guilty._ here besides the grass, you see all sorts of serpents. here is the basilisk, that is not only formidable for his poison; but the very flash of his eyes is also mortal. _ti._ and he says something too. _eu._ yes, he says, _oderint, dum metuant; let them hate me, so they fear me._ _ti._ spoken like a king entirely. _eu._ like a tyrant rather, not at all like a king. here a lizard fights with a viper, and here lies the _dipsas_ serpent upon the catch, hid under the shell of an _estridge_ egg. here you see the whole policy of the ant, which we are call'd upon to imitate by _solomon_ and _horace_. here are _indian_ ants that carry gold, and hoard it up. _ti._ o good god! how is it possible for a man to be weary of this entertainment. _eu._ and yet at some other time you shall see i'll give you your belly full of it. now look before you at a distance, there is a third wall, where you have lakes, rivers, and seas, and all sorts of rare fishes. this is the river _nile_, in which you see the _dolphin_, that natural friend to mankind, fighting with a _crocodile_, man's deadly enemy. upon the banks and shores you see several amphibious creatures, as crabs, seals, beavers. here is a polypus, a catcher catch'd by an oyster. _ti._ what does he say? [greek: airôn airoumai]; _the taker taken._ the painter has made the water wonderfully transparent. _eu._ if he had not done so, we should have wanted other eyes. just by there's another polypus playing upon the face of the sea like a little cock-boat; and there you see a torpedo lying along upon the sands, both of a colour, you may touch them here with your hand without any danger. but we must go to something else, for these things feed the eye, but not the belly. _ti._ have you any more to be seen then? _eu._ you shall see what the back-side affords us by and by. here's an indifferent large garden parted: the one a kitchen garden, that is my wife's and the family's; the other is a physick garden, containing the choicest physical herbs. at the left hand there is an open meadow, that is only a green plot enclos'd with a quick-set hedge. there sometimes i take the air, and divert myself with good company. upon the right hand there's an orchard, where, when you have leisure, you shall see a great variety of foreign trees, that i have brought by degrees to endure this climate. _ti._ o wonderful! the king himself has not such a seat. _eu._ at the end of the upper walk there's an aviary, which i'll shew you after dinner, and there you'll see various forms, and hear various tongues, and their humours are as various. among some of them there is an agreeableness and mutual love, and among others an irreconcilable aversion: and then they are so tame and familiar, that when i'm at supper, they'll come flying in at the window to me, even to the table, and take the meat out of my hands. if at any time i am upon the draw-bridge you see there, talking, perhaps with a friend, they'll some of them sit hearkening, others of them will perch upon my shoulders or arms, without any sort of fear, for they find that no body hurts them. at the further end of the orchard i have my bees, which is a sight worth seeing. but i must not show you any more now, that i may have something to entertain you with by and by. i'll shew you the rest after dinner. _boy._ sir, my mistress and maid say that the dinner will be spoil'd. _eu._ bid her have a little patience, and we'll come presently. my friends, let us wash, that we may come to the table with clean hands as well as hearts. the very _pagans_ us'd a kind of reverence in this case; how much more then should _christians_ do it; if it were but in imitation of that sacred solemnity of our saviour with his disciples at his last supper: and thence comes the custom of washing of hands, that if any thing of hatred, ill-will, or any pollution should remain in the mind of any one, he might purge it out, before he sits down at the table. for it is my opinion, that the food is the wholesomer for the body, if taken with a purified mind. _ti._ we believe that it is a certain truth. _eu. christ_ himself gave us this example, that we should sit down to the table with a hymn; and i take it from this, that we frequently read in the evangelists, that he bless'd or gave thanks to his father before he broke bread, and that he concluded with giving of thanks: and if you please, i'll say you a grace that st. _chrysostom_ commends to the skies in one of his homilies, which he himself interpreted. _ti._ we desire you would. _eu._ blessed be thou, o god, who has fed me from my youth up, and providest food for all flesh: fill thou our hearts with joy and gladness, that partaking plentifully of thy bounty, we may abound to every good work, through _christ jesus_ our lord, with whom, to thee and the holy ghost, be glory, honour, and power, world without end. _amen._ _eu._ now sit down, and let every man take his friend next him: the first place is yours, _timothy_, in right of your grey hairs. _ti._ the only thing in the world that gives a title to it. _eu._ we can only judge of what we see, and must leave the rest to god. _sophronius_, keep you close to your principal. _theophilus_ and _eulalius_, do you take the right side of the table; _chrysoglottus_ and _theodidactus_ they shall have the left. _uranius_ and _nephalius_ must make a shift with what is left. i'll keep this corner. _ti._ this must not be, the master of the house ought to take the first place. _eu._ the house is as much yours as mine, gentlemen; however, if i may rule within my own jurisdiction, i'll sit where i please, and i have made my choice already. now may christ, the enlivener of all, and without whom nothing can be pleasant, vouchsafe to be with us, and exhilarate our minds by his presence. _ti._ i hope he will be pleased so to do; but where shall he sit, for the places are all taken up? _eu._ i would have him in every morsel and drop that we eat and drink; but especially, in our minds. and the better to fit us for the reception of so divine a guest, if you will, you shall have some portion of scripture read in the interim; but so that you shall not let that hinder you from eating your dinner heartily. _ti._ we will eat heartily, and attend diligently. _eu._ this entertainment pleases me so much the better, because it diverts vain and frivolous discourse, and affords matter of profitable conversation: i am not of their mind, who think no entertainment diverting, that does not abound with foolish wanton stories, and bawdy songs. there is pure joy springs from a clear and pure conscience; and those are the happy conversations, where such things are mentioned, that we can reflect upon afterwards with satisfaction and delight; and not such as we shall afterwards be ashamed of, and have occasion to repent of. _ti._ it were well if we were all as careful to consider those things as we are sure they are true. _eu._ and besides, these things have not only a certain and valuable profit in them, but one month's use of them, would make them become pleasant too. _ti._ and therefore it is the best course we can take to accustom ourselves to that which is best. _eu._ read us something, boy, and speak out distinctly. _boy._ prov. xxi. _the king's heart is in the hand of the lord; as the rivers of waters, he turneth it whither soever he will. every man is right in his own eyes, but the lord pondereth the hearts. to do justice and judgment, is more acceptable to the lord than sacrifice_, ver. 1, 2, 3. _eu._ hold there, that's enough; for it is better to take down a little with an appetite, than to devour more than a man can digest. _ti._ 'tis better, i must confess, in more cases than this: _pliny_ would have one never have _tully's_ offices out of ones hand; and in my opinion, it were well if all persons, but especially statesmen, had him every word by heart: and as for this little book of proverbs, i have always look'd upon it the best manual we can carry about with us. _eu._ i knew our dinner would be unsavoury, and therefore i procured this sauce. _ti._ here is nothing but what is very good; but if you had given us this lecture to a dish of beets only, without either pepper, wine or vinegar, it would have been a delicious treat. _eu._ i could commend it with a better grace, if i did but perfectly understand what i have heard. and i would we had some able divine among us, that did not only understand it, but would thoroughly expound it. but i don't know how far it may be lawful for us laymen to descant upon these matters. _ti._ indeed, i see no hurt in't, even for a _tarpawlin_ to do it, abating the rashness of passing sentence in the case. and who knows but that _christ_ himself (who has promis'd to be present, where two or three are gathered together in his name) may vouchsafe his assistance to us, that are a much larger congregation. _eu._ what if we should take these three verses, and divide 'em among us nine guests? _guests._ we like it well, provided the master of the feast lead the way. _eu._ i would not refuse it; but that i am afraid i shall entertain you worse in my exposition, than i do in my dinner: but however, ceremony apart, that i may not seem to want much persuasion, omitting other meanings that interpreters put upon the place: this seems to me to be the moral sense; "that private men may be wrought upon by admonition, reproofs, laws and menaces; but kings who are above fear, the more they are opposed, the fiercer their displeasure; and therefore kings, as often as they are resolutely bent upon any, should be left to themselves: not in respect of any confidence of the goodness of their inclinations; but because god many times makes use of their follies and wickedness, as the instruments for the punishment of the wicked." as he forbad that _nebuchodonosor_ should be resisted, because he had determin'd to chastise his people by him, as an instrument. and peradventure, that which _job_ says, looks this way: _who maketh the hypocrite reign for the sins of his people._ and perhaps, that which _david_ says, bewailing his sin, has the same tendency: _against thee only have i sinned, and done this evil in thy sight:_ not as if the iniquity of kings were not fatal to the people; but because there is none that has authority to condemn them, but god, from whose judgment there is indeed no appeal, be the person never so great. _ti._ i like the interpretation well enough thus far; but what is meant by _the rivers of waters?_ _eu._ there is a similitude made use of that explains it. the wrath of a king is impetuous and unruly, and not to be led this way or that way, but presses forward with a restless fury: as the sea spreads itself over the land, and flows sometimes this way, and sometimes that way, not sparing pastures nor palaces, and sometimes buries in its own bowels all that stands in its way; and if you should attempt to stop its course, or to turn it another way, you may e'en as well let it alone: whereas, let it but alone, and it will sink of itself, as it happens in many great rivers, as is storied of _achelous._ there is less injury done by quietly yielding, than by violently resisting. _ti._ is there no remedy then against the unruliness of wicked kings? _eu._ the first will be, not to receive a lion into the city: the second, is to tie him up by parliamentary and municipal laws, that he can't easily break out into tyranny: but the best of all would be, to train him up from his childhood, in the principles of piety and virtue, and to form his will, before he understands his power. good counsels and persuasions go a great way, provided they be seasonable and gentle. but the last resort must be to beg of god, to incline the king's heart to those things that are becoming a christian king. _ti._ do you excuse yourself, because you are a layman? if i were a batchelor in divinity, i should value myself upon this interpretation. _eu._ i can't tell whether it is right or wrong, it is enough for me if it were not impious or heretical. however, i have done what you required of me; and now, according to the rules of conversation, 'tis my turn to hear your opinion. _ti._ the compliment you pass'd upon my grey hairs, gives me some kind of title to speak next to the text, which will bear yet a more mysterious meaning. _eu._ i believe it may, and i should be glad to hear it. _ti._ "by the word king, may be meant, a man so perfected, as to have wholly subdued his lusts, and to be led by the impulse of the divine spirit only. now perhaps it may not be proper to tie up such a person to the conditions of human laws; but to leave him to his master, by whom he is govern'd: nor is he to be judg'd according to the measures by which the frailty of imperfect men advances towards true holiness; but if he steers another course, we ought to say with st. _paul, god hath accepted him, and to his own master he stands or falls. he that is spiritual, judgeth of all things, but he himself is judged of no man_." to such, therefore, let no man prescribe; for the lord, who hath appointed bounds to the seas and rivers, hath the heart of the king in his hand, and inclines it which way soever it pleases him: what need is there to prescribe to him, that does of his own accord better things than human laws oblige him to? or, how great a rashness were it, to bind that person by human constitutions, who, it is manifest, by evident tokens, is directed by the inspirations of the holy spirit. _eu._ o _timothy_, thou hast not only got grey hairs on this head, but you have likewise a mind venerable for experimental knowledge. and i would to god, that we had more such kings as this king of yours among christians, who, indeed, all of them ought to be such. but we have dwelt long enough upon our eggs and herbs; let them be taken away, and something else set in their room. _ti._ we have done so well already on this ovation, that there is no need of any more, either of supplication or triumph. _eu._ but since, by god's assistance, we have succeeded so well in the first verse, i wish your _umbra_ would explain the other, which seems to me a little more obscure. _soph._ if you'll put a good construction upon what i shall say, i will give you my thoughts upon it. how else can a shadow pretend to give light to any thing? _eu._ i undertake that for all the company; such shadows as you give as much light as our eyes will well bear. _soph._ the same thing seems to be meant here, that _paul_ says: _that there are several ways of life, that lead to holiness_. some affect the ministry, some celibacy, others a married state; some a retired life, others publick administrations of the government, according to the various dispositions of their bodies and minds: again, to one man all meats are indifferent, another puts a difference betwixt this meat and that; another he makes a difference of days, another thinks every day alike. in these things st. _paul_ would have every one enjoy his own freedom of mind, without reproaching another; nor should we censure any man in those cases, but leave him to be judg'd by him that weigheth the heart. it oftentimes happens, that he that eats may be more acceptable to god, than he that forbears; and he that breaks a holy-day, than he that seems to observe it; and he that marries, is more acceptable to god, than a great many that live single. i who am but a shadow, have spoken my mind. _eu._ i wish i could have conversation with such shadows often. i think you have hit the nail on the head: but here is one that has lived a batchelor, and not of the number of saints, who have made themselves eunuchs for the sake of the kingdom of god but was made so by force, to gratify our bellies, _till god shall destroy both them and meats_. it is a capon of my own feeding. i am a great lover of boil'd meats. this is a very good soop, and these are choice lettuces that are in it. pray every one help himself to what he likes best. but that you may not be deceiv'd, i tell you, that we have a course of roast a coming, and after that some small desert, and so conclude. _ti._ but we exclude your wife from table. _eu._ when you bring your own wives, mine shall keep them company. she would, if she were here, be nothing but a mute in our company. she talks with more freedom among the women, and we are more at liberty to philosophise. and besides that, there would be danger, lest we should be serv'd as _socrates_ was, when he had several philosophers at table with him, who took more pleasure in talking than they did in eating, and held a long dispute, had all their meat thrown on the floor by _xantippe_, who in a rage overturn'd the table. _ti._ i believe you have nothing of that to be afraid of: she's one of the best-humour'd women in the world. _eu._ she is such a one indeed, that i should be loath to change her if i might; and i look upon myself to be very happy upon that account. nor do i like their opinion, who think a man happy, because he never had a wife; i approve rather what the _hebrew_ sage said, _he that has a good wife has a good lot_. _ti._ it is commonly our own fault, if our wives be bad, either for loving such as are bad, or making them so; or else for not teaching them better. _eu._ you say very right, but all this while i want to hear the third verse expounded: and methinks the divine _theophilus_ looks as if he had a mind to do it. _theo._ truly my mind was upon my belly; but however, i'll speak my mind, since i may do it without offence. _eu._ nay, it will be a favour to us if you should happen to be in any error, because by that means you will give us occasion of finding the truth. _th._ the sentence seems to be of the same importance with that the lord expresses by the prophet _hosea_, chap. vi. _i desire mercy and not sacrifice, and the knowledge of god more than burnt-offerings_. this is fully explain'd, and to the life, by the lord _jesus_, in st. _matthew_, chap. ix. who being at table in the house of _levi_ the publican, with several others of the same stamp and profession, the _pharisees_, who were puff'd up with their external observance of the law, without any regard to the precepts of it, whereupon the whole law and prophets depend, (with a design to alienate the affections of his disciples from him) ask'd them, why their master sat at the table of publicans and sinners. from whose conversation those _jews_, that would be accounted the more holy, abstain'd; to that degree, that if any of the stricter sort had met any of them by chance, as soon as they came home they would wash themselves. and when the disciples, being yet but raw, could give no answer; the lord answer'd both for himself and them: _they_ (says he) _who are whole need not a physician, but they that are sick; but go you and learn what that meaneth, i will have mercy and not sacrifice; for i came not to call the righteous but sinners_. _eu._ indeed you have very handsomely explain'd the matter, by the comparing of texts, which is the best way of expounding scripture. but i would fain know what it is he calls sacrifice, and what mercy. for how can we reconcile it, that god should be against sacrifices, who had commanded so many to be offered? _th._ how far god is against sacrifices, he himself teaches us in the first chapter of the prophecy of _isaiah_. there were certain legal obligations among the _jews_, which were rather significations of holiness, than of the essence of it; of this sort are holy-days, sabbatisms, fasts, sacrifices; and there were certain other obligations of perpetual force, being good in their own nature, and not meerly by being commanded. now god was displeased with the _jews_, not because they did observe the rites and ceremonies, but because being vainly puffed up with these, they neglected those things which god does in a more especial manner require of us; and wallowing in avarice, pride, rapines, hatred, envy, and other iniquities, they thought they merited heaven, because that upon holy-days, they visited the temple, offered sacrifices, abstained from forbidden meats, and frequently fasted; embracing the shadow of religion, and neglecting the substance. but in that, he says, _i will have mercy, and not sacrifice_; i take it to be said according to the idiom of the _hebrew_ tongue; that is to say, _mercy rather than sacrifices, as solomon_ interprets it in this text, _to do mercy and judgment, is more acceptable to the lord than sacrifices_. and again, the scripture expresses all the charitable offices to our neighbour, under the terms of mercy, and eleemosynary tenderness, which takes its name from pity. by sacrifices, i suppose is intended, whatsoever respects corporal ceremonies, and has any affinity with judaism, such as are the choice of meats, appointed garments, fasting, sacrifices, the saying over of prayers, as a boy says his lesson: resting upon holy-days. these things, as they are not to be neglected in their due season, so they become displeasing to god, if a man relying too much upon these observances, shall neglect to do acts of mercy, as often as his brother's necessity requires it. and it has some appearance of holiness in it, to avoid the conversation of wicked men: but this ought to give place as oft as there is an opportunity offer'd of shewing charity to our neighbour. it is a point of obedience to rest upon holy days: but it would be very impious to make such a conscience of a day as to suffer a brother to perish upon it. therefore to keep the lord's day is a kind of _sacrifice_: but to be reconcil'd to my brother is a point of _mercy_. and then, as for _judgment_, though that may seem to respect persons in power; who oftentimes oppress the weak therewith, yet it seems reasonable enough in my opinion that the poor man should remind him of that in _hosea, and the knowledge of god more than burnt offerings_. no man can be said to keep the law of god, but he that keeps it according to the mind of god. the _jews_ could lift up an ass upon the sabbath that was fallen into a pit, and yet calumniated our saviour for preserving a man upon that day. this was a preposterous judgment, and not according to the knowledge of god; for they did not consider that these things were made for man, and not man for them. but i should have esteem'd it presumption in me to have said these things, if you had not commanded it; and i had rather learn of others things more _à propos_. _eu._ this is so far from being a presumption, that it looks rather like an inspiration. but while we are thus plentifully feeding our souls, we must not neglect their companions. _ti._ who are those? _eu._ our bodies; are not they the soul's companions? i had rather call them so, than instruments, habitations or sepulchres. _ti._ this is certainly to be plentifully refresh'd when the whole man is refresh'd. _eu._ i see you are very backward to help yourselves; therefore, if you please, i'll order the roast-meat to be brought us, lest instead of a good entertainment i should treat you with a long one. now you see your ordinary. here is a shoulder of mutton, but it is a very fine one, a capon and two brace of partridges. these indeed i had from the market, this little farm supply'd me with the rest. _ti._ it is a noble dinner, fit for a prince. _eu._ for a _carmelite_, you mean. but such as it is you are welcome to it. if the provision be not very dainty you have it very freely. _ti._ your house is so full of talk, that not only the walls but the very cup speaks. _eu._ what does it say? _ti. no man is hurt but by himself._ _eu._ the cup pleads for the cause of the wine. for it is a common thing, if persons get a fever or the head-ach by over drinking, to lay it upon the wine, when they have brought it upon themselves by their excess. _soph._ mine speaks _greek_. [greek: en oinô alêtheia.] _in wine there's truth_ (when wine is in the wit is out.) _eu._ this gives us to understand that it is not safe for priests or privy-counsellors to give themselves so to wine, because wine commonly brings that to the mouth that lay conceal'd in the heart. _soph._ in old time among the _egyptians_ it was unlawful for their priests to drink any wine at all, and yet in those days there was no auricular confession. _eu._ it is now become lawful for all persons to drink wine, but how expedient it is i know not. what book is that, _eulalius_, you take out of your pocket? it seems to be a very neat one, it is all over gilded. _eulal._ it is more valuable for the inside than the out. it is st. _paul's_ epistles, that i always carry about me, as my beloved entertainment, which i take out now upon the occasion of something you said, which minds me of a place that i have beat my brains about a long time, and i am not come to a full satisfaction in yet. it is in the 6th chapter of the first epistle to the _corinthians_, _all things are lawful for me, but all things are not expedient; all things are lawful for me, but i will not be brought under the power of any_. in the first place (if we will believe the stoicks) nothing can be profitable to us, that is not honest: how comes _paul_ then to distinguish betwixt that which is lawful, and that which is expedient? it is not lawful to whore, or get drunk, how then are all things lawful? but if _paul_ speaks of some particular things only, which he would have to be lawful, i can't guess by the tenor of the place, which those particular things are. from that which follows, it may be gather'd, that he there speaks of the choice of meats. for some abstain from things offer'd to idols, and others from meats forbidden by _moses_'s law. in the 8th chapter he treats of things offer'd to idols, and in the 10th chapter explaining the meaning of this place, says, _all things are lawful for me, but all things are not expedient; all things are lawful for me, but all things edify not. let no man seek his own, but every man the things of another. whatsoever is sold in the shambles, eat ye_. and that which st. _paul_ subjoins, agrees with what he said before: _meats for the belly, and the belly for meats; but god shall destroy both it and them_. now that which has respect to the _judaical_ choice of meats, is in the close of the 10th chapter. _give none offence, neither to the jews nor the gentiles, nor to the church of god; even as i please all men in all things, not seeking my own profit, but the profit of many, that they may be sav'd_. where in that he saith to the _gentiles_, he seems to have respect to things offer'd to idols; and where he speaketh to the _jews_ he seems to refer to the choice of meats; what he says to the church of god appertains to the weak, collected out of both sorts. it was lawful, it seems, to eat of all meats whatsoever, and all things that are clean to the clean. but the question remaining is, whether it be expedient or no? the liberty of the gospel makes all things lawful; but charity has always a regard to my neighbour's good, and therefore often abstains from things lawful, rather chasing to condescend to what is for another's advantage, than to make use of its own liberty. but now here arises a double difficulty; first, that here is nothing that either precedes or follows in the context that agrees with this sense. for he chides the _corinthians_ for being seditious, fornicators, adulterers, and given to go to law before wicked judges. now what coherence is there with this to say, _all things are lawful for me, but all things are not expedient_? and in the following matter, he returns to the case of _incontinence_, which he had also repeated before, only leaving out the charge of contention: _but the body_, says he, _is not for fornication, but for the lord, and the lord for the body._ but however, this scruple may be solv'd too, because a little before, in the catalogue of sins, he had made mention of idolatry. _be not deceived, neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers_; now the eating of things offer'd to idols is a certain kind of idolatry, and therefore he immediately subjoins, _meat is for the belly, and the belly for meat_. intimating, that in a case of necessity, and for a season, a man may eat any thing, unless charity towards his neighbour shall dissuade it: but that uncleanness is in all persons, and at all times to be detested. it is matter of necessity that we eat, but that necessity shall be taken away at the resurrection of the dead. but if we are lustful, that proceeds from wickedness. but there is another scruple that i can't tell how to solve, or how to reconcile to that passage: _but i will not be brought under the power of any_. for he says, he has the power of all things, and yet he will not be brought under the power of any one. if he may be said to be under another man's power, that abstains for fear of offending, it is what he speaks of himself in the ninth chapter, _for though i be free from all men, yet have made myself servant to all, that i may gain all._ st. _ambrose_ stumbling, i suppose, at this scruple, takes this to be the apostle's genuine sense for the better understanding of what he says in the 9th chapter, where he claims to himself the power of doing that which the rest of the apostles (either true or false) did, of receiving a maintenance from them to whom he preach'd the gospel. but he forbore this, although he might have done it, as a thing expedient among the _corinthians_, whom he reprov'd for so many and enormous iniquities. and moreover, he that receives, is in some degree in the power of him from whom he receives, and suffers some kind of abatement in his authority. for he that takes, cannot so freely reprove his benefactor; and he that gives will not so easily take a reprehension from him that he has obliged. and in this did the apostle _paul_ abstain from that which was lawful, for the credit of his apostolical liberty, which in this case he would not have to be rendered obnoxious to any one, that he might with the greater freedom and authority reprehend their vices. indeed, i like this explication of st. _ambrose_ very well. but yet, if any body had rather apply this passage to meats, st. _paul_'s, saying, _but i will not be brought under the power of any_, may be taken in this sense: although i may sometimes abstain from meats offered to idols, or forbidden by the _mosaical_ law, out of regard to the salvation of my brothers souls, and the furtherance of the gospel; yet my mind is free, well knowing that it is lawful to eat all manner of meats, according to the necessity of the body. but there were some false apostles, who went about to persuade them, that some meats, were in themselves, by their own nature unclean, and were to be forborn, not upon occasion only, but at all times; and that as strict as adultery or murder. now those that were thus misled, were reduced under another's power, and fell from their gospel liberty. _theophylact_ (as i remember) is the only man that advances an opinion different from all these. _it is lawful_, says he, _to eat all sorts of meats; but it is not expedient to eat to excess; for from luxury comes lust._ there is no impiety, indeed, in this sense; but it does not seem to me to be the genuine sense of the place. i have acquainted you with my scruples, it will become your charity to set me to rights. _eu._ your discourse is, indeed, answerable to your name, and one that knows how to propound questions as you do, has no need of any body to answer them but himself. for you have so proposed your doubts, as to put one quite out of doubt, altho' st. _paul_, in that epistle, (proposing to handle many things at once) passes often from one argument to another, repeating what he had intermitted. _ch._ if i were not afraid, that by my loquacity i should divert you from eating your dinners, and did think it were lawful to intermix any thing out of profane authors with sacred discourses, i would venture to propose something that i read to day; not so much with perplexity, as with a singular delight. _eu._ whatsoever is pious, and conduces to good manners, ought not to be called profane. the first place must indeed be given to the authority of the scriptures; but nevertheless, i sometimes find some things said or written by the antients; nay, even by the heathens; nay, by the poets themselves, so chastly, so holily, and so divinely, that i cannot persuade myself, but that when they wrote them, they were divinely inspired; and perhaps the spirit of christ diffuses itself farther than we imagine; and that there are more saints than we have in our catalogue. to confess freely among friends, i can't read _tully_ of _old age_, of _friendship_, his _offices_, or his _tusculan questions_, without kissing the book, and veneration for that divine soul. and on the contrary, when i read some of our modern authors, treating of _politics, oeconomics_ and _ethics_, good god! how cold they are in comparison of these? nay, how do they seem to be insensible of what they write themselves? so that i had rather lose _scotus_ and twenty more such as he, than one _cicero_ or _plutarch_. not that i am wholly against them neither; but because, by the reading of the one, i find myself become better; whereas, i rise from the other, i know not how coldly affected to virtue, but most violently inclin'd to cavil and contention; therefore never fear to propose it, whatsoever it is. _ch._ although all _tully_'s books of philosophy seem to breathe out something divine; yet that treatise of _old age_, that he wrote in old age, seems to me to be according to the _greek_ proverb; _the song of the dying swan_. i was reading it to day, and these words pleasing me above the rest, i got 'em by heart: _should it please god to give me a grant to begin my life again from my very cradle, and once more to run over the course of my years i have lived, i would not upon any terms accept of it: nor would i, having in a manner finished my race, run it over again from the starting place to the goal: for what pleasure has this life in it? nay, rather, what pain has it not? but if there were not, there would be undoubtedly in it satiety or trouble. i am not for bewailing my past life as a great many, and learned men too, have done, nor do i repent that i have liv'd; because, i have liv'd so, that i am satisfy'd i have not liv'd in vain. and when i leave this life, i leave it as an inn, and not as a place of abode. for nature has given us our bodies as an inn to lodge in, and not to dwell in. o! glorious day will that be, when i shall leave this rabble-rout and defilements of the world behind me, to go to that society and world of spirits!_ thus far out of _cato_. what could be spoken more divinely by a christian? i wish all the discourses of our monks, even with their holy virgins, were such as the dialogue of this aged pagan, with the pagan youths of his time. _eu._ it may be objected, that this colloquy of _tully_'s was but a fiction. _ch._ it is all one to me, whether the honour of these expressions be given to _cato_, who thought and spoke them, or to _cicero_, whose mind could form such divine things in contemplation, and whose pen could represent such excellent matter in words so answerable to it; though indeed i am apt to think that _cato_, if he did not speak these very words, yet that in his familiar conversation he us'd words of the very same import. for indeed, _m. tully_ was not a man of that impudence, to draw _cato_ otherwise than he was. beside, that such an unlikeness in a dialogue would have been a great indecorum, which is the thing chiefly to be avoided in this sort of discourse; and especially, at a time when his character was fresh in the memories of all men. _th._ that which you say is very likely: but i'll tell you what came into my mind upon your recital. i have often admired with myself, that considering that all men wish for long life, and are afraid of death; that yet, i have scarce found any man so happy, (i don't speak of old, but of middle-aged men); but that if the question were put to him, whether or no, if it should be granted him to grow young again, and run over the same good and ill fortune that he had before, he would not make the same answer that _cato_ did; especially passing a true reflection upon the mixture of good and ill of his past life. for the remembrance even of the pleasantest part of it is commonly attended with shame, and sting of conscience, insomuch that the memory of past delights is more painful to us, than that of past misfortunes. therefore it was wisely done of the ancient poets in the fable of _lethe_, to represent the dead drinking largely of the waters of forgetfulness, before their souls were affected with any desire of the bodies they had left behind them. _ur._ it is a thing well worthy of our admiration, and what i myself have observ'd in some persons. but that in _cato_ that pleases me the most is his declaration. _neither am i sorry that i have liv'd._ where is the _christian_, that has so led his life, as to be able to say as much as this old man? it is a common thing for men, who have scrap'd great estates together by hook or by crook, when they are upon their death beds, and about to leave them, then to think they have not liv'd in vain. but _cato_ therefore thought, that he had not liv'd in vain, upon the conscience of his having discharg'd all the parts of an honest and useful citizen, and an uncorrupted magistrate; and that he should leave to posterity, monuments of his virtue and industry. and what could be spoken more divinely than this, _i depart as from an inn, and not an habitation_. so long we may stay in an inn till the host bids us be gone, but a man will not easily be forc'd from his own house. and yet from hence the fall of the house, or fire, or some accident drives us. or if nothing of these happen, the structure falls to pieces with old age, thereby admonishing us that we must change our quarters. _neph._ that expression of _socrates_ in _plato_ is not less elegant: _methinks_, says he, _the soul of a man is in the body as in a garrison, there is no quitting of it without the leave of the generals, nor no staying any longer in it, than during the pleasure of him that plac'd him there._ this allusion of _plato'_s, of a garrison instead of a house, is the more significant of the two. for in a house is only imply'd abode, in a garrison we are appointed to some duty by our governor. and much to the same purpose is it, that in holy writ the life of man is sometimes call'd a warfare, and at other times a race. _ur._ but _cato_'s speech, methinks, seems to agree very well with that of st. _paul_, who writing to the _corinthians_, calls that heavenly mansion, which we look for after this life in one place [greek: oikian] a house, in another [greek: oikêtêrion] a mansion, and moreover (besides that) he calls the body [greek: skênos] a tabernacle. for _we also_, (says he) _who are in this tabernacle, groan, being burthened._ _neph._ much after this manner says st. _peter; and i think it meet_ (says he) _as long as i am in this tabernacle, to stir you up by putting you in mind, being assured that i shall shortly put off this tabernacle._ and what else does _christ_ himself say to us, but that we should live and watch, as if we were presently to die: and so apply ourselves to honest things, as if we were to live for ever? and when we hear these excellent words of _cato, o that glorious day_, do we not seem to hear st. _paul_ himself saying, _i desire to be dissolved, and to be with christ_? _ch._ how happy are they that wait for death with such a frame of mind? but as for _cato_'s speech, altho' it be an excellent one, methinks there is more boldness and arrogance in it, than becomes a christian. indeed, i never read anything in a heathen, that comes nearer to a christian, than what _socrates_ said to _crito_, a little before he drank his poison; _whether i shall be approv'd or not in the sight of god, i cannot tell; but this i am certain of, that i have most affectionately endeavoured to please him; and i have a good hope, that he will accept of my endeavours._ this great man was diffident of his own performances; but so, that being conscious to himself of the propensity of his inclination to obey the divine will, he conceived a good hope, that god, of his goodness, would accept him for the honesty of his intentions. _neph._ indeed, it was a wonderful elevation of mind in a man, that knew not christ, nor the holy scriptures: and therefore, i can scarce forbear, when i read such things of such men, but cry out, _sancte socrates, ora pro nobis; saint_ socrates, _pray for us._ _ch._ and i have much ado sometimes to keep myself from entertaining good hopes of the souls of _virgil_ and _horace._ _neph._ but how unwillingly have i seen many christians die? some put their trust in things not to be confided in; others breathe out their souls in desperation, either out of a consciousness of their lewd lives, or by reason of scruples that have been injected into their minds, even in their dying hours, by some indiscreet men. _ch._ it is no wonder to find them die so, who have spent their time in philosophizing about ceremonies all their lives. _neph._ what do you mean by ceremonies? _ch._ i'll tell you, but with protestation over and over beforehand, that i don't find fault with the sacraments and rites of the church, but rather highly approve of them; but i blame a wicked and superstitious sort of people, or (to put it in the softest term) the simple and unlearned persons, who teach people to put their confidence in these things, omitting those things which make them truly christians. _neph._ i don't yet clearly understand what it is you aim at. _ch._ i'll be plainer then. if you look into christians in common, don't you find they live as if the whole sum of religion consisted in ceremonies? with how much pomp are the antient rites of the church set forth in baptism? the infant waits without the church door, the exorcism is performed, the catechizing is performed, vows are made, satan is abjured, with all his pomps and pleasures; then the child is anointed, sign'd, season'd with salt, dipt, a charge given to his sureties to see it well brought up; and the oblation-money being paid, they are discharged, and by this time the child passes for a christian, and in some sense is so. a little time after, it is anointed again, and in time learns to confess, receives the sacrament, is accustom'd to rest upon holy-days, to hear divine service, to fast sometimes, to abstain from flesh; and if he observes all these, he passes for an absolute christian. he marries a wife, and then comes on another sacrament; he enters into holy orders, is anointed again, and consecrated, his habit is chang'd, and then to prayers. now i approve of the doing of all this well enough; but the doing of them more out of custom than conscience, i don't approve; but to think that nothing else is requisite for the making a christian, i absolutely disapprove: for the greatest part of men in the world trust to these things, and think they have nothing else to do, but get wealth by right or wrong, to gratify their passions of rage, lust, malice, ambition: and this they do till they come upon their death bed; and then there follows more ceremonies; confession upon confession, more unction still, the eucharist is administred; tapers, the cross, holy water are brought in; indulgencies are procured, if they are to be had for love or money; orders are given for a magnificent funeral; and then comes on another solemn contract: when the man is in the agony of death, there's one stands by bawling in his ear, and now and then dispatches him before his time, if he chance to be a little in drink, or have better lungs than ordinary. now although these things may be well enough, as they are done in conformity to ecclesiastical customs; yet there are some more internal impressions, which have an efficacy to fortify us against the assaults of death, by filling our hearts with joy, and helping us to go out of the world with a christian assurance. _eu._ you speak very piously and truly; but in the mean time here is no body eats; i told you before, that you must expect nothing after the second course, and that a country one too, lest any body should look for pheasants, moorhens, and fine kickshaws. here, boy! take away these things, and bring up the rest. you see, not the affluence, but the straitness of my fortune. this is the product of my gardens you have seen; don't spare, if you like any thing. _ti._ there's so great a variety, it does a man good to look upon it. _eu._ that you mayn't altogether despise my thriftiness, this dish would have chear'd up the heart of old _hilarion_, the evangelical monk, with a hundred more of his fellows, the monks of that age. but _paul_ and _anthony_ would have lived a month upon it. _ti._ yes, and prince _peter_ too, i fancy would have leap'd at it, when he lodg'd at _simon_ the tanner's. _eu._ yes; and _paul_ too, i believe, when by reason of poverty he sat up a-nights to make tents. _ti._ how much do we owe to the goodness of god! but yet, i had rather suffer hunger with _peter_ and _paul_, upon condition, that what i wanted for my body, might be made up by the satisfaction of my mind. _eu._ let us learn of st. _paul_, both how to abound, and how to suffer want. when we want, let us praise god, that he has afforded us matter to exercise our frugality and patience upon: when we abound, let us be thankful for his munificence, who by his liberality, invites and provokes us to love him; and using those things the divine bounty has plentifully bestowed upon us, with moderation and temperance; let us be mindful of the poor, whom god has been pleas'd to suffer to want what he has made abound to us, that neither side may want an occasion of exercising virtue: for he bestows upon us sufficient for the relief of our brother's necessity, that we may obtain his mercy, and that the poor on the other hand, being refresh'd by our liberality, may give him thanks for putting it into our hearts, and recommend us to him in their prayers; and, very well remember'd! come hither, boy; bid my wife send _gudula_ some of the roast meat that's left, 'tis a very good poor woman in the neighbourhood big with child, her husband is lately dead, a profuse, lazy fellow, that has left nothing but a stock of children. _ti._ christ has commanded _to give to every one that asks_; but if i should do so, i should go a begging myself in a month's time. _eu._ i suppose christ means only such as ask for necessaries: for to them who ask, nay, who importune, or rather extort great sums from people to furnish voluptuous entertainments, or, which is worse, to feed luxury and lust, it is charity to deny; nay, it is a kind of rapine to bestow that which we owe to the present necessity of our neighbours, upon those that will abuse it; upon this consideration it is, that it seems to me, that they can scarcely be excus'd from being guilty of a mortal sin, who at a prodigious expence, either build or beautify monasteries or churches, when in the mean time so many living temples of christ are ready to starve for want of food and clothing, and are sadly afflicted with the want of other necessaries. when i was in _england_, i saw st. _thomas_'s, tomb all over bedeck'd with a vast number of jewels of an immense price, besides other rich furniture, even to admiration; i had rather that these superfluities should be apply'd to charitable uses, than to be reserv'd for princes, that shall one time or other make a booty of them. the holy man, i am confident, would have been better pleas'd, to have his tomb adorn'd with leaves and flowers. when i was in _lombardy_, i saw a cloyster of the _carthusians_, not far from _pavia_; the chapel is built from top to bottom, within and without, of white marble, and almost all that is in it, as altars, pillars, and tombs, are all marble. to what purpose was it to be at such a vast expence upon a marble temple, for a few solitary monks to sing in? and 'tis more burthen to them than use too, for they are perpetually troubled with strangers, that come thither, only out of mere curiosity, to see the marble temple. and that, which is yet more ridiculous, i was told there, that there is an endowment of three thousand ducats a year for keeping the monastery in repair. and there are some that think that it is sacrilege, to convert a penny of that money to any other pious uses, contrary to the intention of the testator; they had rather pull down, that they may rebuild, than not go on with building. i thought meet to mention these, being something more remarkable than ordinary; tho' we have a world of instances of this kind up and down in our churches. this, in my opinion, is rather ambition than charity. rich men now-a-days will have their monuments in churches, whereas in times past they could hardly get room for the saints there: they must have their images there, and their pictures, forsooth, with their names at length, their titles, and the inscription of their donation; and this takes up a considerable part of the church; and i believe in time they'll be for having their corpse laid even in the very altars themselves. but perhaps, some will say, would you have their munificence be discourag'd? i say no, by no means, provided what they offer to the temple of god be worthy of it. but if i were a priest or a bishop, i would put it into the heads of those thick-scull'd courtiers or merchants, that if they would atone for their sins to almighty god, they should privately bestow their liberality upon the relief of the poor. but they reckon all as lost, that goes out so by piece-meal, and is privily distributed toward the succour of the needy, that the next age shall have no memorial of the bounty. but i think no money can be better bestow'd, than that which christ himself would have put to his account, and makes himself debtor for. _ti._ don't you take that bounty to be well plac'd that is bestow'd upon monasteries? _eu._ yes, and i would be a benefactor myself, if i had an estate that would allow it; but it should be such a provision for necessaries, as should not reach to luxury. and i would give something too, wheresoever i found a religious man that wanted it. _ti._ many are of opinion, that what is given to common beggars, is not well bestowed. _eu._ i would do something that way too; but with discretion: but in my opinion, it were better if every city were to maintain their own poor; and vagabonds and sturdy beggars were not suffer'd to strole about, who want work more than money. _ti._ to whom then would you in an especial manner give? how much? and to what purposes? _eu._ it is a hard matter for me to answer to all these points exactly: first of all, there should be an inclination to be helpful to all, and after that, the proportion must be according to my ability, as opportunity should offer; and especially to those whom i know to be poor and honest; and when my own purse fail'd me, i would exhort others to charity. _ti._ but will you give us leave now to discourse freely in your dominions? _eu._ as freely as if you were at home at your own houses. _ti._ you don't love vast expences upon churches, you say, and this house might have been built for less than it was. _eu._ indeed, i think this house of mine to be within the compass of cleanly and convenient, far from luxury, or i am mistaken. some that live by begging, have built with more state; and yet, these gardens of mine, such as they are, pay a tribute to the poor; and i daily lessen my expence, and am the more frugal in expence upon myself and family, that i may contribute the more plentifully to them. _ti._ if all men were of your mind, it would be better than it is with a good many people who deserve better, that are now in extreme want; and on the other hand, many of those pamper'd carcases would be brought down, who deserve to be taught sobriety and modesty by penury. _eu._ it may be so: but shall i mend your mean entertainment now, with the best bit at last? _ti._ we have had more than enough of delicacies already. _eu._ that which i am now about to give you, let your bellies be never so full, won't over-charge your stomachs. _ti._ what is it? _eu._ the book of the four evangelists, that i may treat you with the best at last. read, boy, from the place where you left off last. _boy. no man can serve two masters; for either he will hate the one and love the other, or else he will hold to the one and despise the other: you cannot serve god and mammon. therefore, i say unto you, take no thought for your life, what you shall eat, or what you shall drink: nor yet for your body, what you shall put on. is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment?_ _eu._ give me the book. in this place _jesus christ_ seems to me, to have said the same thing twice: for instead of what he had said in the first place, _i.e._ _he will hate_; he says immediately, _he will despise_. and for what he had said before, _he will love_, he by and by turns it, _he will hold to_. the sense is the same, tho' the persons are chang'd. _ti._ i do not very well apprehend what you mean. _eu._ let me, if you please, demonstrate it mathematically. in the first part, put _a_ for the one, and _b_ for the other. in the latter part, put _b_ for one, and _a_ for the other, inverting the order; for either _a_ will hate, and _b_ will love, or _b_ will hold to, and _a_ will despise. is it not plain now, that _a_ is twice hated, and _b_ twice beloved? _ti._ 'tis very clear. _eu._ this conjunction, _or_, especially repeated, has the emphasis of a contrary, or at least, a different meaning. would it not be otherwise absurd to say, _either_ peter _shall overcome me, and i'll yield; or i'll yield, and_ peter _shall overcome me?_ _ti._ a pretty sophism, as i'm an honest man. _eu._ i shall think it so when you have made it out, not before. _the._ i have something runs in my mind, and i'm with child to have it out: i can't tell what to make on't, but let it be what it will, you shall have it if you please; if it be a dream, you shall be the interpreters, or midwife it into the world. _eu._ although it is looked upon to be unlucky to talk of dreams at table, and it is immodest to bring forth before so many men; but this dream, or this conception of thy mind, be it what it will, let us have it. _the._ in my judgment it is rather the thing than the person that is chang'd in this text. and the words _one_ and _one_ do not refer to _a_ and _b_; but either part of them, to which of the other you please; so that chuse which you will, it must be opposed to that, which is signified by the other; as if you should say, you _shall either exclude_ a _and admit_ b, _or you shall admit_ a _and exclude_ b. here's the thing chang'd, and the person the same: and it is so spoken of _a_, that it is the same case, if you should say the same thing of _b_; as thus, either you shall exclude _b_ or admit _a_, or admit _b_ or exclude _a_. _eu._ in truth, you have very artificially solv'd this problem: no mathematician could have demonstrated it better upon a slate. _soph._ that which is the greatest difficulty to me is this; that we are forbidden to take thought for to morrow; when yet, _paul_ himself wrought with his own hands for bread, and sharply rebukes lazy people, and those that live upon other men's labour, exhorting them to take pains, and get their living by their fingers ends, that they may have wherewith to relieve others in their necessities. are not they holy and warrantable labours, by which a poor husband provides for his dear wife and children? _ti._ this is a question, which, in my opinion, may be resolv'd several ways. first of all, this text had a particular respect to those times. the apostles being dispers'd far and wide for the preaching of the gospel, all sollicitous care for a maintenance was to be thrown aside, it being to be supply'd otherwise, having not leisure to get their living by their labour; and especially, they having no way of getting it, but by fishing. but now the world is come to another pass, and we all love to live at ease, and shun painstaking. another way of expounding it may be this; christ had not forbid industry, but anxiety of thought, and this anxiety of thought is to be understood according to the temper of men in common, who are anxious for nothing more than getting a livelihood; that setting all other things aside, this is the only thing they mind. and our saviour does in a manner intimate the same himself, when he says, that one man cannot serve two masters. for he that wholly gives himself up to any thing, is a servant to it. now he would have the propagation of the gospel be our chief, but yet, not our only care. for he says, _seek ye first the kingdom of heaven, and these things shall be added unto you_. he does not say, seek only; but seek first. and besides, i take the word to morrow, to be hyperbolical, and in that, signifies a time to come, a great while hence, it being the custom of the misers of this world, to be anxiously scraping together, and laying up for posterity. _eu._ we allow of your interpretation; but what does he mean, when he says, _be not sollicitous for your life, what you shall eat_? the body is cloth'd, but the soul does not eat. _ti._ by _anima_, is meant life, which can't subsist without meat (or is in danger, if you take away its food): but it is not so, if you take away the garment, which is more for modesty than necessity. if a person is forc'd to go naked, he does not die presently; but want of food is certain death. _eu._ i do not well understand how this sentence agrees with that which follows; _is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment_? for if life be so precious, we ought to take the more care of it. _ti._ this argument does rather increase our sollicitousness than lessen it. _eu._ but this is none of our saviour's meaning; who, by this argument, creates in us a stronger confidence in the father: for if a bountiful father hath given us _gratis_ that which is the more valuable, he will also bestow upon us what is less valuable: he that has given us life, will not deny us food: and he that has given us bodies, will by some means or other give us cloaths too: therefore, relying upon his bounty, we have no reason to disquiet ourselves with anxiety of thought, for things of smaller moment. what remains then, but using this world, as though we used it not, we transfer our whole study and application to the love of heavenly things, and rejecting the world and the devil universally, with all his crafty delusions, we chearfully serve god alone, who will never forsake his children? but all this while, here's no body touches the fruits. certainly you may eat this with joy, for this is the product of my own farm, and did not cost much care to provide it. _ti._ we have very plentifully satisfied our bodies. _eu._ i should be glad if you had satisfied your minds too. _ti._ our minds have been satisfy'd more plentifully than our bodies. _eu._ boy, take away, and bring some water; now, my friends, let us wash, that if we have in eating contracted any guilt, being cleansed, we may conclude with a hymn: if you please, i'll conclude with what i begun out of st. _chrysostom_. _ti._ we entreat you that you would do it. _eu. glory to thee, o lord; glory to thee, o holy one; glory to thee, o king; as thou hast given us meat for our bodies, so replenish our souls with joy and gladness in thy holy spirit, that we may be found acceptable in thy sight, and may not be made asham'd, when thou shalt render to every one according to his works_. boy. _amen_. _ti._ in truth, it is a pious and elegant hymn. _eu._ of st. _chrysostom_'s translation too. _ti._ where is it to be found? _eu._ in his 56th homily on st. _matthew_. _ti._ i'll be sure to read it to day: but i have a mind to be informed of one thing, why we thrice wish glory to christ under these three denominations, of _lord, holy, and king_. _eu._ because all honour is due to him, and especially in these three respects. we call him lord, because he hath redeem'd us by his holy blood from the tyranny of the devil, and hath taken us to himself. secondly, we stile him holy, because he being the sanctifier of all men, not being content alone to have freely pardoned us all our sins _gratis_ by his holy spirit, hath bestow'd upon us his righteousness, that we might follow holiness. lastly, we call him king, because we hope for the reward of a heavenly kingdom, from him who sits at the right-hand of god the father. and all this felicity we owe to his gratuitous bounty, that we have _jesus christ_ for our lord, rather than the devil to be a tyrant over us; that we have innocence and sanctity, instead of the filth and uncleanness of our sins; and instead of the torments of hell, the joys of life everlasting. _ti._ indeed it is a very pious sentence. _eu._ this is your first visit, gentlemen, and i must not dismiss you without presents; but plain ones, such as your entertainment has been. boy, bring out the presents: it is all one to me, whether you will draw lots, or every one chuse for himself, they are all of a price; that is to say, of no value. you will not find _heliogabatus_'s lottery, a hundred horses for one, and as many flies for another. here are four little books, two dials, a lamp, and a pen-case: these i suppose will be more agreeable to you than balsams, dentrifices, or looking-glasses. _ti._ they are all so good, that it is a hard matter to chuse; but do you distribute them according to your own mind, and they'll come the welcomer where they fall. _eu._ this little book contains _solomon_'s proverbs in parchment, it teaches wisdom, and it is gilded, because gold is a symbol of wisdom. this shall be given to our grey-headed _timothy_; that according to the doctrine of the gospel, to him that has wisdom, wisdom shall be given and abound. _ti._ i will be sure to make it my study, to stand in less need of it. _eu. sophronius_, this dial will suit you very well, whom i know to be so good a husband of your time, that you won't let a moment of that precious thing be lost. it came out of the furthest part of _dalmatia_, and that's all the commendation i shall give it. _sophr._ you indeed admonish a sluggard to be diligent. _eu._ you have in this little book the gospel written on vellum; it deserv'd to be set with diamonds, except that the heart of a man were a fitter repository for it. lay it up there, _theophilus_, that you may be more and more like to your name. _the._ i will do my endeavour, that you may not think your present ill bestow'd. _eu._ there are st. _paul_'s epistles; your constant companions, _eulalius_, are in this book; you use to have _paul_ constantly in your mouth, and he would not be there, if he were not in your heart too: and now for the time to come, you may more conveniently have him in your hand, and in your eye. this is a gift with good counsel into the bargain. and there is no present more precious than good counsel. _eu._ this lamp is very fit for _chrysoglottus_, who is an insatiable reader; and as m. _tully_ says, a glutton of books. _ch._ i give you double thanks; first, for so choice a present, and in the next place, for admonishing a drowsy person of vigilance. _eu. theodidactus_ must have this pen-case, who writes much, and to excellent purposes; and i dare pronounce these pens to be happy, by which the honour of our lord _jesus christ_ shall be celebrated, and that by such an artist. _the._ i would you could as well have supply'd me with abilities, as you have with instruments. _eu._ this contains some of the choicest of _plutarch's_ books of morals, and very fairly written by one very well skill'd in the _greek_; i find in them so much purity of thought, that it is my amazement, how such evangelical notions should come into the heart of a heathen. this i will present to young _uranius_, that is a lover of the _greek_ language. here is one dial left, and that falls to our _nephalius_, as a thrifty dispenser of his time. _neph._ we give you thanks, not only for your presents, but your compliments too. for this is not so much a making of presents, as panegyricks. _eu._ i give you double thanks, gentlemen: first for taking these small matters in so good part; and secondly, for the comfort i have receiv'd by your learned and pious discourses. what effect my entertainment may have upon you i know not; but this i am sure of, you'll leave me wiser and better for it. i know you take no pleasure in fiddles or fools, and much less in dice: wherefore, if you please, we will pass away an hour in seeing the rest of the curiosities of my little palace. _ti._ that's the very thing we were about to desire of you. _eu._ there is no need of entreating a man of his word. i believe you have seen enough of this summer hall. it looks three ways, you see; and which way soever you turn your eye, you have a most delicate green before you. if we please, we can keep out the air or rain, by putting down the sashes, if either of them be troublesome; and if the sun is incommodious, we have thick folding shutters on the out-side, and thin ones within, to prevent that. when i dine here, i seem to dine in my garden, not in my house, for the very walls have their greens and their flowers intermix'd; and 'tis no ill painting neither. here's our saviour celebrating his last supper with his elect disciples. here's _herod_ a keeping his birth-day with a bloody banquet. here's _dives_, mention'd in the gospel, in the height of his luxury, by and by sinking into hell. and here is _lazarus_, driven away from his doors, by and by to be receiv'd into _abraham's_ bosom. _ti._ we don't very well know this story. _eu._ it is _cleopatra_ contending with _anthony_, which should be most luxurious; she has drunk down the first pearl, and now reaches forth her hand for the other. here is the battel of the _centaurs_; and here _alexander_ the great thrusts his launce through the body of _clytus_. these examples preach sobriety to us at table, and deter a man from gluttony and excess. now let us go into my library, it is not furnish'd with very many books, but those i have, are very good ones. _ti._ this place carries a sort of divinity in it, every thing is so shining. _eu._ you have now before you my chiefest treasure: you see nothing at the table but glass and tin, and i have in my whole house but one piece of plate, and that is a gilt cup, which i preserve very carefully for the sake of him that gave it me. this hanging globe gives you a prospect of the whole world. and here upon the wall, are the several regions of it describ'd more at large. upon those other walls, you have the pictures of the most eminent authors: there would be no end of painting them all. in the first place, here is _christ_ sitting on the mount, and stretching forth his hand over his head; the father sends a voice, saying, _hear ye him_: the holy ghost, with outstretch'd wings, and in a glory, embracing him. _ti._ as god shall bless me, a piece of work worthy of _apelles_. _eu._ adjoining to the library, there is a little study, but a very neat one; and 'tis but removing a picture, and there is a chimney behind it, if the cold be troublesome. in summer-time it passes for solid wall. _ti._ every thing here looks like jewels; and here's a wonderful pretty scent. _eu._ above all things, i love to have my house neat and sweet, and both these may be with little cost. my library has a little gallery that looks into the garden, and there is a chapel adjoining to it. _ti._ the place itself deserves a deity. _eu._ let us go now to those three walks above the other that you have seen, that look into the kitchen garden. these upper walks have a prospect into both gardens; but only by windows with shutters; especially, in the walls that have no prospect into the inner garden, and that's for the safety of the house. here upon the left-hand, because there is more light, and fewer windows, is painted the whole life of _jesus_, out of the history of the four evangelists, as far as to the mission of the holy ghost, and the first preaching of the apostles out of the acts; and there are notes upon the places, that the spectator may see near what lake, or upon what mountain such or such a thing was done. there are also titles to every story, with an abstract of the contents, as that of our saviour, _i will, be thou clean_. over against it you have the types and prophecies of the old testament; especially, out of the prophets and psalms, which are little else but the life of christ and apostles related another way. here i sometimes walk, discoursing with myself, and meditating upon the unspeakable counsel of god, in giving his son for the redemption of mankind. sometimes my wife bears me company, or sometimes a friend that takes delight in pious things. _ti._ who could be tired with this house? _eu._ no body that has learn'd to live by himself. upon the upper border (as though not fit to be among the rest) are all the popes heads with their titles, and over against them the heads of the _cæsars_, for the better taking in the order of history. at each corner, there is a lodging room, where i can repose myself, and have a prospect of my orchard, and my little birds. here, in the farthest nook of the meadow, is a little banquetting house; there i sup sometimes in summer, and i make use of it, as an infirmary, if any of my family be taken ill, with any infectious disease. _ti._ some people are of opinion, that those diseases are not to be avoided. _eu._ why then do men shun a pit or poison? or do they fear this the less, because they don't see it? no more is the poison seen, that a basilisk darts from his eyes. when necessity calls for it, i would not stick to venture my life: but to do it without any necessity, is rashness. there are some other things worth your seeing; but my wife shall shew you them: stay here this three days if you please, and make my house your home; entertain your eyes and your minds, i have a little business abroad: i must ride out to some of the neighbouring towns. _ti._ what, a money business? _eu._ i would not leave such friends for the sake of receiving a little money. _ti._ perhaps you have appointed a hunting match. _eu._ it is a kind of hunting indeed, but it is something else i hunt, than either boars or stags. _ti._ what is it then? _eu._ i'll tell you: i have a friend in one town lies dangerously ill; the physician fears his life, but i am afraid of his soul: for i don't think he's so well prepar'd for his end as a christian should be: i'll go and give him some pious admonitions that he may be the better for, whether he lives or dies. in another town there are two men bitterly at odds, they are no ill men neither, but men of a very obstinate temper. if the matter should rise to a greater height, i am afraid it would be of ill consequence to more than themselves: i will do all i can in the world, to reconcile them; they are both my kinsmen. this is my hunting match, and if i shall have good success in it, we'll drink their healths. _ti._ a very pious hunting, indeed; we pray heartily, that not _delia_ but _christ_ would give you good success. _eu._ i had rather obtain this prey, than have two thousand ducats left me for a legacy. _ti._ will you come back quickly? _eu._ not till i have try'd every thing; therefore, i can't set a time. in the mean time, be as free with any thing of mine, as though it were your own, and enjoy yourselves. _ti._ god be with you, forward and backward. _the apotheosis of capnio._ the argument. _canonizing, or entring the incomparable man_, john reuclin, _into the number of the saints, teaches how much honour is due to famous men, who have by their industry improv'd the liberal sciences_. none that has liv'd well, dies ill. pompilius, brassicanus. _po._ where have you been, with your spatter-lashes? _br._ at _tubinga_. _po._ is there no news there? _br._ i can't but admire, that the world should run so strangely a gadding after news. i heard a _camel_ preach at _lovain_, that we should have nothing to do with any thing that is new. _po._ indeed, it is a conceit fit for a camel. that man, (if he be a man,) ought never to change his old shoes, or his shirt, and always to feed upon stale eggs, and drink nothing but sour wine. _br._ but for all this, you must know, the good man does not love old things so well, but that he had rather have his porridge fresh than stale. _po._ no more of the camel; but prithee tell me, what news have you? _br._ nay, i have news in my budget too; but news which he says is naught. _po._ but that which is new, will be old in time. now if all old things be good, and all new things be bad, then it follows of consequence, that that which is good at present, has been bad heretofore, and that which is now bad, will in time come to be good. _br._ according to the doctrine of the camel, it must be so; and therefore, hence it follows, that he that was a young wicked fool in time past, because he was new, will come to be a good one, because he is grown old. po. but prithee, let's have the news, be it what it will. _br._ the famous triple-tongu'd phoenix of learning, _john reuclin_, is departed this life. _po._ for certain? _br._ nay, it is too certain. _po._ why, pray, what harm is that, for a man to leave an immortal memory of a good name and reputation behind him, and to pass out of this miserable world, into the society of the blessed? _br._ how do you know that to be the case? _po._ it is plain, for he can't die otherwise, who has liv'd as he did. _br._ you would say so, indeed, if you knew what i know. _po._ what's that, i pray? _br._ no, no, i must not tell you. _po._ why so? _br._ because he that entrusted me with the secret, made me promise silence. _po._ do you entrust me with it upon the same condition, and, upon my honest word, i'll keep counsel. _br._ that honest word has often deceived me; but however, i'll venture; especially, it being a matter of that kind, that it is fit all honest men should know it. there is at _tubinge_, a certain _franciscan_, a man accounted of singular holiness in every bodies opinion but his own. _po._ that you mention, is the greatest argument in the world of true piety. _br._ if i should tell you his name, you'd say as much, for you know the man. _po._ what if i shall guess at him? _br._ do, if you will. _po._ hold your ear then. _br._ what needs that, when here's no body within hearing? _po._ but however, for fashion sake. _br._ 'tis the very same. _po._ he is a man of undoubted credit. if he says a thing, it is to me, as true as the gospel. _br._ mind me then, and i'll give you the naked truth of the story. my friend _reuclin_ was sick, indeed very dangerously; but yet, there was some hopes of his recovery; he was a man worthy never to grow old, be sick, or die. one morning i went to visit my franciscan, that he might ease my mind of my trouble by his discourse. for when my friend was sick, i was sick too, for i lov'd him as my own father. _po._ phoo! there's no body but lov'd him, except he were a very bad man indeed. _br._ my franciscan says to me, _brassicanus_, leave off grieving, our _reuclin_ is well. what, said i, is he well all on a sudden then? for but two days ago, the doctors gave but little hopes of him. then, says he, he is so well recover'd, that he will never be sick again. don't weep, says he, (for he saw the tears standing in my eyes) before you have heard the matter out. i have not indeed seen the man this six days, but i pray for him constantly every day that goes over my head. this morning after mattins, i laid myself upon my couch, and fell into a gentle pleasant slumber. _po._ my mind presages some joyful thing. _br._ you have no bad guess with you. methought, says he, i was standing by a little bridge, that leads into a wonderful pleasant meadow; the emerald verdure of the grass and leaves affording such a charming prospect; the infinite beauty, and variety of the flowers, like little stars, were so delightful, and every thing so fragrant, that all the fields on this side the river, by which that blessed field was divided from the rest, seem'd neither to grow, nor to be green; but look'd dead, blasted, and withered. and in the interim, while i was wholly taken up with the prospect, _reuclin_, as good luck would have it, came by; and as he past by, gave me his blessing in _hebrew_. he was gotten half way over the bridge before i perceived him, and as i was about to run to him, he look'd back, and bid me keep off. you must not come yet, says he, but five years hence, you shall follow me. in the mean time, do you stand by a spectator, and a witness of what is done. here i put in a word, says i, was _reuclin_ naked, or had he cloaths on; was he alone, or had he company? he had, says he, but one garment, and that was a very white one; you would have said, it had been a damask, of a wonderful shining white, and a very pretty boy with wings followed him, which i took to be his good genius. _po._ but had he no evil genius with him? _br._ yes, the franciscan told me he thought he had. for there followed him a great way off, some birds, that were all over black, except, that when they spread their wings, they seem'd to have feathers, of a mixture of white and carnation. he said, that by their colour and cry, one might have taken them for magpies, but that they were sixteen times as big; about the size of vultures, having combs upon their heads, with crooked beaks and gorbellies. if there had been but three of them, one would have taken them for harpyes. _po._ and what did these devils attempt to do? _br._ they kept at a distance, chattering and squalling at the hero _reuclin_, and were ready to set upon him, if they durst. _po._ what hindred them? _br._ turning upon them, and making the sign of the cross with his hand at them, he said, _be gone, ye cursed fiends to a place that's fitter for you. you have work enough to do among mortals, your madness has no power over me, that am now lifted in the roll of immortality._ the words were no sooner out of his mouth, says the franciscan, but these filthy birds took their flight, but left such a stink behind them, that a house of office would have seem'd oyl of sweet marjoram, or ointment of spikenard to it. he swore, he had rather go to hell, than snuff up such a perfume again. _po._ a curse upon these pests. _br._ but, hear what the franciscan told me besides: while i was intent upon these things, says he, st. _jerome_ was come close to the bridge, and saluted _reuclin_ in these words, _god save thee, my most holy companion, i am ordered to conduct thee to the mansions of the blessed souls above, which the divine bounty has appointed thee as a reward for thy most pious labours._ with that he took out a garment, and put it upon _reuclin_. then, said i, tell me in what habit or form st. _jerome_ appear'd, was he so old as they paint him? did he wear a cowl or a hat, or the garb of a cardinal? or had he a lion by his side? nothing of all these, said he; but his person was comely, which made his age appear such as carried in it much comeliness, but no deformity. what need had he to have a lion by his side, as he is commonly painted? his gown came down to his heels, as transparent as crystal, and of the same fashion of that he gave to _reuclin_. it was all over painted with tongues of three several colours; some imitated rubies, some emeralds, and others sapphires; and beside the clearness of it, the order set it off very much. _po._ an intimation, i suppose, of the three tongues that he profess'd. _br._ without doubt: for he said, that upon the very borders of the garments were the characters of these three languages inscrib'd in their different colours. _po._ had _jerome_ no company with him? _br._ no company, do you say? the whole field swarm'd with myriads of angels, that fill'd the air as thick, as those little corpuscles they call atoms, fly in the sun beams; pardon the meanness of the comparison. if they had not been as transparent as glass, there would have been no heaven nor earth to have been seen. _po._ o brave, i am glad with all my heart, for _reuclin_'s, sake; but what follow'd? _br. jerome_, (says he) for honour's sake, giving _reuclin_ the right-hand, and embracing him, conducts him into the meadow, and up a hill that was in the middle of it, where they kiss'd and embrac'd one another again: in the mean time, the heavens open'd over their heads to a prodigious wideness, and there appear'd a glory so unutterable, as made every thing else, that pass'd for wonderful before, to look mean and sordid. _po._ can't you give us some representation of it? br. no, how should i, that did not see it? he who did see it, says, that he was not able to express the very dream of it. he said, he would die a thousand deaths to see it over again, if it were but for one moment. _po._ how then? _br._ out of this overture of the heavens, there was let down a great pillar of fire that was transparent, and of a very pleasant form: by this the two holy souls were carried into heaven, in one anothers embraces; a choir of angels all the while accompanying them, with so charming a melody, that the franciscan says, he is never able to think of the delight of it without weeping. and after this there follow'd a wonderful fragrant smell. when he waked out of his dream, if you will call it a dream, he was just like a mad man. he would not believe he was in his cell; he called for his bridge and his meadow; he could not speak or think of any thing else but them. the seniors of the convent, when they found the story to be no fable, for it is certain that _reuclin_ dy'd at the very instant that the holy man had this vision, they unanimously gave thanks to god, that abundantly rewards good men for their good deeds. _po._ what have we to do, but to set down this holy man's name in the calendar of saints? _br._ i should have done that if the franciscan had seen nothing at all of this, and in gold letters too, i'll assure you, next to st. _jerome_ himself. _po._ and let me die if i don't put him down in my book so too. _br._ and besides that, i'll set him in gold in my little chapel, among the choicest of my saints. _po._ and if i had a fortune to my mind, i'd have him in diamonds. _br._ he shall stand in my library, the very next to st. _jerome_. _po._ and i'll have him in mine too. _br._ if they were grateful, every one who loves learning and languages, especially, the holy tongues, would do so too. _po._ truly it is no more than he deserves. but han't you some scruple upon your mind, in as much as he is not yet canoniz'd by the authority of the bishop of _rome_? _br._ why, pray, who canoniz'd (for that's the word) st. _jerome_? who canoniz'd st. _paul_, or the virgin _mary_? pray tell me whose memory is most sacred among all good men? those that by their eminent piety, and the monuments of their learning and good life, have entitled themselves to the veneration of all men; or _catherine_ of _sien_, that was sainted by _pius_ the second, in favour of the order and the city? _po._ you say true: that's the right worship, that by the will of heaven, is paid to the merits of the dead, whose benefits are always sensibly felt. _br._ and can you then deplore the death of this man? if long life be a blessing, he enjoyed it. he has left behind him immortal monuments of his vertue, and by his good works, consecrated his name to immortality. he is now in heaven, out of the reach of misfortunes, conversing with st. _jerome_ himself. _po._ but he suffer'd a great deal tho' in his life. _br._ but yet st. _jerome_ suffered more. it is a blessing to be persecuted by wicked men for being good. _po._ i confess so, and st. _jerome_ suffer'd many unworthy things from the worst of men, for the best of deeds. _br._ that which satan did formerly by the scribes and pharisees against the lord jesus, he continues still to do by pharisaical men, against good men, who have deserved well from the world by their studies. he now reaps the blessed harvest of the seed he has been sowing. in the mean time, it will be our duty, to preserve his memory sacred; to honour his name, and to address him often in some such manner as follows. _o holy soul, be thou propitious to languages, and to those that cultivate them: favour the holy tongues, and destroy evil tongues that are infected with the poison of hell._ _po._ i'll do't myself, and earnestly persuade all my friends to do it. i make no question but there will be those that will desire to have some little form of prayer, according to custom, to celebrate the memory of this most holy hero. _br._ do you mean that which they call a collect? _po._ yes. _br._ i have one ready, that i provided before his death. _po._ i pray let's hear it. _br. o god, that art the lover of mankind, that hast by thy chosen servant_ john reuclin, _renew'd to mankind the gift of tongues, by which thy holy spirit from above, did formerly furnish thy apostles for their preaching the gospel; grant that all thy people may every where, in all languages, preach the glory of thy son jesus christ, to the confounding of the tongues of false apostles; who being in a confederacy to uphold the impious tower of_ babel, _endeavour to obscure thy glory, and to advance their own, when to thee alone, together with thy only son jesus christ our lord, and the holy spirit, is due all glory to eternal ages._ amen. _po._ a most elegant and holy prayer. as i live, it shall be mine daily. and i account this a happy opportunity, that has brought me to the knowledge of so joyful a story. _br._ mayst thou long enjoy that comfort, and so farewell. _po._ fare you well too. _br._ i will fare well, but not be a cook. _a lover and maiden._ the argument. _this colloquy presents you with a very chaste wooing, mingling many philosophical notions with pleasant jokes. of not being hasty in marrying; of chusing, not only for the sake of the outward person, but the inward endowments of the mind; of the firmness of wedlock; of not contracting matrimony without the consent of parents; of living chastly in matrimony; of bringing up children piously; that the soul is not where it animates, but where it loves. the description of a deformed man. that wedlock is to be preferr'd before a single life, and is not, as it is vulgarly called, a halter. that we must not consult our affections so much as reason._ pamphilus _and_ mary. _pa._ good morrow, madam, cruel, hard heart, inflexible. _ma._ good morrow to you too, mr. _pamphilus_, as often, and as much, and by what names you please: but you seem to have forgotten my name, 'tis _mary_. _pa._ it should rather have been _martia_. _ma._ why so, pray, what is _mars_ to me? _pa._ because just as _mars_ makes a sport of killing men, so do you; saving that you do it the more cruelly of the two, because you kill one that loves you. _ma._ say you so! pray where's the great slaughter of men that i have made? where's the blood of the slain? _pa._ you may see one dead corpse before your face, if you look upon me. _ma._ what strange story is this? does a dead man talk and walk? i wish i may never meet with more frightful ghosts than you are. _pa._ ay, indeed, you make a jest of it; but for all that, you kill poor me, and more cruelly too, than if you stuck a dagger in my breast. for now i, poor wretch as i am, die a lingering death. _ma._ prithee tell me, how many women with child have miscarried at the sight of thee? _pa._ my paleness shews i have no more blood in my body than a ghost. _ma._ indeed you are as pale as a violet; you are as pale as a ripe cherry, or purple grape. _pa._ you coquet it with my misery. _ma._ if you can't believe me, look in the glass. _pa._ i would never desire a better glass, nor do i believe there is a better in the world than i am a looking in already. _ma._ what looking-glass do you mean? _pa._ your eyes. _ma._ you banterer! that's like you. but how do you prove yourself to be dead? do dead folks eat? _pa._ yes, they do; but things that have no relish, as i do. _ma._ what do they feed upon? _pa._ mallows, leeks, and lupines. _ma._ but you feed upon capons and partridges. _pa._ if i do, i relish them no more than beets without pepper or vinegar. _ma._ poor creature! but yet you're in pretty good case, for all that. and do dead folks talk too? _pa._ just as i do, with a weak voice. _ma._ but when i heard you rallying your rival a little while ago, your voice was not very low then. but, prithee, do ghosts walk, wear cloaths, and sleep? _pa._ yes, and enjoy one another too, after their manner. _ma._ thou art a merry fellow. _pa._ but what will you say, if i prove it by undeniable arguments, that i am dead, and that you have kill'd me too. _ma._ god forbid, _pamphilus_; but let's hear your arguments, however. _pa._ in the first place, i think you will grant me this, that death is only a separation of soul and body. _ma._ i grant it. _pa._ but you must grant it so as not to eat your words. _ma._ no, i will not. _pa._ you will not deny, i suppose, that the person that takes away another's life, is a murtherer. _ma._ i grant that too. _pa._ i suppose you will grant that which has been allow'd by the greatest men of many ages, that the soul of a man is not really where it animates, but where it loves. _ma._ make that a little plainer, i can't well understand it then. _pa._ you might as well bid me make an adamant sensible of it. _ma._ i am a maid, not a stone. _pa._ tis true, but harder than an adamant stone. _ma._ go on with your inferences. _pa._ those that are in a trance, do neither hear, nor see, nor smell, nor feel, if you kill them outright. _ma._ indeed i have heard so. _pa._ what do you think is the reason? _ma._ do you, philosopher, tell that. _pa._ because their mind is in heaven, where it enjoys what it dearly loves; and therefore is absent from the body. _ma._ well, what then? _pa._ what then, hard-hearted creature? then it follows, that i am dead, and you have killed me. _ma._ where is your soul then? _pa._ where it loves. _ma._ who took this soul of yours away? what do you sigh for? tell me freely: there's no hurt in it. _pa._ a cruel maid, that i could not be angry with if she kill'd me outright. _ma._ you're very good-humour'd; but why don't you take her soul from her too, and pay her in her own coin, according to the old proverb. _pa._ i should be the happiest man in the world, if i could make that exchange, that her heart would pass as wholly into my breast, as mine has into hers. _ma._ but may i play the sophister with you now? _pa._ the sophistress. _ma._ can one and the same body be both alive and dead? _pa._ not at the same time. _ma._ is the body dead, when the soul is out of it? _pa._ yes. _ma._ nor does it animate it, but when it is in it? _pa._ no, it does not. _ma._ how comes it to pass then, that when it is there where it loves, it yet animates the body it is gone out of? and if it animates when it loves any where, how is that called a dead body which it animates? _pa._ indeed, you argue very cunningly, but you shan't catch me there. that soul, which after some sort governs the body of the lover, is but improperly call'd a soul, when it is but some small remains of the soul; just as the smell of a rose remains in the hand, when the rose is gone. _ma._ i see it is a hard matter to catch a fox in a trap. but answer me this question, does not the person that kills, act? _pa._ yes. _ma._ and does not he suffer who is kill'd? _pa._ yes. _ma._ and how comes it about then, that when he that loves, acts, and she that is lov'd, suffers, she that is lov'd should be said to kill, when he that loves, rather kills himself? _pa._ nay, on the contrary, 'tis he that loves that suffers, and she is lov'd, that acts. _ma._ you will never prove that by all your grammar. _pa._ well, i'll prove it by logic then. _ma._ but do so much as answer me this one question, do you love voluntarily, or against your will? _pa._ voluntarily. _ma._ then since a person is at liberty, whether he will love or no; he that does love, is guilty of _felo de se_, and accuses a maid wrongfully. _pa._ a maid does not kill in being lov'd, but in not loving again. he is guilty of killing, that can save and don't save. _ma._ what if a young man should fall into an unlawful love, as suppose with another man's wife, or a vestal virgin? must she love him again, to save the lover? _pa._ but the young man, meaning myself, loves one whom he ought to love, and by right and good reason, and yet am murthered. if murther be a light matter, i could indict you for witchcraft too. _ma._ god forbid, do you make a _circe_ of me? _pa._ you are more barbarous than _circe_ herself, i had rather be a hog or a bear, than as i now am, half dead. _ma._ by what sort of enchantments do i kill men? _pa._ by the witchcraft of your eyes. _ma._ would you have me take my noxious eyes off of you then. _pa._ no, by no means, rather look more upon me. _ma._ if my eyes are so infectious, how comes it about they don't throw others i look upon into a consumption too? i therefore rather believe the infection is in your own eyes than mine. _pa._ is it not enough for you to kill poor _pamphilus_, but you must insult him too. _ma._ o pretty dead creature! but when must i come to your funeral? _pa._ sooner than you think for, if you don't relieve me. _ma._ can i perform such a wonderful cure? _pa._ you can raise a dead man to life again with the greatest ease imaginable. _ma._ ay, if i had the grand-elixir. _pa._ you have no need of any medicine, do but love me again. and what's easier than that? nay, what's more just? you can no other way in the world get clear of the crime of murther. _ma._ in what court must i be try'd? in the court of chancery? _pa._ no, in the court of _venus_. _ma._ they say, she is a very merciful goddess. _pa._ nay, the most severe in the world. _ma._ has she any thunderbolts? _pa._ no. _ma._ has she got a trident? _pa._ no. _ma._ has she got a spear? _pa._ no; but she is the goddess of the sea. _ma._ but i don't go to sea. _pa._ but she has a son. _ma._ youth is not very formidable. _pa._ but he is very revengeful and resolute. _ma._ what will he do to me? _pa._ what will he do? that which i can't wish to be done to one i wish so well to. god forbid i should. _ma._ tell me what it is, for i an't afraid to hear it. _pa._ well, i'll tell you then; if you slight me that love you, and am no way unworthy of your love; i shall be much mistaken if he don't by his mother's order shoot you with a venomous dart, and make you fall deeply in love with some sorry fellow or other, that would not love you again. _ma._ that's a most horrid punishment indeed. i had rather die a thousand deaths than to be so bitterly in love with an ugly man, and one that won't love me neither. _pa._ but we had a notable example of this not long since upon a certain maid. _ma._ where did she live? _pa._ at _orleans_. _ma._ how many years ago was it? _pa._ how many years! not ten months. _ma._ what was her name? what do you stick at? _pa._ nothing at all. i know her as well as i know you. _ma._ why don't you tell me her name then? _pa._ because i am afraid it is ominous. i wish she had been of some other name. she was your own namesake. _ma._ who was her father? _pa._ her father is alive at this time, and is a topping lawyer, and a rich man. _ma._ tell me his name. _pa. mauritius._ _ma._ his sirname. _pa. aglaius._ _ma._ is her mother alive? _pa._ no, she died lately. _ma._ what did she die of, say you? _pa._ why of grief, and it had like to have cost her father his life too, for all he was a man of a strong constitution. _ma._ mayn't a body know her mother's name. _pa._ yes, _sophrona_, every body knows her name. what do you mean by that question? do you think i invent a lye? _ma._ why should i think so of you? our sex is most to be suspected for that. but tell me what became of the maid? _pa._ the maid, as i told you before, came of very honest parents, had a good fortune, was very handsome, and in few words, was a match for a prince; a certain gentleman of an equal fortune courted her. _ma._ what was his name? _pa._ ah me, i can't bear the thoughts of it, his name was _pamphilus_ as well as mine. he try'd all the ways in the world to gain her good will; but she slighted all his offers. the young man pines away with grief. presently after she fell deep in love with one more like an ape than a man. _ma._ how! _pa._ ay, so wretchedly in love, that 'tis impossible to relate it. _ma._ such a pretty maid to fall in love with such an ugly fellow? _pa._ ay, with a long-visag'd, scald-headed, bald-pated, hollow-ey'd, snub-nos'd, wide-mouth'd, rotton-tooth'd, stuttering, scabby-bearded, hump-back'd, gor-belly'd, bandy-legg'd fellow. _ma._ you tell me of a mere _thersites_. _pa._ nay, they said he had but one ear, neither. _ma._ it may be he had lost the other in the war. _pa._ no, he lost it in peace. _ma._ who dar'd to cut it off? _pa. jack ketch._ _ma._ it may be his riches made amends. _pa._ over head and ears in debt. and with this husband this charming girl now spends her days, and is now and then drubb'd into the bargain. _ma._ that is a miserable story indeed. _pa._ but it is a true one. it is a just retaliation upon her, for slighting the young gentleman. _ma._ i should rather chuse to be thunder-struck than ty'd to endure such a husband. _pa._ then don't provoke justice, but love him that loves you. _ma._ well, if that will do, i do love you again. _pa._ ay, but i would have that love constant as mine own. i court a wife, not a mistress. _ma._ i suppose so, but yet we ought to be very deliberate in that which being once done, can never be undone again. _pa._ i have been deliberating too long already. _ma._ love is none of the best advisers; see that he han't impos'd upon you, for they say he is blind. _pa._ but that love has eyes in his head, that proceeds from judgment; you don't appear so amiable, only because i love you, but you are really so, and therefore i love you. _ma._ but perhaps you don't know me thoroughly. when once a shoe is on, then you'll know where it pinches. _pa._ i'll venture it, but i gather from many conjectures, that it will be happy for me. _ma._ what, are you an augur then? _pa._ yes, i am. _ma._ pray by what auguries do you prognosticate all this? what, hath the night owl appear'd luckily? _pa._ she flies for fools. _ma._ did you see a pair of pigeons on your right hand? _pa._ nothing of all this. but have for some years been satisfy'd of the honesty of your father and mother; and in the first place, that's no bad sign. nor am i ignorant how modestly and religiously you have been brought up by them, and it is a greater advantage to be honestly educated, than honourably born. and then there's another good circumstance besides, that as my parents are none of the worst, so yours and mine have been very intimate for many years, and you and i have known one another from our very childhood, as they use to say; and besides all this, our humours agree very well together. our age, fortunes, quality, and parentage are pretty equal. and last of all, that which is the chief thing in friendship, your temper seems to agree very well with mine. there are some things that may be very good in themselves that may not agree with others. how acceptable my temper may be to yours, i don't know. these are the auguries, my dear, that make me prognosticate that a marriage between you and me would be happy, lasting, comfortable and pleasant, unless you shall prevent it by a denial. _ma._ what would you have me say? _pa._ i will sing _i am thine_ first, and you shall sing _i am thine_ after me. _ma._ that indeed is but a short song, but it has a long chorus. _pa._ what signifies it how long it is, so it be a merry one. _ma._ i have that respect for you, i would not have you do what you should repent of when done. _pa._ leave off teasing me. _ma._ perhaps i shall not appear so amiable in your eye, when age or sickness have spoil'd my beauty. _pa._ no more, my dear, shall i myself be always so young and lusty. i don't only look at that blooming, lovely body of yours, but it is your guest within it i am most in love with. _ma._ what guest do you mean? _pa._ this soul of yours, whose beauty will grow as years increase. _ma._ in truth you have a very penetrating sight, if you can see that through so many coverings. _pa._ it is with the eyes of my mind that i see your mind, and then besides we shall be ever and anon renewing our age by our children. _ma._ but then i shall lose my maidenhead. _pa._ right enough; but prithee tell me, if you had a fine orchard, would you rather chuse never to have nothing but blossoms on the trees; or would you rather, that the blossoms should fall off, and see the boughs laden with ripe apples? _ma._ oh, how cunningly you can argue! _pa._ answer me but this one question, which is the finest sight, a vine lying along upon the ground and rotting, or twining round a stake or an elm-tree, loaden with ripe grapes of a curious purple colour? _ma._ and pray do you answer me this question; which is the most pleasant sight, a rose fresh and fair upon the tree, or one gathered and withering in the hand? _pa._ i look upon that the happier rose that dies in a man's hand; there delighting the sight and smell, than that which withers away upon the bush, for it would die there, if it were let alone. as that wine has the most honour done it; that is drank before it grows dead: though this is to be said, that the flower of a maid does not presently fade, as soon as she is married: nay, i have seen a great many, that before marriage look'd pale and languid, and just as if they were dropping into the ground: but having been in the embraces of a husband, they have brightened up, just as if they just then began to bloom. _ma._ but for all that, a maidenhead is accounted a fine thing. _pa._ a young virgin is indeed a pretty thing: but what's more monstrous than an old maid? if your mother had not shed that blossom, we should never have had this fine flower, yourself. and if we don't make a barren match, as i hope we shan't, there will be never a maid the less for us. _ma._ but they say chastity is very well pleasing to god. _pa._ and for that reason i would marry a chaste maid, that i may live chastly with her. the union of minds will be more than that of bodies. we'll get subjects for the king, and servants for christ, and where will the unchastity of this matrimony be? and who can tell but we may live together like _joseph_ and _mary_? and in the mean time, we'll learn to be virgins, we don't arrive at perfection all at once. _ma._ what do you talk of? is virginity to be violated, that it may be learned? _pa._ why not? as by little and little drinking wine sparingly, we learn to be abstemious. which do you think is the most temperate person, he that is sitting at a table full of delicacies, and abstains from them, or he who is out of the reach of those things that incite intemperance? _ma._ i think he is the most temperate person, that the greatest plenty can't debauch. _pa._ which is the most laudable for chastity, he that castrates himself, or he that having his members entire, forbears venery? _ma._ the latter, in my opinion: i should call the former a madman. _pa._ don't they in a manner castrate themselves, that abjure matrimony? _ma._ i think they do. _pa._ then it is no virtue to forbear coition. _ma._ is it not? _pa._ i prove it thus; if it were of itself a virtue not to copulate, it were a sin to do it: so that it follows of consequence, it is a fault not to copulate, and a virtue to do it. _ma._ when does this case happen? _pa._ as often as the husband requires his due of his wife; especially if he would embrace her for the sake of procreation. _ma._ but if it be out of wantonness? is it not lawful to deny him? _pa._ he may be admonish'd or dissuaded by soft language to forbear; but if he insists upon it, he ought not to be refus'd. but i hear very few husbands complain of their wives upon this account. _ma._ but liberty is a very sweet thing. _pa._ virginity is rather a greater burthen. i will be your king, and you shall be my queen, and we'll govern the family according to our pleasure: and do you think that a bondage? _ma._ marriage is called a halter. _pa._ they deserve a halter that call it so. pray tell me, is not your soul and body bound together? _ma._ yes, i think they are. _pa._ just like a bird in a cage; and yet, ask it if it would be freed from it, i believe it will say, no: and what's the reason of that? because it is bound by its own consent. _ma._ but we have neither of us got much of portion. _pa._ we are the safer for that, you shall add to it at home by good housewifery, and that is not without good reason said to be a great revenue, and i'll increase it abroad by my industry. _ma._ but children bring a great many cares along with them. _pa._ have done with scruples. _ma._ would you have me marry a dead man? _pa._ no, but i shall come to life again then. _ma._ well, you have removed my objection. my _pamphilus_, farewell. _pa._ do you take care of that. _ma._ i wish you a good night. why do you sigh? _pa._ a good night, say you, i wish you would give me what you wish me. _ma._ soft and fair, you are a little too hasty. _pa._ must i not carry nothing of you along with me? _ma._ this sweet ball; it will cheer your heart. _pa._ but give me a kiss too. _ma._ no, i have a mind to keep my maidenhead for you entire and untouch'd. _pa._ will a kiss take any thing from your virginity? _ma._ will you give me leave to kiss other folks? _pa._ no, by no means, i'd have my kisses kept for myself. _ma._ well, i'll keep 'em for you: but there is another reason why i dare not give you a kiss, as things are at present. _pa._ what is that? _ma._ you say your soul is gone out of your body into mine, so that there is but very little left. i am afraid that in kissing, the little that is left in you, should jump out of you into me, and so you should be quite dead. shake hands as a pledge of my love, and so farewell. do you see that you manage the matter vigorously, and i'll pray to god in the mean time, that whatsoever be done, may be for both our good. _the virgin averse to matrimony._ the argument. _a virgin averse to matrimony, will needs be a nun. she is dissuaded from it, and persuaded to moderate her inclination in that matter, and to do nothing against her parents consent, but rather to marry. that virginity may be maintain'd in a conjugal life. the monks way of living in celibacy is rally'd. children, why so call'd. he abhors those plagiaries who entice young men and maids into monasteries, as though salvation was to be had no other way; whence it comes to pass, that many great wits are as it were buried alive._ eubulus, catherine. _eub._ i am glad with all my heart, that supper is over at last, that we may have an opportunity to take a walk, which is the greatest diversion in the world. _ca._ and i was quite tir'd of sitting so long at table. _eu._ how green and charming does every thing in the world look! surely this is its youth. _ca._ ay, so it is. _eu._ but why is it not spring with you too? _ca._ what do you mean? _eu._ because you look a little dull. _ca._ why, don't i look as i use to do? _eu._ shall i show you how you look? _ca._ with all my heart. _eu._ do you see this rose, how it contracts itself, now towards night? _ca._ yes, i do see it: and what then? _eu._ why, just so you look. _ca._ a very fine comparison. _eu._ if you won't believe me, see your own face in this fountain here. what was the meaning you sat sighing at supper so? _ca._ pray don't ask questions about that which don't concern you. _eu._ but it does very much concern me, since i can't be chearful myself, without you be so too. see now, there's another sigh, and a deep one too! _ca._ there is indeed something that troubles my mind. but i must not tell it. _eu._ what, won't you tell it me, that love you more dearly than i do my own sister: my _katy_, don't be afraid to speak; be it what it will you are safe. _ca._ if i should be safe enough, yet i'm afraid i shall be never the better in telling my tale to one that can do me no good. _eu._ how do you know that? if i can't serve you in the thing itself, perhaps i may in counsel or consolation. _ca._ i can't speak it out. _eu._ what is the matter? do you hate me? _ca._ i love you more dearly than my own brother, and yet for all that my heart won't let me divulge it. _eu._ will you tell me, if i guess it? why do you quibble now? give me your word, or i'll never let you alone till i have it out. _ca._ well then, i do give you my word. _eu._ upon the whole of the matter, i can't imagine what you should want of being compleatly happy. _ca._ i would i were so. _eu._ you are in the very flower of your age: if i'm not mistaken, you are now in your seventeenth year. _ca._ that's true. _eu._ so that in my opinion the fear of old age can't yet be any part of your trouble. _ca._ nothing less, i assure you. _eu._ and you are every way lovely, and that is the singular gift of god. _ca._ of my person, such as it is, i neither glory nor complain. _eu._ and besides the habit of your body and your complexion bespeak you to be in perfect health, unless you have some hidden distemper. _ca._ nothing of that, i thank god. _eu._ and besides, your credit is fair. _ca._ i trust it is. _eu._ and you are endow'd with a good understanding suitable to the perfections of your body, and such a one as i could wish to myself, in order to my attainment of the liberal sciences. _ca._ if i have, i thank god for it. _eu._ and again, you are of a good agreeable humour, which is rarely met with in great beauties, they are not wanting neither. _ca._ i wish they were such as they should be. _eu._ some people are uneasy at the meanness of their extraction, but your parents are both of them well descended, and virtuous, of plentiful fortunes, and very kind to you. _ca._ i have nothing to complain of upon that account. _eu._ what need of many words? of all the young women in the country you are the person i would chuse for a wife, if i were in condition to pretend to't. _ca._ and i would chuse none but you for a husband, if i were dispos'd to marry. _eu._ it must needs be some extraordinary matter that troubles your mind so. _ca._ it is no light matter, you may depend upon it. _eu._ you won't take it ill i hope if i guess at it. _ca._ i have promis'd you i won't. _eu._ i know by experience what a torment love is. come, confess now, is that it? you promis'd to tell me. _ca._ there's love in the case, but not that sort of love that you imagine. _eu._ what sort of love is it that you mean? _ca._ guess. _eu._ i have guess'd all the guesses i can guess; but i'm resolv'd i'll never let go this hand till i have gotten it out of you. _ca._ how violent you are. _eu._ whatever your care is, repose it in my breast. _ca._ since you are so urgent, i will tell you. from my very infancy i have had a very strong inclination. _eu._ to what, i beseech you? _ca._ to put myself into a cloyster. _eu._ what, to be a nun? _ca._ yes. _eu._ ho! i find i was out in my notion; to leave a shoulder of mutton for a sheep's head. _ca._ what's that you say, _eubulus_? _eu._ nothing, my dear, i did but cough. but, go on, tell me it out. _ca._ this was my inclination; but my parents were violently set against it. _eu._ i hear ye. _ca._ on the other hand, i strove by intreaties, fair words, and tears, to overcome that pious aversion of my parents. _eu._ o strange! _ca._ at length when they saw i persisted in intreaties, prayers, and tears, they promis'd me that if i continu'd in the same mind till i was seventeen years of age, they would leave me to my own liberty: the time is now come, i continue still in the same mind, and they go from their words. this is that which troubles my mind. i have told you my distemper, do you be my physician, and cure me, if you can. _eu._ in the first place, my sweet creature, i would advise you to moderate your affections; and if you can't do all you would, do all that you can. _ca._ it will certainly be the death of me, if i han't my desire. _eu._ what was it that gave the first rise to this fatal resolution? _ca._ formerly, when i was a little girl, they carried me into one of those cloysters of virgins, carry'd me all about it, and shew'd me the whole college. i was mightily taken with the virgins, they look'd so charming pretty, just like angels; the chapels were so neat, and smelt so sweet, the gardens look'd so delicately well order'd, that in short which way soever i turn'd my eye every thing seem'd delightful. and then i had the prettiest discourse with the nuns. and i found two or three that had been my play-fellows when i was a child, and i have had a strange passion for that sort of life ever since. _eu._ i have no dislike to the nunneries themselves, though the same thing can never agree with all persons: but considering your genius, as far as i can gather from your complexion and manners, i should rather advise you to an agreeable husband, and set up a college in your own house, of which he should be the abbot and you the abbess. _ca._ i will rather die than quit my resolution of virginity. _eu._ nay, it is indeed an admirable thing to be a pure virgin, but you may keep yourself so without running yourself into a cloyster, from which you never can come out. you may keep your maidenhead at home with your parents. _ca._ yes, i may, but it is not so safe there. _eu._ much safer truly in my judgment there, than with those brawny, swill-belly'd monks. they are no capons, i'll assure you, whatever you may think of them. they are call'd fathers, and they commonly make good their calling to the very letter. time was when maids liv'd no where honester than at home with their parents, when the only spiritual father they had was the bishop. but, prithee, tell me, what cloyster hast thou made choice of among 'em all, to be a slave in? _ca._ the _chrysertian_. _eu._ oh! i know it, it is a little way from your father's house. _ca._ you're right. _eu._ i am very well acquainted with the whole gang. a sweet fellowship to renounce father and mother, friends, and a worthy family for! for the patriarch himself, what with age, wine, and a certain natural drowsiness, has been mop'd this many a day, he can't now relish any thing but wine; and he has two companions, _john_ and _jodocus_, that match him to a hair. and as for _john_, indeed i can't say he is an ill man, for he has nothing at all of a man about him but his beard, not a grain of learning in him, and not much more common prudence. and _jodocus_ he's so arrant a sot, that if he were not ty'd up to the habit of his order, he would walk the streets in a fool's cap with ears and bells at it. _ca._ truly they seem to me to be very good men. _eu._ but, my _kitty_, i know 'em better than you do. they will do good offices perhaps between you and your parents, that they may gain a proselyte. _ca. jodocus_ is very civil to me. _eu._ a great favour indeed. but suppose 'em good and learned men to day, you'll find 'em the contrary perhaps to morrow; and let them be what they will then, you must bear with them. _ca._ i am troubled to see so many entertainments at my father's house, and marry'd folks are so given to talk smutty; i'm put to't sometimes when men come to kiss me, and you know one can't well deny a kiss. _eu._ he that would avoid every thing that offends him, must go out of the world; we must accustom our ears to hear every thing, but let nothing enter the mind but what is good. i suppose your parents allow you a chamber to yourself. _ca._ yes, they do. _eu._ then you may retire thither, if you find the company grow troublesome; and while they are drinking and joking, you may entertain yourself with christ your spouse, praying, singing, and giving thanks: your father's house will not defile you, and you will make it the more pure. _ca._ but it is a great deal safer to be in virgins company. _eu._ i do not disapprove of a chaste society: yet i would not have you delude yourself with false imaginations. when once you come to be throughly acquainted there, and see things nearer hand, perhaps things won't look with so good a face as they did once. they are not all virgins that wear vails; believe me. _ca._ good words, i beseech you. _eu._ those are good words that are true words. i never read of but one virgin that was a mother, _i.e._ the virgin _mary_, unless the eulogy we appropriate to the virgin be transferr'd to a great many to be call'd virgins after childbearing. _ca._ i abhor the thoughts on't. _eu._ nay, and more than that, those maids, i'll assure you, do more than becomes maids to do. _ca._ ay! why so, pray? _eu._ because there are more among 'em that imitate _sappho_ in manners, than are like her in wit. _ca._ i don't very well understand you. _eu._ my dear _kitty_, i therefore speak in cypher that you may not understand me. _ca._ but my mind runs strangely upon this course of life, and i have a strong opinion that this disposition comes from god, because it hath continu'd with me so many years, and grows every day stronger and stronger. _eu._ your good parents being so violently set against it, makes me suspect it. if what you attempt were good, god would have inclined your parents to favour the motion. but you have contracted this affection from the gay things you saw when you were a child; the tittle-tattles of the nuns, and the hankering you have after your old companions, the external pomp and specious ceremonies, and the importunities of the senseless monks which hunt you to make a proselyte of you, that they may tipple more largely. they know your father to be liberal and bountiful, and they'll either give him an invitation to them, because they know he'll bring wine enough with him to serve for ten lusty soaks, or else they'll come to him. therefore let me advise you to do nothing without your parents consent, whom god has appointed your guardians. god would have inspired their minds too, if the thing you were attempting were a religious matter. _ca._ in this matter it is piety to contemn father and mother. _eu._ it is, i grant, sometimes a piece of piety to contemn father or mother for the sake of christ; but for all that, he would not act piously, that being a christian, and had a pagan to his father, who had nothing but his son's charity to support him, should forsake him, and leave him to starve. if you had not to this day profess'd christ by baptism, and your parents should forbid you to be baptis'd, you would indeed then do piously to prefer christ before your impious parents; or if your parents should offer to force you to do some impious, scandalous thing, their authority in that case were to be contemned. but what is this to the case of a nunnery? you have christ at home. you have the dictates of nature, the approbation of heaven, the exhortation of st. _paul_, and the obligation of human laws, for your obedience to parents; and will you now withdraw yourself from under the authority of good and natural parents, to give yourself up a slave to a fictitious father, rather than to your real father, and a strange mother instead of your true mother, and to severe masters and mistresses rather than parents? for you are so under your parents direction, that they would have you be at liberty wholly. and therefore sons and daughters are call'd [_liberi_] children, because they are free from the condition of servants. you are now of a free woman about to make yourself voluntarily a slave. the clemency of the christian religion has in a great measure cast out of the world the old bondage, saving only some obscure foot-steps in some few places. but there is now a days found out under pretence of religion a new sort of servitude, as they now live indeed in many monasteries. you must do nothing there but by a rule, and then all that you lose they get. if you offer to step but one step out of the door, you're lugg'd back again just like a criminal that had poison'd her father. and to make the slavery yet the more evident, they change the habit your parents gave you, and after the manner of those slaves in old time, bought and sold in the market, they change the very name that was given you in baptism, and _peter_ or _john_ are call'd _francis_, or _dominic_, or _thomas_. _peter_ first gives his name up to christ, and being to be enter'd into _dominic's_ order, he's called _thomas_. if a military servant casts off the garment his master gave him, is he not look'd upon to have renounc'd his master? and do we applaud him that takes upon him a habit that christ the master of us all never gave him? he is punish'd more severely for the changing it again, than if he had a hundred times thrown away the livery of his lord and emperor, which is the innocency of his mind. _ca._ but they say, it is a meritorious work to enter into this voluntary confinement. _eu._ that is a pharisaical doctrine. st. _paul_ teacheth us otherwise, _and will not have him that is called free, make himself a servant, but rather endeavour that he may be more free:_ and this makes the servitude the worse, that you must serve many masters, and those most commonly fools too, and debauchees; and besides that, they are uncertain, being every now and then new. but answer me this one thing, i beseech you, do any laws discharge you from your duty to your parents? _ca._ no. _eu._ can you buy or sell an estate against your parents consent? _ca._ no, i can't. _eu._ what right have you then to give away yourself to i know not whom, against your parents consent? are you not their child, the dearest and most appropriate part of their possession? _ca._ in the business of religion, the laws of nature give place. _eu._ the great point of our religion lies in our baptism: but the matter in question here is, only the changing of a habit, or of such a course of life, which in itself is neither good nor evil. and now consider but this one thing, how many valuable privileges you lose, together with your liberty. now, if you have a mind to read, pray, or sing, you may go into your own chamber, as much and as often as you please. when you have enough of retirement, you may go to church, hear anthems, prayers and sermons; and if you see any matron or virgin remarkable for piety, in whose company you may get good; if you see any man that is endow'd with singular probity, from whom you may learn what will make for your bettering, you may have their conversation; and you may chuse that preacher that preaches christ most purely. when once you come into a cloyster, all these things, that are the greatest assistances in the promotion of true piety, you lose at once. _ca._ but in the mean time i shall not be a nun. _eu._ what signifies the name? consider the thing itself. they make their boast of obedience, and won't you be praise-worthy, in being obedient to your parents, your bishop and your pastor, whom god has commanded you to obey? do you profess poverty? and may not you too, when all is in your parents hands? although the virgins of former times were in an especial manner commended by holy men, for their liberality towards the poor; but they could never have given any thing, if they had possessed nothing. nor will your charity be ever the less for living with your parents. and what is there more in a convent than these? a vail, a linnen-shift turned into a stole, and certain ceremonies, which of themselves signify nothing to the advancement of piety, and make no body more acceptable in the eyes of christ, who only regards the purity of the mind. _ca._ this is news to me. _eu._ but it is true news. when you, not being discharg'd from the government of your parents, can't dispose of, or sell so much as a rag, or an inch of ground, what right can you pretend to for disposing of yourself into the service of a stranger? _ca._ they say, that the authority of a parent does not hinder a child from entering into a religious life. _eu._ did you not make profession of religion in your baptism? _ca._ yes. _eu._ and are not they religious persons that conform to the precepts of christ? _ca._ they are so. _eu._ what new religion is that then, which makes that void, that the law of nature had establish'd? what the old law hath taught, and the gospel approv'd, and the apostles confirm'd? that is an ordinance that never came from heaven, but was hatch'd by a company of monks in their cells. and after this manner, some of them undertake to justify a marriage between a boy and a girl, though without the privity, and against the consent of their parents; if the contract be (as they phrase it) in words of the present tense. and yet that position is neither according to the dictate of nature, the law of _moses_, or the doctrine of _christ_ or his apostles. _ca._ do you think then, that i may not espouse myself to christ without my parents consent? _eu._ i say, you have espous'd him already, and so we have all. where is the woman that marries the same man twice? the question is here only about places, garments and ceremonies. i don't think duty to parents is to be abandon'd for the sake of these things; and you ought to look to it, that instead of espousing christ, you don't espouse some body else. _ca._ but i am told, that in this case it is a piece of the highest sanctity, even to contemn ones parents. _eu._ pray, require these doctors to shew you a text for it, out of the holy scriptures, that teach this doctrine; but if they can't do this, bid them drink off a good large bumper of _burgundian_ wine: that they can do bravely. it is indeed a piece of piety to fly from wicked parents to christ: but to fly from pious parents to a monkery, that is (as it too often proves) to fly from ought to stark naught. what pity is that i pray? although in old time, he that was converted from paganism to christianity, paid yet as great a reverence to his idolatrous parents, as it was possible to do without prejudice to religion itself. _ca._ are you then against the main institution of a monastick life? _eu._ no, by no means: but as i will not persuade any body against it, that is already engag'd in this sort of life, to endeavour to get out of it, so i would most undoubtedly caution all young women; especially those of generous tempers, not to precipitate themselves unadvisedly into that state from whence there is no getting out afterwards: and the rather, because their chastity is more in danger in a cloyster than out of it; and beside that, you may do whatsoever is done there as well at home. _ca._ you have indeed urg'd many, and very considerable arguments; yet this affection of mine can't be removed. _eu._ if i can't dissuade you from it, as i wish heartily i could, however, remember this one thing, that _eubulus_ told you before hand. in the mean time, out of the love i bear you, i wish your inclinations may succeed better than my counsel. _the penitent virgin._ the argument. _a virgin repenting before she had profess'd herself, goes home again to her parents. the crafty tricks of the monks are detected, who terrify and frighten unexperienced minds into their cloysters, by feign'd apparitions and visions_. eubulus, catherine. _eu._ i could always wish to have such a porter. _ca._ and i to have such visitors. _eu._ but fare you well, _kitty_. _ca._ what's the matter, do you take leave before you salute? _eu._ i did not come hither to see you cry: what's the matter, that as soon as ever you see me, the tears stand in your eyes? _ca._ why in such haste? stay a little; pray stay. i'll put on my better looks, and we'll be merry together. _eu._ what sort of cattle have we got here? _ca._ 'tis the patriarch of the college: don't go away, they have had their dose of fuddle: stay but a little while, and as soon as he is gone, we will discourse as we use to do. _eu._ well, i'll be so good natur'd as to hearken to you, though you would not to me. now we are alone, you must tell me the whole story, i would fain have it from your mouth. _ca._ now i have found by experience, of all my friends, which i took to be very wise men too, that no body gave more wise and grave advice than you, that are the youngest of 'em all. _eu._ tell me, how did you get your parents consent at last? _ca._ first, by the restless sollicitations of the monks and nuns, and then by my own importunities and tears, my mother was at length brought over; but my father stood out stiffly still: but at last being ply'd by several engines, he was prevail'd upon to yield; but yet, rather like one that was forced, than that consented. the matter was concluded in their cups, and they preach'd damnation to him, if he refus'd to let christ have his spouse. _eu._ o the villany of fools! but what then? _ca._ i was kept close at home for three days; but in the mean time there were always with me some women of the college that they call _convertites_, mightily encouraging me to persist in my holy resolution, and watching me narrowly, lest any of my friends or kindred should come at me, and make me alter my mind. in the mean while, my habit was making ready, and the provision for the feast. _eu._ how did you find yourself? did not your mind misgive you yet? _ca._ no, not at all; and yet i was so horridly frighted, that i had rather die ten times over, than suffer the same again. _eu._ what was that, pray? _ca._ it is not to be uttered. _eu._ come, tell me freely, you know i'm your friend. _ca._ will you keep counsel? _eu._ i should do that without promising, and i hope you know me better than to doubt of it. _ca._ i had a most dreadful apparition. _eu._ perhaps it was your evil genius that push'd you on to this. _ca._ i am fully persuaded it was an evil spirit. _eu._ tell me what shape it was in. was it such as we use to paint with a crooked beak, long horns, harpies claws, and swinging tail? _ca._ you make a game of it, but i had rather sink into the earth, than see such another. _eu._ and were your women sollicitresses with you then? _ca._ no, nor i would not so much as open my lips of it to them, though they sifted me most particularly about it, when they found me almost dead with the surprise. _eu._ shall i tell you what it was? _ca._ do if you can. _eu._ those women had certainly bewitch'd you, or conjur'd your brain out of your head rather. but did you persist in your resolution still, for all this? _ca._ yes, for they told me, that many were thus troubled upon their first consecrating themselves to christ; but if they got the better of the devil that bout, he'd let them alone for ever after. _eu._ well, what pomp were you carried out with? _ca._ they put on all my finery, let down my hair, and dress'd me just as if it had been for my wedding. _eu._ to a fat monk, perhaps; hem! a mischief take this cough. _ca._ i was carried from my father's house to the college by broad day-light, and a world of people staring at me. _eu._ o these scaramouches, how they know to wheedle the poor people! how many days did you continue in that holy college of virgins, forsooth? _ca._ till part of the twelfth day. _eu._ but what was it that changed your mind, that had been so resolutely bent upon it? _ca._ i must not tell you what it was, but it was something very considerable. when i had been there six days, i sent for my mother; i begged of her, and besought her, as she lov'd my life, to get me out of the college again. she would not hear on't, but bad me hold to my resolution. upon that i sent for my father, but he chid me too, telling me, that i had made him master his affections, and that now he'd make me master mine, and not disgrace him, by starting from my purpose. at last, when i saw that i could do no good with them this way, i told my father and mother both, that to please them, i would submit to die, and that would certainly be my fate, if they did not take me out, and that very quickly too; and upon this, they took me home. _eu._ it was very well that you recanted before you had profess'd yourself for good and all: but still, i don't hear what it was changed your mind so suddenly. _ca._ i never told any mortal yet, nor shall. _eu._ what if i should guess? _ca._ i'm sure you can't guess it; and if you do, i won't tell you. _eu._ well, for all that, i guess what it was. but in the mean time, you have been at a great charge. _ca._ above 400 crowns. _eu._ o these guttling nuptials! well, but i am glad though the money is gone, that you're safe: for the time to come, hearken to good counsel when it is given you. _ca._ so i will. _the burnt child dreads the fire._ _the uneasy wife._ the argument. _this colloquy, entitled_, the uneasy wife: _or_, uxor [greek: mempsigamos], _treats of many things that relate to the mutual nourishment of conjugal affection. concerning the concealing a husband's faults; of not interrupting conjugal benevolence; of making up differences; of mending a husband's manners; of a woman's condescension to her husband. what is the beauty of a woman; she disgraces herself, that disgraces her husband; that the wife ought to submit to the husband; that the husband ought not to be out of humour when the wife is; and on the contrary; that they ought to study mutual concord, since there is no room for advice; that they ought to conceal one another's faults, and not expose one another; that it is in the power of the wife to mend her husband; that she ought to carry herself engagingly, learn his humour, what provokes him or appeases him; that all things be in order at home; that he have what he likes best to eat; that if the husband be vext, the wife don't laugh; if he be angry, that she should speak pleasantly to him, or hold her tongue; that what she blames him for, should be betwixt themselves; the method of admonishing; that she ought to make her complaint to no body but her husband's parents; or to some peculiar friends that have an influence upon him. the example of a prudent man, excellently managing a young morose wife, by making his complaint to her father. another of a prudent wife, that by her good carriage reformed a husband that frequented leud company, another of a man that had beaten his wife in his angry fit; that husbands are to be overcome, brought into temper by mildness, sweetness, and kindness; that there should be no contention in the chamber or in the bed; but that care should be taken, that nothing but pleasantness and engagingness be there. the girdle of_ venus _is agreeableness of manners. children make a mutual amity. that a woman separated from her husband, is nothing: let her always be mindful of the respect that is due to a husband._ eulalia, xantippe. _eu._ most welcome _xantippe_, a good morning to you. _xa._ i wish you the same, my dear _eulalia_. methinks you look prettier than you use to do. _eu._ what, do you begin to banter me already? _xa._ no, upon my word, for you seem so to me. _eu._ perhaps then my new cloaths may set me off to advantage. _xa._ you guess right, it is one of the prettiest suits i ever beheld in all my life. it is _english_ cloth, i suppose. _eu._ it is indeed of _english_ wool, but it is a _venetian_ dye. _xa._ it is as soft as silk, and 'tis a charming purple. who gave you this fine present? _eu._ my husband. from whom should a virtuous wife receive presents but from him? _xa._ well, you are a happy woman, that you are, to have such a good husband. for my part, i wish i had been married to a mushroom when i was married to my _nick_. _eu._ why so, pray? what! is it come to an open rupture between you already? _xa._ there is no possibility of agreeing with such a one as i have got. you see what a ragged condition i am in; so he lets me go like a dowdy! may i never stir, if i an't asham'd to go out of doors any whither, when i see how fine other women are, whose husbands are nothing nigh so rich as mine is. _eu._ the ornament of a matron does not consist in fine cloaths or other deckings of the body, as the apostle _peter_ teaches, for i heard that lately in a sermon; but in chaste and modest behaviour, and the ornaments of the mind. whores are trick'd up to take the eyes of many but we are well enough drest, if we do but please our own husbands. _xa._ but mean while this worthy tool of mine, that is so sparing toward his wife, lavishly squanders away the portion i brought along with me, which by the way was not a mean one. _eu._ in what? _xa._ why, as the maggot bites, sometimes at the tavern, sometimes upon his whores, sometimes a gaming. _eu._ o fie, you should never say so of your husband. _xa._ but i'm sure 'tis too true; and then when he comes home, after i have been waiting for him till i don't know what time at night, as drunk as _david's_ sow, he does nothing but lye snoring all night long by my side, and sometimes bespues the bed too, to say nothing more. _eu._ hold your tongue: you disgrace yourself in disgracing your husband. _xa._ let me dye, if i had not rather lye with a swine than such a husband as i have got. _eu._ don't you scold at him then? _xa._ yes, indeed, i use him as he deserves. he finds i have got a tongue in my head. _eu._ well, and what does he say to you again? _xa._ at first he used to hector at me lustily, thinking to fright me with his big words. _eu._ well, and did your words never come to downright blows? _xa._ once, and but once, and then the quarrel rose to that height on both sides, that we were within an ace of going to fisty-cuffs. _eu._ how, woman! say you so? _xa._ he held up his stick at me, swearing and cursing like a foot-soldier, and threatening me dreadfully. _eu._ were not you afraid then? _xa._ nay, i snatch'd up a three legg'd stool, and if he had but touch'd me with his finger, he should have known he had to do with a woman of spirit. _eu._ ah! my _xantippe_, that was not becoming. _xa._ what becoming? if he does not use me like a wife, i won't use him like a husband. _eu._ but st. _paul_ teaches, that wives ought to be subject to their own husbands with all reverence. and st. _peter_ proposes the example of _sarah_ to us, who call'd her husband _abraham_ lord. _xa._ i have heard those things, but the same _paul_ likewise teaches that _men should love their wives as christ lov'd his spouse the church_. let him remember his duty and i'll remember mine. _eu._ but nevertheless when things are come to that pass that one must submit to the other, it is but reasonable that the wife submit to her husband. _xa._ yes indeed, if he deserves the name of a husband who uses me like a kitchen wench. _eu._ but tell me, _xantippe_, did he leave off threatening after this? _xa._ he did leave off, and it was his wisdom so to do, or else he would have been thresh'd. _eu._ but did not you leave off scolding at him? _xa._ no, nor never will. _eu._ but what does he do in the mean time? _xa._ what! why sometimes he pretends himself to be fast asleep, and sometimes does nothing in the world but laugh at me; sometimes he catches up his fiddle that has but three strings, scraping upon it with all his might, and drowns the noise of my bawling. _eu._ and does not that vex you to the heart? _xa._ ay, so that it is impossible to be express'd, so that sometimes i can scarce keep my hands off of him. _eu._ well, my _xantippe_, give me leave to talk a little freely with you. _xa._ i do give you leave. _eu._ nay, you shall use the same freedom with me. our intimacy, which has been in a manner from our very cradles, requires this. _xa._ you say true, nor was there any of my playfellows that i more dearly lov'd than you. _eu._ let your husband be as bad as bad can be, think upon this, that there is no changing. heretofore, indeed, divorce was a remedy for irreconcilable disagreements, but now this is entirely taken away: he must be your husband and you his wife to the very last day of life. _xa._ the gods did very wrong that depriv'd us of this privilege. _eu._ have a care what you say. it was the will of christ. _xa._ i can scarce believe it. _eu._ it is as i tell you. now you have nothing left to do but to study to suit your tempers and dispositions one to another, and agree together. _xa._ do you think, i can be able to new-make him? _eu._ it does not a little depend upon the wives, what men husbands shall be. _xa._ do you and your husband agree very well together? _eu._ all is quiet with us now. _xa._ well then, you had some difference at first. _eu._ never any thing of a storm; but yet, as it is common with human kind, sometimes a few small clouds would rise, which might have produc'd a storm, if it had not been prevented by condescention. every one has his humours, and every one their fancies, and if we would honestly speak the truth, every one his faults, more or less, which if in any state, certainly in matrimony we ought to connive at, and not to hate. _xa._ you speak very right. _eu._ it frequently happens that that mutual love that ought to be between the husband and wife is cooled before they come to be throughly acquainted one with another. this is the first thing that ought to be provided against; for when a spirit of dissention is once sprung up, it is a difficult matter to bring them to a reconciliation, especially if it ever proceeded so far as to come to reproachful reflections. those things that are joined together with glue, are easily pull'd one from another if they be handled roughly as soon as done, but when once they have been fast united together, and the glue is dry, there is nothing more firm. for this reason, all the care possible is to be taken that good will between man and wife be cultivated and confirmed even in the infancy of matrimony. this is principally effected by obsequiousness, and an agreeableness of tempers. for that love that is founded only upon beauty, is for the most part but short-liv'd. _xa._ but prithee tell me by what arts you brought your husband to your humour. _eu._ i'll tell you for this end, that you may copy after me. _xa._ well, i will, if i can. _eu._ it will be very easy to do, if you will; nor is it too late yet; for he is in the flower of his youth, and you are but a girl; and as i take it, have not been married this twelve months yet. _xa._ you are very right. _eu._ then i'll tell you; but upon condition, that you'll not speak of it. _xa._ well, i will not. _eu._ it was my first care that i might please my husband in every respect, that nothing might give him offence. i diligently observed his inclinations and temper, and also observed what were his easiest moments, what things pleas'd him, and what vex'd him, as they use to do who tame _elephants_ and _lions_, or such sort of creatures, that can't be master'd by downright strength. _xa._ and such an animal have i at home. _eu._ those that go near elephants, wear no garment that is white; nor those who manage bulls, red; because it is found by experience, that these creatures are made fierce by these colours, just as tygers are made so raging mad by the sound of a drum, that they will tear their own selves; and jockies have particular sounds, and whistles, and stroakings, and other methods to sooth horses that are mettlesome: how much more does it become us to use these acts towards our husbands, with whom, whether we will or no, we must live all our lives at bed and board? _xa._ well, go on with what you have begun. _eu._ having found out his humour, i accommodated myself to him, taking care that nothing should offend him. _xa._ how could you do that? _eu._ i was very diligent in the care of my family, which is the peculiar province of women, that nothing was neglected, and that every thing should be suitable to his temper, altho' it were in the most minute things. _xa._ what things? _eu._ suppose my husband peculiarly fancied such a dish of meat, or liked it dress'd after such a manner; or if he lik'd his bed made after such or such a manner. _xa._ but how could you humour one who was never at home, or was drunk? _eu._ have patience, i was coming to that point. if at any time my husband seem'd to be melancholy, and did not much care for talking, i did not laugh, and put on a gay humour, as some women are us'd to do; but i put on a grave demure countenance, as well as he. for as a looking-glass, if it be a true one, represents the face of the person that looks into it, so a wife ought to frame herself to the temper of her husband, not to be chearful when he is melancholy, nor be merry when he is in a passion. and if at any time he was in a passion, i either endeavoured to sooth him with fair words, or held my tongue till his passion was over; and having had time to cool, opportunity offered, either of clearing myself, or of admonishing him. i took the same method, if at any time he came home fuddled, and at such a time never gave him any thing but tender language, that by kind expressions, i might get him to go to bed. _xa._ that is indeed a very unhappy portion for wives, if they must only humour their husbands, when they are in a passion, and doing every thing that they have a mind to do. _eu._ as tho' this duty were not reciprocal, and that our husbands are not forc'd to bear with many of our humours: however, there is a time, when a wife may take the freedom in a matter of some importance to advise her husband; but as for small faults, it is better to wink at them. _xa._ but what time is that? _eu._ when his mind is serene; when he's neither in a passion, nor in the hippo, nor in liquor; then being in private, you may kindly advise him, but rather intreat him, that he would act more prudently in this or that matter, relating either to his estate, reputation, or health. and this very advice is to be season'd with witty jests and pleasantries. sometimes by way of preface, i make a bargain with him before-hand, that he shall not be angry with me, if being a foolish woman, i take upon me to advise him in any thing, that might seem to concern his honour, health, or preservation. when i have said what i had a mind to say, i break off that discourse, and turn it into some other more entertaining subject. for, my _xantippe_, this is the fault of us women, that when once we have begun, we don't know when to make an end. _xa._ why, so they say, indeed. _eu._ this chiefly i observed as a rule, never to chide my husband before company, nor to carry any complaints out of doors. what passes between two people, is more easily made up, than when once it has taken air. now if any thing of that kind shall happen, that cannot be born with, and that the husband can't be cur'd by the admonition of his wife, it is more prudent for the wife to carry her complaints to her husband's parents and kindred, than to her own; and so to soften her complaint, that she mayn't seem to hate her husband, but her husband's vices: and not to blab out all neither, that her husband may tacitly own and love his wife for her civility. _xa._ a woman must needs be a philosopher, who can be able to do this. _eu._ by this deportment we invite our husbands to return the civility. _xa._ but there are some brutes in the world, whom you cannot amend, by the utmost good carriage. _eu._ in truth, i don't think it: but put the case there are: first, consider this; a husband must be born with, let him be as bad as he will. it is better therefore to bear with him as he is, or made a little better by our courteous temper, than by our outrageousness to make him grow every day worse and worse. what if i should give instances of husbands, who by the like civil treatment have altered their spouses much for the better? how much more does it become us to use our husbands after this manner? _xa._ you will give an instance then of a man, that is as unlike my husband, as black is from white. _eu._ i have the honour to be acquainted with a gentleman of a noble family; learned, and of singular address and dexterity; he married a young lady, a virgin of seventeen years of age, that had been educated all along in the country in her father's house, as men of quality love to reside in the country, for the sake of hunting and fowling: he had a mind to have a raw unexperienc'd maid, that he might the more easily form her manners to his own humour. he began to instruct her in literature and musick, and to use her by degrees to repeat the heads of sermons, which she heard, and to accomplish her with other things, which would afterwards be of use to her. now these things being wholly new to the girl, which had been brought up at home, to do nothing but gossip and play, she soon grew weary of this life, she absolutely refus'd to submit to what her husband requir'd of her; and when her husband press'd her about it, she would cry continually, sometimes she would throw herself flat on the ground, and beat her head against the ground, as tho' she wish'd for death. her husband finding there was no end of this, conceal'd his resentment, gave his wife an invitation to go along with him into the country to his father-in-law's house, for the sake of a little diversion. his wife very readily obey'd him in this matter. when they came there, the husband left his wife with her mother and sisters, and went a hunting with his father-in-law; there having taken him aside privately, he tells his father-in-law, that whereas he was in good hopes to have had an agreeable companion of his daughter, he now had one that was always a crying, and fretting herself; nor could she be cured by any admonitions, and intreats him to lend a helping hand to cure his daughter's disorder. his father-in-law made him answer, that he had once put his daughter into his hand, and if she did not obey him, he might use his authority, and cudgel her into a due submission. the son-in-law replies, i know my own power, but i had much rather she should be reform'd by your art or authority, than to come to these extremities. the father-in-law promis'd him to take some care about the matter: so a day or two after, he takes a proper time and place, when he was alone with his daughter, and looking austerely upon her, begins in telling her how homely she was, and how disagreeable as to her disposition, and how often he had been in fear that he should never be able to get her a husband: but after much pains, says he, i found you such a one, that the best lady of the land would have been glad of; and yet, you not being sensible what i have done for you, nor considering that you have such a husband, who if he were not the best natur'd man in the world, would scarce do you the honour to take you for one of his maid servants, you are disobedient to him: to make short of my story, the father grew so hot in his discourse, that he seem'd to be scarce able to keep his hands off her; for he was so wonderful cunning a man, that he would act any part, as well as any comedian. the young lady, partly for fear, and partly convinc'd by the truth of what was told her, fell down at her father's feet, beseeching him to forget past faults, and for the time to come, she would be mindful of her duty. her father freely forgave her, and also promised, that he would be to her a very indulgent father, provided she perform'd what she promis'd. _xa._ well, what happened after that? _eu._ the young lady going away, after her fathers discourse was ended, went directly into her chamber, and finding her husband alone, she fell down on her knees, and said, husband, till this very moment, i neither knew you nor myself; but from this time forward, you shall find me another sort of person; only, i intreat you to forget what is past. the husband receiv'd this speech with a kiss, and promised to do every thing she could desire, if she did but continue in that resolution. _xa._ what! did she continue in it? _eu._ even to her dying day; nor was any thing so mean, but she readily and chearfully went about it, if her husband would have it so. so great a love grew, and was confirm'd between them. some years after, the young lady would often congratulate herself, that she had happen'd to marry such a husband, which had it not happen'd, said she, i had been the most wretched woman alive. _xa._ such husbands are as scarce now a days as white crows. _eu._ now if it will not be tedious to you, i'll tell you a story, that lately happen'd in this city, of a husband that was reclaimed by the good management of his wife. _xa._ i have nothing to do at present, and your conversation is very diverting. _eu._ there is a certain gentleman of no mean descent; he, like the rest of his quality, used often to go a hunting: being in the country, he happen'd to see a young damsel, the daughter of a poor old woman, and began to fall desperately in love with her. he was a man pretty well in years; and for the sake of this young maid, he often lay out a nights, and his pretence for it was hunting. his wife, a woman of an admirable temper, suspecting something more than ordinary, went in search to find out her husband's intrigues, and having discover'd them, by i can't tell what method, she goes to the country cottage, and learnt all the particulars where he lay, what he drank, and what manner of entertainment he had at table. there was no furniture in the house, nothing but naked walls. the gentlewoman goes home, and quickly after goes back again, carrying with her a handsome bed and furniture, some plate and money, bidding them to treat him with more respect, if at any time he came there again. a few days after, her husband steals an opportunity to go thither, and sees the furniture increas'd, and finds his entertainment more delicate than it us'd to be; he enquir'd from whence this unaccustomed finery came: they said, that a certain honest gentlewoman of his acquaintance, brought these things; and gave them in charge, that he should be treated with more respect for the future. he presently suspected that this was done by his wife. when he came home, he ask'd her if she had been there. she did not deny it. then he ask'd her for what reason she had sent thither that household furniture? my dear, says she, you are us'd to a handsomer way of living: i found that you far'd hardly there, i thought it my duty, since you took a fancy to the place, that your reception should be more agreeable. _xa._ a wife good even to an excess. i should sooner have sent him a bundle of nettles and thorns, than furnish'd him with a fine bed. _eu._ but hear the conclusion of my story; the gentleman was so touch'd, seeing so much good nature and temper in his wife, that he never after that violated her bed, but solaced himself with her at home. i know you know _gilbert_ the _dutchman_. _xa._ i know him. _eu._ he, you know, in the prime of his age, marry'd a gentlewoman well stricken in years, and in a declining age. _xa._ it may be he marry'd the portion, and not the woman. _eu._ so it was. he having an aversion to his wife, was over head and ears in love with a young woman, with whom he us'd ever and anon to divert himself abroad. he very seldom either din'd or supp'd at home. what would you have done, if this had been your case, _xantippe_? _xa._ why i would have torn his beloved strumpet's headcloths off, and i would have wash'd him well with a chamber-pot, when he was going to her, that he might have gone thus perfum'd to his entertainment. _eu._ but how much more prudently did this gentlewoman behave herself. she invited his mistress home to her house, and treated her with all the civility imaginable. so she kept her husband without any magical charms. and if at any time he supp'd abroad with her, she sent them thither some nicety or other, desiring them to be merry together. _xa._ as for me, i would sooner chuse to lose my life than to be bawd to my own husband. _eu._ but in the mean time, pray consider the matter soberly and coolly. was not this much better, than if she had by her ill temper totally alienated her husband's affections from her, and spent her whole life in quarrelling and brawling. _xa._ i believe, that of two evils it was the least, but i could never have submitted to it. _eu._ i will add one more, and then i'll have done with examples. a next door neighbour of ours is a very honest, good man, but a little too subject to passion. one day he beat his wife, a woman of commendable prudence. she immediately withdrew into a private room, and there gave vent to her grief by tears and sighs. soon after upon some occasion her husband came into the room, and found his wife all in tears. what's the matter, says he, that you're crying and sobbing like a child? to which she prudently reply'd, why, says she, is it not much better to lament my misfortune here, than if i should make a bawling in the street, as other women do? the man's mind was so overcome and mollified by this answer, so like a wife, that giving her his hand, he made a solemn promise to his wife, he would never lay his hand upon her after, as long as he liv'd. nor did he ever do it. _xa._ i have obtain'd as much from my husband, but by a different conduct. _eu._ but in the mean time there are perpetual wars between you. _xa._ what then would you have me to do? _eu._ if your husband offers you any affront, you must take no notice of it, but endeavour to gain his good will by all good offices, courteous carriage, and meekness of spirit, and by these methods, you will in time, either wholly reclaim him, or at least you will live with him much more easy than now you do. _xa._ ay, but he's too ill-natur'd to be wrought upon by all the kind offices in the world. _eu._ hold, don't say so, there is no beast that is so savage but he may be tam'd by good management; therefore don't despair of it as to a man. do but make the experiment for a few months, and if you do not find that this advice has been of benefit to you, blame me. and there are also some faults that you must wink at; but above all things, it is my opinion, you ought to avoid ever to begin any quarrel either in the bed-chamber, or in bed, and to take a special care that every thing there be chearful and pleasant. for if that place which is consecrated for the wiping out old miscarriages and the cementing of love, comes to be unhallowed by contention and sourness of temper, all remedy for the reconcilement is taken away. for there are some women of so morose tempers that they will be querulous, and scold even while the rites of love are performing, and will by the uneasiness of their tempers render that fruition itself disagreeable which is wont to discharge the minds of men from any heart-burning, that they may have had; and by this means they spoil that cordial, by which misunderstandings in matrimony might be cured. _xa._ that has been often my case. _eu._ and tho' it ought always to be the care of a wife, not to make her husband uneasy in any thing; yet that ought to be especially her care to study, in conjugal embraces to render herself by all ways possible, agreeable and delightful to her husband. _xa._ to a man, indeed! but i have to do with an untractable beast. _eu._ come, come, leave off railing. for the most part husbands are made bad, by our bad conduct. but to return to our argument, those that are conversant in the antient fables of the poets, tell you that _venus_, (whom they make a goddess, that presides over matrimony) had a girdle or _cestus_ which was made for her by _vulcan's_ art, in which were interwoven all bewitching ingredients of an amorous medicament, and that she put this on whenever she went to bed to her husband. _xa._ i hear a fable. _eu._ it is true: but hear the moral of it. _xa._ tell it me. _eu._ that teaches that a wife ought to use all the care imaginable to be so engaging to her husband in conjugal embraces, that matrimonial affection may be retain'd and renew'd, and if there has been any distaste or aversion, it may be expell'd the mind. _xa._ but where can a body get this girdle? _eu._ there is no need of witchcrafts and spells to procure one. there is no enchantment so effectual as virtue, join'd with a sweetness of disposition. _xa._ i can't be able to bring myself to humour such a husband as i have got. _eu._ but this is for your interest, that he would leave off to be such a bad husband. if you could by _circe_'s art transform your husband into a swine or a bear, would you do it? _xa._ i can't tell, whether i should or no. _eu._ which had you rather have, a swine to your husband, or a man? _xa._ in truth, i had rather have a man. _eu._ well, come on. what if you could by _circe_'s arts make him a sober man of a drunkard, a frugal man of a spendthrift, a diligent man of an idle fellow, would you not do it? _xa._ to be sure, i would do it. but how shall i attain the art? _eu._ you have the art in yourself, if you would but make use of it. whether you will or no he must be your husband, and the better man you make him, the more you consult your own advantage. you only keep your eyes fix'd upon his faults, and those aggravate your aversion to him; and only hold him by this handle, which is such a one that he cannot be held by; but rather take notice of what good qualities he has, and hold him by this handle, which is a handle he may be held by: before you married him, you had time of considering what his defects were. a husband is not to be chosen by the eyes only, but by the ears too. now 'tis your time to cure him, and not to find fault with him. _xa._ what woman ever made choice of a husband by her ears? _eu._ she chuses a husband by her eyes, which looks at nothing else but his person and bare outside: she chuses him by her ears, who carefully observes what reputation he has in the world. _xa._ this is good advice, but it is too late. _eu._ but it is not too late to endeavour to amend your husband. it will contribute something to the matter, if you could have any children by him. _xa._ i have had one. _eu._ when? _xa._ a long time ago. _eu._ how many months? _xa._ why, about seven. _eu._ what do i hear! you put me in mind of the joke of the three months lying in. _xa._ by no means. _eu._ it must be so, if you reckon from the day of marriage. _xa._ but i had some private discourse with him before marriage. _eu._ are children got by talking? _xa._ he having by chance got me into a room by myself, began to play with me, tickling me about the arm-pits and sides, to make me laugh, and i not being able to bear being tickled any longer, threw myself flat upon the bed, and he lying upon me, kiss'd me, and i don't know what he did to me besides; but this is certain, within a few days after, my belly began to swell. _eu._ get you gone now, and slight a husband, who if he can get children jesting, what will he do if he sets about it in earnest? _xa._ i suspect that i am now with child by him again. _eu._ o brave! to a good soil, here's a good ploughman to till it. _xa._ as to this affair, he's better than i wish he was. _eu._ very few wives have this complaint to make: but, i suppose, the marriage contract was made between you, before this happened. _xa._ it was made. _eu._ then the sin was so much the less. is your child a boy? _xa._ it is. _eu._ that will reconcile you both, if you will but qualify yourself a little for it. what sort of character do your husband's companions give him? and what company does he keep when he is abroad? _xa._ they give him the character of an exceeding good-humour'd, courteous, generous man, and a true friend to his friend. _eu._ these things give me great hopes, that he will become such as we would have him be. _xa._ but i am the only person he is not so to. _eu._ do you but be to him what i have told you, and if he does not begin to be so to you, instead of _eulalia_ (a good speaker), call me _pseudolalia_ (a prating liar); and besides, consider this, that he's but a young man yet, i believe not above twenty-four years of age, and does not yet know what it is to be the master of a family. you must never think of a divorce now. _xa._ but i have thought on it a great many times. _eu._ but if ever that thought comes into your mind again, first of all consider with yourself, what an insignificant figure a woman makes when she is parted from her husband. it is the greatest glory of a matron, to be obedient to her husband. this nature dictates, and it is the will of god, that the woman should wholly depend upon her husband: only think, as it really is, he is your husband, you cannot have another. then call to mind that the little boy belongs to you both. what would you do with him? would you take him away with you? then will you defraud your husband of his own. will you leave him to him? then you will deprive yourself of that, than which nothing is more dear. last of all, tell me, is there any body that wishes you ill? _xa._ i have a step-mother, and a mother-in-law, as like her as may be. _eu._ and they wish you ill, do they? _xa._ they wish me in my grave. _eu._ then think of them likewise. what can you be able to do, that would be more grateful to them, than if they should see you divorc'd from your husband; a widow, nay, to live, a widow bewitcht, worse than a widow? for widows may marry again. _xa._ i approve of your advice; but can't bear the thoughts of being always a slave. _eu._ recount what pains you took before you could teach that parrot to prattle. _xa._ a great deal indeed. _eu._ and yet you think much to bestow a little pains to mould your husband, with whom you may live a pleasant life all your days. what a deal of pains do men take to render a horse tractable to them: and shall we think much to take a little pains to render our husbands more agreeable? _xa._ what must i do? _eu._ i have told you already, take care that all things be neat, and in order at home, that there be nothing discomposing, to make him go out of doors; behave yourself easy and free to him, always remembring that respect which is due from a wife to a husband. let all melancholy and ill-tim'd gaiety be banished out of doors; be not morose nor frolicksome. let your table be handsomely provided. you know your husband's palate, dress that which he likes best. behave yourself courteously and affably to those of his acquaintance he respects. invite them frequently to dinner; let all things be pleasant and chearful at table. lastly, if at any time he happens to come home a little merry with wine, and shall fall to playing on his fiddle, do you sing, to him, so you will gradually inure your husband to keep at home, and also lessen his expences: for he will thus reason with himself; was not i mad with a witness, who live abroad with a nasty harlot, to the apparent prejudice of my estate and reputation, when i have at home a wife much more entertaining and affectionate to me, with whom i may be entertained more handsomely and more plentifully? _xa._ do you think i shall succeed, if i try? _eu._ look to me for that. i engage that you will: in the mean time i'll talk to your husband, and put him in mind of his duty. _xa._ i approve of your design; but take care that he mayn't discover any thing of what has past between us two, for he would throw the house out of the windows. _eu._ don't fear, i'll order my discourse so by turnings and windings, that he shall tell me himself, what quarrels have happened between you. when i have brought this about, i'll treat him after my way, as engagingly as can be, and i hope, shall render him to you better temper'd: i'll likewise take occasion to tell a lie or two in your favour, how lovingly and respectfully you spoke of him. _xa._ heaven prosper both our undertakings. _eu._ it will, i doubt not, if you are not wanting to yourself. _the soldier and carthusian._ the argument. _this colloquy sets out to the life, the madness of young men that run into the wars, and the life of a pious carthusian, which without the love of study, can't but be melancholy and unpleasant. the manners of soldiers, the manners and diet of carthusians. advice in chusing a way of getting a livelihood. the conveniency of a single life, to be at leisure for reading and meditation. wicked soldiers oftentimes butcher men for a pitiful reward. the daily danger of a soldier's life._ _the_ soldier _and_ carthusian. _sol._ good morrow, my brother. _cart._ good morrow to you, dear cousin. _sol._ i scarce knew you. _cart._ am i grown so old in two years time? _sol._ no; but your bald crown, and your new dress, make you look to me like another sort of creature. _cart._ it may be you would not know your own wife, if she should meet you in a new gown. _sol._ no; not if she was in such a one as yours. _cart._ but i know you very well, who are not altered as to your dress; but your face, and the whole habit of your body: why, how many colours are you painted with? no bird had ever such a variety of feathers. how all is cut and slash'd! nothing according to nature or fashion! your cut hair, your half-shav'd beard, and that wood upon your upper lip, entangled and standing out straggling like the whiskers of a cat. nor is it one single scar that has disfigured your face, that you may very well be taken for one of the _samian literati_, [q.d. burnt in the cheek] concerning whom there is a joking proverb. _sol._ thus it becomes a man to come back from the wars. but, pray, tell me, was there so great a scarcity of good physicians in this quarter of the world? _cart._ why do you ask? _sol._ because you did not get the distemper of your brain cur'd, before you plung'd yourself into this slavery. _cart._ why, do you think i was mad then? _sol._ yes, i do. what occasion was there for you to be buried here, before your time, when you had enough in the world to have lived handsomely upon? _cart._ what, don't you think i live in the world now? _sol._ no, by _jove_. _cart._ tell me why. _sol._ because you can't go where you list. you are confin'd in this place as in a coop. besides, your bald pate, and your prodigious strange dress, your lonesomeness, your eating fish perpetually, so that i admire you are not turn'd into a fish. _cart._ if men were turn'd into what they eat, you had long ago been turn'd into a hog, for you us'd to be a mighty lover of pork. _sol._ i don't doubt but you have repented of what you have done, long enough before now, for i find very few that don't repent of it. _cart._ this usually happens to those who plunge themselves headlong into this kind of life, as if they threw themselves into a well; but i have enter'd into it warily and considerately, having first made trial of myself, and having duly examined the whole ratio of this way of living, being twenty-eight years of age, at which time, every one may be suppos'd to know himself. and as for the place, you are confined in a small compass as well as i, if you compare it to the extent of the whole world. nor does it signify any thing how large the place is, as long as it wants nothing of the conveniences of life. there are many that seldom stir out of the city in which they were born, which if they were prohibited from going out, would be very uneasy, and would be wonderfully desirous to do it. this is a common humour, that i am not troubled with. i fancy this place to be the whole world to me, and this map represents the whole globe of the earth, which i can travel over in thought with more delight and security than he that sails to the new-found islands. _sol._ what you say as to this, comes pretty near the truth. _cart._ you can't blame me for shaving my head, who voluntarily have your own hair clipp'd, for conveniency sake. shaving, to me, if it does nothing else, certainly keeps my head more clean, and perhaps more healthful too. how many noblemen at _venice_ shave their heads all over? what has my garment in it that is monstrous? does it not cover my body? our garments are for two uses, to defend us from the inclemency of the weather, and to cover our nakedness. does not this garment answer both these ends? but perhaps the colour offends you. what colour is more becoming christians than that which was given to all in baptism? it has been said also, _take a white garment_; so that this garment puts me in mind of what i promised in baptism, that is, the perpetual study of innocency. and besides, if you call that solitude which is only a retiring from the crowd, we have for this the example, not only of our own, but of the ancient prophets, the _ethnick_ philosophers, and all that had any regard to the keeping a good conscience. nay, poets, astrologers, and persons devoted to such-like arts, whensoever they take in hand any thing that's great and beyond the sphere of the common people, commonly betake themselves to a retreat. but why should you call this kind of life solitude? the conversation of one single friend drives away the tædium of solitude. i have here more than sixteen companions, fit for all manner of conversation. and besides, i have friends who come to visit me oftner than i would have them, or is convenient do i then, in your opinion, live melancholy? _sol._ but you cannot always have these to talk with. _cart._ nor is it always expedient: for conversation is the pleasanter, for being something interrupted. _sol._ you don't think amiss; for even to me myself, flesh relishes much better after lent. _cart._ and more than that, when i seem to be most alone, i don't want companions, which are by far more delightful and entertaining than those common jesters. _sol._ where are they? _cart._ look you, here are the four evangelists. in this book he that so pleasantly commun'd with the two disciples in the way going to _emaus_, and who by his heavenly discourse caus'd them not to be sensible of the fatigue of their journey, but made their hearts burn within them with a divine ardour of hearing his sweet words, holds conversation with me. in this i converse with _paul_, with _isaiah_, and the rest of the prophets. here the most sweet _chrysostom_ converses with me, and _basil_, and _austin_, and _jerome_, and _cyprian_, and the rest of the doctors that are both learned and eloquent. do you know any such pleasant companions abroad in the world, that you can have conversation with? do you think i can be weary of retirement, in such society as this? and i am never without it. _sol._ but they would speak to me to no purpose, who do not understand them. _cart._ now for our diet, what signifies it with what food this body of ours is fed which is satisfied with very little, if we live according to nature? which of us two is in the best plight? you who live upon partridges, pheasants and capons; or i who live upon fish? _sol._ if you had a wife as i have, you would not be so lusty. _cart._ and for that reason, any food serves us, let it be never so little. _sol._ but in the mean time, you live the life of a _jew_. _cart._ forbear reflections: if we cannot come up to christianity, at least we follow after it. _sol._ you put too much confidence in habits, meats, forms of prayer, and outward ceremonies, and neglect the study of gospel religion. _cart._ it is none of my business to judge what others do: as to myself, i place no confidence in these things, i attribute nothing to them; but i put my confidence in purity of mind, and in _christ_ himself. _sol._ why do you observe these things then? _cart._ that i may be at peace with my brethren, and give no body offence. i would give no offence to any one for the sake of these trivial things, which it is but a very little trouble to observe. as we are men, let us wear what cloaths we will. men are so humoursome, the agreement or disagreement in the most minute matters, either procures or destroys concord. the shaving of the head, or colour of the habit does not indeed, of themselves, recommend me to god: but what would the people say, if i should let my hair grow, or put on your habit? i have given you my reasons for my way of life; now, pray, in your turn, give me your reasons for yours, and tell me, were there no good physicians in your quarter, when you listed yourself for a soldier, leaving a young wife and children at home, and was hired for a pitiful pay to cut men's throats, and that with the hazard of your own life too? for your business did not lie among mushrooms and poppies, but armed men. what do you think is a more unhappy way of living, for a poor pay, to murder a fellow christian, who never did you harm, and to run yourself body and soul into eternal damnation? _sol._ why, it is lawful to kill an enemy. _cart._ perhaps it may be so, if he invades your native country: nay, and it is pious too, to fight for your wife, children, your parents and friends, your religion and liberties, and the publick peace. but what is all that to your fighting for money? if you had been knocked on the head, i would not have given a rotten nut to redeem the very soul of you. _sol._ no? _cart._ no, by christ, i would not. now which do you think is the harder task, to be obedient to a good man, which we call prior, who calls us to prayers, and holy lectures, the hearing of the saving doctrine, and to sing to the glory of god: or, to be under the command of some barbarous officer, who often calls you out to fatiguing marches at midnight, and sends you out, and commands you back at his pleasure, exposes you to the shot of great guns, assigns you a station where you must either kill or be killed? _sol._ there are more evils than you have mentioned yet. _cart._ if i shall happen to deviate from the discipline of my order, my punishment is only admonition, or some such slight matter: but in war, if you do any thing contrary to the general's orders, you must either be hang'd for it, or run the gantlope; for it would be a favour to have your head cut off. _sol._ i can't deny what you say to be true. _cart._ and now your habit bespeaks, that you han't brought much money home, after all your brave adventures. _sol._ as for money, i have not had a farthing this good while; nay, i have gotten a good deal into debt, and for that reason i come hither out of my way, that you might furnish me with some money to bear my charges. _cart._ i wish you had come out of your way hither, when you hurried yourself into that wicked life of a soldier. but how come you so bare? _sol._ do you ask that? why, whatsoever i got of pay, plunder, sacrilege, rapine and theft, was spent in wine, whores and gaming. _cart._ o miserable creature! and all this while your wife, for whose sake god commanded you to leave father and mother, being forsaken by you, sat grieving at home with her young children. and do you think this is living, to be involved in so many miseries, and to wallow in so great iniquities? _sol._ the having so many companions of my wickedness, made me insensible of my evil. _cart._ but i'm afraid your wife won't know you again. _sol._ why so? _cart._ because your scars have made you the picture of quite another man. what a trench have you got here in your forehead? it looks as if you had had a horn cut out. _sol._ nay, if you did but know the matter, you would congratulate me upon this scar. _cart._ why so? _sol._ i was within a hair's breadth of losing my life. _cart._ why, what mischief was there? _sol._ as one was drawing a steel cross-bow, it broke, and a splinter of it hit me in the forehead. _cart._ you have got a scar upon your cheek that is above a span long. _sol._ i got this wound in a battel. _cart._ in what battel, in the field? _sol._ no, but in a quarrel that arose at dice. _cart._ and i see i can't tell what sort of rubies on your chin. _sol._ o they are nothing. _cart._ i suspect that you have had the pox. _sol._ you guess very right, brother. it was the third time i had that distemper, and it had like to have cost me my life. _cart._ but how came it, that you walk so stooping, as if you were ninety years of age; or like a mower, or as if your back was broke? _sol._ the disease has contracted my nerves to that degree. _cart._ in truth you have undergone a wonderful metamorphosis: formerly you were a horseman, and now of a centaur, you are become a kind of semi-reptile animal. _sol._ this is the fortune of war. _cart._ nay, 'tis the madness of your own mind. but what spoils will you carry home to your wife and children? the leprosy? for that scab is only a species of the leprosy; and it is only not accounted so, because it is the disease in fashion, and especially among noblemen: and for this very reason, it should be the more carefully avoided. and now you will infect with it those that ought to be the dearest to you of any in the world, and you yourself will all your days carry about a rotten carcass. _sol._ prithee, brother, have done chiding me. i have enough upon me without chiding. _cart._ as to those calamities, i have hitherto taken notice of, they only relate to the body: but what a sort of a soul do you bring back with you? how putrid and ulcered? with how many wounds is that sore? _sol._ just as clean as a _paris_ common shore in _maburtus_'s road, or a common house of office. _cart._ i am afraid it stinks worse in the nostrils of god and his angels. _sol._ well, but i have had chiding enough, now speak to the matter, of something to bear my charges. _cart._ i have nothing to give you, but i'll go and try what the prior will do. _sol._ if any thing was to be given, your hands would be ready to receive it; but now there are a great many difficulties in the way, when something is to be paid. _cart._ as to what others do, let them look to that, i have no hands, either to give or take money: but we'll talk more of these matters after dinner, for it is now time to sit down at table. _philetymus and pseudocheus._ the argument. _this colloquy sets forth the disposition and nature of a liar, who seems to be born to lie for crafty gain. a liar is a thief. gain got by lying, is baser than that which is got by a tax upon urine. an egregious method of deceiving is laid open. cheating tradesmen live better than honest ones._ _philetymus and pseudocheus._ _phil._ from what fountain does this flood of lies flow? _pseud._ from whence do spiders webs proceed? _phil._ then it is not the _product_ of art, but of nature. _pseud._ the seeds indeed proceed from nature; but art and use have enlarg'd the faculty. _phil._ why, are you not asham'd of it? _pseud._ no more than a cuckow is of her singing. _phil._ but you can alter your note upon every occasion. the tongue of man was given him to speak the truth. _pseud._ ay, to speak those things that tend to his profit: the truth is not to be spoken at all times. _phil._ it is sometimes for a man's advantage to have pilfering hands; and the old proverb is a witness, that that is a vice that is cousin-german to yours of lying. _pseud._ both these vices are supported by good authorities: one has _ulysses_, so much commended by _homer_, and the other has _mercury_, that was a god, for its example, if we believe the poets. _phil._ why then do people in common curse liars, and hang thieves? _pseud._ not because they lie or steal, but because they do it bunglingly or unnaturally, not rightly understanding the art. _phil._ is there any author that teaches the art of lying? _pseud._ your rhetoricians have instructed in the best part of the art. _phil._ these indeed present us with the art of well speaking. _pseud._ true: and the good part of speaking well, is to lie cleverly. _phil._ what is clever lying? _pseud._ would you have me define it? _phil._ i would have you do it. _pseud._ it is to lie so, that you may get profit by it, and not be caught in a lie. _phil._ but a great many are caught in lying every day. _pseud._ that's because they are not perfect masters of the art. _phil._ are you a perfect master in it? _pseud._ in a manner. _phil._ see, if you can tell me a lie, so as to deceive me. _pseud._ yes, best of men, i can deceive you yourself, if i have a mind to it. _phil._ well, tell me some lie or other then. _pseud._ why, i have told one already, and did you not catch me in it? _phil._ no. _pseud._ come on, listen attentively; now i'll begin to lie then. _phil._ i do listen attentively; tell one. _pseud._ why, i have told another lie, and you have not caught me. _phil._ in truth, i hear no lie yet. _pseud._ you would have heard some, if you understood the art. _phil._ do you shew it me then. _pseud._ first of all, i call'd you the best of men, is not that a swinging lie, when you are not so much as good? and if you were good, you could not be said to be the best, there are a thousand others better than you. _phil._ here, indeed, you have deceiv'd me. _pseud._ well, now try if you can catch me again in another lie. _phil._ i cannot. _pseud._ i want to have you shew that sharpness of wit, that you do in other things. _phil._ i confess, i am deficient. shew me. _pseud._ when i said, now i will begin to lie, did i not tell you a swinging lie then, when i had been accustomed to lie for so many years, and i had also told a lie, just the moment before. _phil._ an admirable piece of witchcraft. _pseud._ well, but now you have been forewarn'd, prick up your ears, listen attentively, and see if you can catch me in a lie. _phil._ i do prick them up; say on. _pseud._ i have said already, and you have imitated me in lying. _phil._ why, you'll persuade me i have neither ears nor eyes by and by. _pseud._ when mens ears are immoveable, and can neither be prick'd up nor let down, i told a lie in bidding you prick up your ears. _phil._ the whole life of man is full of such lies. _pseud._ not only such as these, o good man, for these are but jokes: but there are those that bring profit. _phil._ the gain that is got by lying, is more sordid, than that which is got by laying a tax on urine. _pseud._ that is true, i own; but then 'tis to those that han't the art of lying. _phil._ what art is this that you understand? _pseud._ it is not fit i should teach you for nothing; pay me, and you shall hear it. _phil._ i will not pay for bad arts. _pseud._ then will you give away your estate? _phil._ i am not so mad neither. _pseud._ but my gain by this art is more certain than yours from your estate. _phil._ well, keep your art to yourself, only give me a specimen that i may understand that what you say is not all pretence. _pseud._ here's a specimen for you: i concern myself in all manner of business, i buy, i sell, i receive, i borrow, i take pawns. _phil._ well, what then? _pseud._ and in these affairs i entrap those by whom i cannot easily be caught. _phil._ who are those? _pseud._ the soft-headed, the forgetful, the unthinking, those that live a great way off, and those that are dead. _phil._ the dead, to be sure, tell no tales. _pseud._ if i sell any thing upon credit, i set it down carefully in my book of accounts. _phil._ and what then? _pseud._ when the money is to be paid, i charge the buyer with more than he had. if he is unthinking or forgetful, my gain is certain. _phil._ but what if he catches you? _pseud._ i produce my book of accounts. _phil._ what if he informs you, and proves to your face he has not had the goods you charge him with? _pseud._ i stand to it stiffly; for bashfulness is altogether an unprofitable qualification in this art. my last shift is, i frame some excuse or other. _phil._ but when you are caught openly? _pseud._ nothing's more easy, i pretend my servant has made a mistake, or i myself have a treacherous memory: it is a very pretty way to jumble the accounts together, and this is an easy way to impose on a person: as for example, some are cross'd out, the money being paid, and others have not been paid; these i mingle one with another at the latter end of the book, nothing being cross'd out. when the sum is cast up, we contend about it, and i for the most part get the better, tho' it be by forswearing myself. then besides, i have this trick, i make up my account with a person when he is just going a journey, and not prepared for the settling it. for as for me, i am always ready. if any thing be left with me, i conceal it, and restore it not again. it is a long time before he can come to the knowledge of it, to whom it is sent; and, after all, if i can't deny the receiving of a thing, i say it is lost, or else affirm i have sent that which i have not sent, and charge it upon the carrier. and lastly, if i can no way avoid restoring it, i restore but part of it. _phil._ a very fine art. _pseud._ sometimes i receive money twice over, if i can: first at home, afterwards there where i have gone, and i am every where. sometimes length of time puts things out of remembrance: the accounts are perplexed, one dies, or goes a long journey: and if nothing else will hit, in the mean time i make use of other people's money. i bring some over to my interest, by a shew of generosity, that they may help me out in lying; but it is always at other people's cost; of my own, i would not give my own mother a doit. and tho' the gain in each particular may be but small; but being many put together, makes a good round sum; for as i said, i concern myself in a great many affairs; and besides all, that i may not be catch'd, as there are many tricks, this is one of the chief. i intercept all the letters i can, open them, and read them. if any thing in them makes against me, i destroy them, or keep them a long time before i deliver them: and besides all this, i sow discord between those that live at a great distance one from another. _phil._ what do you get by that? _pseud._ there is a double advantage in it. first of all, if that is not performed that i have promised in another person's name, or in whose name i have received any present, i lay it to this or that man's door, that it was not performed, and so these forgeries i make turn to a considerable account. _phil._ but what if he denies it? _pseud._ he's a great way off, as suppose at _basil_; and i promise to give it in _england._ and so it is brought about, that both being incensed, neither will believe the one the other, if i accuse them of any thing. now you have a specimen of my art. _phil._ but this art is what we dullards call theft; who call a fig a fig, and a spade a spade. _pseud._ o ignoramus in the law! can you bring an action of theft for trover or conversion, or for one that having borrow'd a thing forswears it, that puts a trick upon one, by some such artifice? _phil._ he ought to be sued for theft. _pseud._ do but then see the prudence of artists. from these methods there is more gain, or at least as much, and less danger. _phil._ a mischief take you, with your cheating tricks and lies, for i han't a mind to learn 'em. good by to ye. _pseud._ you may go on, and be plagu'd with your ragged truth. in the mean time, i'll live merrily upon my thieving, lying tricks, with slight of hand. _the shipwreck._ the argument. naufragium _exposes the dangers of those that go to sea; the various and foolish superstition of mariners. an elegant description of a storm. they indeed run a risque that throw their valuable commodities into the sea. mariners impiously invoke the virgin_ mary, _st._ christopher, _and the sea itself. saints are not to be pray'd to, but god alone._ antony _and_ adolph. _ant._ you tell dreadful stories: is this going to sea? god forbid that ever any such thing should come into my mind. _adol._ that which i have related, is but a diversion, in comparison to what you'll hear presently. _ant._ i have heard calamities enough already, my flesh trembles to hear you relate them, as if i were in danger myself. _adol._ but dangers that are past, are pleasant to be thought on. one thing happen'd that night, that almost put the pilot out of all hopes of safety. _ant._ pray what was that? _adol._ the night was something lightish, and one of the sailors was got into the skuttle (so i think they call it) at the main-top-mast, looking out if he could see any land; a certain ball of fire began to stand by him, which is the worst sign in the world to sailors, if it be single; but a very good one, if double. the antients believed these to be _castor_ and _pollux_. _ant._ what have they to do with sailors, one of which was a horseman, and the other a prize-fighter? _adol._ it was the pleasure of poets, so to feign. the steersman who sat at the helm, calls to him, mate, says he, (for so sailors call one another) don't you see what a companion you have by your side? i do see, says he, and i pray that he may be a lucky one. by and by this fiery ball glides down the ropes, and rolls itself over and over close to the pilot. _ant._ and was not he frighted out of his wits? _adol._ sailors are us'd to terrible sights. it stopp'd a little there, then roll'd itself all round the sides of the ship; after that, slipping through the hatches, it vanished away. about noon the storm began to increase. did you ever see the _alps_? _ant._ i have seen them. _adol._ those mountains are mole hills, if they be compar'd to the waves of the sea. as oft as we were toss'd up, one might have touch'd the moon with his finger; and as oft as we were let fall down into the sea, we seem'd to be going directly down to hell, the earth gaping to receive us. _ant._ o mad folks, that trust themselves to the sea! _adol._ the mariners striving in vain with the storm, at length the pilot, all pale as death comes to us. _ant._ that paleness presages some great evil. _adol._ my friends, says he, i am no longer master of my ship, the wind has got the better of me; all that we have now to do is to place our hope in god, and every one to prepare himself for death. _ant._ this was cold comfort. _adol._ but in the first place, says he, we must lighten the ship; necessity requires it, tho' 'tis a hard portion. it is better to endeavour to save our lives with the loss of our goods, than to perish with them. the truth persuaded, and a great many casks of rich merchandize were thrown over-board. _ant._ this was casting away, according to the letter. _adol._ there was in the company, a certain _italian_, that had been upon an embassy to the king of _scotland_. he had a whole cabinet full of plate, rings, cloth, and rich wearing apparel. _ant._ and he, i warrant ye, was unwilling to come to a composition with the sea. _adol._ no, he would not; he had a mind either to sink or swim with his beloved riches. _ant._ what said the pilot to this? _adol._ if you and your trinkets were to drown by yourselves, says he, here's no body would hinder you; but it is not fit that we should run the risque of our lives, for the sake of your cabinet: if you won't consent, we'll throw you and your cabinet into the sea together. _ant._ spoken like a tarpawlin. _adol._ so the italian submitted, and threw his goods over-board, with many a bitter curse to the gods both above and below, that he had committed his life to so barbarous an element. _ant._ i know the italian humour. _adol._ the winds were nothing the less boisterous for our presents, but by and by burst our cordage, and threw down our sails. _ant._ lamentable! _adol._ then the pilot comes to us again. _ant._ what, with another preachment? _adol._ he gives us a salute; my friends, says he, the time exhorts us that every one of us should recommend himself to god, and prepare for death. being ask'd by some that were not ignorant in sea affairs, how long he thought the ship might be kept above water, he said, he could promise nothing, but that it could not be done above three hours. _ant._ this was yet a harder chapter than the former. _adol._ when he had said this, he orders to cut the shrouds and the mast down by the board, and to throw them, sails and all, into the sea. _ant._ why was this done? _adol._ because, the sail either being gone or torn, it would only be a burden, but not of use; all our hope was in the helm. _ant._ what did the passengers do in the mean time? _adol._ there you might have seen a wretched face of things; the mariners, they were singing their _salve regina_, imploring the virgin mother, calling her the star of the sea, the queen of heaven, the lady of the world, the haven of health, and many other flattering titles, which the sacred scriptures never attributed to her. _ant._ what has she to do with the sea, who, as i believe, never went a voyage in her life? _adol._ in ancient times, _venus_ took care of mariners, because she was believ'd to be born of the sea and because she left off to take care of them, the virgin mother was put in her place, that was a mother, but not a virgin. _ant._ you joke. _adol._ some were lying along upon the boards, worshipping the sea, pouring all they had into it, and flattering it, as if it had been some incensed prince. _ant._ what did they say? _adol._ o most merciful sea! o most generous sea! o most rich sea! o most beautiful sea, be pacified, save us; and a deal of such stuff they sung to the deaf ocean. _ant._ ridiculous superstition! what did the rest do? _adol._ some did nothing but spew, and some made vows. there was an _englishman_ there, that promis'd golden mountains to our lady of _walsingham_, so he did but get ashore alive. others promis'd a great many things to the wood of the cross, which was in such a place; others again, to that which was in such a place; and the same was done by the virgin _mary_, which reigns in a great many places, and they think the vow is of no effect, unless the place be mentioned. _ant._ ridiculous! as if the saints did not dwell in heaven. _adol._ some made promises to become _carthusians_. there was one who promised he would go a _pilgrimage_ to st. _james_ at _compostella_, bare foot and bare head, cloth'd in a coat of mail, and begging his bread all the way. _ant._ did no body make any mention of st. _christopher_? _adol._ yes, i heard one, and i could not forbear laughing, who bawling out aloud, lest st. _christopher_ should not hear him, promised him, who is at the top of a church at _paris_, rather a mountain than a statue, a wax taper as big as he was himself: when he had bawl'd out this over and over as loud as he could, an acquaintance of his jogg'd him on the elbow, and caution'd him: have a care what you promise, for if you should sell all you have in the world, you will not be able to pay for it. he answer'd him softly, lest st. _christopher_ should hear him, you fool, says he, do you think i mean as i speak, if i once got safe to shore, i would not give him so much as a tallow candle. _ant._ o blockhead! i fancy he was a _hollander_. _adol._ no, he was a _zealander_. _ant._ i wonder no body thought of st. _paul_, who has been at sea, and having suffered shipwreck, leapt on shore. for he being not unacquainted with the distress, knows how to pity those that are in it. _adol._ he was not so much as named. _ant._ were they at their prayers all the while? _adol._ ay, as if it had been for a wager. one sung his _hail queen_; another, _i believe in god_. there were some who had certain particular prayers not unlike magical charms against dangers. _ant._ how affliction makes men religious! in prosperity we neither think of god nor saint. but what did you do all this while? did you not make vows to some saints? _adol._ no, none at all. _ant._ why so? _adol._ i make no bargains with saints. for what is this but a bargain in form? i'll give you, if you do so and so; or i will do so and so, if you do so and so: i'll give you a wax taper, if i swim out alive; i'll go to _rome_, if you save me. _ant._ but did you call upon none of the saints for help? _adol._ no, not so much as that neither. _ant._ why so? _adol._ because heaven is a large place, and if i should recommend my safety to any saint, as suppose, to st. _peter_, who perhaps, would hear soonest, because he stands at the door; before he can come to god almighty, or before he could tell him my condition, i may be lost. _ant._ what did you do then? _adol._ i e'en went the next way to god the father, saying, _our father which art in heaven_. there's none of the saints hears sooner than he does, or more readily gives what is ask'd for. _ant._ but in the mean time did not your conscience check you? was you not afraid to call him father, whom you had offended with so many wickednesses? _adol._ to speak ingenuously, my conscience did a little terrify me at first, but i presently took heart again, thus reasoning with myself; there is no father so angry with his son, but if he sees him in danger of being drowned in a river or pond, he will take him, tho' it be by the hair of the head, and throw him out upon a bank. there was no body among them all behaved herself more composed than a woman, who had a child sucking at her breast. _ant._ what did she do? _adol._ she only neither bawl'd, nor wept, nor made vows, but hugging her little boy, pray'd softly. in the mean time the ship dashing ever and anon against the ground, the pilot being afraid she would be beat all to pieces, under-girded her with cables from head to stern. _ant._ that was a sad shift! _adol._ upon this, up starts an old priest about threescore years of age, his name was _adam_. he strips himself to his shirt, throws away his boots and shoes, and bids us all in like manner to prepare ourselves for swimming. then standing in the middle of the ship, he preach'd a sermon to us, upon the five truths of the benefit of confession, and exhorted every man to prepare himself, for either life or death. there was a _dominican_ there too, and they confess'd those that had a mind to it. _ant._ what did you do? _adol._ i seeing that every thing was in a hurry, confess'd privately to god, condemning before him my iniquity, and imploring his mercy. _ant._ and whither should you have gone, do you think, if you had perished? _adol._ i left that to god, who is my judge; i would not be my own judge. but i was not without comfortable hopes neither. while these things were transacting, the steersman comes to us again all in tears; prepare your selves every one of you, says he, for the ship will be of no service to us for a quarter of an hour. for now she leak'd in several places. presently after this he brings us word that he saw a steeple a good way off, and exhorts us to implore the aid of that saint, whoever it was, who had the protection of that temple. they all fall down and pray to the unknown saint. _ant._ perhaps he would have heard ye, if ye had call'd upon him by his name. _adol._ but that we did not know. in the mean time the pilate steers the ship, torn and leaking every where, and ready to fall in pieces, if she had not been undergirt with cables, as much as he could toward that place. _ant._ a miserable condition. _adol._ we were now come so near the shoar, that the inhabitants of the place could see us in distress, and ran down in throngs to the utmost edge of the shoar, and holding up gowns and hats upon spears, invited us to make towards them, and stretching out their arms towards heaven, signified to us that they pitied our misfortune. _ant._ i long to know what happened. _adol._ the ship was now every where full of water, that we were no safer in the ship than if we had been in the sea. _ant._ now was your time to betake yourself to divine help. _adol._ ay, to a wretched one. the sailors emptied the ship's boat of water, and let it down into the sea. every body was for getting into it, the mariners cry'd out amain, they'll sink the boat, it will not hold so many; that every one should take what he could get, and swim for it. there was no time now for long deliberation. one gets an oar, another a pole, another a gutter, another a bucket, another a plank, and every one relying upon their security, they commit themselves to the billows. _ant._ but what became of the woman that was the only person that made no bawling? _adol._ she got to shoar the first of them all. _ant._ how could she do that? _adol._ we set her upon a broad plank, and ty'd her on so fast that she could not easily fall off, and we gave her a board in her hand to make use of instead of an oar, and wishing her good success, we set her afloat, thrusting her off from the ship with poles, that she might be clear of it, whence was the greatest danger. and she held her child in her left hand, and row'd with her right hand. _ant._ o _virago_! _adol._ now when there was nothing else left, one pull'd up a wooden image of the virgin _mary_, rotten, and rat-eaten, and embracing it in his arms, try'd to swim upon it. _ant._ did the boat get safe to land? _adol._ none perish'd sooner than they that were in that, and there were above thirty that had got into it. _ant._ by what bad accident was that brought about? _adol._ it was overset by the rolling of the ship, before they could get clear of it. _ant._ a sad accident: but how then? _adol._ while i was taking care for others, i had like to have been lost myself. _ant._ how so? _adol._ because there was nothing left that was fit for swimming. _ant._ there corks would have been of good use. _adol._ in that condition i would rather have had a sorry cork than a gold candlestick. i look'd round about me, at length i bethought myself of the stump of the mast, and because i could not get it out alone, i took a partner; upon this we both plac'd ourselves, and committed ourselves to the sea. i held the right end, and my companion the left end. while we lay tumbling and tossing, the old preaching sea-priest threw himself upon our shoulders. he was a huge fellow. we cry out, who's that third person? he'll drown us all. but he very calmly bids us be easy, for there was room enough, god will be with us. _ant._ how came he to be so late? _adol._ he was to have been in the boat with the _dominican_. for they all paid him this deference. but tho' they had confess'd themselves in the ship, yet having forgotten i know not what circumstances, they confess'd over again at the ship-side, and each lays his hand upon the other, and while this was doing the boat was over-turn'd. this i had from _adam_ himself. _ant._ what became of the _dominican_? _adol._ as the same man told me, having implor'd the help of his saints, and stript himself, he threw himself naked into the sea. _ant._ what saints did he call upon? _adol._ st. _dominick_, st. _thomas_, st. _vincent_, and one of the _peters_, but i can't tell which: but his chief reliance was upon _catherinea senensis_. _ant._ did he not remember _christ_? _adol._ not, as the old priest told me. _ant._ he would have swam better if he had thrown off his sanctified coul: but if that had been laid aside, how should _catherine_ of _siena_ have known him? but go on and tell me about yourself. _adol._ while we were yet tumbling and tossing near the ship, which roll'd hither and thither at the mercy of the waves, the thigh of him that held the left end of the stump of the mast was broken by a great spike, and so that made him let go his hold. the old priest wishing him everlasting rest, took his place, encouraging me to maintain my post on the right hand resolutely, and to strike out my feet stoutly. in the mean time we drank in abundance of salt water. for _neptune_ had provided us not only a salt bath, but a salt potion too, altho' the old priest prescribed a remedy for it. _ant._ what was that? _adol._ why, as often as a billow met us, he turn'd his head and shut his mouth. _ant._ you tell me of a brave old fellow. _adol._ when we had been some time swimming at this rate, and had made some way, the old priest being a very tall man, cries out, be of good heart, i feel ground; but i durst not hope for such a blessing. no, no, says i, we are too far from shoar to hope to feel ground. nay, says he, i feel the ground with my feet. said i, perhaps it is some of the chests that have been roll'd thither by the sea. nay, says he, i am sure i feel ground by the scratching of my toes. having floated thus a little longer, and he had felt the bottom again, do you do what you please, says he, i'll leave you the whole mast, and wade for it. and so he took his opportunity, at the ebbing of the billows, he made what haste he could on his feet, and when the billows came again, he took hold of his knees with his hands, and bore up against the billows, hiding himself under them as sea gulls and ducks do, and at the ebbing of the wave, he would start up and run for it. i seeing that this succeeded so well to him, followed his example. there stood upon the shoar men, who had long pikes handed from one to another, which kept them firm against the force of the waves, strong bodied men, and accustom'd to the waves, and he that was last of them held out a pike to the person swimming towards him. all that came to shoar, and laying hold of that, were drawn safely to dry land. some were sav'd this way. _ant._ how many? _adol._ seven. but two of these fainted away being brought to the fire. _ant._ how many were in the ship? _adol._ fifty-eight. _ant._ o cruel sea. at least it might have been content with the tithes, which are enough for priests. did it restore so few out of so great a number? _adol._ there we had experience of the wonderful humanity of the nation, that supply'd us with all necessaries with exceeding chearfulness; as lodging, fire, victuals, cloaths, and money to bear our charges when we went away. _ant._ what country was it? _adol. holland._ _ant._ there's no nation more human, altho' they are encompass'd with such fierce nations. i fancy you won't be for going to sea again. _adol._ no, unless god shall please to deprive me of my reason. _ant._ i would rather hear such stories than feel them. _diversoria._ the argument. _this colloquy shews the various customs of nations and their civility in treating strangers. an inn at_ leyden _where are nothing but women. the manners of the_ french _inns, who are us'd to tell stories, and break jests. the_ germans, _far more uncivil in treating travellers, being rude, and wholly inhospitable: the guests look after their own horses: the method of receiving them into the stove: they provide no supper, till they know how many guests they shall have: all that come that night, sit down to supper together: all pay alike, tho' one drinks twice as much wine as another does._ bertulph and william. _bert._ i wonder what is the fancy of a great many, for staying two or three days at _lyons_? when i have once set out on a journey, i an't at rest till i come to my journey's end. _will._ nay, i wonder as much, that any body can get away from thence. _bert._ but why so? _will._ because that's a place the companions of _ulysses_ could not have got away from. there are _sirens_. no body is better entertain'd at his own house, than he is there at an inn. _bert._ what is done there? _will._ there's a woman always waiting at table, which makes the entertainment pleasant with railleries, and pleasant jests. and the women are very handsome there. first the mistress of the house came and bad us welcome, and to accept kindly what fare we should have; after her, comes her daughter, a very fine woman, of so handsome a carriage, and so pleasant in discourse, that she would make even _cato_ himself merry, were he there: and they don't talk to you as if you were perfect strangers, but as those they have been a long time acquainted with, and familiar friends. _bert._ o, i know the _french_ way of civility very well. _will._ and because they can't be always with you, by reason of the other affairs of the house, and the welcoming of other guests, there comes a lass, that supplies the place of the daughter, till she is at leisure to return again. this lass is so well instructed in the knack of repartees, that she has a word ready for every body, and no conceit comes amiss to her. the mother, you must know, was somewhat in years. _bert._ but what was your table furnish'd with? for stories fill no bellies. _will._ truly, so splendid, that i was amaz'd that they could afford to entertain their guests so, for so small a price. and then after dinner, they entertain a man with such facetious discourse, that one cannot be tired; that i seemed to be at my own house, and not in a strange place. _bert._ and how went matters in your chambers? _will._ why, there was every where some pretty lass or other, giggling and playing wanton tricks? they ask'd us if we had any foul linnen to wash; which they wash and bring to us again: in a word, we saw nothing there but young lasses and women, except in the stable, and they would every now and then run in there too. when you go away, they embrace ye, and part with you with as much affection, as if you were their own brothers, or near kinsfolks. _bert._ this mode perhaps may become the _french_, but methinks the way of the _germans_ pleases me better, which is more manly. _will._ i never have seen _germany_; therefore, pray don't think much to tell how they entertain a traveller. _bert._ i can't tell whether the method of entertaining be the same every where; but i'll tell you what i saw there. no body bids a guest welcome, lest he should seem to court his guests to come to him, for that they look upon to be sordid and mean, and not becoming the german gravity. when you have called a good while at the gate, at length one puts his head out of the stove window (for they commonly live in stoves till midsummer) like a tortoise from under his shell: him you must ask if you can have any lodging there; if he does not say no, you may take it for granted, that there is room for you. when you ask where the stable is, he points to it; there you may curry your horse as you please yourself, for there is no servant will put a hand to it. if it be a noted inn, there is a servant shews you the stable, and a place for your horse, but incommodious enough; for they keep the best places for those that shall come afterwards; especially for noblemen. if you find fault with any thing, they tell you presently, if you don't like, look for another inn. in their cities, they allow hay, but very unwillingly and sparingly, and that is almost as dear as oats. when you have taken care of your horse, you come whole into the stove, boots, baggage, dirt and all, for that is a common room for all comers. _will._ in _france_, they appoint you a separate chamber, where you may change your cloaths, clean and warm your self, or take rest if you have a mind to it. _bert._ there's nothing of that here. in the stove, you pull off your boots, put on your shoes, and if you will, change your shirt, hang up your wet cloths near the stove iron, and get near it to dry yourself. there's water provided for you to wash your hands, if you will; but as for the cleanness of it, it is for the most part such that you will want another water to wash that off. _will._ i commend this sort of people, that have nothing of effeminacy in them. _bert._ if you come in at four a-clock in the afternoon, you must not go to supper till nine, and sometimes not till ten. _will._ why so? _bert._ they never make any thing ready till they see all their company together, that one trouble may serve for all. _will._ they are for taking the shortest way. _bert._ you are right; so that oftentimes, there come all together into the same stove, eighty or ninety foot-men, horse-men, merchants, marriners, waggoners, husband-men, children, women, sick and sound. _will._ this is having all things in common. _bert._ there one combs his head, another wipes off his sweat, another cleans his spatterdashes or boots, another belches garlick; and in short, there is as great a confusion of tongues and persons, as there was at the building the tower of _babel_. and if they see any body of another country, who by his habit looks like a man of quality, they all stare at him so wistfully, as if he was a sort of strange animal brought out of _africa_. and when they are set at table, and he behind them, they will be still looking back at him, and be staring him in the face, till they have forgot their suppers. _will._ at _rome_, _paris_ or _venice_, there's no body thinks any thing strange. _bert._ in the mean time, 'tis a crime for you to call for any thing. when it is grown pretty late, and they don't expect any more guests, out comes an old grey-bearded servant, with his hair cut short, and a crabbed look, and a slovenly dress. _will._ such fellows ought to be cup-bearers to the cardinals at _rome_. _bert._ he having cast his eyes about, counts to himself, how many there are in the stove; the more he sees there, the more fire he makes in the stove although it be at a time when the very heat of the sun would be troublesome; and this with them, is accounted a principal part of good entertainment, to make them all sweat till they drop again. if any one who is not used to the steam, shall presume to open the window never so little, that he be not stifled, presently they cry out to shut it again: if you answer you are not able to bear it, you'll presently hear, get you another inn then. _will._ but in my opinion, nothing is more dangerous, than for so many to draw in the same vapour; especially when their bodies are opened with the heat; and to eat in the same place, and to stay there so many hours, not to mention the belching of garlick, the farting, the stinking breaths, for many have secret distempers, and every distemper has its contagion; and without doubt, many have the _spanish_, or as it is call'd, the _french_ pox, although it is common to all nations. and it is my opinion, there is as much danger from such persons, as there is from those that have the leprosy. tell me now, what is this short of a pestilence? _bert._ they are persons of a strong constitution, and laugh at, and disregard those niceties. _will._ but in the mean time, they are bold at the perils of other men. _bert._ what would you do in this case? 'tis what they have been used to, and it is a part of a constant mind, not to depart from a custom. _will._ and yet, within these five and twenty years, nothing was more in vogue in _brabant_, than hot baths, but now they are every where grown out of use; but the new scabbado has taught us to lay them down. _bert._ well, but hear the rest: by and by, in comes our bearded _ganymede_ again, and lays on the table as many napkins as there are guests: but, good god! not damask ones, but such as you'd take to have been made out of old sails. there are at least eight guests allotted to every table. now those that know the way of the country, take their places, every one as he pleases, for there's no difference between poor or rich, between the master and servant. _will._ this was that ancient equality which now the tyrant custom has driven quite out of the world. i suppose christ liv'd after this manner with his disciples. _bert._ after they are all plac'd, out comes the sour-look'd _ganymede_ again, and counts his company over again; by and by he comes in again, and brings every man a wooden dish, and a spoon of the same silver, and then a glass; and then a little after he brings bread, which the guests may chip every one for themselves at leisure, while the porridge is boiling. for sometimes they sit thus for near an hour. _will._ do none of the guests call for meat in the mean time? _bert._ none who knows the way of the country. at last the wine is set upon the table: good god! how far from being tasteless? so thin and sharp, that sophisters ought to drink no other. and if any of the guests should privately offer a piece of money to get a little better wine some where else; at first they'll say nothing to you, but give you a look, as if they were going to murder you; and if you press it farther, they answer you, there have been so many counts and marquisses that have lodg'd here, and none of them ever found fault with this wine: if you don't like it, get you another inn. they account only the noblemen of their own nation to be men, and where-ever you come, they are shewing you their arms. by this time, comes a morsel to pacify a barking stomach: and by and by follow the dishes in great pomp; commonly the first has sippits of bread in flesh broth, or if it be a fish day, in a soup of pulse. after that comes in another soup, and then a service of butcher's meat, that has been twice boil'd, or salt meats warm'd again, and then pulse again, and by and by something of more solid food, until their stomachs being pretty well staid, they bring roast meat or stewed fish, which is not to be at all contemn'd; but this they are sparing of, and take it away again quickly. this is the manner they order the entertainment, as comedians do, who intermingle dances among their scenes, so do they their chops and soups by turns: but they take care that the last act shall be the best. _will._ this is the part of a good poet. _bert._ and it would be a heinous offence, if in the mean time any body should say, take away this dish, there's no body eats. you must sit your time appointed, which i think they measure by the hour-glass. at length, out comes that bearded fellow, or the landlord himself, in a habit but little differing from his servants, and asks how cheer you? and by and by some better wine is brought. and they like those best that drink most, tho' he that drinks most pays no more than he that drinks least. _will._ a strange temper of the nation! _bert._ there are some of them that drink twice as much wine as they pay for their ordinary. but before i leave this entertainment, it is wonderful what a noise and chattering there is, when once they come to be warm with wine. in short, it deafens a man. they oftentimes bring in a mixture of mimicks, which these people very much delight in, tho' they are a detestable sort of men. there's such a singing, prating, bawling, jumping, and knocking, that you would think the stove were falling upon your head, and one man can't hear another speak. and this they think is a pleasant way of living, and there you must sit in spight of your heart till near midnight. _will._ make an end of your meal now, for i myself am tir'd with such a tedious one. _bert._ well, i will. at length the cheese is taken away, which scarcely pleases them, except it be rotten and full of maggots. then the old bearded fellow comes again with a trencher, and a many circles and semi-circles drawn upon it with chalk, this he lays down upon the table, with a grim countenance, and without speaking. you would say he was some _charon_. they that understand the meaning of this lay down their money one after another till the trencher is fill'd. having taken notice of those who lay down, he reckons it up himself, and if all is paid, he gives you a nod. _will._ but what if there should be any thing over and above? _bert._ perhaps he'll give it you again, and they oftentimes do so. _will._ does no body find fault with the reckoning? _bert._ no body that is wise. for they will say, what sort of a fellow are you? you pay no more than the rest. _will._ this is a frank sort of men, you are speaking of. _bert._ if any one is weary with his journey, and desires to go to bed as soon as he has supp'd, he is bid to stay till the rest go too. _will._ this seems to me to be _plato_'s city. _bert._ then every one is shew'd to his chamber, and truly 'tis nothing else but a chamber, there is only a bed there, and nothing else that you can either make use of or steal. _will._ are things very clean there? _bert._ as clean as they were at the table. sheets wash'd perhaps six months ago. _will._ what becomes of your horses all this while? _bert._ they are treated after the manner that the men are. _will._ but is there the same treatment every where. _bert._ it is a little more civil in some places, and worse in others, than i have told you; but in general it is thus. _will._ what if i should now tell you how they treat their guests in that part of _italy_ call'd _lombardy_, and in _spain_, and in _england_, and in _wales_, for the _english_ have the manners both of the _french_ and the _germans_, being a mixture of those two nations. the _welsh_ boast themselves to be the original _english_. _bert._ pray relate it. i never had the opportunity of travelling in them. _will._ i have not leisure now, and the master of the ship bid me be on board by three a clock, unless i would lose my passage. another time we shall have an opportunity of prating our bellies full. _the young man and harlot._ the argument. _this is certainly a divine colloquy, that makes even a bawdy-house a chaste place! god can't be deceiv'd, his eyes penetrate into the most secret places. that young persons ought in an especial manner to take care of their chastity. a young woman, who made herself common to get a livelihood, is recovered from that course of life, as wretched as it is scandalous._ lucretia, sophronius. _lu._ o brave! my pretty _sophronius_, have i gotten you again? it is an age methinks since i saw you. i did not know you at first sight. _so._ why so, my _lucretia_? _lu._ because you had no beard when you went away, but you're come back with something of a beard. what's the matter, my little heart, you look duller than you use to do? _so._ i want to have a little talk with you in private. _lu._ ah, ah, are we not by ourselves already, my cocky? _so._ let us go out of the way somewhere, into a more private place. _lu._ come on then, we'll go into my inner bed-chamber, if you have a mind to do any thing. _so._ i don't think this place is private enough yet. _lu._ how comes it about you're so bashful all on a sudden? well, come, i have a closet where i lay up my cloaths, a place so dark, that we can scarce see one another there. _so._ see if there be no chink. _lu._ there is not so much as a chink. _so._ is there no body near to hear us? _lu._ not so much as a fly, my dear; why do you lose time? _so._ can we escape the eye of god here? _lu._ no, he sees all things clearly. _so._ and of the angels? _lu._ no, we cannot escape their sight. _so._ how comes it about then, that men are not asham'd to do that in the sight of god, and before the face of the holy angels, that they would be ashamed to do before men? _lu._ what sort of an alteration is this? did you come hither to preach a sermon? prithee put on a _franciscan_'s hood, and get up into a pulpit, and then we'll hear you hold forth, my little bearded rogue. _so._ i should not think much to do that, if i could but reclaim you from this kind of life, that is the most shameful and miserable life in the world. _lu._ why so, good man? i am born, and i must be kept; every one must live by his calling. this is my business; this is all i have to live on. _so._ i wish with all my heart, my _lucretia_, that setting aside for a while that infatuation of mind, you would seriously weigh the matter. _lu._ keep your preachment till another time; now let us enjoy one another, my _sophronius_. _so._ you do what you do for the sake of gain. _lu._ you are much about the matter. _so._ thou shalt lose nothing by it, do but hearken to me, and i'll pay you four times over. _lu._ well, say what you have a mind to say. _so._ answer me this question in the first place: are there any persons that owe you any ill will? _lu._ not one. _so._ is there any body that you have a spleen against? _lu._ according as they deserve. _so._ and if you could do any thing that would gratify them, would you do it? _lu._ i would poison 'em sooner. _so._ but then do but consider with yourself; is there any thing that you can do that gratifies them more than to let them see you live this shameful and wretched life? and what is there thou canst do that would be more afflicting to them that wish thee well? _lu._ it is my destiny. _so._ now that which uses to be the greatest hardship to such as are transported, or banish'd into the most remote parts of the world, this you undergo voluntarily. _lu._ what is that? _so._ hast thou not of thy own accord renounc'd all thy affections to father, mother, brother, sisters, aunts, (by father's and mother's side) and all thy relations? for thou makest them all asham'd to own thee, and thyself asham'd to come into their sight. _lu._ nay, i have made a very happy exchange of affections; for instead of a few, now i have a great many, of which you are one, and whom i have always esteem'd as a brother. _so._ leave off jesting, and consider the matter seriously, as it really is. believe me, my _lucretia_, she who has so many friends, has never a one, for they that follow thee do it not as a friend, but as a house of office rather. do but consider, poor thing, into what a condition thou hast brought thyself. _christ_ lov'd thee so dearly as to redeem thee with his own blood, and would have thee be a partaker with him in an heavenly inheritance, and thou makest thyself a common sewer, into which all the base, nasty, pocky fellows resort, and empty their filthiness. and if that leprous infection they call the _french_ pox han't yet seiz'd thee, thou wilt not escape it long. and if once thou gettest it, how miserable wilt thou be, though all things should go favourably on thy side? i mean thy substance and reputation. thou wouldest be nothing but a living carcase. thou thoughtest much to obey thy mother, and now thou art a mere slave to a filthy bawd. you could not endure to hear your parents instructions; and here you are often beaten by drunken fellows and mad whoremasters. it was irksome to thee to do any work at home, to get a living; but here, how many quarrels art thou forc'd to endure, and how late a nights art thou oblig'd to sit up? _lu._ how came you to be a preacher? _so._ and do but seriously consider, this flower of thy beauty that now brings thee so many gallants, will soon fade: and then, poor creature, what wilt thou do? thou wilt be piss'd upon by every body. it may be, thou thinkest, instead of a mistress, i'll then be a bawd. all whores can't attain to that, and if thou shouldst, what employment is more impious, and more like the devil himself? _lu._ why, indeed, my _sophronius_, almost all you say is very true. but how came you to be so religious all of a sudden? thou usedst to be the greatest rake in the world, one of 'em. no body used to come hither more frequently, nor at more unseasonable hours than you did. i hear you have been at _rome_. _so._ i have so. _lu._ well, but other people use to come from thence worse than they went: how comes it about, it is otherwise with you? _so._ i'll tell you, because i did not go to _rome_ with the same intent, and after the same manner that others do. others commonly go to _rome_, on purpose to come home worse, and there they meet with a great many opportunities of becoming so. i went along with an honest man, by whose advice, i took along with me a book instead of a bottle: the new testament with _erasmus_'s paraphrase. _lu._ _erasmus_'s? they say that he's half a heretick. _so._ has his name reached to this place too? _lu._ there's no name more noted among us. _so._ did you ever see him? _lu._ no, i never saw him; but i should be glad to see him; i have heard so many bad reports of him. _so._ it may be you have heard 'em, from them that are bad themselves. _lu._ nay, from men of the gown. _so._ who are they? _lu._ it is not convenient to name names. _so._ why so? _lu._ because if you should blab it out, and it should come to their ears, i should lose a great many good cullies. _so._ don't be afraid, i won't speak a word of it. _lu._ i will whisper then. _so._ you foolish girl, what need is there to whisper, when there is no body but ourselves? what, lest god should hear? ah, good god! i perceive you're a religious whore, that relievest mendicants. _lu._ i get more by them beggars than by you rich men. _so._ they rob honest women, to lavish it away upon naughty strumpets. _lu._ but go on, as to your book. _so._ so i will, and that's best. in that book, paul, that can't lie, told me, that _neither whores nor whore-mongers shall obtain the kingdom of heaven_. when i read this, i began thus to think with myself: it is but a small matter that i look for from my father's inheritance, and yet i can renounce all the whores in the world, rather than be disinherited by my father; how much more then ought i to take care, lest my heavenly father should disinherit me? and human laws do afford some relief in the case of a father's disinheriting or discarding a son: but here is no provision at all made, in case of god's disinheriting; and upon that, i immediately ty'd myself up from all conversation with lewd women. _lu._ it will be well if you can hold it. _so._ it is a good step towards continence, to desire to be so. and last of all, there is one remedy left, and that is a wife. when i was at _rome_, i empty'd the whole jakes of my sins into the bosom of a confessor. and he exhorted me very earnestly to purity, both of mind and body, and to the reading of the holy scripture, to frequent prayer, and sobriety of life, and enjoin'd me no other penance, but that i should upon my bended knees before the high altar say this psalm, _have mercy upon me, o god_: and that if i had any money, i should give one penny to some poor body. and i wondring that for so many whoring tricks he enjoin'd me so small a penance, he answer'd me very pleasantly, my son, says he, if you truly repent and change your life, i don't lay much stress upon the penance; but if thou shalt go on in it, the very lust itself will at last punish thee very severely, although the priest impose none upon thee. look upon me, i am blear-ey'd, troubled with the palsy, and go stooping: time was i was such a one as you say you have been heretofore. and thus i repented. _lu._ then as far as i perceive, i have lost my _sophronius_. _so._ nay, you have rather gain'd him, for he was lost before, and was neither his own friend nor thine: now he loves thee in reality, and longs for the salvation of thy soul. _lu._ what would you have me to do then, my _sophronius_? _so._ to leave off that course of life out of hand: thou art but a girl yet, and that stain that you have contracted may be wip'd off in time. either marry, and i'll give you something toward a portion, or go into some cloyster, that takes in crakt maids, or go into some strange place and get into some honest family, i'll lend you my assistance to any of these. _lu._ my _sophronius_, i love thee dearly, look out for one for me, i'll follow thy advice. _so._ but in the mean time get away from hence. _lu._ whoo! what so suddenly! _so._ why not to day rather than to morrow, if delays are dangerous? _lu._ whither shall i go? _so._ get all your things together, give 'em to me in the evening, my servant shall carry 'em privately to a faithful matron: and i'll come a little after and take you out as if it were to take a little walk; you shall live with her some time upon my cost till i can provide for you, and that shall be very quickly. _lu._ well, my _sophronius_, i commit myself wholly to thy management. _so._ in time to come you'll be glad you have done so. _the poetical feast._ the argument. _the poetical feast teaches the studious how to banquet. that thriftiness with jocoseness, chearfulness without obscenity, and learned stories, ought to season their feasts. iambics are bloody. poets are men of no great judgment. the three chief properties of a good maid servant. fidelity, deformity, and a high spirit. a place out of the prologue of_ terence's eunuchus _is illustrated. also_ horace's _epode to_ canidia. _a place out of_ seneca. aliud agere, nihil agere, male agere. _a place out of the elenchi of_ aristotle _is explain'd. a theme poetically varied, and in a different metre. sentences are taken from flowers and trees in the garden. also some verses are compos'd in_ greek. hilary, leonard, crato, guests, margaret, carinus, eubulus, sbrulius, parthenius, mus, _hilary_'s servant. hi. _levis apparatus, animus est lautissimus._ le. _cænam sinistro es auspicatus omine._ hi. _imo absit omen triste. sed cur hoc putas?_ le. _cruenti iambi haud congruent convivio._ hi. _i have but slender fare, but a very liberal mind._ le. _you have begun the banquet with a bad omen._ hi. _away with bad presages. but why do you think so?_ le. _bloody iambics are not fit for a feast._ _cr._ o brave! i am sure the muses are amongst us, verses flow so from us, when we don't think of 'em. _si rotatiles trochaeos mavelis, en, accipe: vilis apparatus heic est, animus est lautissimus._ if you had rather have whirling trochees, lo, here they are for you: here is but mean provision, but i have a liberal mind. although iambics in old time were made for contentions and quarrels, they were afterwards made to serve any subject whatsoever. o melons! here you have melons that grew in my own garden. these are creeping lettuces of a very milky juice, like their name. what man in his wits would not prefer these delicacies before brawn, lampreys, and moor-hens? _cr._ if a man may be allow'd to speak truth at a poetic banquet, those you call lettuces are beets. _hi._ god forbid. _cr._ it is as i tell you. see the shape of 'em, and besides where is the milky juice? where are their soft prickles? _hi._ truly you make me doubt. soho, call the wench. _margaret_, you hag, what did you mean to give us beets instead of lettuces? _ma._ i did it on purpose. _hi._ what do you say, you witch? _ma._ i had a mind to try among so many poets if any could know a lettuce from a beet. for i know you don't tell me truly who 'twas that discover'd 'em to be beets. _guests._ _crato_. _ma._ i thought it was no poet who did it. _hi._ if ever you serve me so again, i'll call you _blitea_ instead of _margarita_. _gu._ ha, ha, ha. _ma._ your calling me will neither make me fatter nor leaner. he calls me by twenty names in a day's time: when he has a mind to wheedle me, then i'm call'd _galatea, euterpe, calliope, callirhoe, melissa, venus, minerva_, and what not? when he's out of humour at any thing, then presently i'm _tisiphone_, _megaera_, _alecto_, _medusa_, _baucis_, and whatsoever comes into his head in his mad mood. _hi._ get you gone with your beets, _blitea_. _ma._ i wonder what you call'd me for. _hi._ that you may go whence you came. _ma._ 'tis an old saying and a true, 'tis an easier matter to raise the devil, than 'tis to lay him. _gu._ ha, ha, ha: very well said. as the matter is, _hilary_, you stand in need of some magic verse to lay her with. _hi._ i have got one ready. [greek: pheugete, kantharides lukos agrios umme diôkei.] be gone ye beetles, for the cruel wolf pursues you. _ma._ what says _æsop?_ _cr._ have a care, _hilary_, she'll hit you a slap on the face: this is your laying her with your _greek_ verse. a notable conjurer indeed! _hi._ _crato_, what do you think of this jade? i could have laid ten great devils with such a verse as this. _ma._ i don't care a straw for your _greek_ verses. _hi._ well then, i must make use of a magical spell, or, if that won't do, _mercury's_ mace. _cr._ my _margaret_, you know we poets are a sort of enthusiasts, i won't say mad-men; prithee let me intreat you to let alone this contention 'till another time, and treat us with good humour at this supper for my sake. _ma._ what does he trouble me with his verses for? often when i am to go to market he has never a penny of money to give me, and yet he's a humming of verses. _cr._ poets are such sort of men. but however, prithee do as i say. _ma._ indeed i will do it for your sake, because i know you are an honest gentleman, that never beat your brain about such fooleries. i wonder how you came to fall into such company. _cr._ how come you to think so? _ma._ because you have a full nose, sparkling eyes, and a plump body. now do but see how he leers and sneers at me. _cr._ but prithee, sweet-heart, keep your temper for my sake. _ma._ well, i will go, and 'tis for your sake and no body's else. _hi._ is she gone? _ma._ not so far but she can hear you. _mus._ she is in the kitchen, now, muttering something to herself i can't tell what. _cr._ i'll assure you your maid is not dumb. _hi._ they say a good maid servant ought especially to have three qualifications; to be honest, ugly, and high-spirited, which the vulgar call evil. an honest servant won't waste, an ugly one sweet-hearts won't woo, and one that is high-spirited will defend her master's right; for sometimes there is occasion for hands as well as a tongue. this maid of mine has two of these qualifications, she's as ugly as she's surly; as to her honesty i can't tell what to say to that. _cr._ we have heard her tongue, we were afraid of her hands upon your account. _hi._ take some of these pompions: we have done with the lettuces. for i know if i should bid her bring any lettuces, she would bring thistles. here are melons too, if any body likes them better. here are new figs too just gather'd, as you may see by the milk in the stalks. it is customary to drink water after figs, lest they clog the stomach. here is very cool clear spring water that runs out of this fountain, that is good to mix with wine. _cr._ but i can't tell whether i had best to mix water with my wine, or wine with water; this wine seems to me so likely to have been drawn out of the muses fountain. _hi._ such wine as this is good for poets to sharpen their wits. you dull fellows love heavy liquors. _cr._ i wish i was that happy _crassus_. _hi._ i had rather be _codrus_ or _ennius_. and seeing i happen to have the company of so many learned guests at my table, i won't let 'em go away without learning something of 'em. there is a place in the prologue of _eunuchus_ that puzzles many. for most copies have it thus: _sic existimet, sciat, responsum, non dictum esse, quid laesit prior, qui bene vertendo, et ects describendo male, &c. let him so esteem or know, that it is an answer, not a common saying; because he first did the injury, who by well translating and ill describing them, &c._ in these words i want a witty sense, and such as is worthy of _terence_. for he did not therefore do the wrong first, because he translated the _greek_ comedies badly, but because he had found fault with _terence's._ eu. according to the old proverb, _he that sings worst let him begin first._ when i was at _london_ in _thomas linacre's_ house, who is a man tho' well skill'd in all manner of philosophy, yet he is very ready in all criticisms in grammar, he shew'd me a book of great antiquity which had it thus: _sic existimet, stiat, responsum, non dictum esse, quale sit prius qui bene vertendo, et eas describendo male, ex graecis bonis latinas fecit non bonas: idem menandri phasma nunc nuper dedit._ the sentence is so to be ordered, that _quale sit_ may shew that an example of that which is spoken before is to be subjoin'd. he threatened that he would again find fault with something in his comedies who had found fault with him, and he here denies that it ought to seem a reproach but an answer. he that provokes begins the quarrel; he that being provok'd, replies, only makes his defence or answer. he promises to give an example thereof, _quale sit_, being the same with [greek: oion] in _greek_, and _quod genus, veluti_, or _videlicet_, or _puta_ in latin. then afterwards he brings a reproof, wherein the adverb _prius_ hath relation to another adverb, as it were a contrary one, which follows, _viz. nuper_ even as the pronoun _qui_ answers to the word _idem_. for he altogether explodes the old comedies of _lavinius_, because they were now lost out of the memory of men. in those which he had lately published, he sets down the certain places. i think that this is the proper reading, and the true sense of the comedian: if the chief and ordinary poets dissent not from it. _gu._ we are all entirely of your opinion. _eu._ but i again desire to be inform'd by you of one small and very easy thing, how this verse is to be scann'd. _ex græcis bonis latinas fecit non bonas._ scan it upon your fingers. _hi._ i think that according to the custom of the antients _s_ is to be cut off, so that there be an _anapaestus_ in the second place. _eu._ i should agree to it, but that the ablative case ends in _is_, and is long by nature. therefore though the consonant should be taken away, yet nevertheless a long vowel remains. _hi._ you say right. _cr._ if any unlearned person or stranger should come in, he would certainly think we were bringing up again among ourselves the countrymens play of holding up our fingers (_dimicatione digitorum_, _i.e._ the play of love). _le._ as far as i see, we scan it upon our fingers to no purpose. do you help us out if you can. _eu._ to see how small a matter sometimes puzzles men, though they be good scholars! the preposition _ex_ belongs to the end of the foregoing verse. _qui bene vertendo, et eas describendo male, ex graecis bonis latinas fecit non bonas._ thus there is no scruple. _le._ it is so, by the muses. since we have begun to scan upon our fingers, i desire that somebody would put this verse out of _andria_ into its feet. sine invidia laudem invenias, et amicos pares. for i have often tri'd and could do no good on't. _le. sine in_ is an iambic, _vidia_ an anapæstus, _laudem in_ is a spondee, _venias_ an anapæstus, _et ami_ another anapæstus. _ca._ you have five feet already, and there are three syllables yet behind, the first of which is long; so that thou canst neither make it an _iambic_ nor a _tribrach._ _le._ indeed you say true. we are aground; who shall help us off? _eu._ no body can do it better than he that brought us into it. well, _carinus_, if thou canst say any thing to the matter, don't conceal it from your poor sincere friends. _ca._ if my memory does not fail me, i think i have read something of this nature in _priscian_, who says, that among the latin comedians _v_ consonant is cut off as well as the vowel, as oftentimes in this word _enimvero;_ so that the part _enime_ makes an anapæstus. _le._ then scan it for us. _ca._ i'll do it. _sine inidi_ is a proseleusmatic foot, unless you had rather have it cut off _i_ by syneresis, as when _virgil_ puts _aureo_ at the end of an heroick verse for _auro._ but if you please let there be a tribrach in the first place, _a lau_ is a spondee, _d'inveni_ a dactyl, _as et a_ a dactyl, _micos_ a spondee, _pares_ an iambic. _sb. carinus_ hath indeed got us out of these briars. but in the same scene there is a place, which i can't tell whether any body has taken notice of or not. _hi._ prithee, let us have it. _sb._ there _simo_ speaks after this manner. sine ut eveniat, quod volo, in pamphilo ut nihil sit morae, restat chremes. _suppose it happen, as i desire, that there be no delay in_ pamphilus; chremes _remains._ what is it that troubles you in these words? _sb. sine_ being a term of threatning, there is nothing follows in this place that makes for a threatning. therefore it is my opinion that the poet wrote it, _sin eveniat, quod volo;_ that _sin_ may answer to the _si_ that went before. _si propter amorem uxorem nolit ducere._ for the old man propounds two parts differing from one another: _si, &c. if_ pamphilus _for the love of_ glycerie _refuseth to marry, i shall have some cause to chide him; but if he shall not refuse, then it remains that i must intreat_ chremes. moreover the interruption of _sosia_, and _simo_'s anger against _davus_ made too long a transposition of the words. _hi._ _mouse_, reach me that book. _cr._ do you commit your book to a mouse? _hi._ more safely than my wine. let me never stir, if _sbrulius_ has not spoken the truth. _ca._ give me the book, i'll shew you another doubtful place. this verse is not found in the prologue of _eunuchus_: _habeo alia multa, quæ nunc condonabuntur._ _i have many other things, which shall now be delivered._ although the _latin_ comedians especially take great liberty to themselves in this kind of verse, yet i don't remember that they any where conclude a trimetre with a spondee, unless it be read _condonabitur_ impersonally, or _condonabimus_, changing the number of the person. _ma._ oh, this is like poets manners indeed! as soon as ever they are set down to dinner they are at play, holding up their fingers, and poring upon their books. it were better to reserve your plays and your scholarship for the second course. _cr. margaret_ gives us no bad counsel, we'll humour her; when we have fill'd our bellies, we'll go to our play again; now we'll play with our fingers in the dish. _hi._ take notice of poetick luxury. you have three sorts of eggs, boil'd, roasted, and fry'd; they are all very new, laid within these two days. _par._ i can't abide to eat butter; if they are fry'd with oil, i shall like 'em very well. _hi._ boy, go ask _margaret_ what they are fry'd in. _mo._ she says they are fry'd in neither. _hi._ what! neither in butter nor oil. in what then? _mo._ she says they are fry'd in lye. _cr._ she has given you an answer like your question. what a great difficulty 'tis to distinguish butter from oil. _ca._ especially for those that can so easily know a lettuce from a beet. _hi._ well, you have had the ovation, the triumph will follow in time. soho, boy, look about you, do you perceive nothing to be wanting? _mo._ yes, a great many things. _hi._ these eggs lack sauce to allay their heat. _mo._ what sauce would you have? _hi._ bid her send us some juice of the tendrels of a vine pounded. _mo._ i'll tell her, sir. _hi._ what, do you come back empty-handed? _mo._ she says, juice is not used to be squeez'd out of vine tendrels. _le._ a fine maid servant, indeed! _sb._ well, we'll season our eggs with pleasant stories. i found a place in the epodes of _horace_, not corrupted as to the writing, but wrong interpreted, and not only by _mancinellus_, and other later writers; but by _porphyry_ himself. the place is in the poem, where he sings a recantation to the witch _canidia_. _tuusque venter pactumeius, et tuo cruore rubros obstetrix pannos lavit, utcunque fortis exilis puerpera._ for they all take _exilis_ to be a noun in this place, when it is a verb. i'll write down _porphyry_'s words, if we can believe 'em to be his: she is _exilis_, says he, under that form, as though she were become deform'd by travel; by slenderness of body, he means a natural leanness. a shameful mistake, if so great a man did not perceive that the law of the metre did contradict this sense. nor does the fourth place admit of a spondee: but the poet makes a jest of it; that she did indeed bear a child, though she was not long weak, nor kept her bed long after her delivery; but presently jumpt out of bed, as some lusty lying-in women used to do. _hi._ we thank you _sbrulius_, for giving us such fine sauce to our eggs. _le._ there is another thing in the first book of _odes_ that is not much unlike this. the _ode_ begins thus: _tu ne quæ sieris._ now the common reading is thus, _neu babylonios tentaris numeros, ut melius quicquid erit pati_. the antient interpreters pass this place over, as if there were no difficulty in it. only _mancinettus_ thinking the sentence imperfect, bids us add _possis_. _sb._ have you any thing more that is certain about this matter? _le._ i don't know whether i have or no; but in my opinion, _horace_ seems here to have made use of the _greek_ idiom; and this he does more than any other of the poets. for it is a very common thing with the _greeks_, to join an infinitive mood with the word [greek: hôs] and [greek: hôste]. and so _horace_ uses _ut pati_, for _ut patiaris_: although what _mancinellus_ guesses, is not altogether absurd. _hi._ i like what you say very well. run, _mouse_, and bring what is to come, if there be any thing. _cr._ what new dainty dish is this? _hi._ this is a cucumber sliced; this is the broth of the pulp of a gourd boil'd, it is good to make the belly loose. _sb._ truly a medical feast. _hi._ take it in good part. there's a fowl to come out of our hen-coop. _sb._ we will change thy name, and call thee _apicius_, instead of _hilary_. _hi._ well, laugh now as much as you will, it may be you'll highly commend this supper to morrow. _sb._ why so? _hi._ when you find that your dinner has been well season'd. _sb._ what, with a good stomach? _hi._ yes, indeed. _cr._ _hilary_, do you know what task i would have you take upon you? _hi._ i shall know when you have told me. _cr._ the choir sings some hymns, that are indeed learned ones; but are corrupted in many places by unlearned persons. i desire that you would mend 'em; and to give you an example, we sing thus: _hostis herodes impie, christum venire quid times?_ _thou wicked enemy_ herod, _why dost thou dread the coming of christ?_ the mis-placing of one word spoils the verse two ways. for the word _hostis_, making a trochee, has no place in an _iambick verse_, and _hero_ being a _spondee_ won't stand in the second place. nor is there any doubt but the verse at first was thus written, _herodes hostis impie._ for the epithete _impie_ better agrees with _hostis_ than with _herod_. besides _herodes_ being a _greek_ word [greek: ê or ae] is turned into [greek: e] in the vocative; as [greek: sôkrataes, ô sokrates]; and so [greek: agamemnôn [transcribers note: this word appears in greek with the ô represented by the character omega.]] in the nominative case is turned into _[greek: o]_. so again we sing the hymn, _jesu corona virginum, quem mater ilia concepit, quæ sola virgo parturit. o jesus the crown of virgins, whom she the mother conceiv'd, which was the only person of a virgin that brought forth._ there is no doubt but the word should be pronounc'd _concipit._ for the change of the tense sets off a word. and it is ridiculous for us to find fault with _concipit_ when _parlurit_ follows. _hi._ truly i have been puzzled at a great many such things; nor will it be amiss, if hereafter we bestow a little time upon this matter. for methinks _ambrose_ has not a little grace in this kind of verse, for he does commonly end a verse of four feet with a word of three syllables, and commonly places a _cæsura_ in the end of a word. it is so common with him that it cannot seem to have been by chance. if you would have an example, _deus creator_. here is a _penthemimeris_, it follows, _omnium; polique rector_, then follows, _vestiens; diem decoro_, and then _lumine; noctem soporis_, then follows _gratia_. _hi._ but here's a good fat hen that has laid me eggs, and hatch'd me chickens for ten years together. _cr._ it is pity that she should have been kill'd. _ca._ if it were fit to intermingle any thing of graver studies, i have something to propose. _hi._ yes, if it be not too crabbed. _ca._ that it is not. i lately began to read _seneca's_ epistles, and stumbled, as they say, at the very threshold. the place is in the first epistle; _and if_, says he, _thou wilt but observe it, great part of our life passes away while we are doing what is ill; the greatest part, while we are doing nothing, and the whole of it while we are doing that which is to no purpose_. in this sentence, he seems to affect i can't tell what sort of witticism, which i do not well understand. _le._ i'll guess, if you will. _ca._ do so. _le._ no man offends continually. but, nevertheless, a great part of one's life is lost in excess, lust, ambition, and other vices; but a much greater part is lost in doing of nothing. moreover they are said to do nothing, not who live in idleness, but they who are busied about frivolous things which conduce nothing at all to our happiness: and thence comes the proverb, _it is better to be idle, than to be doing, but to no purpose_. but the whole life is spent in doing another thing. he is said, _aliud agere_, who does not mind what he is about. so that the whole of life is lost: because when we are vitiously employ'd we are doing what we should not do; when we are employ'd about frivolous matters we do that we should not do; and when we study philosophy, in that we do it negligently and carelesly, we do something to no purpose. if this interpretation don't please you, let this sentence of _seneca_ be set down among those things of this author that _aulus gellius_ condemns in this writer as frivolously witty. _hi._ indeed i like it very well. but in the mean time, let us fall manfully upon the hen. i would not have you mistaken, i have no more provision for you. it agrees with what went before. _that is the basest loss that comes by negligence_, and he shews it by this sentence consisting of three parts. but methinks i see a fault a little after: _we foresee not death, a great part of it is past already._ it is my opinion it ought to be read; _we foresee death._ for we foresee those things which are a great way off from us, when death for the most part is gone by us. _le._ if philosophers do sometimes give themselves leave to go aside into the meadows of the muses, perhaps it will not be amiss for us, if we, to gratify our fancy, take a turn into their territories. _hi._ why not? _le._ as i was lately reading over again _aristotle_'s book that he entitles [greek: peri tôn elenchôn], the argument of which is for the most part common both to rhetoricians and philosophers, i happen'd to fall upon some egregious mistakes of the interpreters. and there is no doubt but that they that are unskill'd in the _greek_ have often miss'd it in many places. for _aristotle_ proposes a sort of such kind of ambiguity as arises from a word of a contrary signification. [greek: ho ti manthanousin oi epistamenoi ta gar apostomatizomena manthanousin oi grammatikoi to gar manthanein omônymon, to te xunienai chrômenon tê epistêmê, kai to lambanein tên epistêmên.] and they turn it thus. _because intelligent persons learn; for grammarians are only tongue-learn'd; for to learn is an equivocal word, proper both to him that exerciseth and to him that receiveth knowledge._ _hi._ methinks you speak _hebrew_, and not _english_. _le._ have any of you heard any equivocal word? _hi._ no. _le._ what then can be more foolish than to desire to turn that which cannot possibly be turn'd. for although the _greek_ word [greek: manthanein], signifies as much as [greek: mathein] and [greek: mathêteuein], so among the _latins_, _discere_, to learn, signifies as much as _doctrinam accipere_, or _doctrinam tradere._ but whether this be true or no i can't tell. i rather think [greek: manthanein], is of doubtful signification with the _greeks_, as _cognoscere_ is among the _latins._ for he that informs, and the judge that learns, both of them know the cause. and so i think among the _greeks_ the master is said [greek: manthanein] whilst he hears his scholars, as also the scholars who learn of him. but how gracefully hath he turn'd that [greek: ta gar apostomatizomena manthanousin oi grammatikoi], _nam secundum os grammatici discunt: for the grammarians are tongue-learn'd_; since it ought to be translated, _nam grammatici, quæ dictitant, docent: grammarians teach what they dictate_. here the interpreters ought to have given another expression, which might not express the same words, but the same kind of thing. tho' i am apt to suspect here is some error in the _greek_ copy, and that it ought to be written [greek: homônumon tô te xunienai kai tô lambanein]. and a little after he subjoins another example of ambiguity, which arises not from the diversity of the signification of the same word, but from a different connection, [greek: to boulesthai labein me tous polemious], _velleme accipere pugnantes. to be willing that i should receive the fighting men_: for so he translates it, instead of _velle me capere hostes, to be willing that i take the enemies;_ and if one should read [greek: boulesthe], it is more perspicuous. _vultis ut ego capiam hostes? will ye that i take the enemies?_ for the pronoun may both go before and follow the verb _capere_. if it go before it, the sense will be this, _will ye that i take the enemies?_ if it follows, then this will be the sense, _are ye willing that the enemies should take me?_ he adds also another example of the same kind, [greek: ara ho tis ginôskei, touto ginôskei]. i.e. _an quod quis novit hoc novit._ the ambiguity lies in [greek: touto]. if it should be taken in the accusative case, the sense will be this; _whatsoever it is that any body knows, that thing he knows to be._ but if in the nominative case, the sense will be this, _that thing which any body knows, it knows;_ as though that could not be known that knows not again by course. again he adds another example. [greek: apa ho tis hora, touto hora; hora de ton kiona hôste hora ho kiôn]. _that which any one sees, does that thing see; but he sees a post, does the post therefore see?_ the ambiguity lies again in [greek: touto], as we shew'd before. but these sentences may be render'd into _latin_ well enough; but that which follows cannot possibly by any means be render'd, [greek: ara ho sy phês einai, touto sy phês einai; phês de lithon einai sy ara phês lithos einai]. which they thus render, _putas quod tu dicis esse, hoc tu dicis esse: dicis autem lapidem esse, tu ergo lapis dicis esse._ pray tell me what sense can be made of these words? for the ambiguity lies partly in the idiom of the _greek_ phrase, which is in the major and minor. although in the major there is another ambiguity in the two words [greek: o] and [greek: touto], which if they be taken in the nominative case, the sense will be, _that which thou sayest thou art, that thou art._ but if in the accusative case the sense will be, _whatsoever thou sayst is, that thou sayst is;_ and to this sense he subjoins [greek: lithon phês einai], but to the former sense he subjoins [greek: sy ara phês lithos einai]. _catullus_ once attempted to imitate the propriety of the _greek_ tongue: _phaselus iste, quem videtis, hospites, ait fuisse navium celerrimus. my guests, that gally which you see the most swift of the navy is, says he._ for so was this verse in the old edition. those who write commentaries on these places being ignorant of this, must of necessity err many ways. neither indeed can that which immediately follows be perspicuous in the _latin_. [greek: kai ara eoti sigônta legein; ditton gar esti to sigonta legein, to te ton legonta sigan, kai to ta legomena.] that they have render'd thus; _et putas, est tacentem dicere? duplex enim est, tacentem dicere; et hunc dicere tacentem, et quæ dicuntur._ are not these words more obscure than the books of the _sibyls_? _hi._ i am not satisfy'd with the _greek_. _le._ i'll interpret it as well as i can. _is it possible for a man to speak while he is silent?_ this interrogation has a two-fold sense, the one of which is false and absurd, and the other may be true; for it cannot possibly be that he who speaks, should not speak what he does speak; that is that he should be silent while he is speaking; but it is possible, that he who speaks may be silent of him who speaks. although this example falls into another form that he adds a little after. and again, i admire, that a little after, in that kind of ambiguity that arises from more words conjoin'd, the _greeks_ have chang'd the word _seculum_ into the letters, [greek: epistasthai ta grammata], seeing that the _latin_ copies have it, _scire seculum_. for here arises a double sense, either _that the age itself might know something_, or _that somebody might know the age_. but this is an easier translation of it into [greek: aiôna] or [greek: kosmon], than into [greek: grammata]. for it is absurd to say that letters know any thing; but it is no absurdity to say, _something is known to our age_, or _that any one knows his age_. and a little after, where he propounds an ambiguity in the accent, the translator does not stick to put _virgil's_ words instead of _homer's_, when there was the same necessity in that example, _quicquid dicis esse, hoc est_, _what thou sayst is, it is_. _aristotle_ out of _homer_ says, [greek: ou kataputhetai ombrô], if [greek: ou] should be aspirated and circumflected, it sounds in _latin_ thus; _cujus computrescit pluviâ_; _by whose rain it putrifies_; but if [greek: ou] be acuted and exile, it sounds, _non computrescit pluviâ; it does not putrify with rain_; and this indeed is taken out of the _iliad_ [greek: ps]. another is, [greek: didomen de oi euchos aresthai]: the accent being placed upon the last syllable but one, signifies, _grant to him_; but plac'd upon the first syllable [greek: didomen], signifies, _we grant_. but the poet did not think _jupiter_ said, _we grant to him_; but commands the dream itself to grant him, to whom it is sent to obtain his desire. for [greek: didomen], is used for [greek: didonai]. for these two of _homer_, these two are added out of our poets; as that out of the odes of _horace_. _me tuo longas pereunte noctes, lydia, dormis._ for if the accent be on _me_ being short, and _tu_ be pronounc'd short, it is one word _metuo_; that is, _timeo, i am afraid_: although this ambiguity lies not in the accent only, but also arises from the composition. they have brought another example out of _virgil_: _heu quia nam tanti cinxerunt aethera nymbi!_ although here also the ambiguity lies in the composition. _hi._ _leonard_, these things are indeed niceties, worthy to be known; but in the mean time, i'm afraid our entertainment should seem rather a sophistical one, than a poetical one: at another time, if you please, we'll hunt niceties and criticisms for a whole day together. _le._ that is as much as to say, we'll hunt for wood in a grove, or seek for water in the sea. _hi._ where is my mouse? _mou._ here he is. _hi._ bid _margaret_ bring up the sweet-meats. _mus._ i go, sir. _hi._ what! do you come again empty-handed? _mus._ she says, she never thought of any sweet-meats, and that you have sat long enough already. _hi._ i am afraid, if we should philosophize any longer, she'll come and overthrow the table, as _xantippe_ did to _socrates_; therefore it is better for us to take our sweet-meats in the garden; and there we may walk and talk freely; and let every one gather what fruit he likes best off of the trees. _guests._ we like your motion very well. _hi._ there is a little spring sweeter than any wine. _ca._ how comes it about, that your garden is neater than your hall? _hi._ because i spend most of my time here. if you like any thing that is here, don't spare whatever you find. and now if you think you have walk'd enough, what if we should sit down together under this teil tree, and rouze up our muses. _pa._ come on then, let us do so. _hi._ the garden itself will afford us a theme. _pa._ if you lead the way, we will follow you. _hi._ well, i'll do so. he acts very preposterously, who has a garden neatly trimm'd up, and furnish'd with various delicacies, and at the same time, has a mind adorn'd with no sciences nor virtues. _le._ we shall believe the muses themselves are amongst us, if thou shalt give us the same sentence in verse. _hi._ that's a great deal more easy to me to turn prose into verse, than it is to turn silver into gold. _le._ let us have it then: _hi. cui renidet hortus undiquaque flosculis, animumque nullis expolitum dotibus squalere patitur, is facit praepostere. whose garden is all grac'd with flowers sweet, his soul mean while being impolite, is far from doing what is meet._ here's verses for you, without the _muses_ or _apollo_; but it will be very entertaining, if every one of you will render this sentence into several different kinds of verse. _le._ what shall be his prize that gets the victory? _hi._ this basket full, either of apples, or plumbs, or cherries, or medlars, or pears, or of any thing else he likes better. _le._ who should be the umpire of the trial of skill? _hi._ who shall but _crato_? and therefore he shall be excused from versifying, that he may attend the more diligently. _cr._ i'm afraid you'll have such a kind of judge, as the cuckoo and nightingal once had, when they vy'd one with the other, who should sing best. _hi._ i like him if the rest do. _gu._ we like our umpire. begin, _leonard_. _le. cui tot deliciis renidet hortus, herbis, fioribus, arborumque foetu, et multo et vario, nec excolendum curat pectus et artibus probatis, et virtutibus, is mihi videtur lævo judicio, parumque recto. who that his garden shine doth mind with herbs and flowers, and fruits of various kind; and in mean while, his mind neglected lies of art and virtue void, he is not wise._ i have said. _hi. carinus_ bites his nails, we look for something elaborate from him. _ca._ i'm out of the poetical vein. _cura cui est, ut niteat hortus flosculis ac foetibus, negligenti excolere pectus disciplinis optimis; hic labore, mihi ut videtur, ringitur praepostero. whose only care is that his gardens be with flow'rs and fruits furnish'd most pleasantly, but disregards his mind with art to grace, bestows his pains and care much like an ass._ _hi._ you han't bit your nails for nothing. _eu._ well, since my turn is next, that i may do something, _qui studet ut variis niteat cultissimus hortus deliciis, patiens animum squalere, nec ullis artibus expoliens, huic est praepostera cura. who cares to have his garden neat and rare. and doth of ornaments his mind leave bare, acts but with a preposterous care._ we have no need to spur _sbrulius_ on, for he is so fluent at verses, that he oftentimes tumbles 'em out, before he is aware. sb. _cui vernat hortus cultus et elegans, nee pectus uttis artibus excolit; praepostera is mra laborat. sit ratio tibiprima mentis. who to make his garden spring, much care imparts, and yet neglects his mind to grace with arts, acts wrong: look chiefly to improve thy parts._ pa. _quisquis accurat, variis ut hortus floribus vernet, neque pectus idem artibus sanctis colit, hunc habet praepostera cura. who to his soul prefers a flower or worse, may well be said to set the cart before the horse._ _hi._ now let us try to which of us the garden will afford the most sentences. _le._ how can so rich a garden but do that? even this rose-bed will furnish me with what to say. _as the beauty of a rose is fading, so is youth soon gone; you make haste to gather your rose before it withers; you ought more earnestly to endeavour that your youth pass not away without fruit._ _hi._ it is a theme very fit for a verse. _ca. as among trees, every one hath its fruits: so among men, every one hath his natural gift._ _eu. as the earth, if it be till'd, brings forth various things for human use; and being neglected, is covered with thorns and briars: so the genius of a man, if it be accomplish'd with honest studies, yields a great many virtues; but if it be neglected, is over-run with various vices._ _sb. a garden ought to be drest every year, that it may look handsome: the mind being once furnish'd with good learning, does always flourish and spring forth._ _pa. as the pleasantness of gardens does not draw the mind off from honest studies, but rather invites it to them: so we ought to seek for such recreations and divertisements, as are not contrary to learning._ _hi._ o brave! i see a whole swarm of sentences. now for verse: but before we go upon that, i am of the mind, it will be no improper nor unprofitable exercise to turn the first sentence into _greek_ verse, as often as we have turn'd it into _latin._ and let _leonard_ begin, that has been an old acquaintance of the _greek_ poets. _le._ i'll begin if you bid me. _hi._ i both bid and command you. _le._ [greek: hôi kêpos estin anthesin gelôn kalois, ho de nous mal auchmôn tois kalois muthêmasin, ouk esti kompsos outos, ouk orthôs phronei, peri pleionos poiôn ta phaul, ê kreittona]. he never entered wisdom's doors who delights himself in simple flowers, and his foul soul neglects to cleanse. this man knows not what virtue means. i have begun, let him follow me that will. _hi. carinus._ _ca._ nay, _hilary._ _le._ but i see here's _margaret_ coming upon us of a sudden, she's bringing i know not what dainties. _hi._ if she does so, my fury'll do more than i thought she'd do. what hast brought us? _ma._ mustard-seed, to season your sweet-meats. an't you ashamed to stand prating here till i can't tell what time of night? and yet you poets are always reflecting against womens talkativeness. _cr. margaret_ says very right, it is high time for every one to go home to bed: at another time we'll spend a day in this commendable kind of contest. _hi._ but who do you give the prize to? _cr._ for this time i allot it to myself. for no body has overcome but i. _hi._ how did you overcome that did not contend at all. _cr._ ye have contended, but not try'd it out. i have overcome _marget_, and that is more than any of you could do. _ca. hilary._ he demands what's his right, let him have the basket. _an enquiry concerning faith._ the argument. _this inquisition concerning faith, comprehends the sum and substance of the catholick profession. he here introduces a_ lutheran _that by the means of the orthodox faith, he may bring either party to a reconciliation. concerning excommunication, and the popes thunderbolts. and also that we ought to associate ourselves with the impious and heretical, if we have any hope of amending them._ symbolum _is a military word. a most divine and elegant paraphrase upon the apostles creed._ aulus, barbatus. _au._ _salute freely_, is a lesson for children. but i can't tell whether i should bid you be well or no. _ba._ in truth i had rather any one would make me well, than bid me be so. _aulus_, why do you say that? _au._ why? because if you have a mind to know, you smell of brimstone, or _jupiter's_ thunderbolt. _ba._ there are mischievous deities, and there are harmless thunderbolts, that differ much in their original from those that are ominous. for i fancy you mean something about excommunication. _au._ you're right. _ba._ i have indeed heard dreadful thunders, but i never yet felt the blow of the thunderbolt. _au._ how so? _ba._ because i have never the worse stomach, nor my sleep the less sound. _au._ but a distemper is commonly so much the more dangerous, the less it is felt. but these brute thunderbolts as you call 'em, strike the mountains and the seas. _ba._ they do strike 'em indeed, but with strokes that have no effect upon 'em. there is a sort of lightning that proceeds from a glass or a vessel of brass. _au._ why, and that affrights too. _ba._ it may be so, but then none but children are frighted at it. none but god has thunderbolts that strike the soul. _au._ but suppose god is in his vicar. _ba._ i wish he were. _au._ a great many folks admire, that you are not become blacker than a coal before now. _ba._ suppose i were so, then the salvation of a lost person were so much the more to be desired, if men followed the doctrine of the gospel. _au._ it is to be wished indeed, but not to be spoken of. _ba._ why so? _au._ that he that is smitten with the thunderbolt may be ashamed and repent. _ba._ if god had done so by us, we had been all lost. _au._ why so? _ba._ because when we were enemies to god, and worshippers of idols, fighting under satan's banner, that is to say, every way most accursed; then in an especial manner he spake to us by his son, and by his treating with us restored us to life when we were dead. _au._ that thou say'st is indeed very true. _ba._ in truth it would go very hard with all sick persons, if the physician should avoid speaking to 'em, whensoever any poor wretch was seized with a grievous distemper, for then he has most occasion for the assistance of a doctor. _au._ but i am afraid that you will sooner infect me with your distemper than i shall cure you of it. it sometimes falls out that he that visits a sick man is forced to be a fighter instead of a physician. _ba._ indeed it sometimes happens so in bodily distempers: but in the diseases of the mind you have an antidote ready against every contagion. _au._ what's that? _ba._ a strong resolution not to be removed from the opinion that has been fixed in you. but besides, what need you fear to become a fighter, where the business is managed by words? _au._ there is something in what you say, if there be any hope of doing any good. _ba._ while there is life there is hope, and according to st. _paul, charity can't despair, because it hopes all things_. _au._ you observe very well, and upon this hope i may venture to discourse with you a little; and if you'll permit me, i'll be a physician to you. _ba._ do, with all my heart. _au._ inquisitive persons are commonly hated, but yet physicians are allowed to be inquisitive after every particular thing. _ba._ ask me any thing that you have a mind to ask me. _au._ i'll try. but you must promise me you'll answer me sincerely. _ba._ i'll promise you. but let me know what you'll ask me about. _au._ concerning the apostles creed. _ba._ _symbolum_ is indeed a military word. i will be content to be look'd upon an enemy to christ, if i shall deceive you in this matter. _au._ dost thou believe in god the father almighty, who made the heaven and earth. _ba._ yes, and whatsoever is contained in the heaven and earth, and the angels also which are spirits. _au._ when thou say'st god, what dost thou understand by it? _ba._ i understand a certain eternal mind, which neither had beginning nor shall have any end, than which nothing can be either greater, wiser, or better. _au._ thou believest indeed like a good christian. _ba._ who by his omnipotent beck made all things visible or invisible; who by his wonderful wisdom orders and governs all things; who by his goodness feeds and maintains all things, and freely restored mankind when fallen. _au._ these are indeed three especial attributes in god: but what benefit dost thou receive by the knowledge of them? _ba._ when i conceive him to be omnipotent, i submit myself wholly to him, in comparison of whose majesty, the excellency of men and angels is nothing. moreover, i firmly believe whatsoever the holy scriptures teach to have been done, and also that what he hath promised shall be done by him, seeing he can by his single beck do whatsoever he pleases, how impossible soever it may seem to man. and upon that account distrusting my own strength, i depend wholly upon him who can do all things. when i consider his wisdom, i attribute nothing at all to my own, but i believe all things are done by him righteously and justly, although they may seem to human sense absurd or unjust. when i animadvert on his goodness, i see nothing in myself that i do not owe to free grace, and i think there is no sin so great, but he is willing to forgive to a true penitent, nor nothing but what he will freely bestow on him that asks in faith. _au._ dost thou think that it is sufficient for thee to believe him to be so? _ba._ by no means. but with a sincere affection i put my whole trust and confidence in him alone, detesting satan, and all idolatry, and magic arts. i worship him alone, preferring nothing before him, nor equalling nothing with him, neither angel, nor my parents, nor children, nor wife, nor prince, nor riches, nor honours, nor pleasures; being ready to lay down my life if he call for it, being assur'd that he can't possibly perish who commits himself wholly to him. _au._ what then, dost thou worship nothing, fear nothing, love nothing but god alone? _ba._ if i reverence any thing, fear any thing, or love any thing, it is for his sake i love it, fear it, and reverence it; referring all things to his glory, always giving thanks to him for whatsoever happens, whether prosperous or adverse, life or death. _au._ in truth your confession is very sound so far. what do you think concerning the second person? _ba._ examine me. _au._ dost thou believe jesus was god and man? _ba._ yes. _au._ could it be that the same should be both immortal god and mortal man? _ba._ that was an easy thing for him to do who can do what he will: and by reason of his divine nature, which is common to him with the father, whatsoever greatness, wisdom, and goodness i attribute to the father, i attribute the same to the son; and whatsoever i owe to the father, i owe also to the son, but only that it hath seemed good to the father to bestow all things on us through him. _au._ why then do the holy scriptures more frequently call the son lord than god? _ba._ because god is a name of authority, that is to say, of sovereignty, which in an especial manner belongeth to the father, who is absolutely the original of all things, and the fountain even of the godhead itself. lord is the name of a redeemer and deliverer, altho' the father also redeemed us by his son, and the son is god, but of god the father. but the father only is from none, and obtains the first place among the divine persons. _au._ then dost thou put thy confidence in _jesus_? _ba._ why not? _au._ but the prophet calls him accursed who puts his trust in man. _ba._ but to this man alone hath all the power in heaven and earth been given, that at his name every knee should bow, both of things in heaven, things in earth, and things under the earth. although i would not put my chief confidence and hope in him, unless he were god. _au._ why do you call him son? _ba._ lest any should imagine him to be a creature. _au._ why an only son? _ba._ to distinguish the natural son from the sons by adoption, the honour of which sirname he imputes to us also, that we may look for no other besides this son. _au._ why would he have him to be made man, who was god? _ba._ that being man, he might reconcile men to god. _au._ dost thou believe he was conceived without the help of man, by the operation of the holy ghost, and born of the undented virgin _mary_, taking a mortal body of her substance? _ba._ yes. _au._ why would he be so born? _ba._ because it so became god to be born, because it became him to be born in this manner, who was to cleanse away the filthiness of our conception and birth. god would have him to be born the son of man, that we being regenerated into him, might be made the sons of god. _au._ dost thou believe that he lived here upon earth, did miracles, taught those things that are recorded to us in the gospel? _ba._ ay, more certainly than i believe you to be a man. _au._ i am not an _apuleius_ turned inside out, that you should suspect that an ass lies hid under the form of a man. but do you believe this very person to be the very messiah whom the types of the law shadowed out, which the oracle of the prophets promised, which the _jews_ looked for so many ages? _ba._ i believe nothing more firmly. _au._ dost thou believe his doctrine and life are sufficient to lead us to perfect piety? _ba._ yes, perfectly sufficient. _au._ dost thou believe that the same was really apprehended by the _jews_, bound, buffeted, beaten, spit upon, mock'd, scourg'd under _pontius pilate_; and lastly, nailed to the cross, and there died? _ba._ yes, i do. _au._ do you believe him to have been free from all the law of sin whatsoever? _ba._ why should i not? a lamb without spot. _au._ dost thou believe he suffered all these things of his own accord? _ba._ not only willingly, but even with great desire; but according to the will of his father. _au._ why would the father have his only son, being innocent and most dear to him, suffer all these things? _ba._ that by this sacrifice he might reconcile to himself us who were guilty, we putting our confidence and hope in his name. _au._ why did god suffer all mankind thus to fall? and if he did suffer them, was there no other way to be found out to repair our fall? _ba._ not human reason, but faith hath persuaded me of this, that it could be done no way better nor more beneficially for our salvation. _au._ why did this kind of death please him best? _ba._ because in the esteem of the world it was the most disgraceful, and because the torment of it was cruel and lingring, because it was meet for him who would invite all the nations of the world unto salvation, with his members stretch'd out into every coast of the world, and call off men, who were glew'd unto earthly cares, to heavenly things; and, last of all, that he might represent to us the brazen serpent that _moses_ set up upon a pole, that whoever should fix his eyes upon it, should be heal'd of the wounds of the serpent, and fulfil the prophet's promise, who prophesied, _say ye among the nations, god hath reign'd from a tree_. _au._ why would he be buried also, and that so curiously, anointed with myrrh and ointments, inclosed in a new tomb, cut out of a hard and natural rock, the door being seal'd, and also publick watchmen set there? _ba._ that it might be the more manifest that he was really dead. _au._ why did he not rise again presently? _ba._ for the very same reason; for if his death had been doubtful, his resurrection had been doubtful too; but he would have that to be as certain as possible could be. _au._ do you believe his soul descended into hell? _ba._ st. _cyprian_ affirms that this clause was not formerly inserted either in the _roman_ creed or in the creed of the eastern churches, neither is it recorded in _tertullian_, a very ancient writer. and yet notwithstanding, i do firmly believe it, both because it agrees with the prophecy of the psalm, _thou wilt not leave my soul in hell_; and again, _o lord, thou hast brought my soul out of hell_. and also because the apostle _peter_, in the third chapter of his first epistle (of the author whereof no man ever doubted,) writes after this manner, _being put to death in the flesh, but quickned by the spirit, in which also he came and preach'd by his spirit to those that were in prison_. but though i believe he descended into hell, yet i believe he did not suffer anything there. for he descended not to be tormented there, but that he might destroy the kingdom of satan. _au._ well, i hear nothing yet that is impious; but he died that he might restore us to life again, who were dead in sin. but why did he rise to live again? _ba._ for three reasons especially. _au._ which are they? _ba._ first of all, to give us an assur'd hope of our resurrection. secondly, that we might know that he in whom we have plac'd the safety of our resurrection is immortal, and shall never die. lastly, that we being dead in sins by repentance, and buried together with him by baptism, should by his grace be raised up again to newness of life. _au._ do you believe that the very same body that died upon the cross, which reviv'd in the grave, which was seen and handled by the disciples, ascended into heaven? _ba._ yes, i do. _au._ why would he leave the earth? _ba._ that we might all love him spiritually, and that no man should appropriate christ to himself upon the earth, but that we should equally lift up our minds to heaven, knowing that our head is there. for if men now so much please themselves in the colour and shape of the garment, and do boast so much of the blood or the foreskin of christ, and the milk of the virgin _mary_, what do you think would have been, had he abode on the earth, eating and discoursing? what dissentions would those peculiarities of his body have occasioned? _au._ dost thou believe that he, being made immortal, sitteth at the right hand of the father? _ba._ why not? as being lord of all things, and partaker of all his father's kingdom. he promised his disciples that this should be, and he presented this sight to his martyr _stephen_. _au._ why did he shew it? _ba._ that we may not be discouraged in any thing, well knowing what a powerful defender and lord we have in heaven. _au._ do you believe that he will come again in the same body, to judge the quick and the dead? _ba._ as certain as i am, that those things the prophets have foretold concerning christ hitherto have come to pass, so certain i am, that whatsoever he would have us look for for the future, shall come to pass. we have seen his first coming, according to the predictions of the prophets, wherein he came in a low condition, to instruct and save. we shall also see his second, when he will come on high, in the glory of his father, before whose judgment-seat all men of every nation, and of every condition, whether kings or peasants, _greeks_, or _scythians_, shall be compell'd to appear; and not only those, whom at that coming he shall find alive, but also all those who have died from the beginning of the world, even until that time, shall suddenly be raised, and behold his judge every one in his own body. the blessed angels also shall be there as faithful servants, and the devils to be judg'd. then he will, from on high, pronounce that unvoidable sentence, which will cast the devil, together with those that have taken his part, into eternal punishments, that they may not after that, be able to do mischief to any. he will translate the godly, being freed from all trouble, to a fellowship with him in his heavenly kingdom: although he would have the day of his coming unknown to all. _au._ i hear no error yet. let us now come to the third person. _ba._ as you please. _au._ dost thou believe in the holy spirit? _ba._ i do believe that it is true god, together with the father, and the son. i believe they that wrote us the books of the old and new testament were inspired by it, without whose help no man attains salvation. _au._ why is he called a spirit? _ba._ because as our bodies do live by breath, so our minds are quicken'd by the secret inspiration of the holy spirit. _au._ is it not lawful to call the father a spirit? _ba._ why not? _au._ are not then the persons confounded? _ba._ no, not at all, for the father is called a spirit, because he is without a body, which thing is common to all the persons, according to their divine nature: but the third person is called a spirit, because he breathes out, and transfuses himself insensibly into our minds, even as the air breathes from the land, or the rivers. _au._ why is the name of son given to the second person? _ba._ because of his perfect likeness of nature and will. _au._ is the son more like the father, than the holy spirit? _ba._ not according to the divine nature, except that he resembles the property of the father the more in this, that the spirit proceeds from him also. _au._ what hinders then, but that the holy spirit may be called son. _ba._ because, as st. _hilary_ saith, i no where read that he was begotten, neither do i read of his father: i read of the _spirit, and that proceeding from_. _au._ why is the father alone called god in the creed? _ba._ because he, as i have said before, is simply the author of all things that are, and the fountain of the whole deity. _au._ speak in plainer terms. _ba._ because nothing can be nam'd which hath not its original from the father: for indeed, in this very thing, that the son and holy spirit is god, they acknowledge that they received it from the father; therefore the chief authority, that is to say, the cause of beginning, is in the father alone, because he alone is of none: but yet, in the creed it may be so taken, that the name of god may not be proper to one person, but used in general; because, it is distinguish'd afterwards by the terms of father, son, and holy spirit, into one god; which word of nature comprehends the father, son, and holy spirit; that is to say, the three persons. _au._ dost thou believe in the holy church? _ba._ no. _au._ what say you? do you not believe in it? _ba._ i believe the holy church, which is the body of christ; that is to say, a certain congregation of all men throughout the whole world, who agree in the faith of the gospel, who worship one god the father, who put their whole confidence in his son, who are guided by the same spirit of him; from whose fellowship he is cut off that commits a deadly sin. _au._ but why do you stick to say, i believe in the holy church? _ba._ because st. _cyprian_ hath taught me, that we must believe in god alone, in whom we absolutely put all our confidence. whereas the church, properly so called, although it consists of none but good men; yet it consists of men, who of good may become bad, who may be deceived, and deceive others. _au._ what do you think of the communion of saints? _ba._ this article is not all meddled with by _cyprian_, when he particularly shews what in such and such churches is more or less used; for he thus connects them: _for there followeth after this saying, the holy church, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of this flesh_. and some are of opinion, that this part does not differ from the former; but that it explains and enforces what before was called _the holy church_; so that the church is nothing else but the profession of one god, one gospel, one faith, one hope, the participation of the same spirit, and the same sacraments: to be short, such a kind of communion of all good things, among all godly men, who have been from the beginning of the world, even to the end of it, as the fellowship of the members of the body is between one another. so that the good deeds of one may help another, until they become lively members of the body. but out of this society, even one's own good works do not further his salvation, unless he be reconcil'd to the holy congregation; and therefore it follows, _the forgiveness of sins_; because out of the church there is no remission of sins, although a man should pine himself away with repentance, and exercise works of charity. in the church, i say, not of hereticks, but the holy church; that is to say, gathered by the spirit of christ, there is forgiveness of sins by baptism, and after baptism, by repentence, and the keys given to the church. _au._ thus far they are the words of a man that is sound in the faith. do you believe that there will be a resurrection of the flesh? _ba._ i should believe all the rest to no purpose, if i did not believe this, which is the head of all. _au._ what dost thou mean, when thou say'st the flesh? _ba._ an human body animated with a human soul. _au._ shall every soul receive its own body which is left dead? _ba._ the very same from whence it went out; and therefore, in cyprian's creed, it is added, _of this flesh_. _au._ how can it be, that the body which hath been now so often chang'd out of one thing into another, can rise again the same? _ba._ he who could create whatsoever he would out of nothing, is it a hard matter for him to restore to its former nature that which hath been changed in its form? i don't dispute anxiously which way it can be done; it is sufficient to me, that he who hath promised that it shall be so, is so true, that he can't lye, and so powerful, as to be able to bring to pass with a beck, whatsoever he pleases. _au._ what need will there be of a body then? _ba._ that the whole man may be glorified with christ, who, in this world, was wholly afflicted with christ. _au._ what means that which he adds, _and life everlasting_. _ba._ lest any one should think that we shall so rise again, as the frogs revive at the beginning of the spring, to die again. for here is a twofold death of the body, that is common to all men, both good and bad; and of the soul, and the death of the soul is sin. but after the resurrection, the godly shall have everlasting life, both of body and soul: nor shall the body be then any more obnoxious to diseases, old age, hunger, thirst, pain, weariness, death, or any inconveniences; but being made spiritual, it shall be mov'd as the spirit will have it: nor shall the soul be any more sollicited with any vices or sorrows; but shall for ever enjoy the chiefest good, which is god himself. on the contrary, eternal death, both of body and soul, shall seize upon the wicked. for their body shall be made immortal, in order to the enduring everlasting torments, and their soul to be continually vexed with the gripes of their sins, without any hope of pardon. _au._ dost thou believe these things from thy very heart, and unfeignedly? _ba._ i believe them so certainly, i tell you, that i am not so sure that you talk with me. _au._ when i was at _rome_, i did not find all so sound in the faith. _ba._ nay; but if you examine thoroughly, you'll find a great many others in other places too, which do not so firmly believe these things. _au._ well then, since you agree with us in so many and weighty points, what hinders that you are not wholly on our side? _ba._ i have a mind to hear that of you: for i think that i am orthodox. although i will not warrant for my life yet i endeavour all i can, that it may be suitable to my profession. _au._ how comes it about then, that there is so great a war between you and the orthodox? _ba._ do you enquire into that: but hark you, doctor, if you are not displeased with this introduction, take a small dinner with me; and after dinner, you may enquire of every thing at leisure: i'll give you both arms to feel my pulse, and you shall see both stool and urine; and after that, if you please, you shall anatomize this whole breast of mine, that you may make a better judgment of me. _au._ but i make it a matter of scruple to eat with thee. _ba._ but physicians use to eat with their patients, that they might better observe what they love, and wherein they are irregular. _au._ but i am afraid, lest i should seem to favour hereticks. _ba._ nay, but there is nothing more religious than to favour hereticks. _au._ how so? _ba._ did not _paul_ wish to be made an _anathema_ for the _jews_, which were worse than hereticks? does not he favour him that endeavours that a man may be made a good man of a bad man? _au._ yes, he does so. _ba._ well then, do you favour me thus, and you need not fear any thing. _au._ i never heard a sick man answer more to the purpose. well, come on, let me dine with you then. _ba._ you shall be entertain'd in a physical way, as it becomes a doctor by his patient, and we will so refresh our bodies with food, that the mind shall be never the less fit for disputation. _au._ well, let it be so, with good birds (_i.e._ with good success). _ba._ nay, it shall be with bad fishes, unless you chance to have forgot that it is _friday._ _au._ indeed, that is beside our creed. _the old mens dialogue._ the argument. [greek: terontologia], or, [greek: ochêma], _shews, as tho' it were in a looking-glass, what things are to be avoided in life, and what things contribute to the tranquillity of life. old men that were formerly intimate acquaintance when boys, after forty years absence, one from the other, happen to meet together, going to_ antwerp. _there seems to be a very great inequality in them that are equal in age._ polygamus, _he is very old:_ glycion _has no signs of age upon him, tho' he is sixty six; he proposes a method of keeping off old age. i. he consults what sort of life to chuse, and follows the advice of a prudent old man, who persuades him to marry a wife that was his equal, making his choice with judgment, before he falls in love. 2. he has born a publick office, but not obnoxious to troublesome affairs. 3. he transacts affairs that do not expose him to envy. 4. he bridles his tongue. 5. he is not violently fond of, nor averse to any thing. he moderates his affections, suffers no sorrow to abide with him all night. 6. he abstains from vices, and renews his patience every day. 7. he is not anxiously thoughtful of death. 8. he does not travel into foreign countries. 9. he has nothing to do with doctors. 10. he diverts himself with study, but does not study himself lean. on the other hand_, polygamus _has brought old age upon him, by the intemperance of his youth, by drinking, whoring, gaming, running in debt; he had had eight wives._ pampirus, _he becomes a merchant; but consumes all he has by gaming; then he becomes a canon; then a carthusian; after that a benedictine; and last of all, turns soldier._ eusebius, _he gets a good benefice and preaches._ eusebius, pampirus, polygamus, glycion, huguitio, _and_ harry _the coachman._ _euseb._ what new faces do i see here? if i am not mistaken, or do not see clear, i see three old companions sitting by me; _pampirus, polygamus_ and _glycion;_ they are certainly the very same. _pa._ what do you mean, with your glass eyes, you wizard? pray come nearer a little, _eusebius._ _po._ hail, heartily, my wish'd for _eusebius._ _gl._ all health to you, the best of men. _eu._ one blessing upon you all, my dear friends. what god, or providential chance has brought us together now, for i believe none of us have seen the one the other, for this forty years. why _mercury_ with his mace could not have more luckily brought us together into a circle; but what are you doing here? _pa._ we are sitting. _eu._ i see that, but what do you sit for? _po._ we wait for the _antwerp_ waggon. _eu._ what, are you going to the fair? _po._ we are so: but rather spectators, than traders, tho' one has one business, and another has another. _eu._ well, and i am going thither myself too. but what hinders you, that you are not going? _po._ we han't agreed with the waggoner yet. _eu._ these waggoners are a surly sort of people; but are you willing that we put a trick upon them? _po._ with all my heart, if it can be done fairly. _eu._ we will pretend that we will go thither a-foot together. _po._ they'll sooner believe that a crab-fish will fly, than that such heavy fellows as we will take such a journey on foot. _eu._ will you follow good wholsome advice? _po._ yes, by all means. _gl._ they are a drinking, and the longer they are fuddling, the more danger we shall be in of being overturned in the dirt. _po._ you must come very early, if you find a waggoner sober. _gl._ let us hire the waggon for us four by ourselves, that we may get to _antwerp_ the sooner: it is but a little more charge, not worth minding, and this expence will be made up by many advantages; we shall have the more room, and shall pass the journey the more pleasantly in mutual conversation. _po._ _glycion_ is much in the right on't. for good company in a journey does the office of a coach; and according to the _greek_ proverb, we shall have more liberty of talking, not about a waggon, but in a waggon. _gl._ well, i have made a bargain, let us get up. now i've a mind to be merry, seeing i have had the good luck to see my old dear comrades after so long a separation. _eu._ and methinks i seem to grow young again. _po._ how many years do you reckon it, since we liv'd together at paris? _eu._ i believe it is not less than two and forty years. _pa._ then we seem'd to be all pretty much of an age. _eu._ we were so, pretty near the matter, for if there was any difference it was very little. _pa._ but what a great difference does there seem to be now? for glycion has nothing of an old man about him, and polygamus looks old enough to be his grandfather. _eu._ why truly he does so, but what should be the reason of it? _pa._ what? why either the one loiter'd and stopp'd in his course, or the other run faster (out-run him). _eu._ oh! time does not stay, how much soever men may loiter. _po._ come, tell us, _glycion_ truly, how many years do you number? _gl._ more than ducats in my pocket. _po._ well, but how many? _gl._ threescore and six. _eu._ why thou'lt never be old. _po._ but by what arts hast thou kept off old age? for you have no grey hairs, nor wrinkles in your skin, your eyes are lively, your teeth are white and even, you have a fresh colour, and a plump body. _gl._ i'll tell you my art, upon condition you'll tell us your art of coming to be old so soon. _po._ i agree to the condition. i'll do it. then tell us whither you went when you left _paris._ _gl._ i went directly into my own country, and by that time i had been there almost a year, i began to bethink myself what course of life to chuse; which i thought to be a matter of great importance, as to my future happiness; so i cast my thoughts about what had been successful to some, and what had been unsuccessful to others. _po._ i admire you had so much prudence, when you were as great a maggot as any in the world, when you were at _paris._ _gl._ then my age did permit a little wildness. but, my good friend, you must know, i did not do all this neither of my own mother-wit. _po._ indeed i stood in admiration. _gl._ before i engaged in any thing, i applied to a certain citizen, a man of gravity, of the greatest prudence by long experience, and of a general reputation with his fellow citizens, and in my opinion, the most happy man in the world. _eu._ you did wisely. _gl._ by this man's advice i married a wife. _po._ had she a very good portion? _gl._ an indifferent good one, and according to the proverb, in a competent proportion to my own: for i had just enough to do my business, and this matter succeeded to my mind. _po._ what was your age then? _gl._ almost two and twenty. _po._ o happy man! _gl._ but don't mistake the matter; all this was not owing to fortune neither. _po._ why so? _gl._ i'll tell you; some love before they chuse, i made my choice with judgment first, and then lov'd afterwards, and nevertheless i married this woman more for the sake of posterity than for any carnal satisfaction. with her i liv'd a very pleasant life, but not above eight years. _po._ did she leave you no children? _gl._ nay, i have four alive, two sons and two daughters. _po._ do you live as a private person, or in some publick office? _gl._ i have a publick employ. i might have happen'd to have got into a higher post, but i chose this because it was creditable enough to secure me from contempt, and is free from troublesome attendance: and it is such, that no body need object against me that i live only for myself, i have also something to spare now and then to assist a friend. with this i live content, and it is the very height of my ambition. and then i have taken care so to execute my office, to give more reputation to my office than i receiv'd from it; this i account to be more honourable, than to borrow my dignity from the splendor of my office. _eu._ without all controversy. _gl._ by this means i am advanced in years, and the affections of my fellow citizens. _eu._ but that's one of the difficultest things in the world, when with very good reason there is this old saying: _he that has no enemies has no friends_; and _envy is always an attendant on felicity_. _gl._ envy always is a concomitant of a pompous felicity, but a mediocrity is safe; this was always my study, not to make any advantage to myself from the disadvantages of other people. i embraced as much as i could, that which the _greeks_ call freedom from the encumbrance of business. i intermeddled with no one's affairs; but especially i kept myself clear from those that could not be meddled with without gaining the ill will of a great many. if a friend wants my assistance, i so serve him, as thereby not to procure any enemies to myself. in case of any misunderstanding between me and any persons, i endeavour to soften it by clearing myself of suspicion, or to set all right again by good offices, or to let it die without taking notice of it: i always avoid contention, but if it shall happen, i had rather lose my money than my friend. upon the whole, i act the part of _mitio_ in the comedy, i affront no man, i carry a chearful countenance to all, i salute and resalute affably, i find no fault with what any man purposes to do or does, i don't prefer myself before other people; i let every one enjoy his opinion; what i would have kept as a secret, i tell to no body: i never am curious to pry in the privacies of other men. if i happen to come to the knowledge of any thing, i never blab it. as for absent persons, i either say nothing at all of them, or speak of them with kindness and civility. great part of the quarrels that arise between men, come from the intemperance of the tongue. i never breed quarrels or heighten them; but where-ever opportunity happens, i either moderate them, or put an end to them. by these methods i have hitherto kept clear of envy, and have maintained the affections of my fellow citizens. _pa._ did you not find a single life irksome to you? _gl._ nothing happened to me in the whole course of my life, more afflicting than the death of my wife, and i could have passionately wish'd that we might have grown old together, and might have enjoy'd the comfort of the common blessing, our children: but since providence saw it meet it should be otherwise, i judged that it was best for us both, and therefore did not think there was cause for me to afflict myself with grief, that would do no good, neither to me nor the deceased. _pol._ what, had you never an inclination to marry again, especially the first having been so happy a match to you? _gl._ i had an inclination so to do, but as i married for the sake of children, so for the sake of my children i did not marry again. _pol._ but 'tis a miserable case to lie alone whole nights without a bedfellow. _gl._ nothing is hard to a willing mind. and then do but consider the benefits of a single life: there are some people in the world, who will be for making the worst of every thing; such a one _crates_ seemed to be, or an epigram under his name, summing up the evils of human life. and the resolution is this, that it is best not to be born at all. now _metrodorus_ pleases me a great deal better, who picks out what is good in it; this makes life the pleasanter. and i brought my mind to that temper of indifference never to have a violent aversion or fondness for any thing. and by this it comes to pass, that if any good fortune happens to me, i am not vainly transported, or grow insolent; or if any thing falls out cross, i am not much perplex'd. _pa._ truly if you can do this, you are a greater philosopher than _thales_ himself. _gl._ if any uneasiness in my mind rises, (as mortal life produces many of them) i cast it immediately out of my thoughts, whether it be from the sense of an affront offered, or any thing done unhandsomly. _pol._ well, but there are some provocations that would raise the anger of the most patient man alive: as the saucinesses of servants frequently are. _gl._ i suffer nothing to stay long enough in my mind to make an impression. if i can cure them i do it, if not, i reason thus with myself, what good will it do me to torment myself about that which will be never the better for it? in short, i let reason do that for me at first, which after a little while, time itself would do. and this i be sure take care of, not to suffer any vexation, be it never so great, to go to bed with me. _eu._ no wonder that you don't grow old, who are of that temper. _gl._ well, and that i mayn't conceal any thing from friends, in an especial manner i have kept this guard upon myself, never to commit any thing that might be a reflection either on my own honour or that of my children. for there is nothing more troublesome than a guilty conscience. and if i have committed a fault i don't go to bed before i have reconcil'd myself to god. to be at peace with god is the fountain of true tranquillity of mind, or, as the greeks call it, [greek: euthymia]. for they who live thus, men can do them no great injury. _eu._ have you never any anxious thoughts upon the apprehension of death? _gl._ no more than i have for the day of my birth. i know i must die, and to live in the fear of it may possibly shorten my life, but to be sure it would never make it longer. so that i care for nothing else but to live piously and comfortably, and leave the rest to providence; and a man can't live happily that does not live piously. _pa._ but i should grow old with the tiresomeness of living so long in the same place, tho' it were _rome_ itself. _gl._ the changing of place has indeed something of pleasure in it; but then, as for long travels, tho' perhaps they may add to a man's experience, yet they are liable to a great many dangers. i seem to myself to travel over the whole world in a map, and can see more in histories than if i had rambled through sea and land for twenty years together, as _ulysses_ did. i have a little country-house about two miles out of town, and there sometimes, of a citizen i become a country-man, and having recreated my self there, i return again to the city a new comer, and salute and am welcom'd as if i had return'd from the new-found islands. _eu._ don't you assist nature with a little physick? _gl._ i never was let blood, or took pills nor potions in my life yet. if i feel any disorder coming upon me, i drive it away with spare diet or the country air. _eu._ don't you study sometimes? _gl._ i do. in that is the greatest pleasure of my life: but i make a diversion of it, but not a toil. i study either for pleasure or profit of my life, but not for ostentation. after meat i have a collation of learned stories, or else somebody to read to me, and i never sit to my books above an hour at a time: then i get up and take my violin, and walk about in my chamber, and sing to it, or else ruminate upon what i have read; or if i have a good companion with me, i relate it, and after a while i return to my book again. _eu._ but tell me now, upon the word of an honest man; do you feel none of the infirmities of old age, which are said to be a great many? _gl._ my sleep is not so sound, nor my memory so good, unless i fix any thing deeply in it. well, i have now acquitted myself of my promise. i have laid open to you those magical arts by which i have kept myself young, and now let _polygamus_ tell us fairly, how he brought old age upon him to that degree. _po._ indeed, i will hide nothing from such trusty companions. _eu._ you will tell it to those that will not make a discourse of it. _po._ you very well know i indulg'd my appetite when i was at _paris_. _eu._ we remember it very well. but we thought that you had left your rakish manners and your youthful way of living at _paris_. _po._ of the many mistresses i had there i took one home, who was big with child. _eu._ what, into your father's house? _po._ directly thither; but i pretended she was a friend's wife, who was to come to her in a little time. _gl._ did your father believe it? _po._ he smelt the matter out in three or four days time, and then there was a cruel scolding. however, in this interim i did not leave off feasting, gaming, and other extravagant diversions. and in short, my father continuing to rate me, saying he would have no such cackling gossips under his roof, and ever and anon threatning to discard me, i march'd off, remov'd to another place with my pullet, and she brought me some young chickens. _pa._ where had you money all the while? _po._ my mother gave me some by stealth, and i ran over head and ears in debt. _eu._ had any body so little wit as to lend you? _po._ there are some persons who will trust no body more readily than they will a spendthrift. _pa._ and what next? _po._ at last my father was going about to disinherit me in good earnest. some friends interpos'd, and made up the breach upon this condition; that i should renounce the _french_ woman, and marry one of our own country. _eu._ was she your wife? _po._ there had past some words between us in the future tense, but there had been carnal copulation in the present tense. _eu._ how could you leave her then? _po._ it came to be known afterwards, that my _french_ woman had a _french_ husband that she had elop'd from some time before. _eu._ but it seems you have a wife now. _po._ none besides this which is my eighth. _eu._ the eighth! why then you were named _polygamus_ by way of prophecy. perhaps they all died without children. _po._ nay, there was not one of them but left me a litter which i have at home. _eu._ i had rather have so many hens at home, which would lay me eggs. an't you weary of wifeing? _po._ i am so weary of it, that if this eighth should die to day, i would marry the ninth to-morrow. nay, it vexes me that i must not have two or three, when one cock has so many hens. _eu._ indeed i don't wonder, mr. cock, that you are no fatter, and that you have brought old age upon you to that degree; for nothing brings on old age faster, than excessive and hard drinking, keeping late hours, and whoring, extravagant love of women, and immoderate venery. but who maintains your family all this while? _po._ a small estate came to me by the death of my father, and i work hard with my hands. _eu._ have you given over study then? _po._ altogether. i have brought a noble to nine pence, and of a master of seven arts, i am become a workman of but one art. _eu._ poor man! so many times you were obliged to be a mourner, and so many times a widower. _po._ i never liv'd single above ten days, and the new wife always put an end to the mourning for the old one. so, you have in truth the epitome of my life; and i wish _pampirus_ would give us a narration of his life; he bears his age well enough: for if i am not mistaken, he is two or three years older than i. _pa._ truly i'll tell it ye, if you are at leisure to hear such a romance. _eu._ nay, it will be a pleasure to hear it. _pa._ when i went home my antient father began to press me earnestly to enter into some course of life, that might make some addition to what i had; and after long consultation merchandizing was what i took to. _po._ i admire this way of life pleas'd you more than any other. _pa._ i was naturally greedy to know new things, to see various countries and cities, to learn languages, and the customs and manners of men, and merchandize seem'd the most apposite to that purpose. from which a general knowledge of things proceeds. _po._ but a wretched one, which is often purchas'd with inconveniencies. _pa._ it is so, therefore my father gave me a good large stock, that i might begin to trade upon a good foundation: and at the same time i courted a wife with a good fortune, but handsome enough to have gone off without a portion. _eu._ did you succeed? _pa._ no. before i came home, i lost all, stock and block. _eu._ perhaps by shipwreck. _pa._ by shipwreck indeed. for we run upon more dangerous rocks than those of _scilly_. _eu._ in what sea did you happen to run upon that rock? or what is the name of it? _pa._ i can't tell what sea 'tis in, but it is a rock that is infamous for the destruction of a great many, they call it _alea_ [dice, the devil's bones] in _latin_, how you call it in _greek_ i can't tell. _eu._ o fool! _pa._ nay, my father was a greater fool, to trust a young fop with such a sum of money. _gl._ and what did you do next? _pa._ why nothing at all, but i began to think of hanging myself. _gl._ was your father so implacable then? for such a loss might be made up again; and an allowance is always to be made to one that makes the first essay, and much more it ought to be to one that tries all things. _pa._ tho' what you say may be true, i lost my wife in the mean time. for as soon as the maid's parents came to understand what they must expect, they would have no more to do with me, and i was over head and ears in love. _gl._ i pity thee. but what did you propose to yourself after that? _pa._ to do as it is usual in desperate cases. my father had cast me off, my fortune was consum'd, my wife was lost, i was every where call'd a sot, a spendthrift, a rake and what not? then i began to deliberate seriously with myself, whether i should hang myself or no, or whether i should throw myself into a monastery. _eu._ you were cruelly put to it! i know which you would chuse, the easier way of dying. _pa._ nay, sick was i of life itself; i pitched upon that which seem'd to me the most painful. _gl._ and yet many people cast themselves into monasteries, that they may live more comfortably there. _pa._ having got together a little money to bear my charges, i stole out of my own country. _gl._ whither did you go at last? _pa._ into _ireland_, there i became a canon regular of that order that wear linnen outwards and woollen next their skin. _gl._ did you spend your winter in _ireland_? _pa._ no. but by that time i had been among them two months i sail'd into _scotland_. _gl._ what displeas'd you among them? _pa._ nothing, but that i thought their discipline was not severe enough for the deserts of one, that once hanging was too good for. _gl._ well, what past in _scotland_? _pa._ then i chang'd my linnen habit for a leathern one, among the carthusians. _eu._ these are the men, that in strictness of profession, are dead to the world. _pa._ it seem'd so to me, when i heard them singing. _gl._ what? do dead men sing? but how many months did you spend among the _scots_? _pa._ almost six. _gl._ a wonderful constancy. _eu._ what offended you there? _pa._ because it seem'd to me to be a lazy, delicate sort of life; and then i found there, many that were not of a very sound brain, by reason of their solitude. i had but a little brain myself, and i was afraid i should lose it all. _po._ whither did you take your next flight? _pa._ into france: there i found some cloath'd all in black, of the order of st. benedict, who intimate by the colour of their cloaths, that they are mourners in this world; and among these, there were some, that for their upper garment wore hair-cloth like a net. _gl._ a grievous mortification of the flesh. _pa._ here i stay'd eleven months. _eu._ what was the matter that you did not stay there for good and all? _pa._ because i found there were more ceremonies than true piety: and besides, i heard that there were some who were much holier, which _bernard_ had enjoin'd a more severe discipline, the black habit being chang'd into a white one; with these i liv'd ten months. _eu._ what disgusted you here? _pa._ i did not much dislike any thing, for i found them very good company; but the _greek_ proverb ran in my mind; [greek: dei tas chelônas ê phagein ê mê phagein.] _one must either eat snails, or eat nothing at all._ therefore i came to a resolution, either not to be a monk, or to be a monk to perfection. i had heard there were some of the order of st. _bridget_, that were really heavenly men, i betook myself to these. _eu._ how many months did you stay there? _pa._ two days; but not quite that. _gl._ did that kind of life please you no better than so? _pa._ they take no body in, but those that will profess themselves presently; but i was not yet come to that pitch of madness, so easily to put my neck into such a halter, that i could never get off again. and as often as i heard the nuns singing, the thoughts of my mistress that i had lost, tormented my mind. _gl._ well, and what after this? _pa._ my mind was inflamed with the love of holiness; nor yet had i met with any thing that could satisfy it. at last, as i was walking up and down, i fell in among some cross-bearers. this badge pleas'd me at first sight; but the variety hindered me from chusing which to take to. some carried a white cross, some a red cross, some a green cross, some a party-colour'd cross, some a single cross, some a double one, some a quadruple, and others some of one form, and some of another; and i, that i might leave nothing untry'd, i carried some of every sort. but i found in reality, that there was a great difference between carrying a cross on a gown or a coat, and carrying it in the heart. at last, being tired with enquiry, it came into my mind, that to arrive at universal holiness all at once, i would take a journey to the holy land, and so would return home with a back-load of sanctimony. _po._ and did you go thither? _pa._ yes. _po._ where did you get money to bear your charges? _pa._ i wonder it never came into your head, to ask that before now, and not to have enquir'd after that a great while ago: but you know the old proverb; _a man of art will live any where_. _gl._ what art do you carry with you? _pa._ palmistry. _gl._ where did you learn it? _pa._ what signifies that? _gl._ who was your master? _pa._ my belly, the great master of all arts: i foretold things past, present, and to come. _gl._ and did you know any thing of the matter? _pa._ nothing at all; but i made bold guesses, and run no risque neither, having got my money first. _po._ and was so ridiculous an art sufficient to maintain you? _pa._ it was, and two servants too: there is every where such a number of foolish young fellows and wenches. however, when i came to _jerusalem_, i put myself into the train of a rich nobleman, who being seventy years of age, said he could never have died in peace, unless he had first visited _jerusalem_. _eu._ what, did he leave a wife at home? _pa._ yes, and six children. _eu._ o impious, pious, old man! well, and did you come back holy from thence? _pa._ shall i tell you the truth? somewhat worse than i went. _eu._ so, as i hear, your religion was grown cool. _pa._ nay, it grew more hot: so i went back into _italy_, and enter'd into the army. _eu._ what, then, did you look for religion in the camp. than which, what is there that can be more impious? _pa._ it was a holy war. _eu._ perhaps against the _turks_. _pa._ nay, more holy than that, as they indeed gave out at that time. _eu._ what was that? _pa._ pope _julius_ the second made war upon the _french_. and the experience of many things that it gives a man, made me fancy a soldier's life. _eu._ of many things indeed; but wicked ones. _pa._ so i found afterwards: but however, i liv'd harder here, than i did in the monasteries. _eu._ and what did you do after this? _pa._ now my mind began to be wavering, whether i should return to my business of a merchant, that i had laid aside, or press forward in pursuit of religion that fled before me. in the mean time it came into my mind, that i might follow both together. _eu._ what, be a merchant and a monk both together? _pa._ why not? there is nothing more religious than the orders of mendicants, and there is nothing more like to trading. they fly over sea and land, they see many things, they hear many things, they enter into the houses of common people, noblemen, and kings. _eu._ ay, but they don't trade for gain. _pa._ very often, with better success than we do. _eu._ which of these orders did you make choice of? _pa._ i try'd them all. _eu._ did none of them please you? _pa._ i lik'd them all well enough, if i might but presently have gone to trading; but i consider'd in my mind, i must labour a long time in the choir, before i could be qualified for the trust: so now i began to think how i might get to be made an abbot: but, i thought with myself, _kissing goes by favour_, and it will be a tedious pursuit: so having spent eight years after this manner, hearing of my father's death, i return'd home, and by my mother's advice, i marry'd, and betook myself to my old business of traffick. _gl._ prithee tell me, when you chang'd your habit so often, and were transform'd, as it were, into another sort of creature, how could you behave yourself with a proper decorum? _pa._ why not, as well as those who in the same comedy act several parts? _eu._ tell us now in good earnest, you that have try'd every sort of life, which you most approve of. _pa. so many men, so many minds:_ i like none better than this which i follow. _eu._ but there are a great many inconveniences attend it. _pa._ there are so. but seeing there is no state of life, that is entirely free from incommodities, this being my lot, i make the best on't: but now here is _eusebius_ still, i hope he will not think much to acquaint his friends with some scenes of his course of life. _eu._ nay, with the whole play of it, if you please to hear it, for it does not consist of many acts. _gl._ it will be a very great favour. _eu._ when i return'd to my own country, i took a year to deliberate what way of living to chuse, and examin'd myself, to what employment my inclination led me, and i was fit for. in the mean time a prebendary was offered me, as they call it; it was a good fat benefice, and i accepted it. _gl._ that sort of life has no good reputation among people. _eu._ as human affairs go, i thought it was a thing well worth the accepting. do you look upon it a small happiness to have so many advantages to fall into a man's mouth, as tho' they dropt out of heaven; handsome houses well furnish'd, a large revenue, an honourable society, and a church at hand, to serve god in, when you have a mind to it? _pa._ i was scandaliz'd at the luxury of the persons, and the infamy of their concubines; and because a great many of that sort of men have an aversion to learning. _eu._ i don't mind what others do, but what i ought to do myself, and associate myself with the better sort, if i cannot make them that are bad better. _po._ and is that the state of life you have always liv'd in? _eu._ always, except four years, that i liv'd at _padua_. _po._ what did you do there? _eu._ these years i divided in this manner; i studied physick a year and a half, and the rest of the time divinity. _po._ why so? _eu._ that i might the better manage both soul and body, and also sometimes be helpful by way of advice to my friends. i preached sometimes according to my talent. and under these circumstances, i have led a very quiet life, being content with a single benefice, not being ambitiously desirous of any more, and should have refus'd it, if it had been offered me. _pa._ i wish we could learn how the rest of our old companions have liv'd, that were our familiars. _eu._ i can tell you somewhat of some of them: but i see we are not far from the city; therefore, if you are willing, we will all take up the same inn, and there we will talk over the rest at leisure. _hugh. [a waggoner.]_ you blinking fellow, where did you take up this rubbish? _harry the waggoner._ where are you carrying that harlottry, you pimp? _hugh._ you ought to throw these frigid old fellows somewhere into a bed of nettles, to make them grow warm again. _harry._ do you see that you shoot that herd of yours somewhere into a pond to cool them, to lay their concupiscence, for they are too hot. _hugh._ i am not us'd to overturn my passengers. _harry._ no? but i saw you a little while ago, overturn half a dozen carthusians into the mire, so that tho' they went in white, they came out black, and you stood grinning at it, as if you had done some noble exploit. _hugh._ i was in the right of it, they were all asleep, and added a dead weight to my waggon. _harry._ but these old gentlemen, by talking merrily all the way, have made my waggon go light. i never had a better fare. _hugh._ but you don't use to like such passengers. _harry._ but these are good old men. _hugh._ how do you know that? _harry._ because they made me drink humming ale, three times by the way. _hugh._ ha, ha, ha, then they are good to you. _the franciscans,_ [greek: ptôchoplousioi], _or rich beggars._ the argument. _the_ franciscans, _or rich poor persons, are not admitted into the house of a country parson_. pandocheus _jokes wittily upon them. the habit is not to be accounted odious. the life and death of the_ franciscans. _of the foolish pomp of habits. the habits of monks are not in themselves evil. what sort of persons monks ought to be. the use of garments is for necessity and decency. what decency is. whence arose the variety of habits and garments among the monks. that there was in old time no superstition in the habits._ conrade, _a bernardine_ monk, _a_ parson, _an_ inn-keeper _and his_ wife. _con._ hospitality becomes a pastor. _pars._ but i am a pastor of sheep; i don't love wolves. _con._ but perhaps you don't hate a wench so much. but what harm have we done you, that you have such an aversion to us, that you won't so much as admit us under your roof? we won't put you to the charge of a supper. _pars._ i'll tell ye, because if you spy but a hen or a chicken in a body's house, i should be sure to hear of it to-morrow in the pulpit. this is the gratitude you shew for your being entertain'd. _con._ we are not all such blabs. _pars._ well, be what you will, i'd scarce put confidence in st. _peter_ himself, if he came to me in such a habit. _con._ if that be your resolution, at least tell us where is an inn. _pars._ there's a publick inn here in the town. _con._ what sign has it? _pars._ upon a board that hangs up, you will see a dog thrusting his head into a porridge-pot: this is acted to the life in the kitchen; and a wolf sits at the bar. _con._ that's an unlucky sign. _pars._ you may e'en make your best on't. _ber._ what sort of a pastor is this? we might be starv'd for him. _con._ if he feeds his sheep no better than he feeds us, they must needs be very lean. _ber._ in a difficult case, we had need of good counsel: what shall we do? _con._ we must set a good face on't. _ber._ there's little to be gotten by modesty, in a case of necessity. _con._ very right, st. _francis_ will be with us. _ber._ let's try our fortune then. _con._ we won't stay for our host's answer at the door, but we'll rush directly into the stove, and we won't easily be gotten out again. _ber._ o impudent trick! _con._ this is better than to lie abroad all night, and be frozen to death. in the mean time, put bashfulness in your wallet to day, and take it out again to-morrow. _ber._ indeed, the matter requires it. _innk._ what sort of animals do i see here? _con._ we are the servants of god, and the sons of st. _francis_, good man. _innk._ i don't know what delight god may take in such servants; but i would not have many of them in my house. _con._ why so? _innk._ because at eating and drinking, you are more than men; but you have neither hands nor feet to work. ha, ha! you sons of st. _francis_, you use to tell us in the pulpit, that he was a pure batchelor, and has he got so many sons? _con._ we are the children of the spirit, not of the flesh. _innk._ a very unhappy father, for your mind is the worst part about you; but your bodies are too lusty, and as to that part of you, it is better with you, than 'tis for our interest, who have wives and daughters. _con._ perhaps you suspect that we are some of those that degenerate from the institutions of our founder; we are strict observers of them. _innk._ and i'll observe you too, that you don't do me any damage, for i have a mortal aversion for this sort of cattle. _con._ why so, i pray? _innk._ because you carry teeth in your head, but no money in your pocket; and such sort of guests are very unwelcome to me. _con._ but we take pains for you. _innk._ shall i shew you after what manner you labour for me? _con._ do, shew us. _innk._ look upon that picture there, just by you, on your left hand, there you'll see a wolf a preaching, and behind him a goose, thrusting her head out of a cowl: there again, you'll see a wolf absolving one at confession; but a piece of a sheep, hid under his gown, hangs out. there you see an ape in a _franciscan_'s habit, he holds forth a cross in one hand, and has the other hand in the sick man's purse. _con._ we don't deny, but sometimes wolves, foxes and apes are cloathed with this habit, nay we confess oftentimes that swine, dogs, horses, lions and basilisks are conceal'd under it; but then the same garment covers many honest men. as a garment makes no body better, so it makes no body worse. it is unjust to judge of a man by his cloaths; for if so, the garment that you wear sometimes were to be accounted detestable, because it covers many thieves, murderers, conjurers, and whoremasters. _innk._ well, i'll dispense with your habit, if you'll but pay your reckonings. _con._ we'll pray to god for you. _innk._ and i'll pray to god for you, and there's one for t'other. _con._ but there are some persons that you must not take money of. _innk._ how comes it that you make a conscience of touching any? _con._ because it does not consist with our profession. _innk._ nor does it stand with my profession to entertain guests for nothing. _con._ but we are tied up by a rule not to touch money. _innk._ and my rule commands me quite the contrary. _con._ what rule is yours? _innk._ read those verses: _guests at this table, when you've eat while you're able. rise not hence before you have first paid your score._ _con._ we'll be no charge to you. _innk._ but they that are no charge to me are no profit to me neither. _con._ if you do us any good office here, god will make it up to you sufficiently. _innk._ but these words won't keep my family. _con._ we'll hide ourselves in some corner of the stove, and won't be troublesome to any body. _innk._ my stove won't hold such company. _con._ what, will you thrust us out of doors then? it may be we shall be devour'd by wolves to night. _innk._ neither wolves nor dogs will prey upon their own kind. _con._ if you do so you will be more cruel than the _turks_. let us be what we will, we are men. _innk._ i have lost my hearing. _con._ you indulge your corps, and lye naked in a warm bed behind the stove, and will you thrust us out of doors to be perish'd with cold, if the wolves should not devour us? _innk._ _adam_ liv'd so in paradise. _con._ he did so, but then he was innocent. _innk._ and so am i innocent. _con._ perhaps so, leaving out the first syllable. but take care, if you thrust us out of your paradise, lest god should not receive you into his. _innk._ good words, i beseech you. _wife._ prithee, my dear, make some amends for all your ill deeds by this small kindness, let them stay in our house to night: they are good men, and thou'lt thrive the better for't. _innk._ here's a reconciler for you. i'm afraid you're agreed upon the matter. i don't very well like to hear this good character from a woman; good men! _wife._ phoo, there's nothing in it. but think with your self how often you have offended god with dicing, drinking, brawling, quarrelling. at least, make an atonement for your sins by this act of charity, and don't thrust these men out of doors, whom you would wish to be with you when you are upon your death-bed. you oftentimes harbour rattles and buffoons, and will you thrust these men out of doors? _innk._ what does this petticoat-preacher do here? get you in, and mind your kitchen. _wife._ well, so i will. _bert._ the man softens methinks, and he is taking his shirt, i hope all will be well by and by. _con._ and the servants are laying the cloth. it is happy for us that no guests come, for we should have been sent packing if they had. _bert._ it fell out very happily that we brought a flaggon of wine from the last town we were at, and a roasted leg of lamb, or else, for what i see here, he would not have given us so much as a mouthful of hay. _con._ now the servants are set down, let's take part of the table with them, but so that we don't incommode any body. _innk._ i believe i may put it to your score, that i have not a guest to day, nor any besides my own family, and you good-for-nothing ones. _con._ well, put it up to our score, if it has not happened to you often. _innk._ oftner than i would have it so. _con._ well, don't be uneasy; christ lives, and he'll never forsake his servants. _innk._ i have heard you are call'd evangelical men; but the gospel forbids carrying about satchels and bread, but i see you have great sleeves for wallets, and you don't only carry bread, but wine too, and flesh also, and that of the best sort. _con._ take part with us, if you please. _innk._ my wine is hog-wash to it. _con._ eat some of the flesh, there is more than enough for us. _innk._ o happy beggars! my wife has dress'd nothing to day, but coleworts and a little rusty bacon. _con._ if you please, let us join our stocks; it is all one to us what we eat. _innk._ then why don't you carry with you coleworts and dead wine? _con._ because the people where we din'd to day would needs force this upon us. _innk._ did your dinner cost you nothing? _con._ no. nay they thanked us, and when we came away gave us these things to carry along with us. _innk._ from whence did you come? _con._ from _basil._ _innk._ whoo! what so far? _con._ yes. _innk._ what sort of fellows are you that ramble about thus without horses, money, servants, arms, or provisions? _con._ you see in us some footsteps of the evangelical life. _innk._ it seems to me to be the life of vagabonds, that stroll about with budgets. _con._ such vagabonds the apostles were, and such was the lord jesus himself. _innk._ can you tell fortunes? _con._ nothing less. _innk._ how do you live then? _con._ by him, who hath promised. _innk._ who is he? _con._ he that said, _take no care, but all things shall be added unto you_. _innk._ he did so promise, but it was _to them that seek the kingdom of god._ _con._ that we do with all our might. _innk._ the apostles were famous for miracles; they heal'd the sick, so that it is no wonder how they liv'd every where, but you can do no such thing. _con._ we could, if we were like the apostles, and if the matter requir'd a miracle. but miracles were only given for a time for the conviction of the unbelieving; there is no need of any thing now, but a religious life. and it is oftentimes a greater happiness to be sick than to be well, and more happy to die than to live. _innk._ what do you do then? _con._ that we can; every man according to the talent that god has given him. we comfort, we exhort, we warn, we reprove, and when opportunity offers, sometimes we preach, if we any where find pastors that are dumb: and if we find no opportunity of doing good, we take care to do no body any harm, either by our manners or our words. _innk._ i wish you would preach for us to morrow, for it is a holy-day. _con._ for what saint? _innk._ to st. _antony._ _con._ he was indeed a good man. but how came he to have a holiday? _innk._ i'll tell you. this town abounds with swine-herds, by reason of a large wood hard by that produces plenty of acorns; and the people have an opinion that st. _antony_ takes charge of the hogs, and therefore they worship him, for fear he should grow angry, if they neglect him. _con._ i wish they would worship him as they ought to do. _innk._ how's that? _con._ whosoever imitates the saints in their lives, worships as he ought to do. _innk._ to-morrow the town will ring again with drinking and dancing, playing, scolding and boxing. _con._ after this manner the heathens once worshipped their _bacchus_. but i wonder, if this is their way of worshipping, that st. _antony_ is not enraged at this sort of men that are more stupid than hogs themselves. what sort of a pastor have you? a dumb one, or a wicked one? _innk._ what he is to other people, i don't know: but he's a very good one to me, for he drinks all day at my house, and no body brings more customers or better, to my great advantage. and i wonder he is not here now. _con._ we have found by experience he is not a very good one for our turn. _innk._ what! did you go to him then? _con._ we intreated him to let us lodge with him, but he chas'd us away from the door, as if we had been wolves, and sent us hither. _innk._ ha, ha. now i understand the matter, he would not come because he knew you were to be here. _con._ is he a dumb one? _innk._ a dumb one! there's no body is more noisy in the stove, and he makes the church ring again. but i never heard him preach. but no need of more words. as far as i understand, he has made you sensible that he is none of the dumb ones. _con._ is he a learned divine? _innk._ he says he is a very great scholar; but what he knows is what he has learned in private confession, and therefore it is not lawful to let others know what he knows. what need many words? i'll tell you in short; _like people, like priest_; and _the dish_, as we say, _wears its own cover_. _con._ it may be he will not give a man liberty to preach in his place. _innk._ yes, i'll undertake he will, but upon this condition, that you don't have any flirts at him, as it is a common practice for you to do. _con._ they have us'd themselves to an ill custom that do so. if a pastor offends in any thing, i admonish him privately, the rest is the bishop's business. _innk._ such birds seldom fly hither. indeed you seem to be good men yourselves. but, pray, what's the meaning of this variety of habits? for a great many people take you to be ill men by your dress. _con._ why so? _innk._ i can't tell, except it be that they find a great many of you to be so. _con._ and many again take us to be holy men, because we wear this habit. they are both in an error: but they err less that take us to be good men by our habit, than they that take us for base men. _innk._ well, so let it be. but what is the advantage of so many different dresses? _con._ what is your opinion? _innk._ why i see no advantage at all, except in processions, or war. for in processions there are carried about various representations of saints, of _jews_, and heathens, and we know which is which, by the different habits. and in war the variety of dress is good, that every one may know his own company, and follow his own colours, so that there may be no confusion in the army. _con._ you say very well: this is a military garment, one of us follows one leader, and another another; but we all fight under one general, christ. but in a garment there are three things to be consider'd. _innk._ what are they? _con._ necessity, use, and decency. why do we eat? _innk._ that we mayn't be starv'd with hunger. _con._ and for the very same reason we take a garment that we mayn't be starv'd with cold. _innk._ i confess it. _con._ this garment of mine is better for that than yours. it covers the head, neck, and shoulders, from whence there is the most danger. use requires various sorts of garments. a short coat for a horseman, a long one for one that sits still, a thin one in summer, a thick one in winter. there are some at _rome_, that change their cloaths three times a day; in the morning they take a coat lin'd with fur, about noon they take a single one, and towards night one that is a little thicker; but every one is not furnish'd with this variety; therefore this garment of ours is contriv'd so, that this one will serve for various uses. _innk._ how is that? _con._ if the north wind blow, or the sun shines hot, we put on our cowl; if the heat is troublesome, we let it down behind. if we are to sit still, we let down our garment about our heels, if we are to walk, we hold or tuck it up. _innk._ he was no fool, whosoever he was, that contriv'd it. _con._ and it is the chief thing in living happily, for a man to accustom himself to be content with a few things: for if once we begin to indulge ourselves with delicacies and sensualities, there will be no end; and there is no one garment could be invented, that could answer so many purposes. _innk._ i allow that. _con._ now let us consider the decency of it: pray tell me honestly, if you should put on your wife's cloaths, would not every one say that you acted indecently? _innk._ they would say i was mad. _con._ and what would you say, if she should put on your cloaths? _innk._ i should not say much perhaps, but i should cudgel her handsomly. _con._ but then, how does it signify nothing what garment any one wears? _innk._ o yes, in this case it is very material. _con._ nor is that strange; for the laws of the very pagans inflict a punishment on either man or woman, that shall wear the cloaths of a different sex. _innk._ and they are in the right for it. _con._ but, come on. what if an old man of fourscore should dress himself like a boy of fifteen; or if a young man dress himself like an old man, would not every one say he ought to be bang'd for it? or if an old woman should attire herself like a young girl, and the contrary? _innk._ no doubt. _con._ in like manner, if a lay-man should wear a priest's habit, and a priest a lay-man's. _innk._ they would both act unbecomingly. _con._ what if a private man should put on the habit of a prince, or an inferior clergy-man that of a bishop? would he act unhandsomely or no? _innk._ certainly he would. _con._ what if a citizen should dress himself like a soldier, with a feather in his cap, and other accoutrements of a hectoring soldier? _innk._ he would be laugh'd at. _con._ what if any _english_ ensign should carry a white cross in his colours, a _swiss_ a red one, a _french_ man a black one? _innk._ he would act impudently. _con._ why then do you wonder so much at our habit? _innk._ i know the difference between a private man and a prince, between a man and a woman; but i don't understand the difference between a monk and no monk. _con._ what difference is there between a poor man and a rich man? _innk._ fortune. _con._ and yet it would be unbecoming a poor man to imitate a rich man in his dress. _innk._ very true, as rich men go now a-days. _con._ what difference is there between a fool and a wise man? _innk._ something more than there is between a rich man and a poor man. _con._ are not fools dress'd up in a different manner from wise men? _innk._ i can't tell how well it becomes you, but your habit does not differ much from theirs, if it had but ears and bells. _con._ these indeed are wanting, and we are the fools of this world, if we really are what we pretend to be. _innk._ what you are i don't know; but this i know that there are a great many fools that wear ears and bells, that have more wit than those that wear caps lin'd with furs, hoods, and other ensigns of wise men; therefore it seems a ridiculous thing to me to make a shew of wisdom by the dress rather than in fact. i saw a certain man, more than a fool, with a gown hanging down to his heels, a cap like our doctors, and had the countenance of a grave divine; he disputed publickly with a shew of gravity, and he was as much made on by great men, as any of their fools, and was more a fool than any of them. _con._ well, what would you infer from that? that a prince who laughs at his jester should change coats with him? _innk._ perhaps _decorum_ would require it to be so, if your proposition be true, that the mind of a man is represented by his habit. _con._ you press this upon me indeed, but i am still of the opinion, that there is good reason for giving fools distinct habits. _innk._ what reason? _con._ that no body might hurt them, if they say or do any thing that's foolish. _innk._ but on the contrary, i won't say, that their dress does rather provoke some people to do them hurt; insomuch, that oftentimes of fools they become mad-men. nor do i see any reason, why a bull that gores a man, or a dog, or a hog that kills a child, should be punish'd, and a fool who commits greater crimes should be suffered to live under the protection of his folly. but i ask you, what is the reason that you are distinguished from others by your dress? for if every trifling cause is sufficient to require a different habit, then a baker should wear a different dress from a fisherman, and a shoemaker from a taylor, an apothecary from a vintner, a coachman from a mariner. and you, if you are priests, why do you wear a habit different from other priests? if you are laymen, why do you differ from us? _con._ in antient times, monks were only the purer sort of the laity, and there was then only the same difference between a monk and a layman, as between a frugal, honest man, that maintains his family by his industry, and a swaggering highwayman that lives by robbing. afterwards the bishop of _rome_ bestow'd honours upon us; and we ourselves gave some reputation to the habit, which now is neither simply laick, or sacerdotal; but such as it is, some cardinals and popes have not been ashamed to wear it. _innk._ but as to the _decorum_ of it, whence comes that? _con._ sometimes from the nature of things themselves, and sometimes from custom and the opinions of men. would not all men think it ridiculous for a man to wear a bull's hide, with the horns on his head, and the tail trailing after him on the ground? _innk._ that would be ridiculous enough. _con._ again, if any one should wear a garment that should hide his face, and his hands, and shew his privy members? _innk._ that would be more ridiculous than the other. _con._ the very pagan writers have taken notice of them that have wore cloaths so thin, that it were indecent even for women themselves to wear such. it is more modest to be naked, as we found you in the stove, than to wear a transparent garment. _innk._ i fancy that the whole of this matter of apparel depends upon custom and the opinion of people. _con._ why so? _innk._ it is not many days ago, since some travellers lodg'd at my house, who said, that they had travelled through divers countries lately discovered, which are wanting in the antient maps. they said they came to an island of a very temperate air, where they look'd upon it as the greatest indecency in the world, to cover their bodies. _con._ it may be they liv'd like beasts. _innk._ nay, they said they liv'd a life of great humanity, they liv'd under a king, they attended him to work every morning daily, but not above an hour in a day. _con._ what work did they do? _innk._ they pluck'd up a certain sort of roots that serves them instead of bread, and is more pleasant and more wholsome than bread; and when this was done, they every one went to his business, what he had a mind to do. they bring up their children religiously, they avoid and punish vices, but none more severely than adultery. _con._ what's the punishment? _innk._ they forgive the women, for it is permitted to that sex. but for men that are taken in adultery, this is the punishment, that all his life after, he should appear in publick with his privy parts covered. _con._ a mighty punishment indeed! _innk._ custom has made it to them the very greatest punishment that is. _con._ when i consider the force of persuasion, i am almost ready to allow it. for if a man would expose a thief or a murderer to the greatest ignominy, would it not be a sufficient punishment to cut off a piece of the hinder part of his cloaths, and sow a piece of a wolf's skin upon his buttocks, to make him wear a party-colour'd pair of stockings, and to cut the fore part of his doublet in the fashion of a net, leaving his shoulders and his breast bare; to shave off one side of his beard, and leave the other hanging down, and curl one part of it, and to put him a cap on his head, cut and slash'd, with a huge plume of feathers, and so expose him publickly; would not this make him more ridiculous than to put him on a fool's cap with long ears and bells? and yet soldiers dress themselves every day in this trim, and are well enough pleased with themselves, and find fools enough, that like the dress too, though there is nothing more ridiculous. _innk._ nay, there are topping citizens too, who imitate them as much as they can possibly. _con._ but now if a man should dress himself up with birds feathers like an _indian_, would not the very boys, all of them, think he was a mad man? _innk._ stark mad. _con._ and yet, that which we admire, savours of a greater madness still: now as it is true, that nothing is so ridiculous but custom will bear it out; so it cannot be denied, but that there is a certain _decorum_ in garments, which all wise men always account a _decorum_; and that there is also an unbecomingness in garments, which will to wise men always seem unbecoming. who does not laugh, when he sees a woman dragging a long train at her heels, as if her quality were to be measured by the length of her tail? and yet some cardinals are not asham'd to follow this fashion in their gowns: and so prevalent a thing is custom, that there is no altering of a fashion that has once obtain'd. _innk._ well, we have had talk enough about custom: but tell me now, whether you think it better for monks to differ from others in habit, or not to differ? _con._ i think it to be more agreeable to christian simplicity, not to judge of any man by his habit, if it be but sober and decent. _innk._ why don't you cast away your cowls then? _con._ why did not the apostles presently eat of all sorts of meat? _innk._ i can't tell. do you tell me that. _con._ because an invincible custom hinder'd it: for whatsoever is deeply rooted in the minds of men, and has been confirm'd by long use, and is turn'd as it were into nature, can never be remov'd on a sudden, without endangering the publick peace; but must be remov'd by degrees, as a horse's tail is pluck'd off by single hairs. _innk._ i could bear well enough with it, if the monks had all but one habit: but who can bear so many different habits? _con._ custom has brought in this evil, which brings in every thing. _benedict_ did not invent a new habit, but the same that he wore himself and his disciples, which was the habit of a plain, honest layman: neither did _francis_ invent a new dress; but it was the dress of poor country-fellows. their successors have by new additions turned it into superstition. don't we see some old women at this day, that keep to the dress of their times, which is more different from the dress now in fashion, than my dress is from yours? _innk._ we do see it. _con._ therefore, when you see this habit, you see only the reliques of antient times. _innk._ why then, has your garment no holiness in it? _con._ none at all. _innk._ there are some of you that make their boasts that these dresses were divinely directed by the holy virgin mother. _con._ these stories are but meer dreams. _innk._ some despair of being able to recover from a fit of sickness, unless they be wrapp'd up in a dominican's habit: nay, nor won't be buried but in a franciscan's habit. _con._ they that persuade people of those things, are either cheats or fools, and they that believe them are superstitious. god will know a wicked man as well in a franciscan's habit, as in a soldier's coat. _innk._ there is not so much variety in the feathers of birds of the air, as there is in your habits. _con._ what then, is it not a very good thing to imitate nature? but it is a better thing to out-do it. _innk._ i wish you would out-do it in the variety of your beaks too. _con._ but, come on. i will be an advocate for variety, if you will give me leave. is not a _spaniard_ dressed after one fashion, an _italian_ after another, a _frenchman_ after another, a _german_ after another, a _greek_ after another, a _turk_ after another, and a _sarazen_ after another? _innk._ yes. _con._ and then in the same country, what variety of garments is there in persons of the same sex, age and degree. how different is the dress of the _venetian_ from the _florentine_, and of both from the _roman_, and this only within _italy_ alone? _innk._ i believe it. _con._ and from hence also came our variety. _dominic_ he took his dress from the honest ploughmen in that part of _spain_ in which he liv'd; and _benedict_ from the country-fellows of that part of _italy_ in which he liv'd; and _francis_ from the husbandmen of a different place, and so for the rest. _innk._ so that for aught i find, you are no holier than we, unless you live holier. _con._ nay, we are worse than you, in that; if we live wickedly, we are a greater stumbling to the simple. _innk._ is there any hope of us then, who have neither patron, nor habit, nor rule, nor profession? _con._ yes, good man; see that you hold it fast. ask your godfathers what you promis'd in baptism, what profession you then made. do you want a human rule, who have made a profession of the gospel rule? or do you want a man for a patron, who have jesus christ for a patron? consider what you owe to your wife, to your children, to your family, and you will find you have a greater load upon you, than if you had professed the rule of _francis_. _innk._ do you believe that any inn-keepers go to heaven? _con._ why not? _innk._ there are a great many things said and done in this house, that are not according to the gospel. _con._ what are they? _innk._ one fuddles, another talks bawdy, another brawls, and another slanders; and last of all, i can't tell whether they keep themselves honest or not. _con._ you must prevent these things as much as you can; and if you cannot hinder them, however, do not for profit's sake encourage or draw on these wickednesses. _innk._ sometimes i don't deal very honestly as to my wine. _con._ wherein? _innk._ when i find my guests grow a little too hot, i put more water into the wine. _con._ that's a smaller fault than selling of wine made up with unwholsome ingredients. _innk._ but tell me truly, how many days have you been in this journey? _con._ almost a month. _innk._ who takes care of you all the while? _con._ are not they taken care enough of, that have a wife, and children, and parents, and kindred? _innk._ oftentimes. _con._ you have but one wife, we have an hundred; you have but one father, we have an hundred; you have but one house, we have an hundred; you have but a few children, we have an innumerable company; you have but a few kindred, we have an infinite number. _innk._ how so? _con._ because the kindred of the spirit extends more largely, than the kindred of the flesh: so christ has promised, and we experience the truth of what he has promised. _innk._ in troth, you have been a good companion for me; let me die if i don't like this discourse better than to drink with our parson. do us the honour to preach to the people to-morrow, and if ever you happen to come this way again, know that here's a lodging for you. _con._ but what if others should come? _innk._ they shall be welcome, if they be but such as you. _con._ i hope they will be better. _innk._ but among so many bad ones, how shall i know which are good? _con._ i'll tell you in a few words, but in your ear. _innk._ tell me. _con._--------_innk._ i'll remember it, and do it. _the abbot and learned woman._ the argument. _a certain abbot paying a visit to a lady, finds her reading_ greek _and_ latin _authors. a dispute arises, whence pleasantness of life proceeds:_ viz. _not from external enjoyments, but from the study of wisdom. an ignorant abbot will by no means have his monks to be learned; nor has he himself so much as a single book in his closet. pious women in old times gave their minds to the study of the scriptures; but monks that hate learning, and give themselves up to luxury, idleness, and hunting, are provok'd to apply themselves to other kinds of studies, more becoming their profession._ antronius, magdalia. _ant._ what sort of houshold-stuff do i see? _mag._ is it not that which is neat? _ant._ how neat it is, i can't tell, but i'm sure, it is not very becoming, either a maid or a matron. _mag._ why so? _ant._ because here's books lying about every where. _mag._ what have you liv'd to this age, and are both an abbot and a courtier, and never saw any books in a lady's apartment? _ant._ yes, i have seen books, but they were _french_; but here i see _greek_ and _latin_ ones. _mag._ why, are there no other books but _french_ ones that teach wisdom? _ant._ but it becomes ladies to have something that is diverting, to pass away their leisure hours. _mag._ must none but ladies be wise, and live pleasantly? _ant._ you very improperly connect being wise, and living pleasantly together: women have nothing to do with wisdom; pleasure is ladies business. _mag._ ought not every one to live well? _ant._ i am of opinion, they ought so to do. _mag._ well, can any body live a pleasant life, that does not live a good life. _ant._ nay, rather, how can any body live a pleasant life, that does live a good life? _mag._ why then, do you approve of living illy, if it be but pleasantly? _ant._ i am of the opinion, that they live a good life, that live a pleasant life. _mag._ well, but from whence does that pleasure proceed? from outward things, or from the mind? _ant._ from outward things. _mag._ o subtle abbot, but thick-skull'd philosopher! pray tell me in what you suppose a pleasant life to consist? _ant._ why, in sleeping, and feasting, and liberty of doing what you please, in wealth, and in honours. _mag._ but suppose to all these things god should add wisdom, should you live pleasantly then? _ant._ what is it that you call by the name of wisdom? _mag._ this is wisdom, to know that a man is only happy by the goods of the mind. that wealth, honour, and descent, neither make a man happier or better. _ant._ if that be wisdom, fare it well for me. _mag._ suppose now that i take more pleasure in reading a good author, than you do in hunting, drinking, or gaming; won't you think i live pleasantly? _ant._ i would not live that sort of life. _mag._ i don't enquire what you take most delight in; but what is it that ought to be most delighted in? _ant._ i would not have my monks mind books much. _mag._ but my husband approves very well of it. but what reason have you, why you would not have your monks bookish? _ant._ because i find they are not so obedient; they answer again out of the decrees and decretals of _peter_ and _paul._ _mag._ why then do you command them the contrary to what _peter_ and _paul_ did? _ant._ i can't tell what they teach; but i can't endure a monk that answers again: nor would i have any of my monks wiser than i am myself. _mag._ you might prevent that well enough, if you did but lay yourself out, to get as much wisdom as you can. _ant._ i han't leisure. _mag._ why so? _ant._ because i han't time. _mag._ what, not at leisure to be wise? _ant._ no. _mag._ pray what hinders you? _ant._ long prayers, the affairs of my houshold, hunting, looking after my horses, attending at court. _mag._ well, and do you think these things are better than wisdom? _ant._ custom has made it so. _mag._ well, but now answer me this one thing: suppose god should grant you this power, to be able to turn yourself and your monks into any sort of animal that you had a mind: would you turn them into hogs, and yourself into a horse? _ant._ no, by no means. _mag._ by doing so you might prevent any of them from being wiser than yourself? _ant._ it is not much matter to me what sort of animals my monks are, if i am but a man myself. _mag._ well, and do you look upon him to be a man that neither has wisdom, nor desires to have it? _ant._ i am wise enough for myself. _mag._ and so are hogs wise enough for themselves. _ant._ you seem to be a sophistress, you argue so smartly. _mag._ i won't tell you what you seem to me to be. but why does this houshold-stuff displease you? _ant._ because a spinning-wheel is a woman's weapon. _mag._ is it not a woman's business to mind the affairs of her family, and to instruct her children? _ant._ yes, it is. _mag._ and do you think so weighty an office can be executed without wisdom? _ant._ i believe not. _mag._ this wisdom i learn from books. _ant._ i have threescore and two monks in my cloister, and you will not see one book in my chamber. _mag._ the monks are finely look'd after all this while. _ant._ i could dispense with books; but i can't bear _latin_ books. _mag._ why so? _ant._ because that tongue is not fit for a woman. _mag._ i want to know the reason. _ant._ because it contributes nothing towards the defence of their chastity. _mag._ why then do _french_ books that are stuff'd with the most trifling novels, contribute to chastity? _ant._ but there is another reason. _mag._ let it be what it will, tell me it plainly. _ant._ they are more secure from the priests, if they don't understand _latin_. _mag._ nay, there's the least danger from that quarter according to your way of working; because you take all the pains you can not to know any thing of _latin_. _ant._ the common people are of my mind, because it is such a rare unusual thing for a woman to understand _latin._ _mag._ what do you tell me of the common people for, who are the worst examples in the world that can be follow'd. what have i to do with custom, that is the mistress of all evil practices? we ought to accustom ourselves to the best things: and by that means, that which was uncustomary would become habitual, and that which was unpleasant would become pleasant; and that which seemed unbecoming would look graceful. _ant._ i hear you. _mag._ is it becoming a _german_ woman to learn to speak _french_. _ant._ yes it is. _mag._ why is it? _ant._ because then she will be able to converse with those that speak _french_. _mag._ and why then is it unbecoming in me to learn _latin_, that i may be able daily to have conversation with so many eloquent, learned and wise authors, and faithful counsellors? _ant._ books destroy women's brains, who have little enough of themselves. _mag._ what quantity of brains you have left i cannot tell: and as for myself, let me have never so little, i had rather spend them in study, than in prayers mumbled over without the heart going along with them, or sitting whole nights in quaffing off bumpers. _ant._ bookishness makes folks mad. _mag._ and does not the rattle of your pot-companions, your banterers, and drolls, make you mad? _ant._ no, they pass the time away. _mag._ how can it be then, that such pleasant companions should make me mad? _ant._ that's the common saying. _mag._ but i by experience find quite the contrary. how many more do we see grow mad by hard drinking, unseasonable feasting, and sitting up all night tippling, which destroys the constitution and senses, and has made people mad? _ant._ by my faith, i would not have a learned wife. _mag._ but i bless myself, that i have gotten a husband that is not like yourself. learning both endears him to me, and me to him. _ant._ learning costs a great deal of pains to get, and after all we must die. _mag._ notable sir, pray tell me, suppose you were to die to-morrow, had you rather die a fool or a wise man? _ant._ why, a wise man, if i could come at it without taking pains. _mag._ but there is nothing to be attained in this life without pains; and yet, let us get what we will, and what pains soever we are at to attain it, we must leave it behind us: why then should we think much to be at some pains for the most precious thing of all, the fruit of which will bear us company unto another life. _ant._ i have often heard it said, that a wise woman is twice a fool. _mag._ that indeed has been often said; but it was by fools. a woman that is truly wise does not think herself so: but on the contrary, one that knows nothing, thinks her self to be wise, and that is being twice a fool. _ant._ i can't well tell how it is, that as panniers don't become an ox, so neither does learning become a woman. _mag._ but, i suppose, you can't deny but panniers will look better upon an ox, than a mitre upon an ass or a sow. what think you of the virgin _mary_? _ant._ very highly. _mag._ was not she bookish? _ant._ yes; but not as to such books as these. _mag._ what books did she read? _ant._ the canonical hours. _mag._ for the use of whom? _ant._ of the order of _benedictines_. _mag._ indeed? what did _paula_ and _eustochium_ do? did not they converse with the holy scriptures? _ant._ ay, but this is a rare thing now. _mag._ so was a blockheaded abbot in old time; but now nothing is more common. in old times princes and emperors were as eminent for learning as for their governments: and after all, it is not so great a rarity as you think it. there are both in _spain_ and _italy_ not a few women, that are able to vye with the men, and there are the _morites_ in _england_, and the _bilibald-duks_ and _blaureticks_ in _germany_. so that unless you take care of yourselves it will come to that pass, that we shall be divinity-professors in the schools, and preach in the churches, and take possession of your mitres. _ant._ god forbid. _mag._ nay it is your business to forbid it. for if you hold on as you have begun, even geese themselves will preach before they'll endure you a parcel of dumb teachers. you see the world is turn'd up-side down, and you must either lay aside your dress, or perform your part. _ant._ how came i to fall into this woman's company? if you'll come to see me, i'll treat you more pleasantly. _mag._ after what manner? _ant._ why, we'll dance, and drink heartily, and hunt and play, and laugh. _mag._ i can hardly forbear laughing now. _the epithalamium of petrus ægidius._ the argument. _the muses and graces are brought in, as singing the epithalamium of_ peter ægidius. alipius _spies the nine muses, and the three graces coming out of a grove, which_ balbinus _can't see: they take their way to_ antwerp, _to the wedding of_ ægidius, _to whom they wish all joy, that nothing of difference or uneasiness may ever arise between 'em. how those marriages prove that are made, the graces not favouring 'em. congratulatory verses._ alipius, balbinus, musæ. _al._ good god! what strange glorious sight do i see here? _ba._ either you see what is not to be seen, or i can't see that which is to be seen. _al._ nay, i'll assure you, 'tis a wonderful charming sight. _ba._ why do you plague me at this rate? tell me, where 'tis you see it. _al._ upon the left hand there in the grove, under the side of the hill. _ba._ i see the hill, but i can see nothing else. _al._ no! don't you see a company of pretty maids there? _ba._ what do you mean, to make a fool of me at this rate? i can't see a bit of a maid any where. _al._ hush, they're just now coming out of the grove. oh admirable! how neat they are! how charmingly they look! 'tis a heavenly sight. _ba._ what! are you possess'd? _al._ oh, i know who they are; they're the nine muses and the three graces, i wonder what they're a-doing. i never in all my life saw 'em more charmingly dress'd, nor in a gayer humour; they have every one of 'em got crowns of laurel upon their heads, and their instruments of musick in their hands. and how lovingly the graces go side by side! how becomingly they look in their loose dress, with their garments flowing and trailing after 'em. _ba._ i never heard any body talk more like a mad man in all my days, than you do. _al._ you never saw a happier man in all your life-time. _ba._ pray what's the matter, that you can see and i can't? _al._ because you have never drank of the muses fountain; and no body can see 'em but they that have. _ba._ i have drank plentifully out of _scotus's_ fountain. _al._ but that is not the fountain of the muses, but a lake of frogs. _ba._ but can't you do something to make me see this sight, as well as you? _al._ i could if i had a laurel-branch here, for water out of a clear spring, sprinkled upon one with a laurel bough, makes the eyes capable of such sights as these. _ba._ why, see here is a laurel and a fountain too. _al._ is there? that's clever, i vow. _ba._ but prithee, sprinkle me with it. _al._ now look, do you see now? _ba._ as much as i did before. sprinkle me again. _al._ well, now do you see? _ba._ just as much; sprinkle me plentifully. _al._ i believe you can't but see now. _ba._ now i can scarce see you. _al._ ah poor man, how total a darkness has seized your eyes! this art would open even the eyes of an old coachman: but however, don't plague yourself about it, perhaps 'tis better for you not to see it, lest you should come off as ill by seeing the muses, as _actæon_ did by seeing _diana_: for you'd perhaps be in danger of being turn'd either into a hedgehog, or a wild boar, a swine, a camel, a frog, or a jackdaw. but however, if you can't see, i'll make you hear 'em, if you don't make a noise; they are just a-coming this way. let's meet 'em. hail, most welcome goddesses. _mu._ and you heartily, lover of the muses. _al._ what makes you pull me so? _ba._ you an't as good as your word. _al._ why don't you hear 'em? _ba._ i hear somewhat, but i don't know what it is. _al._ well, i'll speak _latin_ to 'em then. whither are you going so fine and so brisk? are you going to _louvain_ to see the university? _mu._ no, we assure you, we won't go thither. _al._ why not? _mu._ what place is for us, where so many hogs are grunting, camels and asses braying, jackdaws cawing, and magpies chattering? _al._ but for all that, there are some there that are your admirers. _mu._ we know that, and therefore we'll go thither a few years hence. the successive period of ages has not yet brought on that time; for there will be one, that will build us a pleasant house there, or a temple rather, such a one, as there scarce is a finer or more sacred any where else. _al._ mayn't a body know who it will be, that shall do so much honour to our country? _mu._ you may know it, that are one of our priests. there's no doubt, but you have heard the name of the _buslidians_, famous all the world over. _al._ you have mention'd a noble family truly, born to grace the palaces of the greatest princes in the universe. for who does not revere the great _francis buslidius_, the bishop of the church of _bezancon_, who has approv'd himself more than a single _nestor_, to _philip_ the son of _maximilian_ the great, the father of _charles_, who will also be a greater man than his father? _mu._ o how happy had we been, if the fates had not envy'd the earth the happiness of so great a man, what a patron was he to all liberal studies! how candid a favourer of ingenuity! but he has left two brothers, _giles_ a man of admirable judgment and wisdom, and _jerome_. _al._ we know very well that _jerome_ is singularly well accomplish'd with all manner of literature, and adorn'd with every kind of virtue. _mu._ but the destinies won't suffer him to be long-liv'd neither, though no man in the world better deserves to be immortaliz'd. _al._ how do you know that? _mu._ we had it from _apollo_. _al._ how envious are the destinies, to take from us all desirable things so hastily! _mu._ we must not talk of that at this time; but this _jerome_, dying with great applause, will leave his whole estate for the building of a college at _louvain_, in which most learned men shall profess and teach publickly, and gratis, the three languages. these things will bring a great ornament to learning, and glory to _charles_ himself: then we'll reside at _louvain_, with all our hearts. _al._ but whither are you going now? _mu._ to _antwerp_. _al._ what, the muses and graces going to a fair? _mu._ no, we assure you, we are not going to a fair; but to a wedding. _al._ what have virgins to do at weddings? _mu._ 'tis no indecent thing at all, for virgins to be at such a wedding as this is. _al._ pray what sort of a marriage is it? _mu._ a holy, undefiled, and chaste marriage, such a one as _pallas_ herself need not be asham'd to be at: nay, more than that, we believe she will be at it. _al._ mayn't a body know the bride and bridegroom's name? _mu._ we believe you must needs know that most courteous and accomplish'd youth in all kinds of polite learning, _peter ægidius_. _al._ you have named an angel, not a man. _mu._ the pretty maid _cornelia_, a fit match for _apollo_ himself, is going to be married to _ægidius_. _al._ indeed he has been a great admirer of you, even from his infancy. _mu._ we are going to sing him an epithalamium. _al._ what, and will the graces dance too? _mu._ they will not only dance, but they will also unite those two true lovers, with the indissoluble ties of mutual affection, that no difference or jarring shall ever happen between 'em. she shall never hear any thing from him, but my life; nor he from her, but my soul: nay: and even old age itself, shall be so far from diminishing that, that it shall increase the pleasure. _al._ i should admire at it, if those that live so sweetly, could ever be able to grow old. _mu._ you say very right, for it is rather a maturity, than an old age. _al._ but i have known a great many, to whom these kind words have been chang'd into the quite contrary, in less than three months time; and instead of pleasant jests at table, dishes and trenchers have flown about. the husband, instead of my dear soul, has been call'd blockhead, toss-pot, swill-tub; and the wife, sow, fool, dirty drab. _mu._ you say very true; but these marriages were made when the graces were out of humour: but in this marriage, a sweetness of temper will always maintain a mutual affection. _al._ indeed you speak of such a happy marriage as is very seldom seen. _mu._ an uncommon felicity is due to such uncommon virtues. _al._ but what! will the matrimony be without _juno_ and _venus_? _mu._ indeed _juno_ won't be there, she's a scolding goddess, and is but seldom in a good humour with her own _jove_. nor indeed, that earthly drunken _venus_; but another heavenly one, which makes a union of minds. _al._ then the marriage you speak of, is like to be a barren one. _mu._ no, by no means, but rather like to be the most happily fruitful. _al._ what, does that heavenly _venus_ produce any thing but souls then? _mu._ yes, she gives bodies to the souls; but such bodies, as shall be exactly conformable to 'em, just as though you should put a choice ointment into a curious box of pearl. _al._ where is she then? _mu._ look, she is coming towards you, a pretty way off. _al._ oh! i see her now. o good god, how bright she is! how majestical and beautiful she appears! the t'other _venus_ compar'd with this, is a homely one. _mu._ do you see what modest _cupids_ there are; they are no blind ones, such as that _venus_ has, that makes mankind mad? but these are sharp little rogues, and they don't carry furious torches, but most gentle fires; they have no leaden-pointed darts, to make the belov'd hate the lover, and torment poor wretches with the want of a reciprocal affection. _al._ in truth, they're as like their mother as can be. oh, that's a blessed house, and dearly belov'd by the gods! but may not a body hear the marriage-song that you design to present 'em with? _mu._ nay, we were just a-going to ask you to hear it. clio. peter _hath married fair_ cornelia, _propitious heaven! bless the wedding-day._ melpomene. _concord of_ turtle-doves _between them be, and of the_ jack-daw _the vivacity_. thalia. _from_ gracchus _may he win the prize, and for_ cornelia's _life, his own despise._ euterpe. _may she in love exceed_ admetus' _wife, who laid her own down, for her husband's life._ terpsichore. _may he love her with stronger flame, but much more happy fate, than_ plaucius, _who did disdain to out-live his deceas'd mate._ erato. _may she love him with no less flame, but with much better fate; than_ porcia _chaste, her_ brutus _did, whom brave men celebrate._ calliope. _for constancy, i wish the bridegroom may be equal to the famous_ nasica. urania. _the bride in chastity may she superior to_ paterculana _be._ polyhymnia. _may their offspring like them be, their honour equal their estate; always from ranc'rous envy free, deserved glory on them wait._ _al._ i should very much envy _peter ægidius_ so much happiness, but that he is a man of such candour, that he himself envies no body. _mu._ it is now high time for us to prosecute our journey. _al._ have you any service to command me at _louvain_? _mu._ that thou wouldst recommend us to all our sincere loving friends; but especially to our antient admirers. _john paludus, jodocus gaverius, martin dorpius_, and _john borsalus._ _al._ well, i'll be sure to take care to do your message. what shall i say to the rest? _mu._ i'll tell you in your ear. _al._ well, 'tis a matter that won't cost very much; it shall certainly be done out of hand. _the exorcism or apparition._ the argument. _this colloquy detects the artifices of impostors, who impose upon the credulous and simple, framing stories of apparitions of daemons and ghosts, and divine voices._ polus _is the author of a rumour, that an apparition of a certain soul was heard in his grounds, howling after a lamentable manner: at another place he pretends to see a dragon in the air, in the middle of the day, and persuades other persons that they saw it too; and he prevails upon_ faunus, _a parish-priest of a neighbouring town, to make trial of the truth of the matters, who consents to do it, and prepares exorcisms._ polus _gets upon a black horse, throws fire about, and with divers tricks deceives credulous_ faunus, _and other men of none of the deepest penetration._ thomas _and_ anselm. _tho._ what good news have you had, that you laugh to yourself thus, as if you had found a treasure? _ans._ nay, you are not far from the matter. _tho._ but won't you impart it to your companion, what good thing soever it is? _ans._ yes, i will, for i have been wishing a good while, for somebody to communicate my merriment to. _tho._ come on then, let's have it. _ans._ i was just now told the pleasantest story, which you'd swear was a sham, if i did not know the place, the persons, and whole matter, as well as you know me. _tho._ i'm with child to hear it. _ans._ do you know _polus, faunus_'s son-in-law? _tho._ perfectly well. _ans._ he's both the contriver and actor of this play. _tho._ i am apt enough to believe that; for he can act any part to the life. _ans._ he can so: i suppose too, you know that he has a farm not far from _london_. _tho._ phoo, very well; he and i have drank together many a time there. _ans._ then you know there is a way between two straight rows of trees. _tho._ upon the left hand, about two flight shot from the house? _ans._ you have it. on one side of the way there is a dry ditch, overgrown with thorns and brambles; and then there's a way that leads into an open field from a little bridge. _tho._ i remember it. _ans._ there went a report for a long time among the country-people, of a spirit that walk'd near that bridge, and of hideous howlings that were every now and then heard there: they concluded it was the soul of somebody that was miserably tormented. _tho._ who was it that raised this report? _ans._ who but _polus_, that made this the prologue to his comedy. _tho._ what did he mean by inventing such a flam? _ans._ i know nothing; but that it is the humour of the man, he takes delight to make himself sport, by playing upon the simplicity of people, by such fictions as these. i'll tell you what he did lately of the same kind. we were a good many of us riding to _richmond_, and some of the company were such that you would say were men of judgment. it was a wonderful clear day, and not so much as a cloud to be seen there. _polus_ looking wistfully up into the air, signed his face and breast with the sign of the cross, and having compos'd his countenance to an air of amazement, says to himself, o immortal god, what do i see! they that rode next to him asking him what it was that he saw, he fell again to signing himself with a greater cross. may the most merciful god, says he, deliver me from this prodigy. they having urg'd him, desiring to know what was the matter, he fixing his eyes up to heaven, and pointing with his finger to a certain quarter of it, don't you see, says he, that monstrous dragon arm'd with fiery horns, and its tail turn'd up in a circle? and they denying they saw it, he bid them look earnestly, every now and then pointing to the place: at last one of them, that he might not seem to be bad-sighted, affirmed that he saw it. and in imitation of him, first one, and then another, for they were asham'd that they could not see what was so plain to be seen: and in short, in three days time, the rumour of this portentous apparition had spread all over _england_. and it is wonderful to think how popular fame had amplified the story, and some pretended seriously to expound to what this portent did predict, and he that was the contriver of the fiction, took a mighty pleasure in the folly of these people. _tho._ i know the humour of the man well enough. but to the story of the apparition. _ans._ in the mean time, one _faunus_ a priest (of those which in _latin_ they call _regulars_, but that is not enough, unless they add the same in _greek_ too, who was parson of a neighbouring parish, this man thought himself wiser than is common, especially in holy matters) came very opportunely to pay a visit to _polus_. _tho._ i understand the matter: there is one found out to be an actor in this play. _ans._ at supper a discourse was raised of the report of this apparition, and when _polus_ perceiv'd that _faunus_ had not only heard of the report, but believ'd it, he began to intreat the man, that as he was a holy and a learned person, he would afford some relief to a poor soul that was in such dreadful torment: and, says he, if you are in any doubt as to the truth of it, examine into the matter, and do but walk near that bridge about ten a-clock, and you shall hear miserable cries; take who you will for a companion along with you, and so you will hear both more safely and better. _tho._ well, what then? _ans._ after supper was over, _polus_, as his custom was, goes a hunting or fowling. and when it grew duskish, the darkness having taken away all opportunity of making any certain judgment of any thing, _faunus_ walks about, and at last hears miserable howlings. _polus_ having hid himself in a bramble hedge hard by, had very artfully made these howlings, by speaking through an earthen pot; the voice coming through the hollow of it, gave it a most mournful sound. _tho._ this story, as far as i see, out-does _menander's phasma_. _ans._ you'll say more, if you shall hear it out. _faunus_ goes home, being impatient to tell what he had heard. _polus_ taking a shorter way, had got home before him. _faunus_ up and tells _polus_ all that past, and added something of his own to it, to make the matter more wonderful. _tho._ could _polus_ keep his countenance in the mean time? _ans._ he keep his countenance! he has his countenance in his hand, you would have said that a serious affair was transacted. in the end _faunus_, upon the pressing importunity of _polus_, undertakes the business of exorcism, and slept not one wink all that night, in contriving by what means he might go about the matter with safety, for he was wretchedly afraid. in the first place he got together the most powerful exorcisms that he could get, and added some new ones to them, as the bowels of the virgin _mary_, and the bones of st. _winifred_. after that, he makes choice of a place in the plain field, near the bramble bushes, from whence the voice came. he draws a very large circle with a great many crosses in it, and a variety of characters. and all this was perform'd in a set form of words; there was also there a great vessel full of holy water, and about his neck he had a holy stole (as they call'd it) upon which hung the beginning of the gospel of _john_. he had in his pocket a little piece of wax, which the bishop of _rome_ used to consecrate once a year, which is commonly call'd _agnus dei_. with these arms in times past, they were wont to defend themselves against evil spirits, before the cowl of st. _francis_ was found to be so formidable. all these things were provided, lest if it should be an evil spirit it should fall foul upon the exorcist: nor did he for all this, dare to trust himself in the circle alone, but he determined to take some other priest along with him. upon this _polus_ being afraid, that if he took some sharper fellow than himself along with him, the whole plot might come to be discover'd, he got a parish-priest there-about, whom he acquainted before-hand with the whole design; and indeed it was necessary for the carrying on the adventure, and he was a man fit for such a purpose. the day following, all things being prepared and in good order, about ten a-clock _faunus_ and the parish-priest enter the circle. _polus_ had got thither before them, and made a miserable howling out of the hedge; faunus begins his exorcism, and _polus_ steals away in the dark to the next village, and brings from thence another person, for the play could not be acted without a great many of them. _tho._ well, what do they do? _ans._ they mount themselves upon black horses, and privately carry fire along with them; when they come pretty near to the circle, they shew the fire to affright _faunus_ out of the circle. _tho._ what a deal of pains did this _polus_ take to put a cheat upon people? _ans._ his fancy lies that way. but this matter had like to have been mischievous to them. _tho._ how so? _ans._ for the horses were so startled at the sudden flashing of the fire, that they had like to have thrown their riders. here's an end of the first act of this comedy. when they were returned and entered into discourse, _polus_, as though he had known nothing of the matter, enquires what was done. _faunus_ tells him, that two hideous caco-dæmons appear'd to him on black horses, their eyes sparkling with fire, and breathing fire out of their nostrils, making an attempt to break into the circle, but that they were driven away with a vengeance, by the power and efficacy of his words. this encounter having put courage into _faunus_, the next day he goes into his circle again with great solemnity, and after he had provok'd the spirit a long time with the vehemence of his words, _polus_ and his companion appear again at a pretty distance, with their black horses, with a most outragious noise, making a feint, as if they would break into the circle. _tho._ had they no fire then? _ans._ no, none at all; for that had lik'd to have fallen out very unluckily to them. but hear another device: they drew a long rope over the ground, and then hurrying from one place to another, as though they were beat off by the exorcisms of _faunus_, they threw down both the priest and holy water-pot all together. _tho._ this reward the parish-priest had for playing his part? _ans._ yes, he had; and for all that, he had rather suffer this than quit the design. after this encounter, when they came to talk over the matter again, _faunus_ tells a mighty story to _polus_, what great danger he had been in, and how couragiously he had driven both the evil spirits away with his charms, and now he had arriv'd at a firm persuasion, that there was no dæmon, let him be ever so mischievous or impudent, that could possibly break into this circle. _tho._ this _faunus_ was not far from being a fool. _ans._ you have heard nothing yet. the comedy being thus far advanc'd, _polus_'s son-in-law comes in very good time, for he had married _polus's_ eldest daughter; he's a wonderful merry droll, you know. _tho._ know him! ay, i know him, that he has no aversion for such tricks as these. _ans._ no aversion, do you say, nay he would leave the most urgent affair in the world, if such a comedy were either to be seen or acted. his father-in-law tells him the whole story, and gives him his part, that was, to act the ghost. he puts on a dress, and wraps himself up in a shrowd, and carrying a live coal in a shell, it appear'd through his shrowd as if something were burning. about night he goes to the place where this play was acted, there were heard most doleful moans. _faunus_ lets fly all his exorcisms. at length the ghost appears a good way off in the bushes, every now and then shewing the fire, and making a rueful groaning. while _faunus_ was adjuring the ghost to declare who he was, _polus_ of a sudden leaps out of the thicket, dress'd like a devil, and making a roaring, answers him, you have nothing to do with this soul, it is mine; and every now and then runs to the very edge of the circle, as if he would set upon the exorcist, and then retired back again, as if he was beaten back by the words of the exorcism, and the power of the holy water, which he threw upon him in great abundance. at last when this guardian devil was chased away, _faunus_ enters into a dialogue with the soul. after he had been interrogated and abjured, he answers, that he was the soul of a christian man, and being asked his name, he answered _faunus_. _faunus_! replies the other, that's my name. so then they being name-sakes, he laid the matter more to heart, that _faunus_ might deliver _faunus_. _faunus_ asking a multitude of questions, lest a long discourse should discover the fraud, the ghost retires, saying it was not permitted to stay to talk any longer, because its time was come, that it must go whither its devil pleased to carry it; but yet promised to come again the next day, at what hour it could be permitted. they meet together again at _polus's_ house, who was the master of the show. there the exorcist relates what was done, and tho' he added some lies to the story, yet he believed them to be true himself, he was so heartily affected with the matter in hand. at last it appeared manifestly, that it was the soul of a christian who was vexed with the dreadful torments of an unmerciful devil: now all the endeavours are bent this way. there happened a ridiculous passage in the next exorcism. _tho._ prithee what was that? _ans._ when _faunus_ had called up the ghost, _polus_, that acted the devil, leap'd directly at him, as if he would, without any more to do, break into the circle; and _faunus_ he resisted stoutly with his exorcisms, and had thrown a power of holy water, the devil at last cries out, that he did not value all this of a rush; you have had to do with a wench, and you are my own yourself. and tho' _polus_ said so in jest, it seemed that he had spoken truth: for the exorcist being touched with this word, presently retreated to the very centre of the circle, and whispered something in the priest's ear. _polus_ seeing that, retires, that he might not hear what it was not fit for him to hear. _tho._ in truth, _polus_ was a very modest, religious devil. _ans._ he was so, otherwise he might have been blamed for not observing a _decorum_, but yet he heard the priest's voice appointing him satisfaction. _tho._ what was that? _ans._ that he should say the glorious 78th psalm, three times over, by which he conjectured he had had to do with her three times that night. _tho._ he was an irregular _regular_. _ans._ they are but men, and this is but human frailty. _tho._ well, proceed: what was done after this? _ans._ now _faunus_ more couragiously advances to the very edge of the circle, and challenges the devil of his own accord; but the devil's heart failed him, and he fled back. you have deceived me, says he, if i had been wise i had not given you that caution: many are of opinion, that what you have once confess'd is immediately struck out of the devil's memory, that he can never be able to twit you in the teeth for it. _tho._ what a ridiculous conceit do you tell me of? _ans._ but to draw towards a conclusion of the matter: this dialogue with the ghost held for some days; at last it came to this issue: the exorcist asking the soul, if there was any way by which it might possibly be delivered from its torments, it answered, it might, if the money that it had left behind, being gotten by cheating, should be restored. then, says _faunus_, what if it were put into the hands of good people, to be disposed of to pious uses? the spirit reply'd, that might do. the exorcist was rejoic'd at this; he enquires particularly, what sum there was of it? the spirit reply'd, that it was a vast sum, and might prove very good and commodious: it told the place too where the treasure was hid, but it was a long way off: and it order'd what uses it should be put to. _tho._ what were they? _ans._ that three persons were to undertake a pilgrimage; one to the threshold of st. _peter_; another to salute st. _james_ at _compostella;_ and the third should kiss _jesus'_s comb at _tryers_; and after that, a vast number of services and masses should be performed in several great monasteries; and as to the overplus, he should dispose of it as he pleas'd. now _faunus'_s mind was fixed upon the treasure; he had, in a manner, swallowed it in his mind. _tho._ that's a common disease; but more peculiarly thrown in the priests dish, upon all occasions. _ans._ after nothing had been omitted that related to the affair of the money, the exorcist being put upon it by _polus_, began to put questions to the spirit, about several arts, as alchymy and magick. to these things the spirit gave answers, putting off the resolution of these questions for the present, promising it would make larger discoveries as soon as ever, by his assistance, it should get out of the clutches of its keeper, the devil; and, if you please, you may let this be the third act of this play. as to the fourth act, _faunus_ began, in good earnest, everywhere to talk high, and to talk of nothing else in all companies and at the table, and to promise glorious things to monasteries; and talk'd of nothing that was low and mean. he goes to the place, and finds the tokens, but did not dare to dig for the treasure, because the spirit had thrown this caution in the way, that it would be extremely dangerous to touch the treasure, before the masses had been performed. by this time, a great many of the wiser sort had smelt out the plot, while _faunus_ at the same time was every where proclaiming his folly; tho' he was privately cautioned by his friends, and especially his abbot, that he who had hitherto had the reputation of a prudent man, should not give the world a specimen of his being quite contrary. but the imagination of the thing had so entirely possess'd his mind, that all that could be said of him, had no influence upon him, to make him doubt of the matter; and he dreamt of nothing but spectres and devils: the very habit of his mind was got into his face, that he was so pale, and meagre and dejected, that you would say he was rather a sprite than a man: and in short, he was not far from being stark mad, and would have been so, had it not been timely prevented. _tho._ well, let this be the last act of the play. _ans._ well, you shall have it. _polus_ and his son-in-law, hammer'd out this piece betwixt them: they counterfeited an epistle written in a strange antique character, and not upon common paper, but such as gold-beaters put their leaf-gold in, a reddish paper, you know. the form of the epistle was this: faunus, _long a captive, but now free. to_ faunus, _his gracious deliverer sends eternal health. there is no need, my dear_ faunus, _that thou shouldest macerate thyself any longer in this affair. god has respected the pious intention of thy mind; and by the merit of it, has delivered me from torments, and i now live happily among the angels. thou hast a place provided for thee with st. austin, which is next to the choir of the apostles: when thou earnest to us, i will give thee publick thanks. in the mean time, see that thou live merrily._ _from the_ imperial heaven, _the ides of_ september, _anno_ 1498. _under the seal of my own ring._ this epistle was laid privately under the altar where _faunus_ was to perform divine service: this being done, there was one appointed to advertise him of it, as if he had found it by chance. and now he carries the letter about him, and shews it as a very sacred thing; and believes nothing more firmly, than that it was brought from heaven by an angel. _tho._ this is not delivering the man from his madness, but changing the sort of it. _ans._ why truly, so it is, only he is now more pleasantly mad than before. _tho._ i never was wont to give much credit to stories of apparitions in common; but for the time to come, i shall give much less: for i believe that many things that have been printed and published, as true relations, were only by artifice and imposture, impositions upon credulous persons, and such as _faunus._ _ans._ and i also believe that a great many of them are of the same kind. _the alchymist._ the argument. _this colloquy shews the dotage of an old man, otherwise a very prudent person, upon this art; being trick'd by a priest, under pretence of a two-fold method in this art, the_ long way _and the_ short way. _by the long way he puts an egregious cheat upon old_ balbinus: _the alchymist lays the fault upon his coals and glasses. presents of gold are sent to the virgin_ mary, _that she would assist them in their undertakings. some courtiers having come to the knowledge that_ balbinus _practis'd this unlawful art, are brib'd. at last the alchymist is discharg'd, having money given him to bear his charges._ philecous, lalus. _phi._ what news is here, that _lalus_ laughs to himself so that he e'en giggles again, every now and then signing himself with the sign of the cross? i'll interrupt his felicity. god bless you heartily, my very good friend _lalus_; you seem to me to be very happy. _la._ but i shall be much happier, if i make you a partaker of my merry conceitedness. _phi._ prithee, then, make me happy as soon as you can. _la._ do you know _balbinus_? _phi._ what, that learned old gentleman that has such a very good character in the world? _la._ it is as you say; but no man is wise at all times, or is without his blind side. this man, among his many good qualifications, has some foibles: he has been a long time bewitch'd with the art call'd _alchymy_. _phi._ believe me, that you call only foible, is a dangerous disease. _la._ however that is, notwithstanding he had been so often bitten by this sort of people, yet he has lately suffer'd himself to be impos'd upon again. _phi._ in what manner? _la._ a certain priest went to him, saluted him with great respect, and accosted him in this manner: most learned _balbinus_, perhaps you will wonder that i, being a stranger to you, should thus interrupt you, who, i know, are always earnestly engag'd in the most sacred studies. _balbinus_ gave him a nod, as was his custom; for he is wonderfully sparing of his words. _phi._ that's an argument of prudence. _la._ but the other, as the wiser of the two, proceeds. you will forgive this my importunity, when you shall know the cause of my coming to you. tell me then, says _balbinus_, but in as few words as you can. i will, says he, as briefly as i am able. you know, most learned of men, that the fates of mortals are various; and i can't tell among which i should class myself, whether among the happy or the miserable; for when i contemplate my fate on one part, i account myself most happy, but if on the other part, i am one of the most miserable. _balbinus_ pressing him to contract his speech into a narrow compass; i will have done immediately, most learned _balbinus_, says he, and it will be the more easy for me to do it, to a man who understands the whole affair so well, that no man understands it better. _phi._ you are rather drawing an orator than an alchymist. _la._ you shall hear the alchymist by and by. this happiness, says he, i have had from a child, to have learn'd that most desirable art, i mean alchymy, the very marrow of universal philosophy. at the very mention of the name alchymy, _balbinus_ rais'd himself a little, that is to say, in gesture only, and fetching a deep sigh, bid him go forward. then he proceeds: but miserable man that i am, said he, by not falling into the right way! _balbinus_ asking him what ways those were he spoke of; good sir, says he, you know (for what is there, most learned sir, that you are ignorant of?) that there are two ways in this art, one which is _call'd the longation, and the other which is call'd the curtation_. but by my bad fate, i have fallen upon _longation. balbinus_ asking him, what was the difference of the ways; it would be impudent in me, says he, to mention this to a man, to whom all things are so well known, that nobody knows them better; therefore i humbly address myself to you, that you would take pity on me, and vouchsafe to communicate to me that most happy way of _curtation_. and by how much the better you understand this art, by so much the less labour you will be able to impart it to me: do not conceal so great a gift from your poor brother that is ready to die with grief. and as you assist me in this, so may _jesus christ_ ever enrich you with more sublime endowments. he thus making no end of his solemnity of obtestations, _balbinus_ was oblig'd to confess, that he was entirely ignorant of what he meant by _longation_ and _curtation_, and bids him explain the meaning of those words. then he began; altho' sir, says he, i know i speak to a person that is better skill'd than myself, yet since you command me i will do it: those that have spent their whole life in this divine art, change the species of things two ways, the one is shorter, but more hazardous, the other is longer, but safer. i account myself very unhappy, that i have laboured in that way that does not suit my genius, nor could i yet find out any body who would shew me the other way that i am so passionately desirous of; but at last god has put it into my mind to apply myself to you, a man of as much piety as learning; your learning qualifies you to answer my request with ease, and your piety will dispose you to help a christian brother, whose life is in your hands. to make the matter short, when this crafty fellow, with such expressions as these, had clear'd himself from all suspicion of a design, and had gain'd credit, that he understood one way perfectly well, _balbinus_'s mind began to have an itch to be meddling. and at last, when he could hold no longer, away with your methods, says he, of _curtation_, the name of which i never heard before, i am so far from understanding it. tell me sincerely, do you throughly understand longation? phoo! says he, perfectly well; but i don't love the tediousness of it. then _balbinus_ asked him, how much time it wou'd take up. too much, says he; almost a whole year; but in the mean time it is the safest way. never trouble yourself about that, says _balbinus_, although it should take up two years, if you can but depend upon your art. to shorten the story: they came to an agreement, that the business should be set on foot privately in _balbinus_'s, house, upon this condition, that he should find art, and _balbinus_ money; and the profit should be divided between them, although the imposter modestly offered that _balbinus_ should have the whole gain. they both took an oath of secrecy, after the manner of those that are initiated into mysterious secrets; and presently money is paid down for the artist to buy pots, glasses, coals, and other necessaries for furnishing the laboratory: this money our alchymist lavishes away on whores, gaming, and drinking. _phi._ this is one way, however, of changing the species of things. _la. balbinus_ pressing him to fall upon the business; he replies, don't you very well know, that _what's well begun is half done?_ it is a great matter to have the materials well prepar'd. at last he begins to set up the furnace; and here there was occasion for more gold, as a bait to catch more: for as a fish is not caught without a bait, so alchymists must cast gold in, before they can fetch gold out. in the mean time, _balbinus_ was busy in his accounts; for he reckoned thus, if one ounce made fifteen, what would be the product of two thousand; for that was the sum that he determined to spend. when the alchymist had spent this money and two months time, pretending to be wonderfully busy about the bellows and the coals, balbinus enquired of him, whether the business went forward? at first he made no answer; but at last he urging the question, he made him answer, as all great works do; the greatest difficulty of which is, in entring upon them: he pretended he had made a mistake in buying the coals, for he had bought oaken ones, when they should have been beechen or fir ones. there was a hundred crowns gone; and he did not spare to go to gaming again briskly. upon giving him new cash, he gets new coals, and then the business is begun again with more resolution than before; just as soldiers do, when they have happened to meet with a disaster, they repair it by bravery. when the laboratory had been kept hot for some months, and the golden fruit was expected, and there was not a grain of gold in the vessel (for the chymist had spent all that too) another pretence was found out, that the glasses they used, were not rightly tempered: for, as every block will not make a mercury, so gold will not be made in any kind of glass. and by how much more money had been spent, by so much the lother he was to give it over. _phi._ just as it is with gamesters, as if it were not better to lose some than all. _la._ very true. the chymist swore he was never so cheated since he was born before; but now having found out his mistake, he could proceed with all the security in the world, and fetch up that loss with great interest. the glasses being changed, the laboratory is furnished the third time: then the operator told him, the operation would go on more successfully, if he sent a present of crowns to the virgin mary, that you know is worshipped at _paris_; for it was an holy act: and in order to have it carried on successfully, it needed the favour of the saints. _balbinus_ liked this advice wonderfully well, being a very pious man that never let a day pass, but he performed some act of devotion or other. the operator undertakes the religious pilgrimage; but spends this devoted money in a bawdy-house in the next town: then he goes back, and tells _balbinus_ that he had great hope that all would succeed according to their mind, the virgin _mary_ seem'd so to favour their endeavours. when he had laboured a long time, and not one crumb of gold appearing, _balbinus_ reasoning the matter with him, he answered, that nothing like this had ever happened all his days to him, tho' he had so many times had experience of his method; nor could he so much as imagine what should be the reason of this failing. after they had beat their brains a long time about the matter, _balbinus_ bethought himself, whether he had any day miss'd going to chapel, or saying the _horary prayers_, for nothing would succeed, if these were omitted. says the imposter you have hit it. wretch that i am, i have been guilty of that once or twice by forgetfulness, and lately rising from table, after a long dinner, i had forgot to say the salutation of the virgin. why then, says _balbinus_, it is no wonder, that a thing of this moment succeeds no better. the trickster undertakes to perform twelve services for two that he had omitted, and to repay ten salutations for that one. when money every now and then fail'd this extravagant operator, and he could not find out any pretence to ask for more, he at last bethought himself of this project. he comes home like one frighted out of his wits, and in a very mournful tone cries out, o _balbinus_ i am utterly undone, undone; i am in danger of my life. _balbinus_ was astonished, and was impatient to know what was the matter. the court, says he, have gotten an inkling of what we have been about, and i expect nothing else but to be carried to gaol immediately. _balbinus_, at the hearing of this, turn'd pale as ashes; for you know it is capital with us, for any man to practice _alchymy_ without a license from the prince: he goes on: not, says he, that i am afraid of death myself, i wish that were the worst that would happen, i fear something more cruel. _balbinus_ asking him what that was, he reply'd, i shall be carried away into some castle, and there be forc'd to work all my days, for those i have no mind to serve. is there any death so bad as such a life? the matter was then debated, _balbinus_ being a man that very well understood the art of rhetorick, casts his thoughts every way, if this mischief could be prevented any way. can't you deny the crime, says he? by no means, says the other; the matter is known among the courtiers, and they have such proof of it that it can't be evaded, and there is no defending of the fact; for the law is point-blank against it. many things having been propos'd, but coming to no conclusion, that seem'd feasible; says the alchymist, who wanted present money, o _balbinus_ we apply ourselves to slow counsels, when the matter requires a present remedy. it will not be long before they will be here that will apprehend me, and carry me away into tribulation. and last of all, seeing _balbinus_ at a stand, says the alchymist, i am as much at a loss as you, nor do i see any way left, but to die like a man, unless you shall approve what i am going to propose, which is more profitable than honourable; but necessity is a hard chapter. you know these sort of men are hungry after money, and so may be the more easily brib'd to secrecy. although it is a hard case to give these rascals money to throw away; but yet, as the case now stands, i see no better way. _balbinus_ was of the same opinion, and he lays down thirty guineas to bribe them to hush up the matter. _phi. balbinus_ was wonderful liberal, as you tell the story. _la._ nay, in an honest cause, you would sooner have gotten his teeth out of his head than money. well, then the alchymist was provided for, who was in no danger, but that of wanting money for his wench. _phi._ i admire _balbinus_ could not smoak the roguery all this while. _la._ this is the only thing that he's soft in, he's as sharp as a needle in any thing else. now the furnace is set to work again with new money; but first, a short prayer is made to the virgin mary to prosper their undertakings. by this time there had been a whole year spent, first one obstacle being pretended, and then another, so that all the expence and labour was lost. in the mean time there fell out one most ridiculous chance. _phi._ what was that? _la._ the alchymist had a criminal correspondence with a certain courtier's lady: the husband beginning to be jealous, watch'd him narrowly, and in the conclusion, having intelligence that the priest was in the bed-chamber, he comes home before he was look'd for, knocks at the door. _phi._ what did he design to do to him? _la._ what! why nothing very good, either kill him or geld him. when the husband being very pressing to come, threatned he would break open the door, if his wife did not open it, they were in bodily fear within, and cast about for some present resolution; and circumstances admitting no better, he pull'd off his coat, and threw himself out of a narrow window, but not without both danger and mischief, and so got away. such stories as these you know are soon spread, and it came to _balbinus_'s ear, and the chymist guess'd it would be so. _phi._ there was no getting off of this business. _la._ yes, he got off better here, than he did out at the window. hear the man's invention: _balbinus_ said not a word to him about the matter, but it might be read in his countenance, that he was no stranger to the talk of the town. the chymist knew _balbinus_ to be a man of piety, and in some points, i was going to say, superstitious, and such persons are very ready to forgive one that falls under his crime, let it be never so great; therefore, he on purpose begins a talk about the success of their business, complaining, that it had not succeeded as it us'd to do, and as he would have it; and he-wondered greatly, what should be the reason of it: upon this discourse, _balbinus_, who seemed otherwise to have been bent upon silence, taking an occasion, was a little moved: it is no hard matter, says he, to guess what the obstacle is. sins are the obstacles that hinder our success, for pure works should be done by pure persons. at this word, the projector fell down on his knees, and beating his breast with a very mournful tone, and dejected countenance, says, o _balbinus_, what you have said is very true, it is sin, it is sin that has been the hinderance; but my sins, not yours; for i am not asham'd to confess my uncleanness before you, as i would before my most holy father confessor: the frailty of my flesh overcame me, and satan drew me into his snares; and o miserable wretch that i am! of a priest, i am become an adulterer; and yet, the offering that you sent to the virgin mother, is not wholly lost neither, for i had perish'd inevitably, if she had not helped me; for the husband broke open the door upon me, and the window was too little for me to get out at; and in this pinch of danger, i bethought myself of the blessed virgin, and i fell upon my knees, and besought her, that if the gift was acceptable to her, she would assist me, and in a minute i went to the window, (for necessity forced me so to do) and found it large enough for me to get out at. _phi._ well, and did _balbinus_ believe all this? _la._ believe it, yes, and pardon'd him too, and admonish'd him very religiously, not to be ungrateful to the blessed virgin: nay, there was more money laid down, upon his giving his promise, that he would for the future carry on the process with purity. _phi._ well, what was the end of all this? _la._ the story is very long; but i'll cut it short. when he had play'd upon _balbinus_ long enough with these inventions, and wheedled him out of a considerable sum of money, a certain gentleman happen'd to come there, that had known the knave from a child: he easily imagining that he was acting the same part with _balbinus_, that he had been acting every where, admonishes _balbinus_ privately, and acquainted him what sort of a fellow he harbour'd, advising him to get rid of him as soon as possible, unless he had a mind to have him sometime or other, to rifle his coffers, and then run away. _phi._ well, what did _balbinus_ do then? sure, he took care to have him sent to gaol? _la._ to gaol? nay, he gave him money to bear his charges, and conjur'd him by all that was sacred, not to speak a word of what had happened between them. and in my opinion, it was his wisdom so to do, rather than to be the common laughing-stock, and table-talk, and run the risk of the confiscation of his goods besides; for the imposter was in no danger; he knew no more of the matter than an ass, and cheating is a small fault in these sort of cattle. if he had charg'd him with theft, his ordination would have say'd him from the gallows, and no body would have been at the charge of maintaining such a fellow in prison. _phi._ i should pity _balbinus_; but that he took pleasure in being gull'd. _la._ i must now make haste to the hall; at another time i'll tell you stories more ridiculous than this. _phi._ when you shall be at leisure, i shall be glad to hear them, and i'll give you story for story. _the horse-cheat._ the argument. _the_ horse-cheat _lays open the cheating tricks of those that sell or let out horses to hire; and shews how those cheats themselves are sometimes cheated._ aulus, phædrus. good god! what a grave countenance our _phaedrus_ has put on, gaping ever and anon into the air. i'll attack him. _phaedrus_, what news to day? _ph._ why do you ask me that question, _aulus_? _aul._ because, of a _phaedrus_, you seem to have become a _cato_, there is so much sourness in your countenance. _ph._ that's no wonder, my friend, i am just come from confession. _aul._ nay, then my wonder's over; but tell me upon your honest word, did you confess all? _ph._ all that i could remember, but one. _aul._ and why did you reserve that one? _ph._ because i can't be out of love with it. _aul._ it must needs be some pleasant sin. _ph._ i can't tell whether it is a sin or no; but if you are at leisure, you shall hear what it is. _aul._ i would be glad to hear it, with all my heart. _ph._ you know what cheating tricks are play'd by our _jockeys_, who sell and let out horses. _aul._ yes, i know more of them than i wish i did, having been cheated by them more than once. _ph._ i had occasion lately to go a pretty long journey, and i was in great haste; i went to one that you would have said was none of the worst of 'em, and there was some small matter of friendship between us. i told him i had an urgent business to do, and had occasion for a strong able gelding; desiring, that if he would ever be my friend in any thing, he would be so now. he promised me, that he would use me as kindly as if i were his own dear brother. _aul._ it may be he would have cheated his brother. _ph._ he leads me into the stable, and bids me chuse which i would out of them all. at last i pitch'd upon one that i lik'd better than the rest. he commends my judgment, protesting that a great many persons had had a mind to that horse; but he resolved to keep him rather for a singular friend, than sell him to a stranger. i agreed with him as to the price, paid him down his money, got upon the horse's back. upon the first setting out, my steed falls a prancing; you would have said he was a horse of mettle; he was plump, and in good case: but, by that time i had rid him an hour and a half, i perceiv'd he was downright tir'd, nor could i by spurring him, get him any further. i had heard that such jades had been kept for cheats, that you would take by their looks to be very good horses; but were worth nothing for service. i says to myself presently, i am caught. but when i come home again, i will shew him trick for trick. _aul._ but what did you do in this case, being a horseman without a horse? _ph._ i did what i was oblig'd to do. i turn'd into the next village, and there i set my horse up privately, with an acquaintance, and hired another, and prosecuted my journey; and when i came back, i return'd my hired horse, and finding my own in very good case, and thoroughly rested, i mounted his back, and rid back to the horse-courser, desiring him to set him up for a few days, till i called for him again. he ask'd me how well he carry'd me; i swore by all that was good, that i never bestrid a better nag in my life, that he flew rather than walk'd, nor ever tir'd the least in the world in all so long a journey, nor was a hair the leaner for it. i having made him believe that these things were true, he thought with himself, he had been mistaken in this horse; and therefore, before i went away, he ask'd me if i would sell the horse. i refus'd at first; because if i should have occasion to go such another journey, i should not easily get the fellow of him; but however, i valued nothing so much, but i would sell it, if i could have a good price for it, altho' any body had a mind to buy myself. _aul._ this was fighting a man with his own weapons. _ph._ in short, he would not let me go away, before i had set a price upon him. i rated him at a great deal more than he cost me. being gone, i got an acquaintance to act for me, and gave him instructions how to behave himself: he goes to the house, and calls for the horse-courser, telling him, that he had occasion for a very good, and a very hardy nag. the horse-courser shews him a great many horses, still commending the worst most of all; but says not a word of that horse he had sold me, verily believing he was such as i had represented him. my friend presently ask'd whether that was not to be sold; for i had given him a description of the horse, and the place where he stood. the horse-courser at first made no answer, but commended the rest very highly. the gentleman lik'd the other horses pretty well; but always treated about that very horse: at last thinks the horse-courser with himself, i have certainly been out in my judgment as to this horse, if this stranger could presently pick this horse out of so many. he insisting upon it, he may be sold, says he; but it may be, you'll be frighted at the price. the price, says he, is a case of no great importance, if the goodness of the thing be answerable: tell me the price. he told him something more than i had set him at to him, getting the overplus to himself. at last the price was agreed on, and a good large earnest was given, a ducat of gold to bind the bargain. the purchaser gives the hostler a groat, orders him to give his horse some corn, and he would come by and by, and fetch him. as soon as ever i heard the bargain was made so firmly, that it could not be undone again, i go immediately, booted and spurr'd to the horse-courser, and being out of breath, calls for my horse. he comes and asks what i wanted: says i, get my horse ready presently, for i must be gone this moment, upon an extraordinary affair: but, says he, you bid me keep the horse a few days: that's true, said i, but this business has happened unexpectedly, and it is the king's business, and it will admit of no delay. says he, take your choice, which you will of all my horses; you cannot have your own. i ask'd him, why so? because, says he, he is sold. then i pretended to be in a great passion; god forbid, says i; as this journey has happen'd, i would not sell him, if any man would offer me four times his price. i fell to wrangling, and cry out, i am ruin'd: at length he grew a little warm too: what occasion is there for all this contention: you set a price upon your horse, and i have sold him; if i pay you your money, you have nothing more to do to me; we have laws in this city, and you can't compel me to produce the horse. when i had clamoured a good while, that he would either produce the horse, or the man that bought him: he at last pays me down the money in a passion. i had bought him for fifteen guineas, i set him to him at twenty six, and he had valued him at thirty two, and so computed with himself he had better make that profit of him, than restore the horse. i go away, as if i was vex'd in my mind, and scarcely pacified, tho' the money was paid me: he desires me not to take it amiss, he would make me amends some other way: so i bit the biter: he has a horse not worth a groat; he expected that he that had given him the earnest, should come and pay him the money; but no body came, nor ever will come. _aul._ but in the mean time, did he never expostulate the matter with you? _ph._ with what face or colour could he do that? i have met him over and over since, and he complain'd of the unfairness of the buyer: but i often reason'd the matter with him, and told him, he deserv'd to be so serv'd, who by his hasty sale of him, had depriv'd me of my horse. this was a fraud so well plac'd, in my opinion, that i could not find in my heart to confess it as a fault. _aul._ if i had done such a thing, i should have been so far from confessing it as a fault, that i should have requir'd a statue for it. _ph._ i can't tell whether you speak as you think or no; but you set me agog however, to be paying more of these fellows in their own coin. _the beggars dialogue._ the argument. _the beggars dialogue paints out the cheating, crafty tricks of beggars, who make a shew of being full of sores, and make a profession of palmistry, and other arts by which they impose upon many persons. nothing is more like kingship, than the life of a beggar._ irides, misoponus. _ir._ what new sort of bird is this i see flying here? i know the face, but the cloaths don't suit it. if i'm not quite mistaken, this is _misoponus_. i'll venture to speak to him, as ragged as i am. god save you, _misoponus_. _mis._ hold your tongue, i say. _ir._ what's the matter, mayn't a body salute you? _mis._ not by that name. _ir._ why, what has happen'd to you? are you not the same man that you was? what, have you changed your name with your cloaths? _mis._ no, but i have taken up my old name again. _ir._ who was you then? _mis._ _apitius_. _ir._ never be asham'd of your old acquaintance, if any thing of a better fortune has happen'd to you. it is not long since you belong'd to our order. _mis._ prithee, come hither, and i'll tell you the whole story. i am not asham'd of your order; but i am asham'd of the order that i was first of myself. _ir._ what order do you mean? that of the _franciscans_? _mis._ no, by no means, my good friend; but the order of the spendthrifts. _ir._ in truth, you have a great many companions of that order. _mis._ i had a good fortune, i spent lavishly, and when i began to be in want, no body knew _apitius_. i ran away for shame, and betook myself to your college: i lik'd that better than digging. _ir._ very wisely done; but how comes your body to be in so good case of late? for as to your change of cloaths, i don't so much wonder at that. _mis._ why so? _ir._ because the goddess _laverna_ makes many rich on a sudden. _mis._ what! do you think i got an estate by thieving then? _ir._ nay, perhaps more idly, by rapine. _mis._ no, i swear by your goddess _penia_, neither by thieving, nor by rapine. but first i'll satisfy you as to the state of my body, which seems to you to be the most admirable. _ir._ for when you were with us, you were all over full of sores. _mis._ but i have since made use of a very friendly physician. _ir._ who? _mis._ no other person but myself, unless you think any body is more friendly to me, than i am to myself. _ir._ but i never knew you understood physick before. _mis._ why all that dress was nothing but a cheat i had daub'd on with paints, frankincense, brimstone, rosin, birdlime, and clouts dipp'd in blood; and what i put on, when i pleas'd i took off again. _ir._ o impostor! nothing appear'd more miserable than you were. you might have acted the part of job in a tragedy. _mis._ my necessity made me do it, though fortune sometimes is apt to change the skin too. _ir._ well then, tell me of your fortune. have you found a treasure? _mis._ no; but i have found out a way of getting money that's a little better than yours. _ir._ what could you get money out of, that had no stock? _mis._ _an artist will live any where._ _ir._ i understand you now, you mean the art of picking pockets. _mis._ not so hard upon me, i pray; i mean the art of chymistry. _ir._ why 'tis scarce above a fortnight, since you went away from us, and have you in that time learn'd an art, that others can hardly learn in many years? _mis._ but i have got a shorter way. _ir._ prithee, what way? _mis._ when i had gotten almost four guineas by your art, i happened, as good luck would have it, to fall into the company of an old companion of mine, who had manag'd his matters in the world no better than i had done. we went to drink together; he began, as the common custom is, to tell of his adventures. i made a bargain with him to pay his reckoning, upon condition that he should faithfully teach me his art. he taught it me very honestly, and now 'tis my livelihood. _ir._ mayn't a body learn it? _mis._ i'll teach it you for nothing, for old acquaintance sake. you know, that there are every where a great many that are very fond of this art. _ir._ i have heard so, and i believe it is true. _mis._ i take all opportunities of insinuating myself into their acquaintance, and talk big of my art, and where-ever i find an hungry sea-cob, i throw him out a bait. _ir._ how do you do that? _mis._ i caution him by all means, not rashly to trust men of that profession, for that they are most of them cheats, that by their _hocus pocus_ tricks, pick the pockets of those that are not cautious. _ir._ that prologue is not fit for your business. _mis._ nay, i add this further, that i would not have them believe me myself, unless they saw the matter plainly with their own eyes, and felt it with their hands. _ir._ you speak of a wonderful confidence you have in your art. _mis._ i bid them be present all the while the metamorphosis is under the operation, and to look on very attentively, and that they may have the less reason to doubt, to perform the whole operation with their own hands, while i stand at a distance, and don't so much as put my finger to it. i put them to refine the melted matter themselves, or carry it to the refiners to be done; i tell them beforehand, how much silver or gold it will afford: and in the last place, i bid them carry the melted mass to several goldsmiths, to have it try'd by the touchstone. they find the exact weight that i told them; they find it to be the finest gold or silver, it is all one to me which it is, except that the experiment in silver is the less chargeable to me. _ir._ but has your art no cheat in it? _mis._ it is a mere cheat all over. _ir._ i can't see where the cheat lies. _mis._ i'll make you see it presently. i first make a bargain for my reward, but i won't be paid before i have given a proof of the thing itself: i give them a little powder, as though the whole business was effected by the virtue of that; but i never tell them how to make it, except they purchase it at a very great price. and i make them take an oath, that for six months they shall not discover the secret to any body living. _ir._ but i han't heard the cheat yet. _mis._ the whole mystery lies in one coal, that i have prepared for this purpose. i make a coal hollow, and into it i pour melted silver, to the quantity i tell them before-hand will be produc'd. and after the powder is put in, i set the pot in such a manner, that it is cover'd all over, above, beneath, and sides, with coals, and i persuade them, that the art consists in that; among those coals that are laid at top, i put in one that has the silver or gold in it, that being melted by the heat of the fire, falls down among the other metal, which melts, as suppose tin or brass, and upon the separation, it is found and taken out. _ir._ a ready way; but, how do you manage the fallacy, when another does it all with his own hands? _mis._ when he has done every thing, according to my direction, before the crucible is stirr'd, i come and look about, to see if nothing has been omitted, and then i say, that there seems to want a coal or two at the top, and pretending to take one out of the coal-heap, i privately lay on one of my own, or have laid it there ready before-hand, which i can take, and no body know any thing of the matter. _ir._ but when they try to do this without you, and it does not succeed, what excuse have you to make? _mis._ i'm safe enough when i have got my money. i pretend one thing or other, either that the crucible was crack'd, or the coals naught, or the fire not well tempered. and in the last place, one part of the mystery of my profession is, never to stay long in the same place. _ir._ and is there so much profit in this art as to maintain you? _mis._ yes, and nobly too: and i would have you, for the future, if you are wise, leave off that wretched trade of begging, and follow ours. _ir._ nay, i should rather chuse to bring you back to our trade. _mis._ what, that i should voluntarily return again to that i have escap'd from, and forsake that which i have found profitable? _ir._ this profession of ours has this property in it, that it grows pleasant by custom. and thence it is, that tho' many have fallen off from the order of st. _francis_ or st. _benedict_, did you ever know any that had been long in our order, quit it? for you could scarce taste the sweetness of beggary in so few months as you follow'd it. _mis._ that little taste i had of it taught me, that it was the most wretched life in nature. _ir._ why does no body quit it then? _mis._ perhaps, because they are naturally wretched. _ir._ i would not change this wretchedness, for the fortune of a king. for there is nothing more like a king, than the life of a beggar. _mis._ what strange story do i hear? is nothing more like snow than a coal? _ir._ wherein consists the greatest happiness of kings? _mis._ because in that they can do what they please. _ir._ as for that liberty, than which nothing is sweeter, we have more of it than any king upon earth; and i don't doubt, but there are many kings that envy us beggars. let there be war or peace we live secure, we are not press'd for soldiers, nor put upon parish-offices, nor taxed. when the people are loaded with taxes, there's no scrutiny into our way of living. if we commit any thing that is illegal, who will sue a beggar? if we beat a man, he will be asham'd to fight with a beggar? kings can't live at ease neither in war or in peace, and the greater they are, the greater are their fears. the common people are afraid to offend us, out of a certain sort of reverence, as being consecrated to god. _mis._ but then, how nasty are ye in your rags and kennels? _ir._ what do they signify to real happiness. those things you speak of are out of a man. we owe our happiness to these rags. _mis._ but i am afraid a good part of your happiness will fail you in a short time. _ir._ how so? _mis._ because i have heard a talk in the cities, that there will be a law, that mendicants shan't be allow'd to stroll about at their pleasure, but every city shall maintain its own poor; and that they that are able shall be made to work. _ir._ what reason have they for this? _mis._ because they find great rogueries committed under pretence of begging, and that there are great inconveniencies arise to the publick from your order. _ir._ ay, i have heard these stones time after time, and they'll bring it about when the devil's blind. _mis._ perhaps sooner than you'd have it. _the fabulous feast._ the argument. _the fabulous feast contains various stories and pleasant tales._ maccus _puts a trick upon a shoe-maker. a fruiterer is put upon about her figs. a very clever cheat of a priest, in relation to money._ lewis _the eleventh, king of_ france, _eats some of a country-man's turnips, and gives him 1000 crowns for an extraordinary large one that he made a present of to him. a certain man takes a louse off of the king's garment, and the king gives him 40 crowns for it. the courtiers are trick'd. one asks for an office, or some publick employment. to deny a kindness presently, is to bestow a benefit._ maximilian _was very merciful to his debtors. an old priest cheats an usurer._ anthony _salutes one upon letting a fart, saying the backside was the cleanest part of the body._ polymythus, gelasinus, eutrapelus, astæus, philythlus, philogelos, euglottus, lerochares, adolesches, levinus. _pol._ as it is unfitting for a well order'd city to be without laws and without a governor; so neither ought a feast to be without orders and a president. _ge._ if i may speak for the rest, i like it very well. _po._ soho, sirrah! bring hither the dice, the matter shall be determin'd by their votes; he shall be our president that _jupiter_ shall favour. o brave! _eutrapelus_ has it, the fittest man that could be chosen, if we had every individual man of us thrown. there is an usual proverb, that has more truth in't than good latin, _novus rex nova lex, new lords new laws_. therefore, king, make thou laws. _eut._ that this may be a merry and happy banquet, in the first place i command, that no man tell a story but what is a ridiculous one. he that shall have no story to tell, shall pay a groat, to be spent in wine; and stories invented extempore shall be allow'd as legitimate, provided regard be had to probability and decency. if no body shall want a story, let those two that tell, the one the pleasantest, and the other the dullest, pay for wine. let the master of the feast be at no charge for wine, but only for the provisions of the feast. if any difference about this matter shall happen, let _gelasinus_ be judge. if you agree to these conditions, let 'em be ratified. he that won't observe the orders, let him be gone, but with liberty to come again to a collation the next day. _ge._ we give our votes for the passing the bill our king has brought in. but who must tell the first story? _eut._ who should, but the master of the feast? _as._ but, mr. king, may i have the liberty to speak three words? _eut._ what, do you take the feast to be an unlucky one? _as._ the lawyers deny that to be law that is not just. _eut._ i grant it. _as._ your law makes the best and worst stories equal. _eut._ where diversion is the thing aim'd at, there he deserves as much commendation who tells the worst, as he that tells the best story, because it affords as much merriment; as amongst songsters none are admir'd but they that sing very well, or they that sing very ill. do not more laugh to hear the cuckoo than to hear the nightingal? in this case mediocrity is not praise-worthy. _as._ but pray, why must they be punish'd, that carry off the prize? _eut._ lest their too great felicity should expose them to envy, if they should carry away the prize, and go shot-free too. _as._ by _bacchus, minos_ himself never made a juster law. _phily._ do you make no order as to the method of drinking? _eut._ having consider'd the matter, i will follow the example of _agesilaus_ king of the _lacedæmonians_. _phily._ what did he do? _eut._ upon a certain time, he being by lot chosen master of the feast, when the marshal of the hall ask'd him, how much wine he should set before every man; if, says he, you have a great deal of wine, let every man have as much as he calls for, but if you're scarce of wine, give every man equally alike. _phily._ what did the _lacedæmonian_ mean by that? _eut._ he did this, that it might neither be a drunken feast, nor a querulous one. _phily._ why so? _eut._ because some like to drink plentifully, and some sparingly, and some drink no wine at all; such an one _romulus_ is said to have been. for if no body has any wine but what he asks for, in the first place no body is compell'd to drink, and there is no want to them that love to drink more plentifully. and so it comes to pass that no body is melancholy at the table. and again, if of a less quantity of wine every one has an equal portion, they that drink moderately have enough; nor can any body complain in an equality, and they that would have drank more largely, are contentedly temperate. _eut._ if you like it, this is the example i would imitate, for i would have this feast to be a fabulous, but not a drunken one. _phily._ but what did _romulus_ drink then? _eut._ the same that dogs drink. _phily._ was not that unbeseeming a king? _eut._ no more than it is unseemly for a king to draw the same air that dogs do, unless there is this difference, that a king does not drink the very same water that a dog drank, but a dog draws in the very same air that the king breath'd out; and on the contrary, the king draws in the very same air that the dog breath'd out. it would have been much more to _alexander_'s, glory, if he had drank with the dogs. for there is nothing worse for a king, who has the care of so many thousand persons, than drunkenness. but the apothegm that _romulus_ very wittily made use of, shews plainly that he was no wine-drinker. for when a certain person, taking notice of his abstaining from wine, said to him, that wine would be very cheap, if all men drank as he did; nay, says he, in my opinion it would be very dear, if all men drank it as i drink; for i drink as much as i please. _ge._ i wish our _john botzemus_, the canon of _constance_, was here; he'd look like another _romulus_ to us: for he is as abstemious, as he is reported to have been; but nevertheless, he is a good-humoured, facetious companion. _po._ but come on, if you can, i won't say _drink and blow_, which _plautus_ says is a hard matter to do, but if you can eat and hear at one and the same time, which is a very easy matter, i'll begin the exercise of telling stories, and auspiciously. if the story be not a pleasant one, remember 'tis a _dutch_ one. i suppose some of you have heard of the name of _maccus_? _ge._ yes, he has not been dead long. _po._ he coming once to the city of _leiden_, and being a stranger there, had a mind to make himself taken notice of for an arch trick (for that was his humour); he goes into a shoemaker's shop, and salutes him. the shoemaker, desirous to sell his ware, asks him what he would buy: _maccus_ setting his eyes upon a pair of boots that hung up there, the shoemaker ask'd him if he'd buy any boots; _maccus_ assenting to it, he looks out a pair that would fit him, and when he had found 'em brings 'em out very readily, and, as the usual way is, draws 'em on. _maccus_ being very well fitted with a pair of boots, how well, says he, would a pair of double soal'd shoes agree with these boots? the shoemaker asks him, if he would have a pair of shoes too. he assents, a pair is look'd out presently and put on. _maccus_ commends the boots, commends the shoes. the shoemaker glad in his mind to hear him talk so, seconds him as he commended 'em, hoping to get a better price, since the customer lik'd his goods so well. and by this time they were grown a little familiar; then says _maccus_, tell me upon your word, whether it never was your hap, when you had fitted a man with boots and shoes, as you have me, to have him go away without paying for 'em? no, never in all my life, says he. but, says _maccus_, if such a thing should happen to you, what would you do in the case? why, quoth the shoemaker, i'd run after him. then says _maccus_, but are you in jest or in earnest? in earnest, says the other, and i'd do it in earnest too. says _maccus_, i'll try whether you will or no. see i run for the shoes, and you're to follow me, and out he runs in a minute; the shoemaker follows him immediately as fast as ever he could run, crying out, stop thief, stop thief; this noise brings the people out of their houses: _maccus_ laughing, hinders them from laying hold of him by this device, don't stop me, says he, we are running a race for a wager of a pot of ale; and so they all stood still and look'd on, thinking the shoemaker had craftily made that out-cry that he might have the opportunity to get before him. at last the shoemaker, being tir'd with running, gives out, and goes sweating, puffing and blowing home again: so _maccus_ got the prize. _ge._ _maccus_ indeed escap'd the shoemaker, but did not escape the thief. _po._ why so? _ge._ because he carried the thief along with him. _po._ perhaps he might not have money at that time, but paid for 'em afterwards. _ge._ he might have indicted him for a robbery. _po._ that was attempted afterwards, but now the magistrates knew _maccus_. _ge._ what did _maccus_ say for himself? _po._ do you ask what he said for himself, in so good a cause as this? the plaintiff was in more danger than the defendant. _ge._ how so? _po._ because he arrested him in an action of defamation, and prosecuted him upon the statute of _rheims_ which says, that he that charges a man with what he can't prove, shall suffer the penalty, which the defendant was to suffer if he had been convicted. he deny'd that he had meddled with another man's goods without his leave, but that he put 'em upon him, and that there was no mention made of any thing of a price; but that he challeng'd the shoemaker to run for a wager, and that he accepted the challenge, and that he had no reason to complain because he had out-run him. _ge._ this action was pretty much like that of the shadow of the ass. well, but what then? _po._ when they had had laughing enough at the matter, one of the judges invites _maccus_ to supper, and paid the shoemaker his money. just such another thing happen'd at _daventerv_, when i was a boy. it was at a time when 'tis the fishmonger's fair, and the butchers time to be starv'd. a certain man stood at a fruiterer's stall, or oporopolist's, if you'd have it in _greek_. the woman was a very fat woman, and he star'd very hard upon the ware she had to sell. she, according as the custom is, invites him to have what he had a mind to; and perceiving he set his eyes upon some figs, would you please to have figs, says she? they are very fine ones. he gives her a nod. she asks him how many pound, would you have five pound says she? he nods again; she turns him five pound into his apron. while she is laying by her scales, he walks off, not in any great haste, but very gravely. when she comes out to take her money, her chap was gone; she follows him, making more noise than haste after him. he, taking no notice, goes on; at last a great many getting together at the woman's out-cry, he stands still, pleads his cause in the midst of the multitude: there was very good sport, he denies that he bought any figs of her, but that she gave 'em him freely; if she had a mind to have a trial for it, he would put in an appearance. _ge._ well, i'll tell you a story not much unlike yours, nor perhaps not much inferior to it, saving it has not so celebrated an author as _maccus_. _pythagoras_ divided the market into three sorts of persons, those that went thither to sell, those that went thither to buy; both these sorts were a careful sort of people, and therefore unhappy: others came to see what was there to be sold, and what was done; these only were the happy people, because being free from care, they took their pleasure freely. and this he said was the manner that a philosopher convers'd in this world, as they do in a market. but there is a fourth kind of persons that walk about in our markets, who neither buy nor sell, nor are idle spectators of what others do, but lie upon the catch to steal what they can. and of this last sort there are some that are wonderful dextrous. you would swear they were born under a lucky planet. our entertainer gave us a tale with an epilogue, i'll give you one with a prologue to it. now you shall hear what happen'd lately at _antwerp_. an old priest had receiv'd there a pretty handsome sum of money, but it was in silver. a sharper has his eye upon him; he goes to the priest, who had put his money in a large bag in his cassock, where it boug'd out; he salutes him very civilly, and tells him that he had orders to buy a surplice, which is the chief vestment us'd in performing divine service, for the priest of his parish; he intreats him to lend him a little assistance in this matter, and to go with him to those that sell such attire, that he might fit one according to his size, because he was much about the same stature with the parson of his parish. this being but a small kindness, the old priest promises to do it very readily. they go to a certain shop, a surplice is shew'd 'em, the old priest puts it on, the seller says, it fits him as exactly as if made for him; the sharper viewing the old priest before and behind, likes the surplice very well, but only found fault that it was too short before. the seller, lest he should lose his customer, says, that was not the fault of the surplice, but that the bag of money that stuck out, made it look shorter there. to be short, the old priest lays his bag down; then they view it over again, and while the old priest stands with his back towards it, the sharper catches it up, and runs away as fast as he could: the priest runs after him in the surplice as he was, and the shop-keeper after the priest; the old priest cries out, stop thief; the salesman cries out, stop the priest; the sharper cries out, stop the mad priest; and they took him to be mad, when they saw him run in the open street in such a dress: so one hindring the other, the sharper gets clear off. _eut._ hanging is too good for such a rogue. _ge._ it is so, if he be not hang'd already. _eut._ i would not have him hang'd only, but all those that encourage such monstrous rogues to the damage of the state. _ge._ they don't encourage 'em for nothing; there's a fellow feeling between 'em from the lowest to the highest. _eut._ well, but let us return to our stories again. _ast._ it comes to your turn now, if it be meet to oblige a king to keep his turn. _eut._ i won't need to be forc'd to keep my turn, i'll keep it voluntarily; i should be a tyrant and not a king, if i refus'd to comply with those laws i prescribe to others. _ast._ but some folks say, that a prince is above the law. _eut._ that saying is not altogether false, if by prince you mean that great prince who was call'd _cæsar_; and then, if by being above the law, you mean, that whereas others do in some measure keep the laws by constraint, he of his own inclination more exactly observes them. for a good prince is that to the body politick, which the mind is to the body natural. what need was there to have said a good prince, when a bad prince is no prince? as an unclean spirit that possesses the human body, is not the soul of that body. but to return to my story; and i think that as i am king, it becomes me to tell a kingly story. _lewis_ king of _france_ the eleventh of that name, when his affairs were disturb'd at home, took a journey to _burgundy_; and there upon the occasion of a hunting, contracted a familiarity with one _conon_, a country farmer, but a plain downright honest man; and kings delight in the conversation of such men. the king, when he went a hunting, us'd often to go to his house; and as great princes do sometimes delight themselves with mean matters, he us'd to be mightily pleas'd in eating of his turnips. not long after, _lewis_ having settled his affairs, obtain'd the government of the _french_ nation; _conon_'s wife puts him upon remembring the king of his old entertainment at their house, bids him go to him, and make him a present of some rare turnips. _conon_ at first would not hear of it, saying he should lose his labour, for that princes took no notice of such small matters; but his wife over-persuaded him. _conon_ picks out a parcel of choice turnips, and gets ready for his journey; but growing hungry by the way, eats 'em all up but one very large one. when _conon_ had got admission into the hall that the king was to pass thro', the king knew him presently, and sent for him; and he with a great deal of chearfulness offers his present, and the king with as much readiness of mind receives it, commanding one that stood near him to lay it up very carefully among his greatest rarities. he commands _conon_ to dine with him, and after dinner thanks him; and _conon_ being desirous to go back into his own country, the king orders him 1000 crowns for his turnip. when the report of this thing, as it is common, was spread abroad thro' the king's houshold-servants, one of the courtiers presents the king with a very fine horse; the king knowing that it was his liberality to _conon_ that had put him upon this, he hoping to make a great advantage by it, he accepted it with a great deal of pleasure, and calling a council of his nobles, began to debate, with what present he should make a recompence for so fine and valuable a horse. in the mean time the giver of the horse began to be flushed with expectation, thinking thus with himself; if he made such a recompence for a poor turnip offer'd him by a country farmer, how much more magnificently will he requite the present of so fine a horse by a courtier? when one answer'd one thing, and another another to the king that was consulting about it, as a matter of great moment, and the designing courtier had been for a long time kept in fools paradise; at length, says the king, it's just now come into my mind what return to make him, and calling one of his noblemen to him, whispers him in the ear, bids him go fetch him what he found in his bedchamber (telling him the place where it lay) choicely wrap'd up in silk; the turnip is brought, and the king with his own hand gives it the courtier, wrap'd up as it was, saying that he thought he had richly requited the present of the horse by so choice a rarity, as had cost him 1000 crowns. the courtier going away, and taking off the covering, did not find a _coal instead of a treasure_, according to the old proverb, but a dry turnip: and so the biter was bitten, and soundly laugh'd at by every body into the bargain. _as._ but, mr. king, if you'll please to permit me, who am but a peasant, to speak of regal matters, i'll tell you something that comes into my mind, by hearing your story, concerning the same _lewis_. for as one link of a chain draws on another, so one story draws on another. a certain servant seeing a louse crawling upon the king's coat, falling upon his knees and lifting up his hand, gives notice, that he had a mind to do some sort of service; _lewis_ offering himself to him, he takes off the louse, and threw it away privately; the king asks him what it was; he seem'd ashamed to tell him, but the king urging him, he confess'd it was a louse: that's a very good sign, says he, for it shews me to be a man, because this sort of vermin particularly haunts mankind, especially while they are young; and order'd him a present of 40 crowns for his good service. some time after, another person (who had seen how well he came off that had perform'd so small a service) not considering that there is a great difference between doing a thing sincerely, and doing it craftily, approached the king with the like gesture; and he offering himself to him, he made a shew of taking something off his garment, which he presently threw away. but when the king was urgent upon him, seeming unwilling to tell what it was, mimicking abundance of modesty, he at last told him it was a flea; the king perceiving the fraud, says to him, what do you make a dog of me? and orders him to be taken away, and instead of 40 crowns orders him 40 stripes. _phily._ i hear it's no good jesting with kings; for as lions will sometimes stand still to be stroaked, are lions again when they please, and kill their play-fellow; just so princes play with men. but i'll tell you a story not much unlike yours: not to go off from _lewis_, who us'd to take a pleasure in tricking tricksters. he had receiv'd a present of ten thousand crowns from some place, and as often as the courtiers know the king has gotten any fresh money, all the officers are presently upon the hunt to catch some part of it; this _lewis_ knew very well, this money being pour'd out upon a table, he, to raise all their expectations, thus bespeaks them; what say you, am not i a very rich king? where shall i bestow all this money? it was presented to me, and i think it is meet i should make presents of it again. where are all my friends, to whom i am indebted for their good services? now let 'em come before this money's gone. at that word a great many came running; every body hop'd to get some of it. the king taking notice of one that look'd very wishfully upon it, and as if he would devour it with his eyes, turning to him, says, well, friend, what have you to say? he inform'd the king, that he had for a long time very faithfully kept the king's hawks, and been at a great expence thereby. one told him one thing, another another, every one setting out his service to the best advantage, and ever and anon lying into the bargain. the king heard 'em all very patiently, and approv'd of what they said. this consultation held a long time, that he might teaze them the more, by keeping them betwixt hope and despair. among the rest stood the great chancellor, for the king had order'd him to be sent for too; he, being wiser than the rest, says never a word of his own good services, but was only a spectator of the comedy. at length the king turning toward him, says, well, what says my chancellor to the matter? he is the only man that asks nothing, and says never a word of his good services. i, says the chancellor, have receiv'd more already from your royal bounty, than i have deserved. i am so far from craving more, that i am not desirous of any thing so much, as to behave myself worthy of the royal bounty i have receiv'd. then, says the king, you are the only man of 'em all that does not want money. says the chancellor, i must thank your bounty that i don't. then he turns to the others, and says, i am the most magnificent prince in the world, that have such a wealthy chancellor. this more inflam'd all their expectations, that the money would be distributed among them, since he desired none of it. when the king had play'd upon 'em after this manner a pretty while, he made the chancellor take it all up, and carry it home; then turning to the rest, who now look'd a little dull upon it, says he, you must stay till the next opportunity. _philog._ perhaps that i'm going to tell you, will not seem so entertaining. however, i entreat you that you would not be suspicious, that i use any deceit or collusion, or think that i have a design to desire to be excus'd. one came to the same _lewis_, with a petition that he would bestow upon him an office that happen'd to be vacant in the town where he liv'd. the king hearing the petition read, answers immediately, you shall not have it; by that means putting him out of any future expectation; the petitioner immediately returns the king thanks, and goes his way. the king observing the man's countenance, perceiv'd he was no blockhead, and thinking perhaps he might have misunderstood what he said, bids him be call'd back again. he came back; then says the king; did you understand what i said to you? i did understand you, quoth he: why, what did i say? that i should not have it, said he. what did you thank me for then? why, says he, i have some business to do at home, and therefore it would have been a trouble to me to have here danc'd attendance after a doubtful hope; now, i look upon it a benefit that you have denied me the office quickly, and so i count myself to have gain'd whatsoever i should have lost by attendance upon it, and gone without it at last. by this answer, the king seeing the man to be no blockhead, having ask'd him a few questions, says he, you shall have what you ask'd for, that you may thank me twice, and turning to his officers; let, says he, letters patent be made out for this man without delay, that he may not be detain'd here to his detriment. _eugl._ i could tell you a story of _lewis_, but i had rather tell one of our _maximilian_, who as he was far from hiding his money in the ground, so he was very generous to those that had spent their estates, if they were nobly descended. he being minded to assist a young gentleman, that had fallen under these circumstances, sent him on an embassy to demand an hundred thousand florins of a certain city, but i know not upon what account. but this was the condition of it, that if he by his dexterity could make any more of it, it should be his own. the embassador extorted fifty thousand from 'em, and gave _caesar_ thirty of 'em. _caesar_ being glad to receive more than he expected, dismisses the man without asking any questions. in the mean time the treasurer and receivers smelt the matter, that he had receiv'd more than he had paid in; they importune _caesar_ to send for him; he being sent for, comes immediately: says _maximilian_, i hear you have receiv'd fifty thousand. he confess'd it. but you have paid in but thirty thousand. he confess'd that too. says he, you must give an account of it. he promis'd he would do it, and went away. but again he doing nothing in it, the officers pressing the matter, he was call'd again; then says _caesar_ to him, a little while ago, you were order'd to make up the account. says he, i remember it, and am ready to do it. _caesar_, imagining that he had not settled it, let him go again; but he thus eluding the matter, the officers insisted more pressingly upon it, crying out, it was a great affront to play upon _caesar_ at this rate. they persuaded the king to send for him, and make him balance the account before them. _caesar_ agrees to it, he is sent for, comes immediately, and does not refuse to do any thing. then says _caesar_, did not you promise to balance the account? yes, said he. well, says he, you must do it here; here are some to take your account; it must be put off no longer. the officers sat by, with books ready for the purpose. the young man being come to this pinch, replies very smartly; most invincible _caesar_, i don't refuse to give an account, but am not very well skilled in these sort of accounts, never having given any; but these that sit here are very ready at such accounts. if i do but once see how they make up such accounts, i can very easily imitate them. i entreat you to command them but to shew me an example, and they shall see i am very docible. _caesar_ perceived what he meant, but they, upon whom it was spoken did not, and smiling, answered him, you say true, and what you demand is nothing but what is reasonable: and so dismissed the young man. for he intimated that they used to bring in such accounts to _caesar_ as he had, that is, to keep a good part of the money to themselves. _le._ now 'tis time that our story-telling should pass, as they say, from better to worse, from kings to _anthony_, a priest of _louvain_, who was much in favour with _philip_ surnamed _the good_: there are a great many things told of this man, both merrily said, and wittily done, but most of them are something slovenly. for he used to season many of his jokes with a sort of perfume that has not a handsome sound, but a worse scent. i'll pick out one of the cleanest of 'em. he had given an invitation to one or two merry fellows that he had met with by chance as he went along; and when he comes home, he finds a cold kitchen; nor had he any money in his pocket, which was no new thing with him; here was but little time for consultation. away he goes, and says nothing, but going into the kitchen of a certain usurer (that was an intimate acquaintance, by reason of frequent dealings with him) when the maid was gone out of the way, he makes off with one of the brass pots, with the meat ready boiled, under his coat, carries it home, gives it his cook-maid, and bids her pour out the meat and broth into another earthen pot, and rub the usurer's brass one till it was bright. having done this, he sends his boy to the pawn-broker to borrow two groats upon it, but charges him to take a note, that should be a testimonial, that such a pot had been sent him. the pawn-broker not knowing the pot being scour'd so bright, takes the pawn, gives him a note, and lays him down the money, and with that money the boy buys wine, and so he provided an entertainment for him. by and by, when the pawn-broker's dinner was going to be taken up, the pot was missing. he scolds at the cook-maid; she being put hardly to it, affirmed no body had been in the kitchen all that day but _anthony_. it seem'd an ill thing to suspect a priest. but however at last they went to him, search'd the house for the pot, but no pot was found. but in short, they charg'd him home with the pot, because he was the only person who had been in the kitchen till the pot was missing. he confess'd that he had borrow'd a pot, but that he had sent it home again to him from whom he had it. but they denying it stiffly, and high words arising, _anthony_ calling some witnesses, look you, quoth he, how dangerous a thing it is to have to do with men now-a-days, without a note under their hands: i should have been in danger of being indicted for felony, if i had not had the pawn-broker's own hand to shew. and with that he produces the note of his hand. they perceiv'd the trick, and it made good sport all the country over, that the pawn-broker had lent money upon his own porridge-pot. men are commonly very well pleas'd with such tricks, when they are put upon such as they have no good opinion of, especially such as use to impose upon other persons. _adol._ in truth, by mentioning the name of _anthony_, you have laid open an ocean of merry stories; but i'll tell but one, and a short one too, that was told me very lately. a certain company of jolly fellows, who are for a short life, and a merry one, as they call it, were making merry together; among the rest there was one _anthony_, and another person, a noted fellow for an arch trick, a second _anthony_. and as 'tis the custom of philosophers, when they meet together to propound some questions or other about the things of nature, so in this company a question was propos'd; which was the most honourable part of a man? one said the eyes, another said the heart, another said the brain, and others said other parts; and every one alleg'd some reason for his assertion. _anthony_ was bid to speak his mind, and he gave his opinion that the mouth was the most honourable, and gave some reason for't, i can't tell what. upon that the other person, that he might thwart _anthony_, made answer that that was the most honourable part that we sit upon; and when every one cry'd out, that was absurd, he back'd it with this reason, that he was commonly accounted the most honourable that was first seated, and that this honour was commonly done to the part that he spoke of. they applauded his opinion, and laughed heartily at it. the man was mightily pleas'd with his wit, and _anthony_ seem'd to have the worst on't. _anthony_ turn'd the matter off very well, saying that he had given the prime honour to the mouth for no other reason, but because he knew that the other man would name some other part, if it were but out of envy to thwart him: a few days after, when they were both invited again to an entertainment, _anthony_ going in, finds his antagonist, talking with some other persons, while supper was getting ready, and turning his arse towards him, lets a great fart full in his face. he being in a violent passion, says to him, out, you saucy fellow, where was you drag'd up? _at hogs norton_? then says _anthony_, what, are you angry? if i had saluted you with my mouth, you would have answer'd me again; but now i salute you with the most honourable part of the body, in your own opinion, you call me saucy fellow. and so _anthony_ regain'd the reputation he had lost. we have every one told our tale. now, mr. judge, it is your business to pass sentence. _ge._ well, i'll do that, but not before every man has taken off his glass, and i'll lead the way. but _talk of the devil and he'll appear_. _po._ _levinus panagathus_ brings no bad luck along with him. _lev._ well, pray what diversion has there been among this merry company? _po._ what should we do but tell merry stories till you come? _lev._ well then, i'm come to conclude the meeting. i desire you all to come to morrow to eat a theological dinner with me. _ge._ you tell us of a melancholy entertainment indeed. _lev._ that will appear. if you don't confess that it has been more entertaining than your fabulous one, i'll be content to be amerc'd a supper; there is nothing more diverting than to treat of trifles in a serious manner. _the lying-in woman._ the argument. _a lying-in woman had rather have a boy than a girl. custom is a grievous tyrant. a woman argues that she is as good as her husband. the dignity of 'em both are compared. the tongue is a woman's best weapon. the mother herself ought to be the nurse. she is not the mother that bears the child, but she that nurses it. the very beasts themselves suckle their own young. the nurse's milk corrupts oftentimes both the genius and natural constitution of the infant. the souls of some persons inhabit bodies ill organized._ cato _judges it the principal part of felicity, to dwell happily. she is scarce half a mother that refuses to bring up what she has brought forth. a mother is so called from [greek: mê têrein]. and in short, besides the knowledge of a great many things in nature, here are many that occur in morality._ eutrapelus, fabulla. _eu._ honest _fabulla_, i am glad to see you; i wish you well. _fa._ i wish you well heartily, eutrapelus. but what's the matter more than ordinary, that you that come so seldom to see me, are come now? none of our family has seen you this three years. _eu._ i'll tell you, as i chanced to go by the door, i saw the knocker (called a crow) tied up in a white cloth, i wondered what was the matter. _fa._ what! are you such a stranger in this country, as not to know that that's a token of a lying-in woman in that house? _eu._ why, pray is it not a strange sight to see a white crow? but without jesting, i did know very well what was the matter; but i could not dream, that you that are scarce sixteen, should learn so early the difficult art of getting children, which some can scarce attain before they are thirty. _fa._ as you are _eutrapelus_ by name, so you are by nature. _eu._ and so are you too. for _fabulla_ never wants a fable. and while i was in a quandary, _polygamus_ came by just in the nick of time. _fa._ what he that lately buried his tenth wife? _eu._ the very same, but i believe you don't know that he goes a courting as hotly as if he had lived all his days a batchelor. i ask'd him what was the matter; he told me that in this house the body of a woman had been dissever'd. for what great crime, says i? says he, if what is commonly reported be true, the mistress of this house attempted to circumcise her husband, and with that he went away laughing. _fa._ he's a mere wag. _eu._ i presently ran in a-doors to congratulate your safe delivery. _fa._ congratulate my safe delivery if you will, _eutrapelus_, you may congratulate my happy delivery, when you shall see him that i have brought forth give a proof of himself to be an honest man. _eu._ indeed, my _fabulla_ you talk very piously and rationally. _fa._ nay, i am no body's _fabulla_ but _petronius's._ _eu._ indeed you bear children for _petronius_ alone, but you don't live for him alone, i believe. but however, i congratulate you upon this, that you have got a boy. _fa._ but why do you think it better to have a boy than a girl? _eu._ nay, but rather you _petronius's fabulla_ (for now i am afraid to call you mine) ought to tell me what reason you women have to wish for boys rather than girls? _fa._ i don't know what other people's minds are; at this time i am glad i have a boy, because so it pleased god. if it had pleased him best i should have had a girl, it would have pleased me best too. _eu._ do you think god has nothing else to do but be a midwife to women in labour? _fa._ pray, _eutrapelus_, what should he do else, but preserve by propagation, what he has founded by creation? eu, what should he do else good dame? if he were not god, he'd never be able to do what he has to do. _christiernus_ king of _denmark_, a religious favourer of the gospel, is in exile. _francis_, king of _france_, is a sojourner in _spain._ i can't tell how well he may bear it, but i am sure he is a man that deserves better fortune. _charles_ labours with might and main to inlarge the territories of his monarchy. and _ferdinand_ is mightily taken up about his affairs in _germany._ and the courtiers every where are almost famished with hunger after money. the very farmers raise dangerous commotions, nor are deterred from their attempts by so many slaughters of men, that have been made already. the people are for setting up an anarchy, and the church goes to ruin with dangerous factions. christ's seamless coat is rent asunder on all sides. god's vineyard is spoiled by more boars than one. the authority of the clergy with their tythes, the dignity of divines, the majesty of monks is in danger: confession nods, vows stagger, the pope's constitutions go to decay, the eucharist is call'd in question, and antichrist is expected every day, and the whole world seems to be in travail to bring forth i know not what mischief. in the mean time the _turks_ over-run all where-e'er they come, and are ready to invade us and lay all waste, if they succeed in what they are about; and do you ask what god has else to do? i think he should rather see to secure his own kingdom in time. _fa._ perhaps that which men make the greatest account of, seems to god of no moment. but however, if you will, let us let god alone in this discourse of ours. what is your reason to think it is happier to bear a boy than a girl? it is the part of a pious person to think that best which god, who without controversy is the best judge, has given. _eu._ and if god should give you but a cup made of crystal, would you not give him thanks for it? _fa._ yes, i would. _eu._ but what if he should give you one of common glass, would you give him the like thanks? but i'm afraid instead of comforting you, by this discourse, i should make you uneasy. _fa._ nay, a _fabulla_ can be in no danger of being hurt by a fable. i have lain in now almost a month, and i am strong enough for a match at wrestling. _eu._ why don't you get out of your bed then? _fa._ the king has forbid me. _eu._ what king? _fa._ nay a tyrant rather. _eu._ what tyrant prithee? _fa._ i'll tell you in one syllable. custom (_mos_). _eu._ alas! how many things does that tyrant exact beyond the bounds of equity? but let us go on to talk of our crystal and our common glass. _fa._ i believe you judge, that a male is naturally more excellent and strong than a female. _eu._ i believe they are. _fa._ that is mens opinion. but are men any thing longer-liv'd than women? are they free from distempers? _eu._ no, but in the general they are stronger. _fa._ but then they themselves are excell'd by camels in strength. _eu._ but besides, the male was created first. _fa._ so was _adam_ before _christ_. artists use to be most exquisite in their later performances. _eu._ but god put the woman under subjection to the man. _fa._ it does not follow of consequence, that he is the better because he commands, he subjects her as a wife, and not purely as a woman; and besides that he so puts the wife under subjection, that tho' they have each of them power over the other, he will have the woman to be obedient to the man, not as to the more excellent, but to the more fierce person. tell me, _eutrapelus_, which is the weaker person, he that yields to another, or he that is yielded to? _eu._ i'll grant you that, if you will explain to me, what paul meant when he wrote to the _corinthians_, that _christ was the head of the man, and man the head of the woman;_ and again, when he said, that _a man was the image and glory of god, and a woman the glory of the man._ _fa._ well! i'll resolve you that, if you answer me this question, whether or no, it is given to men alone, to be the members of christ? _eu._ god forbid, that is given to all men and women too by faith. _fa._ how comes it about then, that when there is but one head, it should not be common to all the members? and besides that, since god made man in his own image, whether did he express this image in the shape of his body, or the endowments of his mind? _eu._ in the endowments of his mind. _fa._ well, and i pray what have men in these more excellent than we have? in both sexes, there are many drunkennesses, brawls, fightings, murders, wars, rapines, and adulteries. _eu._ but we men alone fight for our country. _fa._ and you men often desert from your colours, and run away like cowards; and it is not always for the sake of your country, that you leave your wives and children, but for the sake of a little nasty pay; and, worse than fencers at the bear-garden, you deliver up your bodies to a slavish necessity of being killed, or yourselves killing others. and now after all your boasting of your warlike prowess, there is none of you all, but if you had once experienced what it is to bring a child into the world, would rather be placed ten times in the front of a battle, than undergo once what we must so often. an army does not always fight, and when it does, the whole army is not always engaged. such as you are set in the main body, others are kept for bodies of reserve, and some are safely posted in the rear; and lastly, many save themselves by surrendring, and some by running away. we are obliged to encounter death, hand to hand. _eu._ i have heard these stories before now; but the question is, whether they are true or not? _fa._ too true. _eu._ well then, _fabulla_, would you have me persuade your husband never to touch you more? for if so, you'll be secure from that danger. _fa._ in truth, there is nothing in the world i am more desirious of, if you were able to effect it. _eu._ if i do persuade him to it, what shall i have for my pains? _fa._ i'll present you with half a score dry'd neats-tongues. _eu._ i had rather have them than the tongues of ten nightingales. well, i don't dislike the condition, but we won't make the bargain obligatory, before we have agreed on the articles. _fa._ and if you please, you may add any other article. _eu._ that shall be according as you are in the mind after your month is up. _fa._ but why not according as i am in the mind now? _eu._ why, i'll tell you, because i am afraid you will not be in the same mind then; and so you would have double wages to pay, and i double work to do, of persuading and dissuading him. _fa._ well, let it be as you will then. but come on, shew me why the man is better than the woman. _eu._ i perceive you have a mind to engage with me in discourse, but i think it more adviseable to yield to you at this time. at another time i'll attack you when i have furnished myself with arguments; but not without a second neither. for where the tongue is the weapon that decides the quarrel; seven men are scarce able to deal with one woman. _fa._ indeed the tongue is a woman's weapon; but you men are not without it neither. _eu._ perhaps so, but where is your little boy? _fa._ in the next room. _eu._ what is he doing there, cooking the pot? _fa._ you trifler, he's with his nurse. _eu._ what nurse do you talk of? has he any nurse but his mother? _fa._ why not? it is the fashion. _eu._ you quote the worst author in the world, _fabulla_, the fashion; 'tis the fashion to do amiss, to game, to whore, to cheat, to be drunk, and to play the rake. _fa._ my friends would have it so; they were of opinion i ought to favour myself, being young. _eu._ but if nature gives strength to conceive, it doubtless gives strength to give suck too. _fa._ that may be. _eu._ prithee tell me, don't you think mother is a very pretty name? _fa._ yes, i do. _eu._ and if such a thing were possible, would you endure it, that another woman should be call'd the mother of your child? _fa._ by no means. _eu._ why then do you voluntarily make another woman more than half the mother of what you have brought into the world? _fa._ o fy! _eutrapelus_, i don't divide my son in two, i am intirely his mother, and no body in the world else. _eu._ nay, _fabulla_, in this case nature herself blames you to your face. why is the earth call'd the mother of all things? is it because she produces only? nay, much rather, because she nourishes those things she produces: that which is produced by water, is fed by water. there is not a living creature or a plant that grows on the face of the earth, that the earth does not feed with its own moisture. nor is there any living creature that does not feed its own offspring. owls, lions, and vipers, feed their own young, and does womankind make her offspring offcasts? pray, what can be more cruel than they are, that turn their offspring out of doors for laziness, not to supply them with food? _fa._ that you talk of is abominable. _eu._ but womankind don't abominate it. is it not a sort of turning out of doors, to commit a tender little infant, yet reaking of the mother, breathing the very air of the mother, imploring the mother's aid and help with its voice, which they say will affect even a brute creature, to a woman perhaps that is neither wholsome in body, nor honest, who has more regard to a little wages, than to your child? _fa._ but they have made choice of a wholsome, sound woman. _eu._ of this the doctors are better judges than yourself. but put the case, she is as healthful as yourself, and more too; do you think there is no difference between your little tender infant's sucking its natural and familiar milk, and being cherish'd with warmth it has been accustomed to, and its being forc'd to accustom itself to those of a stranger? wheat being sown in a strange soil, degenerates into oats or small wheat. a vine being transplanted into another hill, changes its nature. a plant when it is pluck'd from its parent earth, withers, and as it were dies away, and does in a manner the same when it is transplanted from its native earth. _fa._ nay, but they say, plants that have been transplanted and grafted, lose their wild nature, and produce better fruit. _eu._ but not as soon as ever they peep out of the ground, good madam. there will come a time, by the grace of god, when you will send away your young son from you out of doors, to be accomplish'd with learning and undergo harsh discipline, and which indeed is rather the province of the father than of the mother. but now its tender age calls for indulgence. and besides, whereas the food, according as it is, contributes much to the health and strength of the body, so more especially it is essential to take care, with what milk that little, tender, soft body be season'd. for _horace's_ saying takes place here. _quo semel est imbuta recens servabit odorem testa diu. what is bred in the bone, will never out of the flesh._ _fa._ i don't so much concern myself as to his body, so his mind be but as i would have it. _eu._ that indeed is piously spoken, but not philosophically. _fa._ why not? _eu._ why do you when you shred herbs, complain your knife is blunt, and order it to be whetted? why do you reject a blunt pointed needle, when that does not deprive you of your art? _fa._ art is not wanting, but an unfit instrument hinders the exerting it. _eu._ why do they that have much occasion to use their eyes, avoid darnel and onions? _fa._ because they hurt the sight. _eu._ is it not the mind that sees? _fa._ it is, for those that are dead see nothing. but what can a carpenter do with an ax whose edge is spoiled? _eu._ then you do acknowledge the body is the organ of the mind? _fa._ that's plain. _eu._ and you grant that in a vitiated body the mind either cannot act at all, or if it does, it is with inconvenience? _fa._ very likely. _eu._ well, i find i have an intelligent person to deal with; suppose the soul of a man was to pass into the body of a cock, would it make the same sound it does now? _fa._ no to be sure. _eu._ what would hinder? _fa._ because it would want lips, teeth, and a tongue, like to that of a man. it has neither the epiglottis, nor the three cartilages, that are moved by three muscles, to which nerves are joined that come from the brain; nor has it jaws and teeth like a man's. _eu._ what if it should go into the body of a swine? _fa._ then it would grunt like a swine. _eu._ what if it should pass into the body of a camel? _fa._ it would make a noise like a camel. _eu._ what if it should pass into the body of an ass, as it happened to _apuleius_? _fa._ then i think it would bray as an ass does. _eu._ indeed he is a proof of this, who when he had a mind to call after _caesar_, having contracted his lips as much as he possibly could, scarce pronounced o, but could by no means pronounce _caesar._ the same person, when having heard a story, and that he might not forget it, would have written it, reprehended himself for his foolish thought, when he beheld his solid hoofs. _fa._ and he had cause enough. _eu._ then it follows that the soul does not see well thro' purblind eyes. the ears hear not clearly when stopped with filth. the brain smells not so well when oppressed with phlegm. and a member feels not so much when it is benumbed. the tongue tastes less, when vitiated with ill humours. _fa._ these things can't be denied. _eu._ and for no other cause, but because the organ is vitiated. _fa._ i believe the same. _eu._ nor will you deny, i suppose, that sometimes it is vitiated by food and drink. _fa._ i'll grant that too, but what signifies that to the goodness of the mind? _eu._ as much as darnel does to a clear eye-sight. _fa._ because it vitiates the organ. _eu._ well answer'd. but solve me this difficulty: why is it that one understands quicker than another, and has a better memory; why is one more prone to anger than another; or is more moderate in his resentment? _fa._ it proceeds from the disposition of the mind. _eu._ that won't do. whence comes it that one who was formerly of a very ready wit, and a retentive memory, becomes afterwards stupid and forgetful, either by a blow or a fall, by sickness or old age? _fa._ now you seem to play the sophister with me. _eu._ then do you play the sophistress with me. _fa._ i suppose you would infer, that as the mind sees and hears by the eyes and ears, so by some organs it also understands, remembers, loves, hates, is provoked and appeas'd? _eu._ right. _fa._ but pray what are those organs, and where are they situated? _eu._ as to the eyes, you see where they are. _fa._ i know well enough where the ears, and the nose, and the palate are; and that the body is all over sensible of the touch, unless when some member is seized with a numbness. _eu._ when a foot is cut off, yet the mind understands. _fa._ it does so, and when a hand is cut off too. _eu._ a person that receives a violent blow on the temples, or hinder-part of his head, falls down like one that is dead, and is unsensible. _fa._ i have sometimes seen that myself. _eu._ hence it is to be collected, that the organs of the will, understanding, and memory, are placed within the skull, being not so crass as the eyes and ears, and yet are material, in as much as the most subtile spirits that we have in the body are corporeal. _fa._ and can they be vitiated with meat and drink too? _eu._ yes. _fa._ the brain is a great way off from the stomach. _eu._ and so is the funnel of a chimney from the fire-hearth, yet if you sit upon it you'll feel the smoke. _fa._ i shan't try that experiment. _eu._ well, if you won't believe me, ask the storks. and so it is of moment what spirits, and what vapours ascend from the stomach to the brain, and the organs of the mind. for if these are crude or cold they stay in the stomach. _fa._ pshaw! you're describing to me an alembick, in which we distil simple-waters. _eu._ you don't guess much amiss. for the liver, to which the gall adheres, is the fire-place; the stomach, the pan; the scull, the top of the still; and if you please, you may call the nose the pipe of it. and from this flux or reflux of humours, almost all manner of diseases proceed, according as a different humour falls down after a different manner, sometimes into the eyes, sometimes into the stomach, sometimes into the shoulders, and sometimes into the neck, and elsewhere. and that you may understand me the better, why have those that guzzle a great deal of wine bad memories? why are those that feed upon light food, not of so heavy a disposition? why does coriander help the memory? why does hellebore purge the memory? why does a great expletion cause an epilepsy, which at once brings a stupor upon all the senses, as in a profound sleep? in the last place, as violent thirst or want weaken the strength of wit or memory in boys, so food eaten immoderately makes boys dull-headed, if we believe _aristotle_; in that the fire of the mind is extinguish'd by the heaping on too much matter. _fa._ why then, is the mind corporeal, so as to be affected with corporeal things? _eu._ indeed the nature itself of the rational soul is not corrupted; but the power and action of it are impeded by the organs being vitiated, as the art of an artist will stand him in no stead, if he has not instruments. _fa._ of what bulk, and in what form is the mind? _eu._ you ask a ridiculous question, what bulk and form the mind is of, when you have allow'd it to be incorporeal. _fa._ i mean the body that is felt. _eu._ nay, those bodies that are not to be felt are the most perfect bodies, as god and the angels. _fa._ i have heard that god and angels are spirits, but we feel the spirit. _eu._ the holy scriptures condescend to those low expressions, because of the dullness of men, to signify a mind pure from all commerce of sensible things. _fa._ then what is the difference between an angel and a mind? _eu._ the same that is between a snail and a cockle, or, if you like the comparison better, a tortoise. _fa._ then the body is rather the habitation of the mind than the instrument of it. _eu._ there is no absurdity in calling an adjunct instrument an habitation. philosophers are divided in their opinions about this. some call the body the garment of the soul, some the house, some the instrument, and some the harmony; call it by which of these you will, it will follow that the actions of the mind are impeded by the affections of the body. in the first place, if the body is to the mind that which a garment is to the body, the garment of _hercules_ informs us how much a garment contributes to the health of the body, not to take any notice of colours of hairs or of skins. but as to that question, whether one and the same soul is capable of wearing out many bodies, it shall be left to _pythagoras_. _fa._ if, according to _pythagoras_, we could make use of change of bodies, as we do of apparel, it would be convenient to take a fat body, and of a thick texture, in winter time, and a thinner and lighter body in summer time. _eu._ but i am of the opinion, that if we wore out our body at last as we do our cloaths; it would not be convenient; for so having worn out many bodies, the soul itself would grow old and die. _fa._ it would not truly. _eu._ as the sort of garment that is worn hath an influence on the health and agility of the body, so it is of great moment what body the soul wears. _fa._ if indeed the body is the garment of the soul, i see a great many that are dress'd after a very different manner. _eu._ right, and yet some part of this matter is in our own power, how conveniently our souls shall be cloathed. _fa._ come, have done with the garment, and say something concerning the habitation. _eu._ but, _fabulla_, that what i say to you mayn't be thought a fiction, the _lord jesus_ calls his body a _temple_, and the apostle _peter_ calls his a _tabernacle_. and there have been some that have call'd the body the sepulchre of the soul, supposing it was call'd [greek: sôma], as tho' it were [greek: sêma]. some call it the prison of the mind, and some the fortress or fortify'd castle. the minds of persons that are pure in every part, dwell in the temple. they whose minds are not taken up with the love of corporeal things, dwell in a tent, and are ready to come forth as soon as the commander calls. the soul of those that are wholly blinded with vice and filthiness, so that they never breathe after the air of gospel liberty, lies in a sepulchre. but they that wrestle hard with their vices, and can't yet be able to do what they would do, their soul dwells in a prison, whence they frequently cry out to the deliverer of all, _bring my soul out of prison, that i may praise thy name, o lord._ they who fight strenuously with satan, watching and guarding against his snares, who goes about as _a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour;_ their soul is as it were in a garison, out of which they must not go without the general's leave. _fa._ if the body be the habitation or house of the soul, i see a great many whose mind is very illy seated. _eu._ it is so, that is to say, in houses where it rains in, that are dark, exposed to all winds, that are smoaky, damp, decay'd, and ruinous, and such as are filthy and infected: and yet _cato_ accounts it the principal happiness of a man, to dwell handsomly. _fa._ it were tolerable, if there was any passing out of one house into another. _eu._ there's no going out before the landlord calls out. but tho' we can't go out, yet we may by our art and care make the habitation of our mind commodious; as in a house the windows are changed, the floor taken up, the walls are either plaistered or wainscotted, and the situation may be purified with fire or perfume. but this is a very hard matter, in an old body that is near its ruin. but it is of great advantage to the body of a child, to take the care of it that ought to be taken presently after its birth. _fa._ you would have mothers and nurses to be doctors. _eu._ so indeed i would, as to the choice and moderate use of meat, drink, motion, sleep, baths, unctions, frictions, and cloathings. how many are there, think you, who are expos'd to grievous diseases and vices, as epilepsies, leanness, weakness, deafness, broken backs, crooked limbs, a weak brain, disturbed minds, and for no other reason than that their nurses have not taken a due care of them? _fa._ i wonder you are not rather a _franciscan_ than a painter, who preach so finely. _eu._ when you are a nun of the order of st. _clare_, then i'll be a _franciscan_, and preach to you. _fa._ in truth, i would fain know what the soul is, about which we hear so much, and talk of so often, and no body has seen. _eu._ nay, every body sees it that has eyes. _fa._ i see souls painted in the shape of little infants, but why do they put wings to them as they do to angels? _eu._ why, because, if we can give any credit to the fables of _socrates_, their wings were broken by their falling from heaven. _fa._ how then are they said to fly up to heaven? _eu._ because faith and charity make their wings grow again. he that was weary of this house of his body, begg'd for these wings, when he cry'd out, _who will give me the wings of a dove, that i may fly away, and be at rest_. nor has the soul any other wings, being incorporeal, nor any form that can be beheld by the eyes of the body. but those things that are perceiv'd by the mind, are more certain. do you believe the being of god? _fa._ yes, i do. _eu._ but nothing is more invisible than god. _fa._ he is seen in the works of creation. _eu._ in like manner the soul is seen in action. if you would know how it acts in a living body, consider a dead body. when you see a man feel, see, hear, move, understand, remember and reason, you see the soul to be in him with more certainty than you see this tankard; for one sense may be deceiv'd, but so many proofs of the senses cannot deceive you. _fa._ well then, if you can't shew me the soul, paint it out to me, just as you would the king, whom i never did see. _eu._ i have _aristotle_'s definition ready for you. _fa._ what is it? for they say he was a very good decypherer of every thing. _eu. the soul is the act of an organical, physical body, having life_ in potentia. _fa._ why does he rather call it an _act_ than a _journey_ or _way?_ _eu._ here's no regard either to coachmen or horsemen, but a bare definition of the soul. and he calls the form _act_, the nature of which is to _act_, when it is the property of matter to _suffer_. for all natural motion of the body proceeds from the soul. and the motion of the body is various. _fa._ i take that in; but why does he add _of an organical_? _eu._ because the soul does nothing but by the help of organs, that is, by the instruments of the body. _fa._ why does he say _physical_? _eu._ because _dædalus_ made such a body to no purpose; and therefore he adds, _having life_ in potentia. form does not act upon every thing; but upon a body that is capable. _fa._ what if an angel should pass into the body of a man? _eu._ he would act indeed, but not by the natural organs, nor would he give life to the body if the soul was absent from it. _fa._ have i had all the account that is to be given of the soul? _eu._ you have _aristotle_'s account of it. _fa._ indeed i have heard he was a very famous philosopher, and i am afraid that the college of sages would prefer a bill of heresy against me, if i should say any thing against him; but else all that he has said concerning the soul of a man, is as applicable to the soul of an ass or an ox. _eu._ nay, that's true, or to a beetle or a snail. _fa._ what difference then is there between the soul of an ox, and that of a man? _eu._ they that say the soul is nothing else but the harmony of the qualities of the body, would confess that there was no great difference; and that this harmony being interrupted, the souls of both of them do perish. the soul of a man and an ox is not distinguished; but that of an ox has less knowledge than the soul of a man. and there are some men to be seen that have less understanding than an ox. _fa._ in truth, they have the mind of an ox. _eu._ this indeed concerns you, that according to the quality of your guittar, your musick will be the sweeter. _fa._ i own it. _eu._ nor is it of small moment of what wood, and in what shape your guittar is made. _fa._ very true. _eu._ nor are fiddle-strings made of the guts of every animal. _fa._ so i have heard. _eu._ they grow slack or tight by the moisture and driness of the circumambient air, and will sometimes break. _fa._ i have seen that more than once. _eu._ on this account you may do uncommon service to your little infant, that his mind may have an instrument well tempered, and not vitiated, nor relaxed by sloth, nor squeaking with wrath, nor hoarse with intemperate drinking. for education and diet oftentimes impress us with these affections. _fa._ i'll take your counsel; but i want to hear how you can defend _aristotle_. _eu._ he indeed in general describes the soul, animal, vegetative, and sensitive. the soul gives life, but every thing that has life is not an animal. for trees live, grow old, and die; but they have no sense; tho' some attribute to them a stupid sort of sense. in things that adhere one to another, there is no sense to be perceived, but it is found in a sponge by those that pull it off. hewers discover a sense in timber-trees, if we may believe them: for they say, that if you strike the trunk of a tree that you design to hew down, with the palm of your hand, as wood-mongers use to do, it will be harder to cut that tree down because it has contracted itself with fear. but that which has life and feeling is an animal. but nothing hinders that which does not feel, from being a vegetable, as mushrooms, beets, and coleworts. _fa._ if they have a sort of life, a sort of sense, and motion in their growing, what hinders but that they may be honoured with the title of animals? _eu._ why the antients did not think fit to call them so, and we must not deviate from their ordinances, nor does it signify much as to what we are upon. _fa._ but i can't bear the thoughts on't, that the soul of a beetle and of a man should be the same. _eu._ good madam, it is not the same, saving in some respects; your soul animates, vegetates, and renders your body sensible; the soul of the beetle animates his body: for that some things act one way, and some another, that the soul of a man acts differently from the soul of a beetle, partly proceeds from the matter; a beetle neither sings nor speaks, because it wants organs fit for these actions. _fa._ why then you say, that if the soul of a beetle should pass into the body of a man, it would act as the human soul does. _eu._ nay, i say not, if it were an angelical soul: and there is no difference between an angel and a human soul, but that the soul of a man was formed to act a human body compos'd of natural organs; and as the soul of a beetle will move nothing but the body of a beetle, an angel was not made to animate a body, but to be capable to understand without bodily organs. _fa._ can the soul do the same thing? _eu._ it can indeed, when it is separated from the body. _fa._ is it not at its own disposal, while it is in the body? _eu._ no indeed, except something happen beside the common course of nature. _fa._ in truth, instead of one soul you have given me a great many; an animal, a vegetative, a sensitive, an intelligent, a remembring, a willing, an angry, and desiring: one was enough for me. _eu._ there are different actions of the same soul, and these have different names. _fa._ i don't well understand you. _eu._ well then, i'll make you understand me: you are a wife in the bed-chamber, in your work-shop a weaver of hangings, in your warehouse a seller of them, in your kitchen a cook, among your servants a mistress, and among your children a mother; and yet you are all these in the same house. _fa._ you philosophize very bluntly. is then the soul so in the body as i am in my house? _eu._ it is. _fa._ but while i am weaving in my work-shop, i am not cooking in my kitchen. _eu._ nor are you all soul, but a soul carrying about a body, and the body can't be in many places at the same time; but the soul being a simple form, is so in the whole body, tho' it does not act the same in all parts of the body, nor after the same manner, how differently affected soever they are: for it understands and remembers in the brain, it is angry in the heart, it lusts in the liver, it hears with the ears, sees with the eyes, smells with the nose, it tastes in the palate and tongue, and feels in all parts of the body which are adjoined to any nervous part: but it does not feel in the hair, nor the ends of the nails; neither do the lungs feel of themselves, nor the liver, nor perhaps the milt neither. _fa._ so that in certain parts of the body it only animates and vegetates. _eu._ it should seem so. _fa._ if one and the same soul does all these things in one and the same man, it follows of consequence, that the _foetus_ in the womb of the mother, both feels and understands, as soon as it begins to grow; which is a sign of life, unless a man in his formation has more souls than one, and afterwards the rest giving place, one acts all. so that at first a man is a plant, then an animal, and lastly a man. _eu._ perhaps _aristotle_ would not think what you say absurd: i think it is more probable, that the rational soul is infus'd with the life, and that like a little fire that is buried as it were under too great a quantity of green wood, it cannot exert its power. _fa._ why then is the soul bound to the body that it acts and moves? _eu._ no otherwise than a tortoise is bound or tied to the shell that he carries about. _fa._ he does move it indeed; but so at the same time that he moves himself too, as a pilot steers a ship, turning it which way he will, and is at the same time mov'd with it. _eu._ ay, and as a squirrel turns his wheel-cage about, and is himself carried about with it. _fa._ and so the soul affects the body, and is affected by the body. _eu._ yes indeed, as to its operations. _fa._ why then, as to the nature of it, the soul of a fool is equal to the soul of _solomon_. _eu._ there's no absurdity in that. _fa._ and so the angels are equal, in as much as they are without matter, which, you say, is that which makes the inequality. _eu._ we have had philosophy enough: let divines puzzle themselves about these things; let us discourse of those matters that were first mentioned. if you would be a compleat mother, take care of the body of your little infant, so that after the little fire of the mind has disengaged itself from the vapours, it may have sound and fit organs to make use of. as often as you hear your child crying, think this with yourself, he calls for this from me. when you look upon your breasts, those two little fountains, turgid, and of their own accord streaming out a milky juice, remember nature puts you in mind of your duty: or else, when your infant shall begin to speak, and with his pretty stammering shall call you _mammy_, how can you hear it without blushing? when you have refus'd to let him have it, and turn'd him off to a hireling nipple, as if you had committed him to a goat or a sheep. when he is able to speak, what if, instead of calling you mother, he should call you half-mother? i suppose you would whip him: altho' indeed she is scarce half a mother that refuses to feed what she has brought into the world. the nourishing of the tender babe is the best part of geniture: for he is not only fed by the milk, but with the fragrancy of the body of the mother. he requires the same natural, familiar, accustomed moisture, that he drew in when in her body, and by which he received his coalition. and i am of that opinion, that the genius of children are vitiated by the nature of the milk they suck, as the juices of the earth change the nature of those plants and fruits that it feeds. do you think there is no foundation in reason for this saying, _he suck'd in this ill humour with the nurse's milk?_ nor do i think the greeks spoke without reason, when they said _like nurses_, when they would intimate that any one was starved at nurse: for they put a little of what they chew into the child's mouth, but the greatest part goes down their own throats. and indeed she can hardly properly be said to bear a child, that throws it away as soon as she has brought it forth; that is to miscarry, and the _greek_ etymology of [greek: mêtêr] from [greek: mê têrein], _i.e._ from not looking after, seems very well to suit such mothers. for it is a sort of turning a little infant out of doors, to put it to a hireling nurse, while it is yet warm from the mother. _fa._ i would come over to your opinion, unless such a woman were chosen, against whom there is nothing to be objected. _eu._ suppose it were of no moment what milk the little infant suck'd, what spittle it swallow'd with its chew'd victuals; and you had such a nurse, that i question whether there is such an one to be found; do you think there is any one in the world will go through all the fatigue of nursing as the mother herself; the bewrayings, the sitting up a nights, the crying, the sickness, and the diligent care in looking after it, which can scarce be enough. if there can be one that loves like the mother, then she will take care like a mother. and besides, this will be the effect of it, that your son won't love you so heartily, that native affection being as it were divided between two mothers; nor will you have the same affection for your son: so that when he is grown up, he will neither be so obedient to you, nor will you have the same regard for him, perhaps perceiving in him the disposition of his nurse. the principal step to advancement in learning, is the mutual love between the teacher and scholar: so that if he does not lose any thing of the fragrancy of his native good temper, you will with the greater ease be able to instil into him the precepts of a good life. and a mother can do much in this matter, in that she has pliable matter to work upon, that is easy to be carried any way. _fa._ i find it is not so easy a thing to be a mother, as it is generally looked upon to be. _eu._ if you can't depend upon what i say, st. _paul_, speaking very plainly of women, says, _she shall be saved in childbearing._ _fa._ are all the women saved that bear children? _eu._ no, he adds, _if she continue in the faith_. you have not performed the duty of a mother before you have first formed the little tender body of your son, and after that his mind, equally soft, by a good education. _fa._ but it is not in the power of the mother that the children should persevere in piety. _eu._ perhaps it may not be; but a careful admonition is of that moment, that _paul_ accounts it imputable to mothers, if the children degenerate from piety. but in the last place, if you do what is in your power, god will add his assistance to your diligence. _fa._ indeed _eutrapelus_, your discourse has persuaded me, if you can but persuade my parents and my husband. _eu._ well, i'll take that upon me, if you will but lend your helping hand. _fa._ i promise you i will. _eu._ but mayn't a body see this little boy? _fa._ yes, that you may and welcome. do you hear, _syrisca_, bid the nurse bring the child. _eu._ 'tis a very pretty boy. it is a common saying, there ought to be grains of allowance given to the first essay: but you upon the first trial have shewn the very highest pitch of art. _fa._ why, it is not a piece of carved work, that so much art should be required. _eu._ that's true; but it is a piece of cast work. well, let that be how it will, it is well performed. i wish you could make as good figures in the hangings that you weave. _fa._ but you on the contrary paint better than you beget. _eu._ it so seems meet to nature, to act equally by all. how solicitous is nature, that nothing should be lost! it has represented two persons in one; here's the nose and eyes of the father, the forehead and chin of the mother can you find in your heart to entrust this dear pledge to the fidelity of a stranger? i think those to be doubly cruel that can find in their hearts so to do; because in doing so, they do not only do this to the hazard of the child; but also of themselves too; because in the child, the spoiling of the milk oftentimes brings dangerous diseases, and so it comes about, that while care is taken to preserve the shape of one body, the lives of two bodies are not regarded; and while they provide against old age coming on too early, they throw themselves into a too early death. what's the boy's name? _fa. cornelius_. _eu._ that's the name of his grand-father by the father's side. i wish he may imitate him in his unblemished life and good manners. _fa._ we will do our endeavour what in us lies. but, hark ye, _eutrapelus_, here is one thing i would earnestly entreat of you. _eu._ i am entirely at your service; command what you will, i will undertake it. _fa._ well then, i won't discharge you till you have finished the good service that you have begun. _eu._ what's that? _fa._ first of all, to give me instructions how i may manage my infant, as to his health, and when he is grown up, how i may form his mind with pious principles. _eu._ that i will readily do another time, according to my ability; but that must be at our next conversation: i will now go and prevail upon your husband and parents. _fa._ i wish you may succeed. end of vol. i. 