X. I B R A R Y
Theological Seminary
PRINCETON, N J.
BX 5037 .H33 1850
,s7,, Hall, Joseph, 157A-1656.
A selection from the
writings of Joseph Hall
Digitized by
the Internet Arclnive
in 2014
fittps://arclnive.org/details/selectionfromwriOOInall_0
A SELECTION
FROM THE
WRITINGS OF JOSEPH HALL, D. D.
SOMETIME CHAPLAIN TO KINO JAMES THE FIRIT J BIIHOF
OF EXETER, OF NORWICH, ETC.
WITH
OBSERVATIONS OF SOME SPECIALITIES IN HIS LIFE,
WRITTEN WITH HIS OWN HAND.
EDITED BT
A. HUNTINGTON CLAPP.
NEW-YORK:
ROBEET CARTER AND BROTHERS.
1850.
CONTENTS.
Page.
Editor's Preface, v
List of UNtrsuAL Words, etc^
Observations of some Specialities of Divine Provi-
dence IN the Life op Joseph Hall, Bishop of Nor-
wich, ETC., xi
Meditations and Vows, Divine and Mor-vl :
Century First, 3
Centnry Second, 41
Century Third, 82
Holt Observations, 143
Cjiaracterisms op Virtues and Vices:
Table of Contents 180
Premonition, 181
Book First,— Of Virtues, 183
Book Second,— Of Vices, 208
Heaven upon Earth : or of True Peace and Tran-
quillity of Mind :
Analysis, 241
Epistles :
Contents, 310
Epistle First, 311
Epistle Second, 314
Epistle Third, 319
Epistle Fourth, 323
Epistle Fifth, 327
Epistle Sixth 330
i
EDITOR'S PREFACE.
The Editor of this volume has but little to say, in pre-
senting it to the reader. The merits of Bishop Hall's wri-
tings are too apparent to need a trumpeter, and the faults
of his style — which are the faults of the best writers of his
age, and not of ours — will not be lessened by any attempt
at extenuation. Let them rather stand side by side, to of-
fer their own encouragements and warnings to the writers
who come after.
The Editor believes, with one who has gone before him
in a similar work, that ' few men with pen in hand are
more innocently' — and he will add, more profitably — 'em-
l)loyed, than he who is engaged in re-editing a good old
book.' Bacon must have had his eye on our times when
he said, 'The opinion of plenty is among the causes of
want, and the great quantity of books maketh a show ra-
tlier of superfluity than lack ; which surcharge, neverthe-
less, is not to be remedied by making no more books, but
by making more good books, which, as the serpent of Mo-
ses, miglit devour the sei-pents of the enchanters.'
A good book is here offered to the public.
The Scholar who reads it, will find a style which has
called forth the admiration of the learned and judicious,
from the time of Hall's earliest publications to the present
day, and which has justly ranked him among the best of
vi editor'spreface.
English authors. lu precision, terseness, and condensed
energy of style, he has, perhaps, no superior. Even his
faults may teach to some of the diffuse and pointless wri-
ters of these days, a valuable lesson.
The Christian who reads it, will find, on every page, the
glowing fruits of a ripe religious experience ; food for
thought ; and ' aids to reflection,' which sliall tend to build
up his spirit, and fit him for life's duties and for heaven.
It is an evil sign of the times, tliat while our christian
libraries are flooded with weak dilutions of religion-made-
easy, no American edition of the works of this sterling au-
thor has ever been issued ; and the only specimen of his
writings to be obtained in this country, is a mangled copy
of some of his ' Contemplations.'
This selection from his devotional and practical writings,
is published for the purpose of partially supplying the defi-
ciency, and as a sample of the almost inexhaustible trea-
sure which may be dug fi-om the same mine. Should its
reception be such as to warrant the undertaking, another
volume may be expected, containing treatises of a some-
what different character.
It only remains, to assure the reader that these ' selec-
tions' are not mutilations. Each treatise and epistle is
given entire, from the London folios of 1621 and 1634, pub-
lished in the life-time of the author. The 'Specialities' is
taken entire, from the London folio of 1662, published six
years after the bishop's death. There has been no resort
to the more modern English editions, but the originals have
been strictly adhered to. From them each of the selections
has been carefully transcribed ; the folios have been colla-
ted, and the evident errors of the press corrected. Aside
from these errors, not a word lias been knowingly altered,
editor's preface.
vii
save in its orthogi-aphy. This, and thie punctuation have
been so modernized as to take away tliat uncoutli appear-
ance of the ' Old English,' the repidsiveness and illegibility
of which have prevented many an intelligent Christian from
reading ' books which are books.'
For the convenience of young readers and of those who
will wish the obsolete expressions had not been retained,
a list is given of some words and usages which are of rare
occurrence in more modern writings.
The Editor, in justice to his own feelings, cannot pass
by this opportunity of expressing his gratitude to Profes-
sor E. A. Park, for the kind advice and encouragement
which he has so often given, during the preparation of
this volume.
With the prayer that these treatises, in their new dress,
may be blessed — as they were in the old — to the spiritual
growth of many souls, and may promote the advancement
of pure religion in the world, this book is commended to
the serious attention of the christian reader.
A. H. C.
Tiled. Seminary, Andocer,
Aiujust 1st, 1845.
A LIST
OF SOME UNUSUAL WORDS, AND WORDS IN UNUSUAL SENSES,
FOUND IN THIS VOLUME.
Affect
passim
for to love, desire.
assays
page 166
" 211,319
" efforts, endeavors.
appose
" to question.
anachoret
" 312
" a hermit, recluse.
at (an equal)
" 49
" from.
bewray
passim
" expose to view.
bittour
page 213
226
" the bittern.
baiTator
" an encotu-ager of lawsuits.
conscience
passim
" consciousness.
page 149, etc.
" conscientious regard.
challenge
passim
" demand.
chimrgeon
passim
" surgeon.
censure
" opinion
contentation
" contentment.
characterism
" delineation of character.
charactery
closure
page 210
" grasp.
cratch
" 255
" crib, manger.
eremitish
" hermit-like.
ebber
" 45
" more shallow.
entu-e
" 52, etc.
" very intimate.
entireness
" 157, etc.
" intimate friendship.
" 279
" complete possession.
enow
" 206
" plural of enough.
fetch
" 5
" stratagem.
fautors
" 151
" favorers.
forslow
" 298
" retard, hinder.
glosses
" 187, 199, etc.
" specious explanations.
hearten
" 6
" to encourage.
hale
" 12
" pull, drag.
honest
" 64
■' to adom, grace.
husband
" 280
" economist, manager.
X LIST OF UNUSUAL WORDS.
inchoate
27, 93, etc.
for begun.
innnite
* numberless.
passim
11 i"''^'^^^'^'
.1 T'^'
list
let
page 163, 274
" h' °d
luting
11. .■ '
luxation
dislocation.
middest
11 • 1'
ao-e 145
" if \ h h H
'"^ddf'd
" 267
. I" f
naturalist
11
an unregenerate person.
neezeth
" sneezeth.
overly
" ^0^ "^17
" careless, negligent.
point
'• 1
appoint.
prank
" to dress showily.
" 226
11 j^^'^f' wall.
11
uispatcnes.
„ reached.
11 10
11 oi
respected.
slubbered up
'.,
" carelessly written.
sith
since.
streaking
11 000
11 o^c
stretching.
sharp { the )
266, 268
*' the rapier.
thorouo^h
tentation
" temptation, trial.
traduced
page 14
" handed down.
unconscionable
'■ 64, etc.
'■ not guided by conscience.
unkembed
" 223
" uncombed.
wasters
" 266
" cudgels.
whenever
" 282
" if ever.
ERRATUM.
Page 131, end of fifth line, insert ' locally,' so as to read ' person-
ally and locally in the throng,' etc.
OBSERVATIO
OF SOME SPECIALITIES IN THE LIFE OF JOSEPH HALL,
BISHOP OF NORWICH.
WRICTTKN WITH HIS OWN HAND.
Not out of a vain affectation of my own glory— which
I know how little it can avail me when I am gone hence —
but out of a sincere desire to give glory to my God, whose
wondei-ful providence I have noted in all my ways, I have
recorded some remarkable passages of my fore-past life.
What I have done, is worthy of nothing but silence and
forgetfulness ; but what God hath done for me, is worthy
of everlasting and thankful memory.
I was born, July 1, 1574, at five of the clock in the
morning, in Bristow Park, within the pai'ish of Ashby de la
Zouch, a town in Leicestershire — of honest and welKal-
lowed parentage. My father was an officer imder that truly
honorable and religious Henry, Earl of Huntingdon, Presi-
dent of the North ; and under him had the government of
that market-town wherein the chief seat of that earldom is
placed. My mother, Winifred, of the house of the Bambrid-
ges, was a woman of that rare sanctity, that — were it not for
my interest in nature — I durst say that neither Aleth, the
mother of that just honor of Clairval, nor Monica, nor any
other of those pious matrons anciently famous for devotion,
Xii . SPECIALITIESINTHE
need to disdain her admittance to comparison. She was
continually exercised with the affliction of a weak body,
and oft a wounded spirit, the agonies whereof as she would
oft recount with much passion — professing that the great-
est bodily sicknesses were but flea-bites to those scorpions
— so from them all at last she found an happy and com-
fortable deliverance, and that not without a more than or-
dinary hand of God. For, on a time, being in great dis-
tress of conscience, she tliought, in her dream, there stood
by her a grave personage in the gown and other habits of
a physician, who inquiring of her estate and receiving a
sad and querulous answer from her, took her by the hand
and bade her be of good comfort, for this should be the
last fit that ever she should feel of this kind ; whereto she
seemed to answer, that upon that condition she would well
be content for the time, with that or any other torment :
reply was made to her, as she thought, with a redoubled
assurance of that happy issue of this her last trial, whereat
she began to conceive an unspeakable joy ; which yet, up-
on her awaking, left her more disconsolate, as then con-
ceiting her happiness imaginary, her misery real ; when,
the very same da)', she was visited by the reverend, and in
his time famous divine, Mr. Anthony Gilby, under whose
ministry she lived; who, upon the relation of this her
pleasing vision, and the'contrarj' effects it had in her, be-
gan to persuade her that dream was no other than divine,
and that she had good reason to think that gracious premo-
nition was sent her from God himself, who, though ordi-
narily he keeps the common road of his proceedings, j-et
sometimes in the distresses of his servants, he goes unu-
sual ways to their relief. Hereupon she began to take
heart, and by good counsel and her fervent prayer, foimd
LIFE OF BISHOP HALL. xiii
that happy prediction verified to her ; and upon all occa-
sions in the remainder of her life, was ready to magnify
the mercy of Iier God in so sensible a deliverance ; — what
with the trial of both these hands of God, so had she pro-
fited in the school of Christ, that it was liard for any friend
to come from her discourse no whit holier. How often
have I blessed the memory of those divine passages of ex-
perimental divinity which I have heard from her mouth !
What day did she pass without a large task of private de-
votion, whence she would still come forth with a counte-
nance of undissembled mortification ! Never any lips have
read to me such feeling lectures of piety ; neither have I
known any soul that more accurately practised them than
her own. Temptations, Desertions, and Spiritual Comforts,
were her usual theme. Shortly — for I can hardly take off
my pen from so exemplary a subject — her life and deali
were saint-like.
My parents had from mine infancy devoted rtie to this
sacred calling, whereto, by the blessing of God, I have sea-
sonably attained. For this cause, I was trained up in the
public school of the place. After I had spent some years
not altogether indiligently — under the ferule of such mas-
ters as the place afforded, and had near attained to some
competent ripeness for the university, my school-master,
being a great admii-er of one Mr. Pelset, who was then
lately come from Cambridge to be the public preacher of
Leicester — a man very eminent in those times for the fame
of his learning, but especially for his sacred oratoiy — per-
suaded my father that if I might have my education under
so excellent and complete a divine, it might be both a near-
er and easier way to his purposed end, than by an academi-
cal institution The motion sounded well in my father's
SPECIALITIES IN THE
ears, aiid carried fair probabilities; neither was it other
than fore-com])acted betwixt iny school-master and Mr.
Pelset, so as on both sides it was entertained with great
forwardness.
The gentleman, upon essa)' taken of my fitness for the
use of his studies, undertakes within one seven years to
send me forth no less furnished with arts, languages, and
grounds of theorieal divinity, than the earefullest tutor in
the strictest college of either university ; which that he
might assuredly perform, to prevent the danger of any ma-
table thoughts in my parents or myself, be desired mutual
bonds to be drawn betwixt us. The great charge of my
father — whom it pleased God to bless with twelve children
— made him the more apt to yield to so likely a project for
a younger son. There, and now, were all the hopes of my
future life upon blasting : the indentm-es were preparing,
the time was set, my suits were addressed for the journey.
What was the issue ? O God, thy providence made and
found it. Thou knowest how sincerely and heartily in
those my young years [in the fifteenth year of my age,] I
did cast niyself upon thy hands; with what faithful resolu-
tion 1 did in this particular occasion resign myself over to
thy disposition, earnestly begging of thee in my fervent
prayers to order all things to the best, and confidently
waiting upon thy will for the event ! Certainly, never did
I, in all my life, more clearly roll myself upon thy divine
providence, than I did in this business ; and it succeeded
accordingly. It fell out, at this time, that my elder brother,
having some occasions to journey into Cambridge, was
kindly entertained there by Mr. Nathaniel Gil by, Fellow of
Emanuel College, who, for that he was born in the same
town with me, and hafl conceived some good opinion of
LIFEOFBISHOPHALI.. XV
my aptness to learning, inquired diligently coneeniing me;
and hearing of the diversion of my father's purposes from
the university, importunately dissuaded from that new
course, pi-ofessing to pity the loss of so good hopes. My
brother, partly moved with his words, and partly won by
his own eyes, to a great love and reverence of an aca-
demical life, returning home, fell upon his knees to my
father, and after the report of Mr. Gilby's words and his
own admiration of the place, earnestly besought him that he
would be pleased to alter that so prejudicial a resolution,
that he would not suffer my hopes to be drowned in a
shallow country-channel, but that he would revive his first
purposes for Cambridge ; adding, in the zeal of his love,
that if the chargeableness of that course were the hinder-
ance, he did then humbly beseech him rather to sell some
part of that land which himself should in course of nature
inherit, than to abridge me of that happy means to perfect
my education.
No sooner had he spoken these words, than my father
no less passionately condescended, not without a vehement
protestation, that whatsoever it might cost him, I should —
God willing — be sent to the university: neither were those
words sooner out of his lips, than there was a messenger
fi-om Mr. Pelset knocking at the door to call me to that
fairer bondage, saying that the next day he expected me
with a full dispatch of all that business : to whom my
father replied, that he came some minutes too late, that be
had now otherwise determined of me, and with a respec-
tive message of thanks to the master, sent the man home
empty ; leaving me full of the tears of joy, for so happy a
change : — indeed, I had been but lost if that project had
succeeded, as it well appeared in the experience of him
xvi SPECIALITIES IN THE
who succeeded in that room which was by me thus un-
expectedly forsaken. O God, how was I then taken up
with a tliankful acknowledgment aiid joyful admiration
of thy gracious providence over me ! And now I lived in
the expectation of Cambridge, whither ere long I happily
came, under Mr. Gilby's tuition, together with my worthy
friend, Mr. Hugh Cholmley, who as we had been partners
of one lesson from our cradles, so were we now for many
years partners of one bed. My two first years were ne-
cessarily chargeable above the proportion of my father's
power, whose not very large cistern was to feed many
pipes besides mine. His weariness of expense was
wrought upon by the counsel of some unwise friends,
who persuaded him to fasten me upon that school as mas-
ter, whereof I was lately a scholar. Now was I fetched
homel with an heavy heart, and now this second time had
my hopes been nipped in the blossom, had not God raised
me up an unhoped benefactor, Mr. Edmund Sleigh, of Der-
by— whose pious memoiy 1 have cause ever to love and
reverence. Out of no other relation to me save tliat he
married mj' aunt, pitying my too appai'eut dejectedness,
he voluntarily urged and solicited my father for my return
to the university, and offered freely to contribute the one
half of my maintenance there till I should attain to the
degree of Master of Arts, — which he no less really and
lovingly performed. The condition was gladly accepted :
thither was I sent back with joy enough, and ere long
chosen scholar of that strict and well-ordered college.
By that time I had spent six years there, now the third
year of my Bachelorship should at once both make an end
of my maintenance, and, in respect of standing, give me a
' A. D. 1591.— Chalmers.
LIFE OF BISHOP HALL. XVii
capacity of fartlier preferment in that liouse, were it not
that my country excluded me ; for our Statute allowed but
one of a shire to be Fellow there, and my tutor being of
the same town with me must therefore necessarily hold me
out. But, O my God, how strangely did thy precious
providence fetch this business about ! I was now enter-
taining notions of remove ; a place was offered me in the
island of Guernsey, which I had in speech and chase. It
fell out that the father of my loving chamber-fellow, Mr.
Cholmley, a gentleman that had likewise dependence upon
the most noble Henry, Earl of Huntingdon, having occa-
sion to go to York, unto that his honorable lord fell in-
to some mention of ine, that good earl — who well esteem-
ed my father's service — having belikely heard some better
words of me than I could deserve, made earnest inquiry
after me, what were my courses ; what my hopes ; and
hearing of the likelihood of my removal, professed much
dislike of it ; not without some vehemence demanding
why I was not chosen Fellow of that College, wherein,
by report, I received such approbation. Answer was re-
turned that my country debarred me, which being filled
with my tutor, whom his lordship well knew, could not by
the Statute admit a second. The earl presently replied,
that if that were the hinderance, he would soon take order
to remove it: whereupon his lordship presently sends
for my tutor, Mr. Gilby, unto York, and with proffer of
lai^ge conditions of the chaplainship in his house, and as-
sured promises of better provisions, drew him to relinquish
his place in the College to a free election. No sooner was
his assent signified, than the day was set for the public —
and indeed exquisite — examination of the competitors.
By tliat time two days of the three allotted to this trial
Xviii SPECIALITIES IN THE
wei-e past, certain news came to us of the unexpected
death of that incomparably religious and noble earl of
Huntingdon ; by whose loss my then disappointed tutor
must necessarily be left to the wide world unprovided for.
Upon notice thereof, I presently repaired to the Master of
the College, Mr. Dr. Chaderton, and besought him to ren-
der that hard condition to which my good tutor must needs
be driven if the election proceeded ; to stay any farther
progress in that business ; and to leave me to my own good
hopes wheresoever, whose youth exposed me to less needs
and more opportunities of provision. Answer was made
me that the place was pronounced void however, and
therefore that my tutor was divested of all possibility
of remedy, and must wait upon the providence of God
for his disposing elsewhere, and the election must neces-
sarily proceed the day following. Then was I, with a
cheerful unanimity, chosen into that society, which if it
had any equals, I dare say had none beyond it, for good
order, studious carriage, strict government, austere pietj' —
in which I spent six or seven years more, with such con-
tentment as the rest of my life hath in vain striven to
yield.l Now was I called to public disputations often, with
no ill success ; for never durst I appear in any of those
exercises of scholarship, till I had from my knees looked
up to heaven for a blessing, and renewed my actual de-
pendence upon that Divine hand. In this while, two years
together was I chosen to the rhetoric-lecture in the public
school, where I was encouraged with a sufficient frequence
of auditors ; but finding that well-applauded work some-
what out of my way, not without a secret blame of myself
' In 1596, he took his degree of Master of Arts, and acquitted
himself on eveiy public trial with great reputation. — Chauiers.
LIFEOFBISHOPHALL. xix
for so much excursion, I fairly gave up that task, in the
midst of those poor acclamations, to a worthy successor,
Mr. Dr. Dod ; and betook myself to those serious studies
which might fit me for that high calling whereunto I was
destined ;i wherein after. I had carefully bestowed myself
for a time, I took the boldness to enter into sacred orders
— the honor whereof having once attained, I was no nig-
gard of that talent which my God had entrusted to me ;
preaching often as occasion was offered both in country-
villages abroad, and at home in the most awful auditory of
the university. And now I did but wait where and liow it
would please my God to employ me .2 There was at that
time a most famous school erected at Tiverton in Devon,
and endowed with a very large pension, whose good fab-
ric was answerable to the reported maintenance, the care
whereof was, by "the rich and bountiful founder, Mr. Blun-
del, cast principally upon the then Lord Chief Justice
Popham. That faithful observer having great interest in
' Fuller says in his ' Worthies of England' that " he passed all
liis degrees with great applause. First, noted in the university for
his ingenious maintaining — lie it tnith or paradox — that ' mundus
senescit' — the world groweth old. Yet, in some sort, his position
confuteth liis position, the wit and quickness whereof did argue and
increase rather than a decay of parts in this latter age.' — Jones.
' He had resided at College in the whole about tliirteen years. —
Jones.
It was while in College, duiing the years 1597 — 99, that he
published his Satu-cs, which won for him great fame as a poet,
and the title of ' tlic first legitimate English Satirist.' — ' The Sa-
tires of Hall exhibit a very minute and curious picture of the Ut-
eraturc and manners, the follies and vices of his times ; they am-
ply prove the wit, the sagacity and the elegance of his muse.'
Warton wrote a fine analysis of these Satires. Hall wrote also in
other styles of poetry, and in later years versified some of the
Psalms.
XX SPECIALITIES IN THE
the master of our house, Dr. Chaderton, moved him ear-
nestly to commend some able, learned, and discreet gover-
nor to that weighty charge — whose action would not need
to be so much as his oversight. It pleased our master, out
of his good opinion, to tender this condition unto me, as-
suring me of no small advantages and no great toil, since
it was intended the main load of the work should lie upon
other shoulders. I apprehended the motion worth the en-
tertaining: in that severe society, our times were stinted;
neither was it wise or safe to refuse good offers. Mr. Dr.
Chaderton can-ied me to London, and then presented me
to the Lord Chief Justice with much testimony of appro-
bation. The Judge seemed well a])paid for the choice ; I
promised acceptance ; he, the strength of his favor. No
sooner had I parted from the Judge, than in the street a
messenger presented me with a letter from the right vir-
tuous and worthy lady, of dear and happy memory, the
Lady Drui7, of Suffolk, tendering the rectory of her Hal-
sted, then newly void, and very earnestly desiring me to
accept of it. Dr. Chaderton, observing in me some change
of countenance, asked me what the matter might be. I
told him the errand and delivered him the letter, beseech-
ing his advice ; which when he bad read, ' Sir,' quoth I,
' methinks God pulls me by the sleeve, and tells me it is
his will I should rather go to the east than to the west.'
'Nay,' he answered, 'I should rather think that God would
have you go westward, for that he hath contrived your en-
gagement before the tender of this letter, which therefore
coming too late, may receive a fair and easy answer.' To
this I besought him to pardon my dissent ; adding that I
well knew that Divinity was the end whereto I was des-
tined by my parents, which I had so constantly proposed
LIFEOFBISHOPHALL. XXi
to myself, that I never meant other than to pass through
this western school to it ; but I saw that God, who found
me ready to go tlie further way about, now called me the
nearest and directest way to that sacred end. The good
man could no further oppose, but only pleaded the dis-
taste which would hereupon be justly taken by the Lord
Chief Justice, whom I undertook fully to satisfy — which I
did with no great difficulty, commending to his lordship,
in my room, my old friend and chamber-fellow, Mr.
Cholmley, who finding an answerable accejitance, disposed
himself to the place : so as we two, who came to the
University, now must leave it, at once. Having then fixed
my foot in Halsted,i I found there a dangerous opposite to
the success of my ministry, a witty and bold atheist, one
Mr. Lilly,2 who by reason of his travels and abilities of
discourse and behaviour, had so deeply insinuated himself
into my patron. Sir Robert Druiy, that there was small
hopes, during his entireness, for me to work any good up-
on that noble patron of mine, who by the suggestion of
this wicked detractor was set off from me before he knew
me. Hereupon, I confess, finding the obdurateness and
hopeless condition of that man, I bent my prayers against
him; beseeching God daily that he would be pleased to
remove, by some means or other, that apparent hinderance
of my faithful labors ; — who gave me an answer accord-
ingly. For this malicious man going hastily to London to
exasperate my patron agairtst me, was then and there
swept away by the pestilence, and never retiu-iied to do
any further mischief Now the coast was clear before me,
and I gained every day of the good opinion and favorable
* December 2, 1601.— Sir T. Cullum.
' Probably John Lilly, the Dramutic writer. — Jones.
xxii SPECIALITIES IN THE
respects of that honorable gentleman and my worthy
neighbors. Being now therefore settled in that sweet and
civil county of Suffolk, near to Sl Edniuuds-Burj^, my first
work was to build up my house, which was extremely ru-
inous ; which done, the uncouth solitariness of my life
and the extreme incommodity of that single house-keeping,
'drew my thoughts, after two years, to condescend to the
necessity of a maiTied estate, which God no less strangely
provided for me : for walking from church, on Monday, in
the Whitsun-week, with a grave and reverend minister,
Mr. Grandidge, I saw a comely and modest gendewoman
standing at the door of that house where we were invited
to a wedding-dinner ; and inquiring of that worthy friend
whether he knew her, ' Yes,' quoth he, ' I know her well,
and have bespoken her for your wife.' When I further
demanded an account of that answer, he told me she was
the daughter of a gentleman whom he much respected,
Mr. George Winniff, of Bretenham ; that out of an opin-
ion had of the fitness of that match for me, he had already
treated with her fatlier about it, whom he found very apt
to entertain it — advising me not to neglect the opportuni-
ty, and not concealing the just praises of modest_v, piety,
good disposition, and other virtues that were lodged in that
seemly presence. I listened to that motion as sent from
God ; and at last, upon due prosecution, happily prevailed,
enjoying the comfortable society of that meet help for the
space of forty-nine yeai-s.i I had not passed two years in
this estate, when my noble fiiend. Sir Edmund Bacon,
with whom I had much entireness, came to me and ear-
nestly solicited me for my company in a journey by him
' They had several cliildren ; of whom t^vo at least, Robert and
George, were clergymen, and Doctors of Divinity.
LIFE OF BISHOP HALL. XXiii
projected to the Spa in Ardenna, laying before me the safe-
ty, the easiness, the pleasure, and the benefit, of that
small extravagance, if opportunity were taken of that time
when the earl of Hertford passed in embassy to the arch-
duke Albert of Brussels. I soon yielded ; as for the rea-
sons by him urged, so specially for the great desire I had
to inform myself ocularly of the state and practise of the
Romish church ; the knowledge whereof might be of no
small use to me in my holy station. Having therefore
taken careful order for the supply of my charge, with the
assent and good allowance of my nearest friends, I entered
into this secret voyage.i We waited some days at Har-
wich for a wind, which we hoped might waft us over to
Dunkirk, where our ambassador had lately landed ; but at
last, having spent a day and half a night at sea, we were
forced for want of favor from the wind, to put in at Queen-
borough, from whence coasting over the rich and pleasant
country of Kent, we renewed our shipping at Dover, and
soon landing at Calais, we passed, after two days, by wag-
on to the strong towns of Gravelines and Dunkirk, where
I could not but find much horror in myself to pass under
those dark and dreadful jjrisons, whei-e so many brave
Englishmen had breathed out their souls in a miserable
captivity. From thence we passed through Winoxberg,
Ypres, Ghent, Courtray, to Brussels, when the ambassador
had newly sat down before us. That noble gentleman in
whose company I traveled was welcome with many kind
visitations : among the rest there came to him an English
gentleman, who having run himself out of breath in the
Inns of Court, had forsaken his country and therewith his
religion, and was turned both bigot and physician — resid-
A. D. 1605.
XXiV SPECIALITIES IN THE
ing now in Brussels. This man, after few interchanges of
compliment with Sir Edmund Bacon, fell into a hyperbol-
ical prediction of the wonderful miracles done newly by
our Lady at Zichem or Sherpen-heaTell, that is, Sharp-
Hill, by Lipsius ApricoUis ; the credit whereof when that
worthy knight wittily questioned, he avowed a particular
miracle of cure wrought by her upon himself. I, coming
into the room in the midst of this discourse — habited not
like a divine, but in such color and fashion as might best
serve my travel — and hearing my countryman's zealous
and confident relations, at last asked him this question :
' Sir,' quoth I, ' put case this report of yours be gianted
for true, I beseech you teach what difference there is be-
twixt these miracles which you say are wrought by this
Lady, and those which were wrought by Vespasian, by
some vestals, by charms, and by spells ; — the rather for
that I have noted, in the late published report of their mi-
racles, some patients prescribed to come upon a Friday,
and some to wash in such a well before their approach,
and divers other such charm-like observations.' The gen-
tleman, not expecting such a question from me, answered,
' Sir, I do not profess this kind of scholarship, but we
have in the city many famous divines, with whom if it
would please you to confer, you might sooner receive satis-
faction.' I asked him whom he took for the most emi-
nent divine of that place. He named to me Father Cos-
terus, undertaking that he would be very glad to give me
conference if I would be pleased to come up to the Jesuits'
College. I willingly yielded. In the afternoon, the for-
ward gentleman prevented his time to attend me to the
Father — as he styled him — ^vvho, as he said, was ready to
entertain me with a meeting. I went alone with him.
LIFE OF BISHOP HALL. XXV
The porter shutting the door after me, welcomed me with
a ' Deo gratias.' I had not staid long in the Jesuits' Hall,
before Costerus came in to me ; who, after a friendly sal-
utation, fell into a formal speech of the unity of that
church out of which is no salvation ; and had proceeded
to leese his breath and labor, had not I — as civily as I might
— interrupted him with this short auswer ; — ' Sir, I be-
seech you, mistake me not. My nation tells you of what
religion I am : I come not hither out of any doubt of my
professed belief, or any purpose to change it ; but moving
a question to this gentleman concerning the pretended mi-
racles of the time, he pleased to refer me to yourself for
an answer ; which znotion of bis I vs^as the more willing to
embrace, for the fame that I have heard of your learning
and worth ; and if you can give me satisfaction herein, I
am ready to receive it.' Hereupon we settled to our places
at a table in the end of the Hall, and buckled to a farther
discourse. He fell into a poor and imperfect account of
the difference of Divine miracles and diabolical, which I
modestly refuted. From thence, he slipped into a chol-
eric invective against our church, which as he said, could
not yield one miracle ; and when I answered that in our
church we had manifest proof of the ejection of devils by
fasting and prayer, he answered that if it could be proved
that ever any devil was dispossessed in our church, he
would change his religion. Many questions were instant-
ly traversed by us ; wherein 1 found no satisfaction given
me. The conference was long and vehement: in the
heat whereof, who should come in but Father Baldwin, an
English Jesuit, known to me — as by my face, after I came
to Brussels — so much more by fame. He sat down upon
a bench at the farther end of the table, and heard no small
xxvi SPECIALITIES IN THE
part of our dissertation, seeming not too well appaid that
a gentleman of his nation — for still I was spoken to in that
habit by the style of ' dominatio vestra' — should depart
from the Jesuits' College no better satisfied. On the next
morning, therefore, he sends the same English physician to
my lodging with a courteous compellation, professing lo
take it unkindly that his countryman should make choice
of any other to confer with than himself, who desired both
mine acquaintance and satisfaction. Sir Edmund Bacon,
in whose hearing the message was delivered, gave ftie
secret signs of his utter unwillingness to give way to any
farther conferences, the issue whereof — since we were to
pass further, and beyond the bounds of that protection —
might prove dangerous. I returned a mannerly answer
of thanks to Father Baldwin ; but for any fuither confer-
ence, that it were bootless : I could not hope to convert
him, and was resolved he should not alter me ; and there-
fore both of us should rest where we were.
Departing from Brussels, we were for Namur and Liege.
In the vvay, we found the good hand of God in delivering
us fi-om the danger of freebooters and of a nightly entrance,
amidst a suspicious convoy, into the bloody citj% Thence
we came to the Spadane waters; where I had good leisure
to ad<l a second Century of ' Meditations,'i to those I had
published before my journey. After we had spent a just
time at these .medicinal wells, we returned to Liege, and in
our pass up the river Mosa,2 I had a dangerous conflict
with a Sorbonist, a prior of the Carmelites, who took occa-
sion, by our kneeling at the receipt of the eucharist, to per-
suade all the company of our acknowledgment of a tran-
substantiation. 1 satisfied the cavil ; showing upon what
' Published in 1605.— Sanfobd.
^ The Maes.
LIFE OF BISHOP HALL.
xxvii
ground this meet posture obtained with us. The man
grew furious upon his conviction, and his vehement asso-
ciates began to join with him in a right down raihng upon
our church and religion. I told them they knew where
they were ; for me, I had taken notice of the security of
their laws, inhibiting any argument held against their reli-
gion established, and therefore stood only upon my defence,
not casting any aspersion upon theirs, but ready to main-
tain our own ; which though I performed in as fair terms
as I might, yet the choler of those zealots was so moved,
tliat the paleness of their changed countenances begun to
thi-eaten some perilous issue, had not Sir Edmund Bacon,
both by his eye and his tongue, wisely taken me off. I
subduced myself speedily from their presence, to avoid fur-
ther provocation. The prior began to bewray some suspi-
cions of my borrowed habit, and told them that himself
had a green satin suit once prepared for his travels into
England ; so as I found it needful for me to lie close at
Namur; from whence traveling the next day towards
Brussels in the company of two Italian captains, Signer
Ascamo Nigro and anotlier whose name I have forgotten
— who inquiring into our nation and religion, wondered to
hear that we had any baptism or churches in England —
the congruity of my Latin, in respect of then- perfect bar-
barism, drew me and the rest into their suspicion ; so as I
might overhear them muttering to each other that we were
not the men we appeai'ed. Straight the one of them boldly
expressed his conceit, and together with this charge, began
to inquire of our condition. I told him that the gentleman
he saw before us was the grandchild of that renowned
Bacon, the great Chancellor of England, a man of great
birth and quality : and that myself and my other compan-
xxviii
SPECIALITIES IN THE
iou traveled in his attendance to the Spa, from the train,
and under the privilege of our late ambassador — with
which just answer, 1 stopped their mouths.
Returning through Brussels, we came down to Antwerp
— the paragon of cities — where my curiosity to see a sol-
emn procession on St. John Baptist's day, might have
drawn me into danger — through my willing unreverence
— had not the hulk of a tall Brabanter, behind whom I
stood in a comer of the street, shadowed me from notice.
Thence, down the fair river of Scheldt, w e came to Flush-
ing, when upon the resolution of oui- company to stay
some hours, I hastened to Middleburgh, to see an ancient
colleague. That visit lost me my passage. Ere I could
return, I might see our ship under sail for England. The
master had, with the wind, altered his purpose, and called
aboard with such eagerness that my company must either
away or undergo the hazard of too much loss. I looked
long after them in vain; and sadly returning to Middle-
burgh, waited long for an inconvenient and tempestuous
passage.
After some year and a half, it pleased God inexpectedly
to contrive the change of my station. My means were but
short at Halsted ; yet such as I often professed if my then
patron would have added but one ten pounds by year—
which 1 held to be the value of my detained due — I should
never have removed. One morning as I lay in my bed, a
strong motion was suddenly glanced into my thoughts, of
going to London. I arose and betook me to the way. The
ground that appeared of that purpose, was to speak with
my pati-on, Sir Robert Drury, if by occasion of the public
preachership of St. Edmunds-Bury, then offered me upon
good conditions, I might draw him to a willing yieldance
LIFE OF BISHOP HALL. Xxix
of that parcel of my due maintenance which was kept back
from my not over-deserving predecessor ; who, hearing my
errand, dissuaded me from so ungainful a change, which,
had it been for my sensible advantage, he would have
readily given way unto — but not offering the expected en-
couragement of my continuance. AVith him I staid and
preached on the Sunday following. That day, Sir Robert
Druiy, meeting with the Lord Denny, fell belike into the
commendation of my sermon. That religious and noble
Lord had long harbored good thoughts concerning me, up-
on the reading of those poor pamphlets which I had for-
merly published, and long wished the opportunity to know
me. To please him in his desire, Sir Robert willed me to
go and tender my sei-vice to his lordship, which I modestly
and seriously deprecated ; yet upon his earnest charge, went
to his lordship's gate, where I was not soriy to hear of his
absence. And being now, full of cold and distemper, in
Drury Lane, I was found by a friend in whom I had for-
merly no great interest — one Mr. Gurrey, tutor to the earl
of Essex. He told me how well my Meditations were ac-
cepted at the Prince's court, and earnestly advised me to
step over to Richmond and preach to his highness.! I
strongly pleaded my indisposition of body and my unpre-
paration for any such work, together with my bashful fem-s
and utter unfitness for any such a presence. My averse-
ness doubled his importunity: in fine, he left me not till he
had my engagement to preach the Sunday following at
' Prince Hcniy, eldest son of James I. He was an ardent lover
of piety and religion and of all good men. Several of the Bisliop's
works arc dedicated to this prince. He died Nov. 6, 1612, and at
the breaking up of his household, Dr. Hall preached an eulogistic
sermon, deeply lamenting his loss.
XXX
SPECIALITIES IN THE
Richmond. He made way for me to that awful pulpit, and
encouraged me by the favor of liis noble lord, the earl of
Essex. I preached through the favor of my God. That
sermon was not so well given as taken ; insomuch as that
SAveet prince signified his desire to hear me again the Tues-
day following — which done, that labor gave more content-
ment than the former ; so as that gracious prince both gave
me his hand and commanded me to his service.^ My pa-
tron seeing me, upon my return to London, looked after by
some great persons, began to wish me at home, and told
me that some or other would be snatching me up. 1 an-
swered that it was in his power to prevent ; would he be
pleased to make my maintenance but so competent as in
right it should be, I would never stir from him. Instead
of condescending, it pleased him to fall into an expostula-
tion of the rate of competences, affirming the variableness
thereof, according to our own estimation and our either
raising or moderating the causes of our expenses. I show-
ed him the insufficiency of my means ; that I was forced
to write books to buy books. Shortly, some harsh and un-
pleasing answer so disheartened me, that I resolved to em-
brace the first opportunity of remove. Now while I was ta-
ken up with these anxious thoughts, a messenger — it was
Sir Robert Wingfield of Northampton's son — came to me
from the Lord Denny, now earl of Norwich, my after most
honorable patron, entreating me from his lordship to speak
with him. No sooner came I thither, than after a glad and
noble welcome, 1 was entertained with the noble, earnest
offer of Waltham. The conditions were, like the mover,
' Wood says that on Oct. 30, 1611, he was collated to the Arch-
deacomy of Nottingham, upon the promotion of Dr. John King to
the Sec of London. Wood's Ath. Vol. I. Fasti. 155. — Chalmers.
LIFE OF BISHOP HALL. XXXi
free and bountiful. I received them as from the munifi-
cent hands of my God, and returned, full of the cheerful
acknowledgments of a gi*acious Providence over me.i Too
late now did my former noble patron relent, and offer me
those terms which had before fastened me forever. I re-
turned home happy in a new master and in a new patron :
betwixt whom I divided myself and my labors, with much
comfort and no less acceptation. In the second year of
mine atteniance on his highness, when I came for my dis-
mission from that monthly service, it pleased tlie jjrince to
command me a longer stay ; and at last upon my allowed
departure, by the mouth of Sir Thomas Chailoner, his gov-
ernor, to render unto me a motion of more honor and fa-
vor than I was worthy of ; which was, that it was his
Highness' pleasure and purpose to have me continually
resident at the court as a constant attendant, while the rest
held on their wonted vicissitudes ; for which purpose, his
Highness would obtain for me such preferments as would
yield me full contentment. I returned my humblest thanks,
and my readiness to sacrifice myself to the service of so
gracious a master ; but being conscious to myself of my un-
answerableness to so great expectation, and loth to forsake so
dear and noble a patron, who had placed much of his heart
upon me, I modestly put it off and held close to my Wal-
tham ; where in a constant course I preached a long time
— as I had done also at Halsted before — thrice in the week ;
yet never durst I climb into the pulpit to preach any ser-
mon, whereof I had not before, in my poor and plain fash-
' About the same time (1612) he took the dcgi-ce of Doctor in
Divinity. — Chalmers.
About tlie year 1610, he 'WTOte his 'Apology against the BrowTi-
ists.' — Jones.
XXXii SPECIALITIES IN THE
ion, penned every word in the same order wherein I hoped
to deliver it ; although in the expression, I listed not to be
a slave to syllables.
In this while, my worthy kinsman, Mr. Samuel Barton,
arch-deacon of Gloucester, knowing in bow good terms I
stood at court and pitying the miserable condition of his
native church of Wolverhampton, was very desirous to en-
gage me in so difficult and noble a service as the redemp-
tion of that captivated church ; for which cause he impor-
tuned me to move some of my friends to solicit the dean
of Windsor — who by an ancient annexation is patron
thereof — for the grant of a particular prebend when it
should fall vacant in that church. Answer was returned
me that it was fore-promised to one of my fellow-chaplains.
I sat down without further expectation. Some year or
two after, hearing that it was become void, and meeting
with that fellow-chaplain of mine, I wished him much joy
of that prebend. He asked me if it were void. 1 assured
him so ; and telling him of the former answer delivered unto
me in my ignorance of his engagements, wished him to
hasten his possession of it. He delayed not. When he
came to the dean of Windsor for his promised dispatch,
the dean brought him forth a letter from the prince, wherein
he was desired and charged to reverse his former engage-
ment— since that other chaplain was otlierwise provided
for — and to cast that favor upon me. I was sent for — who
least thought of it — and received the free collation of that
poor dignity. It was not the value of the place — which
was but nine nobles per annum — tlsat we aimed at ; but
the freedom of a goodly church, consisting of a dean and
eight prebendaries competently endowed, and many thou-
sand souls, lamentably swallowed up by wilful recusants.
LIFE OF BISHOP HALL. XXXiii
in a pretended fee-furm forever. O God, what an hand
liadst thoii in the carriage of this work ! When we set
foot in tliis suit — for another of the prebendaries joined
with irie — we knew not wherein to insist nor where to
ground our complaint ; only we knew that a goodly patri-
mony was by sacrilegious conveyance detained from the
church. But in the pursuit of it, such marvelous light
<)[)ened itself inexpectcdly to us, in revealing of a coun-
terfeit seal found in the ashes of that burned house of a
false register; in the manifestation of rasures and interpo-
lations and misdates of unjustifiable evidences ; that after
many years' suit, the wise and honorable Lord Chancellor
EUesmere, upon a full hearing, adjudged these two sued-
for prebends clearly to be returned to the church, until by
common law they could — if possibly — be revicted. Our
great adversary, Sir Walter Leveson, finding it but lo.ss and
trouble to strive for litigious sheaves, came off to a peacea-
ble composition with me of forty pounds per annum ; for
iny part whereof, ten should be to the discharge of my
stall in that church, till the suit should, by course of com-
mon law, be determined. We agreed upon fair wars.
The cause was heard at the King's Bench bar, where a
special verdict was given for us. Upon the death of mj'
partner in the suit — in whose name it had been brought —
it was renewed; a jury empaneled in the county; the
foreman — who had vowed he would cany it for Sir Wal-
ter Leveson howsoever — was before the day stricken mad
and so continued. We proceeded with the same success
we formerly had. Whiles we were thus striving, a word
fell from my adversary that gave me information that a
third dog would perhaps come in and take the bone from
us both : which I finding to drive at a supposed conceal-
c
xxxiv
SPECIALITIES IN THE
ment, happily jnevented ; for I presently addressed myself
to his majesty, with a petition for the renewing the charter
of that church and the full establishment of the lands, rights,
liberties, thereunto belonging — which I easily obtained
from those gracious hands. Now Sir Walter Leveson, see-
ing the patrimony of the church so fast and safely settled,
and misdoubting what issue those his crazy evidences
would find at the common law, began to incline to offers
of peace ; and at last drew Jiim so far as that be yielded to
those two many conditions, not particularly for myself] but
for the whole body of all those prebends which pertained
to the church : — First, that he would be content to cast up
that fee-farm which he had of all the patrimony of that
church, and disclaiming it, receive that which he held of
the said church by lease from us the several prebendaries,
from term, whetlier of years, or, which he rather desired,
of lives. Secondly, that he would raise the maintenance
of eveiy prebend — whereof some were but forty shillings,
others three pounds, others four, etc. — to the yearly value
of thirty pounds for each man, during the said term of his
lease: only for the monument of my labor and success
herein, I required that my prebend might have the addition
of ten pounds per annum above the fellows. We were busily
treating of this happy match for that poor church ; Sir Wal-
ter Leveson was not only willing, but forward; the then
dean, Mr. Antonius de Dominus, Archbishop of Spalata,
gave both way and furtherance to the di.«patch ; all had
been most happily ended, had not the scrupulousness of
one or two of the number deferred so advantageous a con-
clusion. In the meanwhile, Sir Walter Leveson dies, leav-
ing his young orphan, ward to the king. All our hopes
were now blown up. An office was found of all those
LIFE OF BISHOP HALL.
XXXV
lands ; the very w^ontud payments were denied ; and I call-
ed into the court of wards, in fair likelihood to forego my
former hold, and yielded a possession ; but there it was
justly awarded by the lord treasurer, then master of the
wards, that the orphan could have no more, no other right
than the father. I was therefore left in my former state ;
only upon public complaint of the hard condition wherein
the orphan was left, I suffered myself to be over-entreated
to abate somewhat of that evicted composition. Which
work liaving once firmly setded, in a just pity of the mean
l)rovision, if not the destitution of so many thousand souls,
and a desire and care to have them comfortably provided
for in tlie future, I resigned up the said prcljend to a wor-
thy preacher, Mr. Lee, who should constantly reside there
and painfully instruct that great and long-neglected people ;
which he hath hitherto performed with great mutual con-
tentment and happy success.
Now during this twenty-two years' which I spent at
Waltham, thrice was I commanded and employed abroad
by his Majesty in public service. First, in the attendance
of the Right Honorable the earl of Carlisle, then Lord Vis-
count Donca-siter, who was sent uj)on a noble embassy, with
a gallant retinue, into France ; whose interment there the
annals of that nation will tell to posterity. In the midst of
that service was I surprised with a miserable distemper of
' He is said by all his biographers to have retained the living o
Waltham for twenty-two years, and this assertion is founded on his
own words in his ' Specialities hut as he expressed the time in
numerals there may he a mistake in the printing — for if he remain-
ed at Waltham twenty-two years, he must have kept that living af-
ter ho was Bishop of Exeter, which is not very probable, especially
as we find there were three incumbents on the living of Waltham
before the year 1637. — Chalmers.
XXX vi
SPECIALITIES IN THE
body, whicli ended in a diarihoea biliosa, not without
some beginnings and further tlireats of a dysentery ; where-
with 1 was brouglit so low, tiiat there seemed small hopes
of my recovery. M. Peter Moulin, to whom I was be-
holding for liis frequent visitations, being sent by niy lord
ambassador to inform him of my estate, brought him so
sad news thereof, as that he was much afflicted therewith,
well supposing that his welcome to Waltham could not but
want much of the heart without me. Now the time of his
return drew on. Dr. Moulin kindly offered to remove me,
upon his lordship's departure, to his own house — promised
me all careful tendance. I thanked him, but resolved if I
could but creep homewards, to put myself upon the jour-
ney. A litter was provided ; but of so little ease, that Si-
meon's penitential lodging or a malefactor's stocks had
been less penal. I crawled down from my close chamber
into that carriage 'In qua videbaris milii efferri tanquam in
sandapila,'! as Mr. Moulin wrote to me afterward. That
misery had 1 endured all the long passage from Paris to
Dieppe — being left alone to the surly muleteers — bad not
my good CJod brought me to St. Germains upon the very
minute of the setting-out of those coaches which had staid
there upon that morning's entertainment of my lord am-
bassador. How glad was I, that I might change my seat
and my company ! In the way, beyond all expectation, I
began to gather some strength ; whether tlie fresh air or
the desires of my home revived me, so much and so sud-
den reparation ensued as was sensible to myself, aud seem-
ed strange to others. Being shipped at Dieppe, tlie sea
used us hardly, and after a night aud a great part of the
day following, sent us back well wind-beaten to that bleak
' ' In which you seem to mc to be borne as on a bier.' — Ed.
LIFE OF BISHOP HALL.
xxxvii
haven whence we set forth, forcing ns to a more pleasing
land-i)assage through the coasts of Normandy and Picardy;
towards tlie end whereof, my former comph\int returned
upon me, and landing with me, accompanied me to and at
my long-desired home.
In this my absence, it pleased his Majesty graciously to
confer upon me the deanery of Worcester;' which being
promised ine before my departiite, was deeply hazarded
whiles I was out of sight, by the importunity and imder-
hand working of some great ones. Dr. Field, the learned
and worthy dean of Gloucester, was by his potent friends
put in such assurances of it, that I heard where he took
care for the furnishing that ami)le house. But God fetched
it about for me, in that absence and nescience of mine ;
and that reverend and better-deserving divine was well sat-
isfied with greater hojjes, and soon after exchanging this
mortal estate for an immortal and glorious. Before 1 could
go down, through my continuing weakness, to take posses-
sion of that dignity, his Majesty pleased to design me to
his attendance into Scotland ;2 where the great love and
respect that I found, both for the ministers and people,
w rought me no small envy from some of oin- own. Upon
a commonly received supposition that his Majesty would
have no further use of his cha))lains after his remove from
Edinburgh — forasmuch as the divines of the country,
whereof there is great store and worthy choice, were allot-
ted to every station — I easily obtained, through the solici-
tation of my ever-honored Lord of Carlisle, to return with
him before my fellows. No sooner was I gone, than sug-
' A. D. 1616. — Sanford.
* " Where he exerted himself in support of Episropary against
Presbyterianisra."' — Life, in Edinb. Brit. Poets.
xxxviii
SPECIALITIES IS THE
gestions were made to his Majesty of niy over-plausible
demeanor and doctrine to that already prejiidieate people ;
for which his Majesty, after a gracious acknowledgment of
my good service there done, called me upon his retuin to
a favorable and mild account; not more freely professing
what informations had been given against me than his own
full satisfaction with my sincere and just answer — as whose
excellent wisdom well saw that such winning carriage of
mine could be no hinderance to those his great designs. At
the same time, his Majct-ty having secret notice that a letter
was coming to me from Mr. W. Striither, a reverend and
learned divine of Edinbutgh, concerning the Five Points
then proposed and urged to the church of Scotlaiid,i was
pleased to impose upon me an earnest charge to give .him
' The Scots ministers uiiileistaudiiig that the Vin^ dtfijzncd to
bring aliout an imiformity between the churelies of England and
Scotland, appointed one Mr. Wm. Stmthei-s, a divine of Edinburgh,
to preach against such a proceeding : who in his sennon in the
principal churc !i of Edinburgh, not only condemned the rites and
ceremonies of the church of England, but prayed God to save Scot-
land from the same. — [Hcyliu's Life of Laud, p. 73, Ed. 1688].
Tlie following five points or articles were then proposed and
urged to the kirk, as a step towards producing uniformity : — 1. That
the lioly sacraments should be received kneeling. 2. That minis-
ters were to administer the sacrament in private houses to the sick,
if desired. 3. That ministers were to ba])tize children privately at
home, in cases of necessity, 4. That mini.*ters should bring such
children of their parishes as could say the Catechism, the Lord's
Prayer, the Creed, and the Ten Commandments, to the Bi<hop to
be confirmed. 5. That tlie festivals of Christmas, Easter, Whit-
sunday, and the Ascension, were to be commemorated in the kirk
of Scotland. — JosES.
Mr. Chalmers, in a note to his ' Life of Hall,' has confounded
these witli certain other 'tive point.*:,' somewhat famous: but about
which there was, in tills case, no dispute. — Ed,
LIFE OF BISHOP HALL.
xxxix
a full answer to tliose modest doubts, and at large to de-
clare niy judgment concerning tliose required observations ;
wliitli I speedily performed, with so gieat approbation of
Lis Majesty tliat it pleased liim to command a transcript
thereof, as I was informed, publicly read in their most fa-
mous university; the effect whereof his Majesty vouch-
safed to signify aftei-wards unto some of my best friends,
witli allowance beyond my ho))es.
It was not long after, that his Majesty, finding the exi-
gence of the affairs of the Netherlandish churches to re-
quire it, both advised thetn to a synodical decision, and by
his incQm[)arable wisdom promoted the work. My un-
worthiness was named for one of the assistants of that
honorable, grave and reverend meeting ; where I failed not
of my best service to that woful, distracted church. i By
that time I had staid some two months there, the uncjuiet-
ness of the nights in those garrison-towns, working upon
the tender disposition of my body, brought me to such
weakness through want of rest, that it began to disable me
from attending the synod ; which yet as I might — I forc-
ed myself unto, as wishing that my zeal could have dis-
countenanced my infirmity : where, in the mean time it is
well worthy of my thankful remembrance that, being in an
afflicted and languishing condition for a fortnight together,
with that sleepless distemper, yet it jileased God, the veiy
night before I was to preach the Latin sermon to the synod,'^
to bestow upon me such a comfortable refreshing of suffi-
cient sleep as whereby my spirits were revived, and I was
enal)led with much vivacity to perforin that service; which
was no sooner done, than my former complaint renewed
' " This Synod continued from Nov. 13, 1G18. to May 29, 1619."
' Treachod Nov. 29, 1C18, from Eccl. 7; 16.
xl
SPECIALITIES IN THE
upon me, and j)revailed against all the remedies that the
council of physicians could advise me unto; so as after
long strife, I was compelled to yield unto retirement — for
the time — to the Hague, to see if change of place and more
careful attendance — which I had in the house of our right
honorable ambassador, the Lord Carleton, now viscount Dor-
chester,— might recover me. But when, notwithstanding
all means, my weakness increased so far as that there was
small likelihood left of so much strength remaining as
might bring me back into England, it pleased his gracious
majesty — by our noble ambassador's solicitation — to call me
oflfj and to substitute a worthy divine, Mr. Dr. Goade, in my
unwilling-forsaken room. Returning by Dort, I sent in
my sad farewell to that grave asseml)ly ; who, by common
vote, sent to me the President of the synod and the assis-
tants, with a respective ^nd gracious valediction : neither
did the deputies of my Lords the States neglect — after a
vei7 respectful compliment sent from them to me, by Dan-
iel Heinsius — to visit me ; and after a noble acknowledge-
ment of more good service from me than I durst own, dis-
missed nie with an honorable retribution, and sent after
me a rich medal of gold — the portraiture of the synod —
for a precious nionutnent of their respects to my poor en-
deavours ; who failed not, whiles 1 was at the Hague, to
impart unto them my poor advice concerning that synodi-
cal meeting. The difficulties of my return, in such weak-
ness, were many and great; wherein, if ever, God mani-
fested his special providence to me, in overruling the cross
accidents of that passage, and after many dangers and de-
spairs, contriving niy safe arrival.
After not many years' settling at home, it grieved my
soul to see our own church begin to sicken of the same dis-
LIFE OF BISHOP HALL.
xli
ease which we had endeavored to cure in our neighbors.'
Mr. Montague's tart and vehement assertions of some \io-
sitions near akin to the Remonstrants of Netherland,^ gave
occasion of no small broil in the church ; sides were taken ;
pulpits every where rang of these opinions : but parliament
took notice of the division, and questioned the occasioner.
Now as one that desired to do all good offices to our dear
and common mother, I set my thoughts on work, how so
dangerous a quarrel might be happily composed ; and find-
ing that mis-taking was more guilty of this dissention tlian
mis-believing — since it plainly appeared to me that Mr.
Montague meant to express not Arminius but B. Overall,-*
a more moderate and safe author, however he sped in de-
livery of him — I wrote a little project of pacification ;
wherein I desired to rectify the judgment of men concern-
ing this misapprehended controversy ; showing them the
true parties in this unseasonable plea. And because B.
Overall went a midway betwixt the two opinions, which
he lield extreme, and must needs therefore differ some-
what in the commonly received tenet in these points, I
gathered out of B. Overall on the one side, and out of our
English divines at Dort on tlie other, .such common prop-
ositions concerning these five busy articles as wherein both
' Popery now began to gain gi-ouiid in many places ; and against
tliis the good Bishop's holy zeal was always more oxi itcil ilian even
against "the anarchical fashion of independent coiigi cgntions." — Ei>-
"Mr. Eicliard M.antaguc of Essex, in 1623, wrote 'A New Gag
for an old Goose' — a satirical reply to a papist hook entitled 'A
new Gag for the old Gospel.' He was not an easy man to manage,
but wa-s finally silenced by the superior jiowers. — Ed.
^ He was one of the most profound school divines of the Eng-
lish nation. He wits employed in the translation of the Bible, and
wrote the sacramental part of the cluu-cli catechism. — Jonus.
xlii SPECIALITIES IN THE
of them were fully agreed ; all wliich, being put together,
seemed unto nie to make up so suiBcient a body of accord-
ed trutli, that all other questions moved liereabouts, ap-
peai-ed merely supei-fluous, and every moderate Christian
might find where to rest himself without hazard of con-
tradiction. These I made bold, by the hands of Dr. Young,
the worthy dean of Winchester, to present to his excellent
Majesty ; together with a humble motion of a peaceable
silence to be enjoined to both parts, in those other collat-
eral and needless disquisitions, which, if they might befit
the schools of academical di'sputants, could not certauily
sound well from the pulpits of popular auditories. Those
reconciliatory papers fell under tlie eyes of some grave
divines ou both parts. Mr. Montague professed that he
had seen them, and would subscribe to them very willing-
ly: othei-s, that were contrarily minded, both English,
Scottish, and French divines, profTered tlieir hands to a no
less ready subscription ; — so as much peace promised to
result out of that weak and poor enterprise, had not the
confused noise of the misconstructions of those who never
saw the work — citing it down for the ver)- name's sake —
meeting with the ro)-al edict of a general inhibition, buried
it in a secure silence. I was scorched a little with this
flame which I desired to quench ; yet this could not stay
my hand from thrusting itself into an liotter fire.
Some insolent Romanists, Jesuits especiall}', in their
bold disputations — which in the time of the treaty of the
Spanish match, and the calm of that relaxation, were very
frequent — pressed nothing so much as a catalogue of the
professors of our religion, to be deduced from the primi-
tive times; and with the percmptoi-y challenge of the im-
possibility of this pedigree, dazzled the eyes of the simple;
LIFE OF BISHOP HALL. xHil
wliiles some of our leai-neil men, undertaking to satisfy so
needless and unjust a demand, gave, as I conceive, great
advantage to the adversary. In a just indignation to see
us thus wronged by misstating the question betwixt us, as
if we, yielding ourselves of another church, originally and
fundamentally diS'ercnt, should make good our own erec-
tion upon the ruins, yea the nullity, of theirs; and well
considering the intinite and great inconveniences that must
needs follow upon this defence, I adventured to set my
pen on work; desiiing to rectify the opinions of those
men whom an ignorant zeal had transported to the preju-
dice of our holy cause ; laying forth the damnable corrup-
tions of the Roman church, yet making our game at the
outward visibility thereof, and by this means putting them
to the probation of those newly-obtruded corruptions which
are truly guilty of the breach betwixt us : — the drift where-
of being not well conceived by some spirits that were not
so wise as fervent, I was suddenly exposed to the rash
censures of many well-affected and zealous Protestants;
as if a remission to my wonted zeal to the truth attributed
too much to the Romish church, and strengthened the ad-
versaries' hands and weakened our own. This envy I was
fain to take off by my speedy Apologetical Advertisement,
and after that by my Reconciler, seconded with the unan-
imous letters of such reverend, learned, sound divines,
both bishops and doctors,i as whose uudoubtable authority
was able to bear down calumny itself. Which done, I did
by a seusonal'le moderation provide for the peace of the
chiu'ch, in silencing both my defendants and challengers in
tliis unkind and ill-raised quarrel. Immediately before the
publishing of this tractate — ^which did not a little aggra-
' Bislioi'S Morton and Davenant, Drs. Pridcaux and Primrose.
xliv SPECIALITIES IN THE
vate the envy and suspicion — I was by his Majesty raised
to be Bishop of Exeter;' havinj,' formerly, with much
hiirtible deprecation, refused the see of Gloucester, earn-
estly proffered unto ine.2 How beyond all ex[)ectation it
pleased God to place me in that western charge, which, if
the Duke of Buckingham's letters — he being then in
France — had arrived some hours sooner, I had been de-
feated of; and by what strange means it pleased God to
make the competency of that provision by the un-
thought-of addition of the rectory of St. Breok within that
diocese ; if I should fully relate the circumstances would
force the confession of an extraordinary hand of God in
the disposing of these events. I entered upon that place,
not without much jirejudice and suspicion on some hands ;
for some that sat in the stern of the church had me in
great jealousy for too much favor of puritanism. I soon
had intelligence who were set over me for espials : my
ways were curiously observed and scanned. However, I ■
took the resolution to follow those courses which might
most conduce to the peace and hapi)iness of iny new
and weighty charge. Finding therefore some factious
spirits very busy in that diocese, I used all fair and gentle
means to win them to good order, and therein so happily
prevailed, that — saving two of that numerous clergy who,
continuing in their refractoriness, fled away from censure —
they were all perfectly reclaimed : so as I had not one min-
ister professedly opposite to the ancienih' received orders
— for I was never guilty of urging any new impositions —
of the church, m that large diocese. Thus we went on
comfortably together, till some persons of note in the cler-
' 1627 : consecrated Dec 23. — Ciialmebs.
^By King James, in 1624. — Life, Ed. Br. Po.
LIFE OF BISHOP HALL.
xlv
gy, being guilty of iheir own negligence and disorderly
courses, began to envy our success ; and finding nie ever
ready to encourage those whom I found coiiscionably for-
ward, and painl'ul in their places, and willingly giving way
to orthodox and peaceable lectures in several parts of my
diocese, opened their mouths against me, both obliquely in
the pulpit and directly at the court ; couiplaining of my
too much indulgence of persons disaffected, and my too
much liberty of frequent lecturing within my charge. The
billows went so high that I was three several times upon
my knee to his Majesty, to answer these great criminations:
and what contestation I liad with some great Lords con-
cerning these particulars, it would be too long to report —
only this, under how dark a cloud I was hereupon, I was
so sensil'le, that I plainly told the Lord Archbishop of
Canterbury! that rather than I would be obnoxious to those
slanderous tongues of his misiuforiners, I would cast np
my rochet 1 knew I went right ways, and would not en-
dure to live under undeserved suspicions. What letters of
caution I had from some of my wary brethren, and what
ex|)o.siuliitory letters 1 had from above, I need not relate.
Sure I am, 1 had peace and comfort at home, in that hap-
l)y sense of that general unanimity and loving correspond-
ence of my clergy, till in the last year of my presiding
there, after the synodical oath was set on foot — which yet
I did never tender to any one minister of my diocese — by
the incitation of some busy intcrlo])ers of the neighbor
county, soirie of them began to enter into an unkind con-
testation with me about the election of clerks Ibr the con-
vocation ; whom they secretly, without ever acquainting me
with tlii ir desire or purpose — as driving to that end which
Laud.
i. e. surplice.
Xlvi SPECIALITIES IN THE
we see now accomplished — would needs nominate and set
up in competition to those whom 1 had — nfter tlie usual
form — i-ecommended to them. That they had a right to
free voices in that choice, I denied not ; only I had reason
to take it unkindly, that they would work underhand, with-
out me and against me ; professing that if beforehand they
had made their desires known to me, I should willingly
have gone along with them in their election. It came to
the poll : those of my nomination carried it : the parlia-
ment begun. After some hard tugging there, returning
home upon a recess, 1 was met by the way, and cheerfully
welcomed with some hundreds. In no worse terms, I left
that my once dear diocese ; when, returning to Westmins-
ter, I was soon called by his Majesty — who was then in the
north — to a remove to Norwich :' but how I took the tower
in my way,^ and how I have been dealt with since my re-
pair hither, I could be lavish in the sad report ; ever desir-
ing my good God to enlarge my heart in thankfulness to
him for the sensible experience I have had of his fatherly
hand over me in the deepest of all my afflictions, and to
strengthen me for whatsoever other trials he shall be ])leas-
ed to call me unto — that being found faithfid unto the
death, I may obtain that crown of life which he hath or-
dained for all those that overcome !
Thus far the good Bishop's own account of himself; —
meagre, indeed, from an excessive niodestj' that would
' Nov. 15, 1641.— Chalmers.
'Bishop Hall was one of the twdve prelates sent to the tower
Dec. 30, 1641, on a charge of high treason, for issuing a 'protest
against the validity of such laws as should be made during their
compelled absence from parliament.' — Ed.
LIFE OF BISHOr HALL.
xlvii
not record many of those events of his life which have re-
flected great honor on himself, and conferred lasting ben-
efit on his age and the world. His 'Specialities' is repub-
lished, with a few explanatory notes — rather than a coni-
jiiled sketch of his life — both for its intrinsic interest, and
for the characteristic traits it reveals of its author.
The limits of this volume do not admit of a fuller
memoir. The reader who would know more of him
is referred to a very circumstantial account of the man
and of the i)art he took in the stirring events of his
latter )'ears, entitled " Bishop Hall, — his Life and Times ;
by the Rev. John Jones." London 18'26. From this work
has been drawn some of the matter contained in the notes
to the ' Specialities,' and to it, mainly, are we indebted for
the few particulars which follow.
Bishop Hall was confined in the tower, with the exception
of one short interval, until May 5th, 1642 ; and was then re-
leased oidy on giving bail for five thousand pounds. In the
mean time parliament had issued an order for the forfeiture
of all his spiritual revenues, save only four hundred pounds a
year; which, with wonderful magnanimity, was allowed for
the maintenance of himself and family: but of a great part
even of this, he was defrauded by the violence and cupidity
of his y)ersecutors. In the tower, he preached and wrote
with his usual industry ; and on his release, immediately
recommenced jireaching in Norwich to crowded audiences.
This he continued till near the begiiming of April, 1643,
when the order was passed by parliament for sequestering
the property of certain 'notorious delinquents,' among
whom Bishop Hall was included by name. The rents due
fiom his tenants were not allowed to be paid him; his
dwelling was violently entered; his goods ransacked and
xlviii
LIFE OF BISHOP HALL.
plundered by disorderly soldiers; and it was only by the
kind interposition of personal friends — who generously
advanced tlic sum at which they were valued — that he
retained his household furniture, his lihrarj, or even the
portraits of his children. The amount advanced, he after-
wards repaid out of the 'poor pittance of fifths' allowed
for the maintenance < f his familj-.
After this, his house was several times assaulted by
rioters, and on the tenth of June 1644, the cathedral church
' bordering u|)on it' was finally demolished ' by authority' ;
with its fine painted windows, its organ, its monuments,
and tiie various apparatus of episcopal service. After a
little time passed in fear, anxiety, and real danger, the
Bishop and his family were, on some frivolous pretence,
driven from his dwelling; 'so as' — he complains in his
'Hard Measure' — 'we might have lien in the street for
aught I know, had not the providence of God so ordered
it that a neighbor in the close, one INIr. Gostliu, a widower,
was content to void his house for ns.'
After the publication of his 'Hard Measuie,'May, 1647 —
which enlightened the public as to his unjust treatment
and severe .sufferings — a little more favor seems to have
been shown him ; but lie never returned to his family man-
sion.
The remaining years of his life were passed in a small
house which he rented, at Highan), one of the suburbs of
Norwich. He continued to preach in Norwich and the vi-
cinity, at lea.st until he entered on his cightictli year; and
after that was ' as diligent a hearer as ho had been a preach-
er.' To the last, he vC'as remarkable for his mental vigor,
his industry, his charity, his humility and fervent piety. He
died Sept. 8, 1C5C, at the good old age of eighty-two.
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS,
DIVINE AND MORAL:
SERVING FOR DIRECTION IN CHRISTIAN AND CIVIL PRACTICE.
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
CENTURf I.
I.
In meditation, those which begin heavenly thoughts
and prosecute them not, are like those which kindle afire
under green wood, and leave it so soon as it but begins to
flame ; leesing the hope of a good beginning for want of
seconding it with a suitable proceeding. When I set
myself to meditate, I will not give over till I come to an
issue. It hath been said by some that the beginning is
as much as the middest ; — yea, more than all. But I say
the ending is more than the beginning.
II.
There is nothing but man that respecteth greatness.
Not God, not death, not judgment. Not God ; he is no
accepter of persons. Not nature ; we see the sons of
princes born as naked as the poorest ; and the poor childi
as fair, well-favored, strong, witty, as the heir of nobles.
Not disease, death, judgment; they sicken alike, die
alike, fare alike after death. There is nothing besides
natural men, of whom goodness is not respected. I will
4
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
honor greatness in others ; but for myself, I will esteem
a dram of goodness worth a whole world of greatness.
in.
As there is a foolish wisdom, so there is a wise igno-
rance ; in not prying into God's ark ; not inquiring into
things not revealed. I would fain know all that I need
and all that I may : I leave God's secrets to himself. It
is happy for me that God makes me of his court, though
not of his council.
IV.
As there is no vacuity in nature, no more is there
spiritually. Every vessel is full ; if not of hquor, yet of
air. So is the heart of man ; though, by nature, it is
empty of grace, yet it is full of hypocrisy and iniquity.
Now as it is filled with grace, so it is empty of his evil
qualities : as in a vessel, so much water as goes in, so
much air goes out. But man's heart is a narrow-mouth-
ed vessel and receives grace but by drops ; and therefore
takes a long time to empty and fill. Now as there be
differences in degrees, and one heart is nearer to fullness
than another, so the best vessel is not quite full while it
is in the body ; because there are still remainders of cor-
ruption. I will neither be content with that measure of
grace I have, nor impatient of God's delay ; but every
day I will endeavor to have one drop added to the rest ;
so my last day shall fill up my vessel to the brim.
V.
Satan would seem to be mannerly and reasonable ;
making as if he would be content with one half of the
CENTURY I.
5
heart, whereas God challengeth all or none : as indeed
he hath most reason to claim all, that made all. But
this is nothing but a crafty fetch of Satan ; for he knows
that if he have any part, God will have none ; so the
whole falleth to his share alone. My heart, when it is
both whole and at the best, is but a strait and unworthy
lodging for God. If it were bigger and better, I would
reserve it all for him. Satan may look in at my doors
by a tentation, but he shall not have so much as one
chamber-room set apart for him to sojourn in.
VI.
I see that in natural motions, the nearer anything
comes to his end the swifter it moveth. I have seen
great rivers, which, at their first rising out of some hill's
side, might be covered with a bushel ; which, after many
miles, fill a very broad channel, and drawing near to the
sea, do even make a Uttle sea in their own banks. So
the wind, at the first rising, as a little vapor from the
crannies of the earth, and passing forward about the
earth, the further it goes the more blustering and violent
it waxeth. A Christian's motion, after he is regenerate,
is made natural to God-ward ; and therefore the nearer
he comes to heaven, the more zealous he is. A good
man must not be like Hezekiah's sun, that went back-
ward ; nor like Joshua's sun, that stood still ; but Da-
vid's sun that like a bridegroom comes out of his cham-
ber, and as a champion rejoiceth to run his race : only
herein is the ditference, that when he comes to his high
noon, he declineth not. However, therefore, the mind
in her natural faculties follows the temperature of the
body, yet in these supernatural things she quite crosses
6
MEDITATIONS AND TOWS.
it. For with the coldest complection of age is joined, in
those that are truly religious, the ferventest zeal and af-
fection to good things ; which is therefore the more reve-
renced and better acknowledged, because it cannot be
ascribed to the hot spirits of youth. The devil himself
devised that old slaader of early holiness — " A young
Saint, an old Devil." Sometimes young devils have
proved old saints ; never the contrary ; but true saints
in youth do always prove angels in their age. I will
strive to be ever good ; but if I should not find myself
best at last, I should fear I was never good at all.
vn.
Consent hearteneth sin, which a little dislike would
have daunted at first. As we say " There would be no
thieves if no receivers :" so would there not be so many
open racu'.hs to detract and slander, if there were not so
many open ears to entertain them. If I cannot stop another
man's mouth from speaking ill, I will either open my
mouth to reprove it, or else I will stop mine ears from
hearing it ; and let him see in my face that he hath no
room in my heart,
vm.
I have oft wondered how fishes can retain their
fresh taste, and yet live in salt waters ; since I see that
every other thing participates of the nature of the place
wherein it abides. So the waters passing thorough the
channels of the earth vary their savor with the veins of
soil through which they slide. So brute creatures, trans-
ported from one region to another, alter their former
quality and degenerate by little and little. The like
CENTURY I.
7
danger I have seen in the manners of men conversing
with evil companions in corrupt places. For besides
that it blemisheth our reputation, and maketh us thought
ill though we be good, it breeds in us an insensible de-
clination to ill ; and works in us, if not an approbation,
yet a less dislike of those sins to which our ears and eyes
are so continually inured. I may have a bad acquain-
tance : I will never have a wicked companion.
rx.
Expectation, in a weak mind, makes an evil greater
and a good less ; but in a resolved mind, it digests an
evil before it come, and makes a future good long be-
fore present. I will expect the worst, because it may
come ; the best, because I know it will come.
X.
Some promise what they cannot do; as Satan to
Christ. Some, what they could, but mean not to do ; as
the sons of Jacob to the Shechemites. Some, what they
meant for the time, and after retract; as Laban to
Jacob. Some, what they do also give, but unwillingly ;
as Herod. Some, what they willingly give, and after
repent them ; as Joshua to the Gibeonites. So great
distrust is there in man, whether from his impo-
tence or faithlessness. As in other things, so in this,
I see God is not like man ; but in whatever he promises,
he approves himself most faithful both in his abihty and
performances. I will therefore ever trust God on his
bare word ; even with hope, besides hope, above hope,
against hope ; and onwards I will rely on him for small
matters of this life. For how shall I hope to trust him
8
MEDITATIONS AND TOWS.
in impossibilities, if I may not in likelihoods? How
shall I depend on him for raising my body from dust and
saving my soul, if I mistrust him for a crust of bread to-
wards my preservation ?
XI.
If the world would make me his minion, he could
give me but what he hath. And what hath he to give ?
But a smoke of honor, a shadow of riches, a sound of
pleasures, a blast of fame. Which when I have had in
the best measure, I may be worse, — I cannot be better :
I can live no whit longer, no whit merrier, no whit hap-
pier. If he profess to hate me, what can he do, but dis-
grace me in my name, impoverish me in my estate, af-
flict me in my body ? In all which, it is easy not to be
ever the more miserable. I have been too long beguiled
with the vain semblances of it : now, henceforth, account-
ing myself born to a better world, I will, in a holy loft-
iness, bear myself as one too good to be enamoured of
the best pleasures, to be daunted with the greatest mis-
eries, of this life.
xn.
I see there is no man so happy as to have all things ;
and no man so miserable as not to have some. Why
should I look for a better condition than all others ? If
I have somewhat, and that of the best things, I will in
thankfulness enjoy them, and want the rest with con-
tentment.
XIII.
Constraint makes an easy thing toilsome, whereas again
CENTURY I.
9
love makes the greatest toil pleasant. How many miles
do we ride and run, to see one silly beast follow an-
other, with pleasure ! which if we were commanded to
measure, upon the charge of a superior, we should com-
plain of weariness. I see the folly of the most men, that
make their lives miserable and their actions tedious, for
want of love to that they must do. I will first labor to
settle in my heart a good affection to heavenly things :
so, Lord, thy yoke shall be easy and thy burden light.
XIV.
I am a stranger even at home : therefore, if the dogs
of the world bark at me, I neither care nor wonder.
XV.
It is the greatest madness in the world, to be an hypo-
crite in religious profession. Men hate thee, because
thou art a Christian, so much as in appearance. God
hates thee double, because thou art but in appearance :
so, while thou hast the hatred of both, thou hast no com-
fort in thyself. Yet if thou wilt not be good as thou
seemest, I hold it better to seem ill as thou art. An
open wicked man doth much hurt with notorious sins,
but an hypocrite doth, at last, more shame goodness by
seeming good. I had rather be an open wicked man
than an hypocrite ; but I had rather be no man than
either of them.
XVI.
When I cast down mine eyes upon my wants, upon my
sins, upon my miseries, methinks no man should be worse,
no man so ill as I ; — my means so many, so forcible and al-
10
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
most violent ; my progress so small and insensible : my
corruptions so strong ; my infirmities so frequent and re-
mediless ; my body so unanswerable to my mind. But
when I look up to the blessings that God hath enriched
me withal, methinks I should soon be induced to think
none more happy than myself. God is my friend and
my father ; the world not my master, but my slave ; I
have friends not many, but so tried that I dare trust them;
an estate not superfuous, not needy, yet nearer to de-
fect than abundance ; a calling, if despised of men, yet
honorable with God ; a body, not so strong as to admit
security — but often checking me in occasion of pleasure,
— nor yet so weak as to afflict me continually ; a mind,
not so furnished with knowledge that I may boast of it,
nor yet so naked that I should despair of obtaining it.
My miseries afford me joy ; mine enemies, advantage ;
my account is cast up for another world. And if thou
think I have said too much good of myself, either I am
thus, or I would be.
X\1I.
The worldling's life is, of all other, most discomforta-
ble. For that which is his God doth not always favor
him ; that which should be, never.
XVIIL
There are three messengers of death, — Casualty,
Sickness, Age. The two first are doubtful, since
many have recovered them both. The last is cer-
tain. The two first are sudden ; the last, leisurely and
deliberate. As for all men, upon so many summons, so
especially for an old man, it is a shame to be unprepar-
CENTURY I.
11
ed for death : for where other see they may die, he sees
he must die. I was long agone old enough to die ; but
if I live till age, I will think myself too old to live lon-
ger.
XIX.
I will not care what I hiive, whether much or little.
If little, my account shall be less ; if more, I shall do the
more good and receive the more glory.
XX.
I care not for any companion but such as may teach
me somewhat or learn somewhat of me. Both these
shall much pleasure me — one as an agent, the other as
a subject to work upon : neither know I whether more.
For though it be an excellent thing to learn, yet I learn
but to teach others.
XXI.
If earth, that is provided for mortality and is possess-
ed by the Maker's enemies, have so much pleasure in it
that worldlings think it worth the account of their hea-
ven ; such a sun to enlighten it, such an heaven to wall it
about, such sweet fruits and flowers to adorn it, such va-
riety of creatures for the commodious use of it ; — what
must Heaven needs be, that is provided for God himself
and his friends ? How can it be less in worth than God
is above his creatures, and God's friends better than his
enemies ? I will not only be content, but desirous to be
dissolved.
12
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
xxn.
It is commonly seen that boldness puts men forth be-
fore their time, before their ability. Wherein we have
seen many that, like lapwings and partridges, have run
away with some part of their shell on their heads:
whence it follows that as they began boldly, so they pro-
ceed unprofitably, and conclude not without shame. I
would rather be haled by force of others to great duties,
than rush upon them unbidden. It were better a man
should want work, than that great works should want a
man answerable to their weight.
xxm
I will use my friend as Moses did his rod. While it
was a rod, he held it familiarly in his hand ; when once
a serpent, he ran away from it.
XXIV.
I have seldom seen much ostentation and much learn-
ing met together. The sun, rising and declining, makes
long shadows ; at midday, when he is at highest, none
at all. Besides that, skill when it is too much shown,
loseth the grace ; as fresh-colored wares, if they be often
opened, lose their brightness and are soiled with much
handhng. I had rather applaud myself for having much
that I show not, than that others should applaud me for
showing more than I have.
XXV.
An ambitious man is the greatest enemy to himself of
any in the world besides ; for he still torments himself
CENTURY I.
13
with hopes and desires and cares, which he might avoid
if he would remit of the height of his thoughts and live
quietly. My only ambition shall be, to rest in God's fa-
vor on eai'th and to be a saint in heaven.
XXVI.
There was never good thing easily come by. The
heathen man could say, Gcod sells knowledge for sweat ;
and so he doth honor, for jeopardy. Never any man
hath got either wealth or learning with ease. Therefore
the greatest good must needs be most difficult. How
shall I hope to get Christ, if I take no pains for him ?
And if, in all other things, the difficulty of obtaining
whets the mind so much the more to seek, why should it
in this alone daunt me ? I will not care what I do, what
I suffer, so I may win Christ. If men can endure such
cutting, such lancing and searing of their bodies, to pro-
tract a miserable life yet a while longer, what pain should
I refuse for eternity !
xxvn.
If I die, the world shall miss me but a little ; I shall
miss it less. Not it me, because it hath such store of
better men. Not I it, because it hath so much ill and I
shall have so much happiness.
XXVffl.
Two things make a man set by ; — dignity and de-
sert. Amongst fools, the first without the second is suf-
ficient : amongst wise men, the second without the first.
Let me desei-ve well, though I be not advanced. The
14
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
conscience of my worth shall cheer me more in oth-
ers' contempt, than the approbation of others can comfort
me, against the secret check of my own unworthiness.
XXIX.
The best qualities do so cleave to their subjects that
they cannot be communicated to others. For, whereas
patrimony and vulgar account of honor follow the blood
in many generations, virtue is not traduced by propa-
gation, nor learning bequeathed by our will to our heirs ;
lest the givers should wax proud and the receivers negli-
gent. I will account nothing my own but what I have
gotten ; nor that my own, because it is more of gift than
desert.
XXX.
Then only is the church most happy, when Truth and
Peace kiss each other ; and then miserable, when either
of them balk the way, or when they meet and kiss not.
For truth without peace, is turbulent ; and peace with-
out truth, is secure injustice. Though I love peace well,
yet I love main truths better. And though I love all
truths well, yet I had rather conceal a small truth than
disturb a common peace.
XXXI.
An indiscreet good action is little better than a dis-
ci-eet mischief. For in this, the doer wrongs only the
patient ; but in that other, the wrong is done to the good
action : for both it makes a good thing odious, — as many
good tales are marred in telling, — and besides it prejudices
CENTURY I.
15
a future opportunity. I will rather let pass a good gale of
wind and stay on the shore, than launch forth when I
know the wind will be contrary.
XXXII.
The world teacheth me that it is madness to leave be-
hind me those goods that I may carry with me : Chris-
tianity teacheth me that what I charitably give alive
I carry with me dead : and experience teacheth me that
what I leave behind, I lose. I will carry that treasure
with me, by giving it, which the worldling loseth by
keeping it : so, while his corpse shall carry nothing but
a winding-cloth to his grave, I shall be richer under the
earth than I was above it.
XXXIIL
Every worldling is an hypocrite ; for while his face
naturally looks upward to heaven, his heart grovels be-
neath on the earth. Yet if I would admit of any dis-
cord in the inward and outward parts, I would have an
heart that should look up to heaven in an holy contempla-
tion of the things above, and a countenance cast down
to the earth in humiliation. This only dissimilitude is
pleasing to God.
XXXIV.
The heart of man is a short word, a small substance ;
scarce enough to give a kite one meal, yet great in ca-
pacity ; — yea, so infinite in desire, that the round globe
of the world cannot fill the three corners of it. When
it desires more, and cries Give, Give, I will set it over
to that infinite Good, where the more it hath, it may de-
16 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
sire more, and see more to be desired. "WTien it desires
but what it needeth, my hands shall soon satisfy it. For
if either of them may contain it when it is without the
body, much more may both of them fill it while it is
within.
XXXV,
With men it is a good rule to try first, and then to
trust. AVith God, it is eontraiy. I will first trust Him,
— as most wise, omnipotent, merciful, — and try Him af-
terwards. I know it is as impossible for him to deceive
me, as not to be.
XXXVI.
As Christ was both a Lamb and a Lion, so is every
Christian. A lamb, for patience in suffering and inno-
cence of life ; a lion, for boldness in his innocency. I
would so order my courage and mildness, that I may be
neither lion-like in my conversation, nor sheepish in the
defence of a good cause.
xxxvn.
The godly sow in tears and reap in joy. The seed-
time is commonly waterish and lowering. I will be con-
tent with a wet spring, so I may be sure of a clear and
joyful harvest.
XXXMIL
Every man hath an heaven and an hell. Earth is the
wicked man's heaven ; his hell is to come. On the con-
trary, the godly have their hell upon earth, where they
are vexed with tentations and afflictions, by Satan and
CENTURY I.
17
his complices. Their heaven is above, in endless hap-
piness. If it be ill with me on earth, it is well my tor-
ment is so short and so easy. I will not be so covetous
to hope for two heavens.
XXXIX.
Man on his death-bed hath a double prospect, which
in his life-time the interposition of pleasure and miseries
debarred him from. The good man looks upward, and
sees heaven open, with Stephen and the glorious angels
ready to carry up his soul. The wicked man looks
downward, and sees three terrible spectacles, — Death,
Judgment, Hell ; one beyond another, and all to be pass-
ed thorough by his soul. I marvel not that the godly
have been so cheerful in death that those torments,
whose very sight hath overcome the beholders, have
seemed easy to them. I marvel not that a wicked man
is so loth to hear of death, so dejected when he feeleth
sickness, and so desperate when he feeleth the pangs of
death ; nor that every Balaam would fain die the death of
the righteous. Henceforth, I will envy none but a good
man; I will pity nothing so much as the prosperity
of the wicked.
XL.
Not to be afflicted, is a sign of weakness. For there-
fore God imposeth no more on me, because he sees I can
bear no more. God will not make choice of a weak
champion. When I am stronger, I will look for more.
And when I sustain more, it shall more comfort me that
God finds me strong, than it shall grieve me to be press-
ed with a heavy affliction.
2
18
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
XLI.
That the wicked have peace in themselves, is no won-
der. They are as sure as tentation can make them.
No prince makes war with his own subjects. The god-
ly are still enemies ; therefore they must look to be as-
saulted, both by stratagems and violence. Nothing
shall more joy me, than my inward quietness. A just
war is a thousand times more happy than an ill-condi-
tioned peace.
XLn.
Goodness is so powerful that it can make things sim-
ply evil — namely our sins — good to us : not good in na-
ture, but good in the event ; good when they are done,
not good to be done. Sin is so powerful that it can turn
the holiest ordinances of God into itself. But herein
our sin goes beyond our goodness, that sin defiles a man
or action otherwise good. But all the goodness of the
world cannot justify one sin ; — as the holy flesh in the
skirt makes not the bread holy that toucheth it, but the
unclean touching an holy thing, defileth it. I will lolhe
every evil for its own sake : I will do good, but not
trust to it.
XLIII.
Fools measure good actions by the event, after they
are done : wise men, beforehand, by judgment, upon the
rules of reason and faith. Let me do well, — let God
take charge of the success. If it be well accepted, it is
well ; if not, my thank is with God.
CENTURY I.
19
XLIV.
He was never a good man, that amends not. For
if he were good, he must needs desire to be better.
Grace is so sweet, that whoever tastes of it must needs
long after more: and if he desire it, he will endeavor it ;
and if he do but endeavor, God will crown it with suc-
cess. God's family admitteth of no dwarfs — which are
unthriving and stand at a stay, — but men of measures.
"Whatever become of my body or my estate, I will
ever labor to find somewhat added to the stature of my
soul.
XLV.
Pride is the most dangerous of all sins. For both it
is most insinuative — having crept into heaven and para-
dise,— and most dangerous where it is. For where all
other tentations are about evil, this alone is conversant
only about good things ; and one dram of it poisons many
measures of grace. I will not be more afraid of do-
ing good things amiss, than of being proud when I have
well performed them.
XLVI.
Not only commission makes a sin. A man is guilty
of all those sins he hateth not. If I cannot avoid all,
yet I will hate all.
XL VII.
Prejudice is so great an enemy to truth that it makes
the mind uncapable of it. In matters of faith, I will
first lay a sure ground, and then believe though I can-
20
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
not argue ; holding the conclusion in spite of the premi-
ses. But in other less matters, I will not so forestall my
mind with resolution, as that I will not be willing to be
better informed. Neither will I say in myself, I will hold
it, therefore it shall be the truth : but, this is truth, there-
fore I will hold it. I will not strive for victory, but for
truth.
XLvni.
Drunkenness and Covetousness do much resemble one
another. For the more a man drinks, the more he
thirsteth ; and the more he hath, still the more he cov-
eteth. And for their effects — besides other, — both of
them have the power of transforming a man into a beast ;
and, of all other beasts, into a swine. The former is evi-
dent to sense. The other, though more obscure, is no
more questionable. The covetous man, in two things
plainly resembleth a swine ; — that he ever roots in the
earth, not so much as looking towards heaven ; — that he
never doth good till his death. In desiring, my rule
shall be necessity of nature or estate. In having, I will
account that my good, which doth me good.
XLIX.
I acknowledge no Slaster of requests in heaven, but
one — Christ my mediator. I know I cannot be so
happy as not to need him, nor so miserable that he
should contemn me. I will always ask, and that of
none but where I am sure to speed ; but where there is so
much store that when I have had the most, I shall leave
no less behind. Though numberless drops be in the
sea, yet if one be taken out of it, it hath so much the
less, though insensible. But God, because he is infi-
CEKTURT I.
21
nite, can admit of no diminution. Therefore are men
niggardly, because the more they give, the less they
have ; but thou, Lord, mayest give what thou wilt, with-
out abatement of thy store. Good prayers never came
weeping home. I am sure I shall receive either what I
ask or what I should ask.
L.
I see that a fit booty many times makes a thief ; and
many would be proud, if they had but the common
causes of their neighbors. I account this none of the
least favors of God — that the world goes no better for-
ward with me. For I fear if my estate were better to
the world, it might be worse to God. As it is an happy
necessity that enforceth to good, so is that next happy
that hinders from evil.
LI.
It is the basest love of all others, that is for a benefit ;
for herein we love not another so much as ourselves.
Though there were no heaven, 0 Lord, I would love
thee. Now there is one, I will esteem it, I will desire
it ; yet still I will love thee for thy goodness' sake.
Thyself is reward enough, though thou broughtest no
more.
Ln.
I see men point the field, and desperately jeopard
their lives — as prodigal of their blood, — in the revenge
of a disgraceful word against themselves ; while they can
be content to hear God pulled out of heaven with blas-
phemy, and not feel so much as a rising of their blood.
22
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
Which argues our cold love to God, and our over-fervent
affection to ourselves. In mine own wrong?, I will hold
patience laudable ; but in God's injuries, impious.
un.
It is an hard thing to speak well ; but it is harder to be
well silent, — so as it may be free from suspicion of af-
fection or sullenness, or ignorance : else loquacity and not
silence, would be a note of wisdom. Herein, I will not
care how little, but how well. He said well for this — not
that which is much, is well ; but that which is well,
is much.
LIV.
There is nothing more odious than fruitless old age.
Now — for that no tree bears fruit in Autumn, unless it
blossom in the Spring — to the end that my age may be
profitable and laden with ripe fruit, I will endeavor that
my youth may be studious, and flowered with the blos-
soms of learning and observation.
LV.
Revenge commonly hurts both the offerer and suffer-
er ; as we see in the foohsh bee — though in all other
things commendable, yet herein the pattern of fond spite-
fulness — which in her anger envenometh the flesh and
losetli her sting, and so lives a di-one ever after. I ac-
count it the only valor, to remit a wrong ; and will ap-
plaud it to myself as right noble and Christian, that I
might hurt and will not.
CENTURY I.
23
LVI.
He that lives well, cannot choose but die well. For
if he die suddenly, yet he dies not unpreparedly: if by
leisure, the conscience of his well-led life makes his
death more comfortable. But it is seldom seen that he
which liveth ill, dieth well. For the conscience of his
former evils, his present pain, and the expectation and
fear of greater, so take up his heart that he cannot seek
God. And now it is just with God, not to be sought or
not to be found, because He sought to him in his life-
time, and was repulsed. Whereas therefore there are
usually two main cares of good men — to live well, and
die well, — I will have but this one, to live well.
Lvn.
With God, there is no free man but his servant, though
in the gallies : no slave but the sinner, though in a pal-
ace : none noble but the virtuous, if never so basely de-
scended : none rich but he that possesseth God, even in
rags : none wise, but he that is a fool to himself and the
world : none happy, but he whom the world pities. Let
me be free, noble, rich, wise, happy, to God : I pass not
what I am to the world.
LVIII.
When the mouth prayeth, man heareth ; when the
heart, God heareth. Every good prayer knocketh at
heaven for a blessing ; but an importunate prayer pierceth
it — though as hard as brass, — and makes way for itself
into the ears of the Almighty. And as it ascends light-
ly up, carried with the wings of faith, so it comes ever
24
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
laden down again upon our heads. In my prayers, my
thoughts shall not be guided by my words, but my words
shall follow my thoughts.
LIX.
If that servant were condemned of evil that gave God
no more than His own, which he had received, what shall
become of them that rob God of His own ? If God gain
a little glory by me, I shall gain more by Him. I will
labor so to husband the stock that God hath left in my
hands, that I may return my soul better than I received
it, and that He may take it better than I return it.
LX.
Heaven is compared to an hill, and therefore is figured
by Olympus among the heathen, by Mount Zion in God's
book : hell, contrariwise, to a pit. The ascent to the
one is hard therefore, and the descent to the other, easy
and headlong. And so as if we once begin to fall, the
recovery is most difficult; and not one of many stays till
he comes to the bottom.
I will be content to pant, and blow, and sweat, in
climbing up to heaven ; as, contrarily, I will be wary of
setting the first step downward towards the pit For
as there is a Jacob's ladder into heaven, so there are
blind stairs that go winding down into death, whereof
each makes way for other. From the object is raised an ill
suggestion ; suggestion draws on delight ; dehght, consent ;
consent, endeavor ; endeavor, practice ; practice, custom;
custom, excuse ; excuse, defence ; defence, obstinacy ;
obstinacy, boasting of sin ; boasting, a reprobate sense.
1 will watch over my ways ; and do thou. Lord, watch
CENTURY I.
25
over me, that I may avoid the first degrees of sin. And
if those overtake my frailty, yet keep me that presump-
tuous sins prevail not over me. Beginnings are with
more ease and safety declined, when we ai'e free, than
proceedings when we have begun.
LXI.
It is fitter for youth to learn than teach, and for age
to teach than learn ; and yet fitter for an old man to
learn, than to be ignorant. I know I shall never know
so much that I cannot learn more, and I hope I shall
never live so long as till I be too old to learn.
LXII.
I never loved those salamanders that are never well
but when they are in the fire of contention. I will rath-
er suffer a thousand wrongs than offer one : I will suffer
a hundred rather than return one ; I will suffer many
ere I will complain of one and endeavor to right it by
contending. I have ever found that to strive with my
superior is furious ; with my equal, doubtful ; with my
inferior, sordid and base ; with any, full of unquietness.
LXIII.
The praise of a good speech standeth in words and
matter : — matter, which is as a fair and well-featured
body ; elegance of words, which is as a neat and well-
fashioned garment. Good matter slubbered up in rude
and careless words, is made lothsome to the hearer ; as
a good body misshapen with unhandsome clothes. Ele-
gancy, without soundness, is no better than a nice vani-
ty. Although therefore the most hearers are like bees,
26
MEDITATIONS AND VOTTS.
that go all to the flowers, — never regarding the good
herbs that are of as wholesome use, as the other of fair
show, — yet let my speech strive to be profitable ; plausi-
ble, as it happens. Better the coat be misshapen than
the body.
LXIV.
1 see that as black and white colors to the eyes, so is
the vice and virtue of others to the judgment of men.
Vice gathers the beams of the sight in one, that the eye
may see it and be intent upon it : virtue scatters them
abroad, and therefore hardly admits of a perfect ap-
prehension.
Whence it comes to pass that — as judgment is accord-
ing to sense — we do so soon espy, and so earnestly cen-
sure a man for one vice ; letting pass many laudable
quaUties undiscerned, or at least unacknowledged. Yea,
whereas every man is once a fool and doth that, per-
haps, in one fit of his folly, which he shall at leisure re-
pent of — as Noah in one hour's drunkenness uncover-
ed those secrets which were hid six hundred years
before — the world is hereupon ready to call in question
all his former integrity, and to exclude him from the
hope of any future amendment. Since God hath given
me two eyes, the one shall be busied about the present
fault that I see, with a detesting commiseration ; the
other, about the commendable qualities of the offender,
not without an impartial approbation of them. So shall
I do God no wrong in robbing him of the glory of his
gifts, mixed with infirmities ; nor yet in the meantime,
encourage vice ; while I do distinctly reserve for it a
due proportion of hatred.
CENTURY I.
27
LXV.
God is above man ; the brute creatures under him ;
he set in the midst. Lest he should be proud that he
hath infinite creatures under him, that One is infi-
nite degrees above him. I do therefore owe awe unto
God ; mercy to the inferior creatures : knowing that
they are my fellows in respect of creation, whereas there
is no proportion betwixt me and my Maker.
LXVI.
One said " It is good to inure thy youth to speak well,
for good speech is many times drawn into the affection."
But I would fear that speaking well without feeling, were
the next way to procure an habitual hypocrisy. Let
my good words follow good affections, not go before them.
I will therefore speak as I think ; but withal I will labor
to think well, and then I know I cannot but speak well.
LXVII.
When I consider my soul, I could be proud to think
of how divine a nature and quality it is ; but when I
cast down mine eyes to my body, — as the swan to her
black legs — and see what lothsome matter issues from
the mouth, nostrils, ears, pores and other passages ; and
how most carrion-like of all other creatures it is after
death ; I am justly ashamed, to think that so excellent a
guest dwells but in a mere cleanly dunghill.
LXVIII.
Every worldling is a madman. For — besides that he
preferreth profit and pleasure to virtue, the world to
28 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
God, earth to heaven, time to eternity, — he pampers the
body and starves the soul. He feeds one fowl a hun-
dred times that it may feed him but once ; and seeks all
lands and seas for dainties, not caring whether any, or
■what repast he provideth for his soul. He clothes the
body with all rich ornaments, that it may be as fair
without as it is filthy within ; whilst his soul goes bare
and naked, having not a rag of knowledge to cover it.
Yea, he cares not to destroy his soul to please the body,
when for the salvation of the soul he will not so much
as hold the body short of the least pleasure. What is,
if this be not, a reasonable kind of madness ? Let me
enjoy my soul no longer than I prefer it to my body.
Let me have a deformed, lean, crooked, unhealthful,
neglected body ; so that I may find my soul sound,
strong, well-furnished, well-disposed both for earth and
heaven.
LXIX.
Asa was sick but of his feet far from the heart ; yet
because he sought to the physicians, not to God, he es-
caped not. Hezekiah was sick to die ; yet because he
trusted to God, not to physicians, he was restored.
Means, without God, cannot help : God without means,
can and often doth. I will use good means, not rest in
them.
LXX.
A man's best monument is his virtuous actions.
Foolish is the hope of immortality and future praise, by
the cost of senseless stone — when the passenger shall
only say. Here lies a fair stone and a filthy carcass.
CENTURT I.
29
That only can report thee rich ; but for other praises,
thyself must build thy monument alive, and write thy
own epitaph in honest and honorable actions. Which
are so much more noble than the other, as living men
are better than dead stones : nay, I know not if the oth-
er be not the way to work a perpetual succession of in-
famy, while the censorious reader, upon occasion there-
of, shall comment upon thy bad life : whereas in this,
every man's heart is a tomb and every man's tongue
writeth an epitaph upon the well-behaved. Either I
will procure me such a monument to be remembered by,
or else it is better to be inglorious than infamous.
LXXI.
The basest things are ever most plentiful. History
and experience tell us that some kind of mouse breedeth
one hundred and twenty young ones in one nest, where-
as the lion or elephant beareth but one at once. I
have ever found the least wit yieldeth the most words.
It is both the surest and wisest way, to speak little and
think more.
Lxxn.
An evil man is clay to God, wax to the devil. God
may stamp him into powder or temper him anew, but
none of His means can melt him. Contrariwise, a good
man is God's wax and Satan's clay : he relents at every
look of God, but is not stirred at any tentation. I
had rather bow than break, to God ; but for Satan or
the world, I had rather be broken in pieces with their
violence than suffer myself to be bowed unto their
obedience.
30 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
Lxxm.
It is an easy matter for a man to be careless of him-
self, and yet much easier to be enamored of himself.
For if he be a Christian, while he contemneth the world
perfectly, it is hard for him to reserve a competent mea-
sure of love to himself: if a worldling, it is not possible
but he must over-love himself. I will strive for the
mean of both, and so hate the world that I may care for
myself, and so care for myself that I be not in love with
the world.
LXXIV.
I will hate popularity and ostentation as ever danger-
ous, but most of all in God's business. "Which whoso
affect, do as ill spokesmen, who, when they are sent to
woo for God, speak for themselves. I know how dan-
gerous it is to have God my rival.
LXXV.
Earth affords no sound contentment For what is
there under heaven not troublesome, besides that which
is called pleasure ? — and that, in the end, I find most
irksome of all other. My soul shall ever look upward
for joy, and downward for penitence.
LXXVL
God is ever with me, ever before me. I know he
cannot but oversee me always, though my eyes be held
that I see him not ; yea, he is stiU within me, though I
feel him not ; neither is there any moment that I can
live without God. Why do I not therefore always live
CENTURY I.
31
with him ? Why do I not account all hours lost, where-
in I enjoy him not ?
Lxxvn.
There is no man so happy as the Christian. When
he looks up unto heaven, he thinks ' That is my home ;
the God that made it and owes it is my Father ; the
angels, more glorious in nature than myself, are my at-
tendants ; mine enemies are my vassals.' Yea, those
things which are the terriblest of all to the wicked, are most
pleasant to him. When he hears God thunder above
his head, he thinks ' This is the voice of my Father.'
When he remembereth the tribunal of the last judgment,
he thinks ' It is my Saviour that sits in it.' When
death, he esteems it but as the angel set before paradise,
which with one blow admits him to eternal joy. And
— which is most of all — nothing in earth or hell can
make him miserable. There is nothing in the world
worth envying, but a Christian.
Lxxvm.
As man is a little world, so every Christian is a little
church within himself As the church therefore is some-
times in the wane through persecution, other times in
her full glory and brightness ; so let me expect myself
sometimes drooping under tentations and sadly hanging
down the head for the want of the feeling of God's pre-
sence, at other times carried with the full sail of a reso-
lute assurance to heaven; — knowing that as it is a
church at the weakest stay, so shall I, in my greatest
dejection, hold the child of God.
32 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
LXXIX.
Tentations on the right hand are more perilous than
those on the left, and destroy a thousand to the others'
ten — as the sun more usually causeth the traveller to
cast off his cloak, than the wind. For those on the left
hand miscarry men but two ways, to distrust and de-
nial of God, — more rare sins : but the other, to all the
rest wherewith men's lives are so commonly defiled.
The spirit of Christians is like the English jet, whereof
we read that it is fired with water, quenched with oil.
And these two, prosperity and adversity, are like heat
and cold : — the one gathers the powers of the soul to-
gether, and makes them abler to resist by uniting them ;
the other diffuses them, and by such separation makes
them easier to conquer. I hold it therefore as praise-
worthy with God for a man to contemn a proffered hon-
or or pleasure for conscience' sake, as, on the rack, not
to deny his profession. ^VTien these are offered, I will
not nibble at the bait, that I be not taken with the hook.
LXXX.
God is Lord of my body also, and therefore challeng-
eth as well reverent gesture as inward devotion. I will
ever, in my prayers, either stand as a servant before my
IVIaster, or kneel as a subject to my Prince.
LXXXI.
I have not been in others' breasts ; but, for my own
part, I never tasted of aught that might deser\-e the
name of pleasure. And if I could, yet a thousand pleas-
ures cannot countervail one torment ; — because the one
CENTUKY I.
83
may be exquisite, the other not without composition.
And if not one torment, much less a thousand. And if
not for a moment, much less for eternity. And if not
the torment of a part, much less of the whole. For
if the pain but of a tooth be so intolerable, what
shall the racking of the whole body be And if of the
body, what shall that be which is primarily of the soul ?
If there be pleasures that I hear not of, I will be wary
of buying them so over-dear.
LXXXII.
As hypocrisy is a common counterfeit of all virtues,
so there is no special virtue which is not, to the very
life of it, seemingly resembled by some special vice. So
devotion is counterfeited by superstition, good thrift by
niggardliness, charity with vain-glorious pride. For as
charity is bounteous to the poor, so is vain-glory to the
wealthy ; as charity sustains all for truth, so pride for a
vain praise : both of them make a man courteous and aifa-
ble. So the substance of every virtue is in the heart ;
which — since it hath not a window made into it by the
Creator of it, but is reserved under lock and key for His
own view — I will judge only by appearance. I had
rather wrong myself by credulity, than others by unjust
censures and suspicions.
LXXXIII.
Every man hath a kingdom within himself. Reason,
as the princess, dwells in the highest and inwardest room ;
the senses are the guard and attendants on the court,
without whose aid nothing is admitted into the presence ;
the supreme faculties — as will, memory, and so forth —
3
34
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
are the peers : the outward parts and inward aflFections
are the commons ; violent passions are as rebels, to dis-
turb the common peace. I would not be a Stoic, to
have no passions — for that were to overthrow this in-
ward government God hath erected in me — but a Chris-
tian, to order those I have. And, for that I see that, as in
commotions, one mutinous person draws on more, so in
passions that one makes way for the extremity of an-
other— as excess of love causeth excess of grief upon the
loss of what we loved — I will do as wise princes use to
those they misdoubt for faction, — so hold them down and
keep them bare, that their very impotency and remiss-
ness shall afford me security.
LXXXIV.
I look upon the things of this life, as an owner, as a
stranger. As an owner in their right, as a stranger in
their use. I see that owning is but a conceit, besides
•using. I can use — as I lawfully may — other men's com-
modities as my own ; walk in their woods, look on their
fair houses, with as much pleasure as my own ; yet again
I will use my own as if it were another's ; knowing that
though I hold them by right, yet it is only by tenure at
will.
LXXXV.
There are none Uke to Luther's three masters —
prayer, tentation, meditation. Tentation stirs up
holy meditation ; meditation prepares to prayer ; and
prayer makes profit of tentation, and fetcheth all divine
knowledge from heaven. Of others I may learn the
theory of divinity ; of these only, the practice. Other
CENTURY I.
35
masters teach me by rote, to speak parrot-like of hea-
venly things ; these alone, with feeling and understand-
ing.
LXXXVI.
Affectation is the greatest enemy both of doing well
and good acceptance of what is done. I hold it the
part of a wise man, to endeavor rather that fame may
follow him than go before him.
Lxxxm
I see a number, which, with Shimei, whiles they seek
their servant — which is riches — lose their souls. No
worldly thing shall draw me without the gates within
which God hath confined me.
LXXXVIII.
It is an bard thing for a man to find weariness in plea-
sure, while it lasteth ; or contentment in pain, while he is
under it. After both, indeed, it is easy ; yet both of
these must be found in both, or else we shall be drunk-
en with pleasures and overwhelmed with sorrow. As
those therefore which should eat some dish over-delicious-
ly sweet, do allay it with tart sauce that they may not be
cloyed ; and those that are to receive bitter pills — that
they may not be annoyed with their unpleasing taste —
roll them in sugar ; so in all pleasures it is best to labor,
not how to make them most delightful, but how to mod-
erate them from excess ; and in all sorrows, so to settle
our hearts in true grounds of comfort that we may not
care so much for being bemoaned of others as how to be
most contented in ourselves.
36
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
LXXXIX.
In ways we see travelers choose not the fairest and
greenest, if it be either cross or contrary ; but the near-
est, though miry and uneven. So in opinions, let me
follow not the plausiblest but the truest, though more
perplexed.
XC.
Christian society is like a bundle of sticks laid togeth-
er, whereof one kindles another. Solitary men have
fewest provocations to evil, but again fewest incitations
to good. So much as doing good is better than not doing
evil, will I account Christian goodfellowship better
than an eremitish and melancholic soUtariness.
XCI.
I had rather confess my ignorance than falsely profess
knowledge. It is no shame not to know all things, but
it is a just shame to overreach in any thing.
xcn.
Sudden extremity is a notable trial of faith, or any
other disposition of the soul. For, as in a sudden fear,
the blood gathers to the heart for guarding of that
part which is principal, so the powers of the soul com-
bine themselves in a hard exigent, that they may be easi-
ly judged of. The faithful, more suddenly than any
casualty, can lift up his heart to his stay in heaven :
whereas the worldling stands amazed and distraught
with evil, because he hath no refuge to fly unto. For,
not being acquainted with God in his peace, how should
CENTURY 1.
37
he but have Him to seek in his extremity? When
therefore some sudden stitch girds me in the side, like to
be the messenger of death ; or when the sword of my
enemy, in an unexpected assault threatens my body ;
I will seriously note how I am affected ; so the sudden-
est evil, as it shall not come unlooked for, shall not go
away unthought of. If I find myself courageous and
heavenly minded, I will rejoice in the truth of God's
grace in me ; knowing that one di-am of tried faith is
worth a whole pound of speculative, and that which
once stood by me will never fail me : if dejected and
heartless, herein I will acknowledge cause of humilia-
tion, and, with all cai-e and earnestness, seek to store
myself against the dangers following.
XCIU.
The rules of civil policy may well be applied to the
mind. As therefore for a prince, that he may have
good success against either rebels or foreign enemies, it
is a sure axiom. Divide and Rule, but when once
seated in the throne over loyal subjects, Unite and
Rule ; so in the regiment of the soul, there must be va-
riance set in the judgment and the conscience and af-
fections, that that which is amiss may be subdued ; but
when all pai-ts are brought to order, it is the only course
to maintain their peace ; that — all seeking to estabhsh
and help each other — the whole may prosper. Always
to be at war, is desperate ; always at peace, secure and
over-Epicure-like. I do account a secure peace a
just occasion of this civil dissension in myself, and a
true Christian peace the end of all my secret wars.
38
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
Which, when I have achieved, I shall reign with comfort ;
and never will be quiet till I have achieved it.
XCIV.
I brought sin enough with me into the world to repent of
all my life, though I should never actually sin ; and sin
enough actually every day to soitow for, though I had
brought none with me into the world : but laying both
together, my time is rather too short for my repentance.
It were madness in me to spend my short hfe in jollity
and pleasure — whereof I have so small occasion — and
neglect the opportunity of my so just sorrow : especially
since before I came into the world I sinned ; after I am
gone out of the world, the contagion of my sin past shall
add to the guilt of it — yet in both these estates I am un-
capable of repentance. I will do that while I may,
which, when I have neglected, is unrecoverable.
xcv.
Ambition is torment enough for an enemy. For it
affords as much discontentment in enjoying as in want ;
making men like poisoned rats, which, when they have
tasted of their bane, cannot rest till they drink, and then
can much less rest till their death. It is better for me
to live in the wise men's stocks, in a contented want,
than in a fool's paradise to vex myself with wilful un-
quietness.
XCVI.
It is not possible but a conceited man must be a fool.
For that overweening opinion he hath of himself excludes
all opportunity of purchasing knowledge. Let a vessel
CENTURY I.
be once full of never so base liquor, it will not give room
to the costliest ; but spills beside whatsoever is infused.
The proud man though he be empty of good substance,
yet is full of conceit. Many men had proved wise if
they had not so thought themselves. I am empty enough
to receive knowledge enough. Let me think myself but
so bare as I am, and more I need not. 0 Lord, do
thou teach me how little, how nothing I have ; and give
me no more than I know I want.
XCVII.
Every man hath his turn of sorrow ; whereby — some
more, some less — all men are in their times miserable.
I never yet could meet with the man that complained not
of somewhat. Before sorrow come I will prepare for
it ; when it is come I will welcome it ; when it goes I will
take but half a farewell of it, as still expecting his return.
XCVIII.
There be three things that follow an injury so far as
it concerneth ourselves, — for as the offence toucheth
God it is above our reach — revenge, censure, satisfac-
tion ; which must be remitted by the merciful man. Yet
not all at all times ; but revenge always, — leaving it to
Him that can and will do it ; censure oft-times ; satis-
faction sometimes. He that deceives me oft, though I
must forgive him, yet charity binds me not, not to cen-
sure him for untrusty ; and he that hath endamaged me
much, cannot plead breach of charity in my seeking his
restitution. I will so remit wrongs as I may not en-
courage others to offer them, and so retain them as I
may not induce God to retain mine to Him.
40 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
XCIX.
Garments that have once one rent in them, are sub-
ject to be torn on every nail and every brier ; and glasses
that are once cracked are soon broken. Such is man's
good name, once tainted with just reproach. Next to
the approbation of God and the testimony of mine own
conscience, I will seek for a good reputation amongst
men : not by close carriage concealing faults, that they
may not be known to my shame ; but avoiding all vices,
that I may not deserve it. The efficacy of the agent
is in the patient well-disposed. It is hard for me ever
to do good, unless I be reputed good.
C.
Many vegetables and many brute creatures exceed
man in length of age. Which hath opened the mouths of
heathen philosophers to accuse nature as a step-mother
to man, who hath given him the least time to live, that
only could make use of his time in getting knowledge.
But herein religion doth most magnify God in his
■wisdom and justice, — teaching us that other creatures
live long and perish to nothing, only man recom-
penses the shortness of his hfe with eternity after it ;
that the sooner he dies well, the sooner he comes to per-
fection of knowledge, which he might in vain seek be-
low ; the sooner he dies ill, the less hurt he doth with
his knowledge. There is great reason, then, why man
should live long ; greater, why he should die early. I
will never blame Grod for making me too soon happy,
for changing my ignorance for knowledge, my corruption
for immortality, my infirmities for perfection. Come,
Lord Jesus, come quickly !
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
CENTURY 11.
I.
A MAN under God's affliction is like a bird in a net ;
the more he striveth, the more he is entangled. God's
decree cannot be eluded with impatience. What I can-
not avoid, I will learn to bear.
n.
I find that all worldly things require a long time in
getting, and afford a short pleasure in enjoying them. I
will not care much for what I have ; nothing for what I
have not.
m.
I see natural bodies forsake their own place and con-
dition for the preservation of the whole. But of all oth-
er creatures, man ; and of all other men Christians, have
the least interest in themselves. I will Uve as given to
others, lent only to myself.
42 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
IV.
That which is said of the elephant — that being guilty
of his deformity, he cannot abide to look on his own face
in the water, but seeks for troubled and muddy channels
— we see well moralized in men of evil conscience, who
know their souls are so filthy that they dare not so much
as view them, but shift off all checks of their former ini-
quity with vain excuses of good-fellowship. Whence it
is that every small reprehension so galls them ; because
it calls the eye of the soul home to itself, and makes
them see a glimpse of what they would not. So have I
seen a foolish and timorous patient, which, knowing his
wound very deep, would not endure the chirurgeon to
search it : whereon what can ensue, but a festering of
the part and a danger of the whole body ? So I have
seen many prodigal wasters run so far in books that they
cannot abide to hear of reckoning. It hath been an
old and true proverb, ' Oft and even reckonings make
long friends.' I will oft sum my estate with God, that
I may know what I have to expect and answer for.
Neither shall my score run on so long with God that I
shall not know my debts, or fear an audit, or despair of
pardon.
V.
I account this body nothing but a close prison to my
soul, and the earth a larger prison to my body. I may
not break prison till I be loosed by death, but I will
leave it not unwillingly when I am loosed.
CENTUET II.
43
VI.
The common fears of the world are causeless and ill
placed. No man fears to do ill, every man to suffer ill ;
wherein — if we consider it well — we shall find that we
fear our best friends. For my part, I have learned
more of God and of myself in one week's extremity, than
all my whole life's prosperity had taught me before.
And, in reason and common experience, prosperity usu-
ally makes us forget our death ; adversity, on the other
side, makes us neglect our life. Now — if we measure
both of these by their effects — forgetfulness of death
makes us secure ; neglect of this life makes us careful of
a better. So much therefore as neglect of life is better
than forgetfulness of death, and watchfulness better than
security, so much more beneficial will I esteem adver-
sity than prosperity.
vn.
Even gi'ief itself is pleasant to the remembrance when
it is once past, as joy is whiles it is present. I will not
therefore, in my conceit, make any so great difference
betwixt joy and grief ; since grief past is joyful, and long
expectation of joy is grievous.
vni.
Every sickness is a little death. I will be content to
die oft, that I may die once well.
IX.
Oft times those things which have been sweet in opin-
ion, have proved bitter in experience. I will therefore
44
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
ever suspend my resolute judgment until the trial and
event. In the meanwhile, I will fear the worst and
hope the best.
X.
In all divine and moral good things, I would fain keep
that I have and get that I want. I do not more lothe
all other covetousness than I affect this. In all these
things alone, I profess never to have enough. If I may
increase them therefore, either by laboring or begging or
usury, I shall leave no means unattempted.
XI.
Some children are of that nature that they are never
well but while the rod is over them. Such am I to
God. Let Him beat me, so He amend me ; let Him
take all away from me, so He give me himself.
xn.
There must not be one uniform proceeding with all
men in reprehension, but that must vary according to
the disposition of the reproved. I have seen some men
as thorns, which easily touched, hurt not, but if hard
and unwarily, fetched blood of the hand ; others as net-
tles, which if they be nicely handled, sting and prick,
but if hard and roughly pressed are pulled up without
harm. Before I take any man in hand, I will know
whether he be a thorn or a nettle.
xm.
I will account no sin little, since there is not the least
but works out the death of the soul. It is aU one wheth-
CENTURY II.
45
er I be drowned in the ebber shore, or in the midst of
the deep sea.
XIV.
It is a base thing to get goods to keep them. I see
that God — which only is infinitely rich — holdeth no-
thing in his own hands, but gives all to his creatures.
But if we will needs lay up, where should we rather re-
pose it than in Christ's treasury? The poor man's
hand is the treasury of Christ. All my superfluity shall
be there hoarded up, where I know it shall be safely
kept and surely returned me.
XV.
The school of God and nature require two contrary
manners of proceeding. In the school of nature, we must
conceive and then believe. In the school of God, we
must first believe and then we shall conceive. He that
believes no more than he conceives, can never be a
Christian ; nor he a philosopher that assents without
reason. In nature's school, we are taught to bolt out
the truth by logical discourse : God cannot endure a lo-
gician. In His school, he is the best scholar that rea-
sons least and assents most. In divine things, what I
may, I will conceive ; the rest I will believe and ad-
mire. Not a curious head, but a credulous and plain
heart is accepted with God.
XVI.
No worldly pleasure hath any absolute delight in it :
but as a bee — having honey in the mouth, hath a sting
in the tail. "Why am I so foolish to rest my heart upon
46
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
any of them, and not rather labor to aspire to that one
absolute Good, in whom is nothing savoring of grief, no-
thing wanting to perfect happiness ?
xvn.
A sharp reproof I account better than a smooth de-
ceit. Therefore when my friend checks me, I will re-
spect it with thankfulness ; when others flatter me, I
will suspect it and rest in my own censure of myself,
who should be more privy and less partial to my own
deservings.
xvm.
Extremity distinguisheth friends. "Worldly pleas-
ures, like physicians, give us over when once we lie a
dying ; and yet the death-bed had most need of com-
forts. Christ Jesus standeth by his in the pangs of
death, and after death at the bar of judgment — not leav-
ing them, either in their bed or grave.
I will use them therefore to my best advantage, — not
trust them. But for thee, O my Lord, which in mercy
and truth canst not fail me — whom I have found ever
faithful and present in all extremities — kill me, yet will
I trust in thee.
XIX.
"We have heard of so many thousand generations
passed, and we have seen so many hundreds die within
our knowledge, that I wonder any man can make account
to live one day. I will die daily. It is not done be-
fore the time, which may be done at all times.
CENTURY II.
47
XX.
Desire oft times makes us unthankful ; for whoso
hopes for tliat he hath not, usually forgets that which he
hath. I will not suffer my heart to rove after high or
impossible hopes, lest I should in the mean time con-
temn present benefits.
XXI.
In hoping well, in being ill, and fearing worse, the
life of man is wholly consumed. When I am ill, I will
live in hope of better ; when well, in fear of worse ; nei-
ther will I at any time hope without fear, lest I should
deceive myself with too much confidence — wherein evil
shall be so much more unwelcome and intolerable, be-
cause I looked for good — nor again fear without hope,
lest I should be over-much dejected ; nor do either of
them, without true contentation.
XXII.
What is man to the whole earth ? What is earth to
the heaven ? What is heaven to his Maker ? I will ad-
mire nothing in itself; but all things in God, and God
in all things.
XXIII.
There be three usual causes of ingratitude upon a be-
nefit received — envy, pride, covetousness. Envy look-
ing more at others' benefits than our own ; pride, look-
ing more at ourselves than the benefit; covetousness
looking more at what we would have than what we have.
In good turns, I will neither respect the giver, nor my-
48
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
self, nor the gift, nor others ; but only the intent and
good will from whence it proceeded. So shall I re-
quite others' great pleasures with equal good will, and
accept of small favors with great thankfulness.
XXIV.
Whereas the custom of the world is to hate things
present, to desire future, and magnify what is past, I
will, contrarily, esteem that which is present, best; for
both what is past was once present, and what is future
will be present. Future things next, because they are
present in hope ; what is past, least of all, because it
cannot be present — yet somewhat, because it was.
XXV.
We pity the folly of the lark, which while it playeth
with the feather and stoopeth to the glass, is caught in
the fowler's net : and yet cannot see ourselves alike made
fools by Satan, who, deluding us by the vain feathers
and glasses of the world, suddenly enwrappeth us in his
snares. We see not the nets indeed ; it is too much
that we shall feel them, and that they are not so easily
escaped after, as before avoided. 0 Lord, keep thou
mine eyes from beholding vanity. And though mine
eyes see it, let not my heart stoop to it, but lothe it
afar off. And if I stoop at any time and be taken, set
thou my soul at Hberty, that I may say. My soul is es-
caped, even as a bird out of the snare of the fowler — the
snare is broken and I am delivered.
XXVI.
In suffering evil, to look to secondary causes without
CENTURY II.
49
respect to the highest, uiaketh impatience — for so we
bite at the stone and neglect him that threw it. If we
take a blow at our equal, we return it with usury ; if of
a prince, we repine not. "What matter is it, if God kill
me, whether lie do it by an ague, or by the hand of a
tyrant ? Again, in expectation of good, to look to the
first cause, without care of the second, argues idleness
and causeth want. As we cannot help ourselves with-
out God, so God will not ordinarily help us without our-
selves. In both, I will look up to God, without repin-
ing at the means in one or trusting them in the other.
XXVII.
If my money were another man's, I could but keep
it: only the expending shows it my own. It is greater
glory, comfort and gain to lay it out well than to keep it
safely. God hath made me not his treasurer, but his
stewai'd.
XXVIII.
Augustine's friend Nebridius, not unjustly, hated a
short answer to a weighty and difficult question ; be-
cause the disquisition of great truths requires time, and
the determining is perilous. I will as much hate a
tedious and far-fetched answer to a short and easy ques-
tion. For as that other wrongs the truth, so this the
hearer.
XXIX.
Performance is a binder. I will request no more fa-
vor of any man than I must needs. I will rather choose
4
50
MEDITATIONS AKD VQ-WS.
to make an honest shift, than over-much enthrall myself
by being beholding.
XXX.
The world is a stage ; every man an actor, and plays
his part here, either in a comedy or tragedy. The good
man is a comedian — which, however he begins, ends
merrily : but the wicked man acts a tragedy, and there-
fore ever ends in horror. Thou scest a wicked man
vaunt himself on this stage. Stay till the last act, and
look to his end as David did, and see whether that be
peace. Thou wouldst make strange tragedies if thou
wouldst have but one act. Who sees an ox grazing in
a fat and rank pasture, and thinks not that he is near to
the slaughter? — whereas the lean beast, that toils under
the yoke, is far enough from the shambles. Tlie best
wicked man cannot be so envied in his first shows, as he
is pitiable in the conclusion.
XXXI.
Of all objects of beneficence, I will choose either an
old man or a child ; because these are most out of hope
to requite. The one forgets a good turn ; the other
lives not to repay it.
XXXII.
That which Pythagoras said of philosophers, is more
true of Christians ; — for Christianity is nothing but a
divine and better philosophy. Three sorts of men come
to the market — buyers, sellers, lookers on. The two
first are both busy and carefully distracted about their
CENTUET II.
51
market : only the third live happily, using the world as
if they used it not.
xxxni.
There be three things which, of all other, I will never
strive for ; — the wall, the way, the best seat. If I de-
serve well, a low place cannot disparage me so much as
I shall grace it ; if not, the height of my place shall add
to my shame, whiles every man shall condemn me of
pride matched with unworthiness.
XXXIV.
I see there is not so much difference betwixt a man
and a beast, as betwixt a Christian and a natural man.
For whereas man lives but one life of reason above the
beast, a Christian lives four lives above a natural man ;
— the life of inchoate regeneration by grace ; the peifect
life of imputed righteousness ; the hfe of gloiy begun, in
the separation of the soul ; the life of perfect glory, in
the society of the body with the soul in full happiness :
— the worst whereof is better by many degrees than the
best life of a natural man. For whereas the dignity of
the life is measured by the cause of it — in which regard
the life of the plant is basest, because it is but from the
juice arising from the root, administered by the earth ;
the life of the brute creature better than it, because
it is sensitive : of a man better than it, because rea-
sonable— and the cause of this life is the spirit of God ;
so far as the sjiirit of God is above reason, so far doth a
Christian exceed a mere naturalist. I thank God much
that he hath made me a man ; but more, that he hath
made me a Christian : — without which, I know not
52 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
whether it had been better for me to have been a beast,
or not to have been.
XXXV.
Great men's favors, friends' promises, and dead men's
shoes, I will esteem, but not trust to.
XXXVL
It is a fearful thing to sin ; more fearful to delight in
sin ; yet worse than worst, to boast of it. If therefore I
cannot avoid sin, because I am a man, yet I will avoid
the delight, defence and boasting of sin, because I am a
Christian.
xxxvn.
Those things which ai-e most eagerly desired, are
most hardly both gotten and kept — God commonly cross-
ing our desires in what we are over-ferA'ent. I will
therefore account all things as too good to have, so no-
thing too dear to lose.
xxxvni.
A true friend is not born every day. It is best to be
courteous to all, entire with few. So may we, perhaps,
have less cause of joy — I am sure, less occasion of
sorrow.
xxxix.
Secrecies, as they are a burden to the mind ere they
be uttered, so are they no less charge to the receiver
when they are uttered. I will not long after more in-
ward secrets, lest I should procure doubt to myself and
CENTURY II.
53
jealous fear to the discloser : but as my mouth shall be
shut with fidelity, not to blab them, so my ear shall not
be too open to receive them.
XL.
As good physicians by one receipt make way for an-
other, so is it the safest course in practice. I will re-
veal a great secret to none, but whom I have found
faithful in less.
XLI.
I will enjoy all things in God, and God in all things ;
nothing in itself : so shall my joys neither change nor
perish. For however the things themselves may alter
or fade, yet He in whom they are mine, is ever like
himself, constant and everlasting.
XLU.
If I would provoke myself to contentation, I will cast
down my eyes to my inferiors, and there see better men
in worse condition : if to humility, I will cast them up to
my betters ; and so much more deject myself to them,
by how much more I see them thought worthy to be re-
spected of others, and deserve better in themselves.
XLUI.
True virtue rests in the conscience of itself, either for
reward or censure. If therefore I know myself upright,
false rumors shall not daunt me : if not answerable to
the good report of my favorers, I will myself find the
first fault, that I may prevent the shame of others.
54 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
XLIV.
I will account virtue the best riches, knowledge the
next, riches the worst : and therefore will labor to be
virtuous and learned, without condition. As for riches,
if they fall in my way, I refuse them not ; but if not I
desire them not.
XLV.
An honest word I account better than a careless oath.
I will say nothing but what I dare swear, and will per-
form. It is a shame for a Christian to abide his tongue
a false servant, or his mind a loose mistress.
XLVI.
There is a just and easy difference to be put betwixt
a friend and an enemy, betwixt a familiar and a friend —
and much good use to be made of all ; but of all, with
discretion. I will disclose myself no whit to my enemy,
somewhat to my friend, wholly to no man — lest I should
be more others' than mine own. Friendship is brittle
stuff. How know I whether he that loves me, may not
hate me hereafter?
XLVII.
No man but is an easy judge of his own matters ; and
lookers-on oftentimes see the more. I will therefore
submit myself to others in what I am reproved, but in
what I am praised, only to myself.
CENTURY II.
55
XLVIII.
I will not be so merry as to forget God, nor so sor-
rowful to forget myself.
XLIX.
As notbing makes so strong and mortal hostility as
discord in religions, so nothing in the world unites men's
hearts so firmly as the bond of faith. For whereas
there are three grounds of friendship — virtue, pleasure,
profit ; and, by all confessions, that is the surest which
is upon virtue, it must needs follow that what is ground-
ed on the best and most heavenly virtue, must be the
fastest : which as it unites man to God, so inseparably
that no tentations, no torments, not all the gates of hell
can sever him ; so it unites one Christian soul to anoth-
er so firmly that no outward occurrences, no imperfec-
tions in the party loved, can dissolve them. If I love
not the child of God, for his own sake, for his Father's
sake, more than my friend for my commodity, or my
kinsman for blood, I never received any spark of true
heavenly love.
L.
The good duty that is deferred upon a conceit of pres-
ent unfitness, at last grows irksome, and thereupon al-
together neglected. I will not suffer my heart to en-
tertain the least thought of lothness towards the task of
devotion, wherewith I have stinted myself; but violent-
ly break thorough any motion of unwillingness, not with-
out a deep check to myself, for my backwardness.
56
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
LI.
Hearing is a sense of great apprehension, yet far
more subject to deceit than seeing — not in the manner
of apprehending, but in the uncertainty of the object.
Words are vocal interpreters of the mind — actions, real :
and therefore however both should speak according to
the truth of what is in the heart, yet words do more be-
lie the heart, than actions. I care not what words I hear,
when I see deeds. I am sure what a man doth, he thinketh
— not so, always, what he speaketh. Though I will not
be so severe a censor that for some few evil acts I should
condemn a man of false-heartedness, yet, in common
course of life I need not be so mopish as not to believe
rather the language of the hand than of the tongue. He
that says well and doth well, is without exception, com-
mendable ; but if one of these must be severed from the
other, I like him well that doth well, and saith nothing.
LU.
That which is said of the pelican — that when the shep-
herds, in desire to catch her, lay fire not far from her
nest, which she finding and fearing the danger of her
■young, seeks to blow out with her wings, so long till she
burn herself and makes herself a prey in an unwise pity
to the young — I see morally verified in experience, of
those which indiscreetly meddling with the flame of dis-
sension kindled in the church, rather increase than quench
it ; rather fire their own wings than help others. I had
rather bewail the fire afar off, than stir in the coals of
it. I would not grudge my ashes to it, if those might
abate the burning ; but since I see this is daily increased
CENTURY II.
57
with partaking, 1 will behold it with sorrow, and meddle
no otherwise than by prayers to God and entreaties to
men ; seeking my own safety and the peace of the
church, in the freedom of my thought and silence of my
tongue.
LIU.
That which is said of Lucilla's faction — that anger
bred it, pride fostered it, and covetousness confirmed it
— is true of all schisms, though with some inversion.
For the most are bred tlu-ough pride — whiles men, upon
an high conceit of themselves, scorn to go in the com-
mon road, and affect singularity in opinion, — are con-
firmed through anger — whiles they stomach and grudge
any contradiction, — and are nourished through covetous-
ness,— whiles they seek ability to bear out their part.
In some others, again, covetousness obtains the first
place, anger the second, pride the last. Herein there-
fore I have been always wont to commend and admire
the humility of those great and profound wits, whom
depth of knowledge hath not led to by-paths in judg-
ment, but, walking in the beaten path of the church,
have bent all their forces to the estabhshment of received
truths : accounting it greater glory to confirm an ancient
verity than to devise a new opinion, though never so
profitable, unknown to their predecessors. I will not
reject a truth, for mere novelty : — old truths may come
newly to light, neither is God tied to times for the gift
of his illumination — but I will suspect a novel opinion of
untruth ; and not entertain it, unless it may be deduced
from ancient grounds.
58
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
LIV.
The ear and the eye are the mind's receivers ; but
the tongue is only busied in expending the treasure re-
ceived. If therefore the revenues of the mind be utter-
ed as fast or faster than they are received, it cannot be
but that the mind must needs be held bare, and can nev-
er lay up for purchase. But if the receivers take in
still with no utterance, the mind may soon grow a bur-
den to itself, and unprofitable to others. I will not lay
up too much and utter nothing, lest I be covetous ; nor
spend much and store up little, lest I be prodigal and
poor.
LV.
It is a vainglorious flattery for a man to praise him-
self ; an envious wrong to detract from others. I will
therefore speak no ill of others, no good of myself.
LVI.
That which is the misery of travelers — to find many
hosts and few friends — is the estate of Christians in
their pilgrimage to a better life. Good friends may not
therefore be easily foregone : neither must they be used
as suits of apparel ; which, when we have worn thread-
bare, we cast off, and call for new. Kothing but death
or villainy shall divorce me from an old friend ; but still
I will follow him so far as is either possible or honest,
and then I will leave him with sorrow.
LVU.
True friendship necessarily requires patience. For
CENTURY II.
59
there is no man in whom I shall not misHke somewhat,
and who shall not as justly mislike somewhat in me.
My friend's faults therefore, if little, I will swallow and di-
gest ; if great I will smother ihem. However, I will wink
at them to others, but lovingly notify them to himself.
LVIII.
Injuries hurt not more in the receiving than in the
remembrance. A small injury shall go as it comes ;
a great injury may dine or sup with me ; but none at
all shall lodge with me. Why should I vex myself, be-
cause another hath vexed me ?
LIX.
It is good dealing with that over which we have the
most power. If my state will not be framed to my mind,
I will labor to frame my mind to my estate.
LX.
It is a great misery to be either always, or never,
alone. Society of men hath not so much gain as dis-
traction. In greatest company, I will be alone to my-
self ; in greatest privacy, in company with God.
LXI.
Grief for things past that cannot be remedied, and
care for things to come that cannot be prevented, may
easily hurt, can never benefit me. I will therefore com-
mit myself to God in both, and enjoy the present.
LXII.
Let my estate be never so mean, I will ever keep
60
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
myself rather beneath, than either level or above it. A
man may rise, whea he will, with honor ; but cannot fall
without shame.
LXIIL
Nothing doth so befool a man as extreme passion.
This doth both make them fools which otherwise are not,
and show them to be fools that are so. Violent passions,
if I cannot tame them that they may yield to my ease,
I will at least smother them by concealment, that they
may not appear to my shame.
LXIV.
The mind of man, though infinite in desire, yet is
finite in capacity. Since I cannot hope to know all things,
I will labor first to know what I needs must, for their
use ; next, what I best may, for their convenience.
LXV.
Though time be precious to me — as all irrevocable
good things deserve to be — and of all other things, I
would not be lavish of it, yet I will account no time lost,
that is either lent to, or bestowed upon, my friend.
LXVI.
The practices of the best men are more subject to
error than their speculations. I will honor good exam-
ples ; but I will live by good precepts.
LXVII.
As charity requires forgetfulness of evil deeds, so pa-
CENTURY II.
61
tlence requires forgetfulness of evil accidents. I will
remember evils past, to humble me, not to vex me.
LXVIII.
It is both a misery and a shame for a man to be a
bankrupt in love ; which he may easily pay, and be
never the more impoverished. I will be in no man's
debt for good will ; but will at least return every man
his own measure, if not with usury. It is much better
to be a creditor than a debtor, in any thing, but espe-
cially of this. Yet of this, I will so be content to be a
debtor, that I will always be paying it where I owe it ;
and yet never will have so paid it, that I shall not owe
it more.
LXIX.
The Spanish proverb is too true — ' Dead men and
absent find no friends.' All mouths are boldly opened
with a conceit of impunity. My ear shall be no grave,
to bury my friend's good name. But as I will be my
present friend's self, so will I be my absent friend's dep-
uty, to say for him what he would, and cannot, speak
for himself.
LXX.
The loss of my friend, as it shall moderately grieve
me, so it shall another way much benefit me, in recom-
pense of his want, for it shall make me think more often
and seriously, of earth and of heaven. Of earth, for his
body which is reposed in it ; of heaven, for his soul
which possesseth it before me ; of earth, to put me in
62
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
mind of my like frailty and mortality ; of heaven, to make
me desire and, after a sort, emulate his happiness and
glory,
LXXI.
Variety of objects is wont to cause distraction ; when
again a little one laid close to the eye, if but of a penny
breadth, wholly takes up the sight, which could else see
the whole half heaven at once. I will have the eyes of
my mind ever forestalled and filled with these two ob-
jects— the shortness of my life ; eternity after death.
LXXII.
I see that he is more happy that hath nothing to lose,
than he that loseth that which lie hath. I will therefore
neither hope for riches, nor fear poverty.
LXXIII.
I care not so much, in anything, for multitude as for
choice. Books and friends I will not have many : I
had rather seriously converse with a few, than wander
amongst many.
LXXIV.
The wicked man is a very coward and is afraid of
everything. Of God, because He is his enemy ; of
Satan, because he is his tormentor ; of God's creatures,
because they, joining with their Maker, fight against
him ; of himself, because he bears about him his own
accuser and executioner. The godly man, contrarily,
is afraid of nothing. Not of God, because he knows
Him his best friend and therefore will not hurt him ;
CENTURY II.
63
not of Satan, because he cannot hurt him ; not of afflic-
tions, because he knows they proceed from a loving God
and end to his ovvn good ; not of the creatures, since
the very stones of the field are in league with him ; not
of himself, since his conscience is at peace. A wicked
man may be secure, because he knoweth not what he
hath to fear ; or desperate, through extremity of fear ;
but truly courageous he cannot be. Faithlessness can-
not choose but be false hearted. I will ever by my cour-
age take trial of my faitli. By how much more I fear,
by so much less I believe.
LXXV.
The godly man lives hardly, and — like the ant — toils
here during the summer of his peace, holding himself
short of his pleasures, as looking to provide for an hard
winter, which, when it comes, he is able to wear it out
comfortably : whereas the wicked man doth prodigally
lash out all his joys in the time of his prosperity, and —
like the grasshopper — singing merrily all summer, is
starved in winter. I will so enjoy the present, that I
will lay up more for hereafter.
LXXVI.
I have wondered oft and blushed for shame, to read
in mere philosophers — which had no other mistress but
nature — such strange resolution in the contempt of both
fortunes, as they call them ; such notable precepts for a
constant settledness and tranquillity of mind ; and to
compare it with my own disposition and practice — whom
I have found too much drooping and dejected under
small crosses, and easily again carried away with little
64 MEDITATIOXS AND VOWS.
prosperity : — to see such courage and strength to con-
temn death, in those which thought they wholly perish-
ed in death : and to find such faint-heartedness in my-
self at the first conceit of death, who yet am thoroughly
persuaded of the future happiness of my soul. I have
the benefit of nature, as well as they ; besides infinite
other helps that they wanted. Oh the dullness and bUnd-
ness of us unworthy Christians ! that sufier heathens,
by the dim candle-light of nature, to go further than we
by the clear sun of the gospel — that an indifferent man
could not tell by our practice, whether were the pagan.
Let me never for shame account myself a Christian, un-
less my art of Christianity have imitated and gone be-
yond nature so far that I can find the best heathen as far
below me in true resolution, as the vulgar sort were below
them. Else, I may shame religion ; it can neither hon-
est nor help me.
LXXVIl
If I would be irreligious and unconscionable, I would
make no doubt to be rich. For if a man will defraud,
dissemble, forswear, bribe, oppress, serve the time, make
use of all men for his own turn, make no scruple of any
wicked action for his advantage ; I cannot see how he
can escape wealth and preferment. But for an upright
man to rise is difficult ; while his conscience straightly
curbs him in from every unjust action, and will not al-
low him to advance himself by indirect means. So
riches come seldom easily to a good man, seldom hardly
to the conscienceless. Happy is that man that can be
rich with truth, or poor with contentment, I will not
envy the gravel in the unjust man's throat Of riches,
CENTURY II.
65
let me nevei" Lave more tlian an honest man can bear
away.
LXXVIII.
God is tlie God of order, not of confusion. As there-
fore in natural things, he useth to proceed from one ex-
treme to another by degrees, through the mean, so doth he
in spiritual. The sun riseth not at once to his highest,
from the darkness of midnight ; but first sends forth some
feeble glimmering of light in the dawning ; then looks
out with weak and waterish beams ; and so by degrees
ascends to the midst of heaven. So in the seasons of
the year — we are not one day scorched with a summer
heat, and on the next, frozen with a sudden extremity
of cold. But winter comes on softly ; first by cold dews,
then hoar frosts, until at last it descend to the hardest
weather of all. Such are God's spiritual proceedings ;
He never brings any man from the estate of sin to the
estate of glory, but through the estate of grace. And as
for grace, he seldom brings a man from gross wicked-
ness to any eminence of perfection. I will be chai-itably
jealous of these men, which, from notorious lewdness
leap at once into a sudden forwardness of profession.
Holiness doth not — like Jonah's gourd — grow up in a
night. I like it better to go on soft and sure, than for
an hasty fit to run myself out of wind, and after, stand
still and breathe me.
LXXIX.
It hath been said of old — To do well and hear ill, is
princely. Which, as it is most true, by reason of the
envy which follows upon justice, so is the contrary no
5
66
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
less justified by many experiments. To do ill and to
hear well, is the fashion of many great men. To do ill,
because they are borne out with the assurance of impu-
nity ; to hear well, because of abundance of pariisites,
which as ravens to a carcass, gather about great men.
Neither is there any so great misery in greatness as this,
that it conceals men from themselves ; and when they
will needs have a sight of their own actions, it shows
them a false glass to look in. Meanness of state — that
I can find — hath none so great inconvenience. I am no
whit sorry that I am rather subject to contempt than
flattery.
LXXX.
There is no earthly blessing so precious as health of
body : without which, aU other worldly good things are
but troublesome. Neither is there anything more difii-
cult than to have a good soul in a strong and vigorous
body ; for it is commonly seen that the worse part draws
away the better. But to have an healthful and sound
soul in a weak, sickly body, is no novelty ; whiles the
weakness of the body is an help to the soul, playing the
part of a perpetual monitor to incite it to good and check
it for evil. I will not be over-glad of health, nor over-
feai'ful of sickness. I will more fear the spiritual hurt that
may follow upon health, than the bodily pain that ac-
companies sickness.
LXXXI.
There is nothing more troublesome to a good mind,
than to do nothing. For besides the furtherance of our
estate, the mind doth both delight and better itself with
CENTURY II.
67
exercise. There is but this difference then betwixt la-
bor and idleness, that labor is a profitable and pleasant
trouble ; idleness, a trouble both unprofitable and com-
fortless. I will be ever doing something ; that either
God when he cometh, or Satan when he tcmpteth, may
find me busied. And yet, since — as the old proverb is
— better it is to be idle, than effect nothing, I will not
more hate doing nothing, than doing something to no
purpose. I shall do good but a while ; let me strive to
do it while I may.
Lxxxn.
A faithful man hath three eyes — the first, of sense,
common to him with brute creatures ; the second, of rea-
son, common to all men ; the third, of faith, proper to
his profession — whereof each looketh beyond other, and
none of them meddleth with others' objects. For nei-
ther doth the eye of sense reach to intelligible things and
matters of discourse ; nor the eye of reason to those
things which are supernatural and spiritual ; neither doth
faith look down to things that may be sensibly seen. If
thou discourse to a brute beast, of the depths of philoso-
phy, never so plainly, he understands not, because they
are beyond the view of his eye, which is only of sense.
If to a mere carnal man, of divine things, he perceiveth
not the things of God ; neither indeed can do, because
they are spiritually discerned. And therefore no wonder
if those things seem unlikely, incredible, impossible to
him, which the faithful man — having a proportionable
means of apprehension — doth as plainly see, as his eye
doth any sensible thing. Tell a plain countryman that
the sun, or some higher or lesser star, is much bigger
68 MEDITATIONS AND VOW
than his cart-wheel, or at least so many scores bigger
than the whole earth ; he laughs thee to scorn, as af-
fecting admiration with a learned untruth. Yet the
scholar, by the eye of reason, doth as plainly see and ac-
knowledge this truth, as that his hand is bigger than his
pen. What a thick mist, yea what a palpable and more
than Egyptian darkness doth the natural man live in !
What a world is there that he doth not see at all ! And
how little doth he see in this, which is his proper ele-
ment ! There is no bodily thing, but the brute crea-
tures see as well as be — and some of them better. As
for his eye of reason, how dim it is in those things which
are best fitted to it ! What one thing is there in nature,
which he doth perfectly know ? What herb, or flower,
or worm that he treads on, is there, whose true essence
he knoweth ? No, not so much as what is in his own
bosom — what it is, where it is, or whence it is, that gives
being to himself. But for those things which concern
the best world, he doth not so much as confusedly see
them, neither knoweth whether they be. He sees no
whit into the great and awful majesty of Grod. He dis-
cerns Him not in all His creatures, filling the world with
His infinite and glorious presence. He sees not his
wise providence, overruling all things, disposing all cas-
ual events, ordering all sinful actions of men to His own
glory. He comprehends nothing of the beauty, majes-
ty, power and mercy of the Saviour of the world, sitting
in his humanity at his Father's right hand. He sees
not the unspeakable happiness of the glorified souls of
the saints. He sees not the whole heavenly common-
wealth of angels, ascending and descending to the be-
hoof of God's children, waiting upon him at all times in-
CENTURY II.
69
visibly — not excluded with closeness of prisons nor deso-
lateness of wildernesses — and the multitude of evil spirits
passing and standing by him to tempt him unto evil :
but, like unto the foolish bird, when he hath hid his
head that he sees nobody, he thinks himself altogether
unseen ; and then counts himself solitary, when his eye
can meet with no companion. It was not without cause
that we call a mere fool, a natural. For however
worldlings have still thought Christians God's fools,
we know them the fools of the world. The deep-
est philosopher that ever was — saving the reverence of
the schools — is but an ignorant sot to the simplest
Christian. For the weakest Christian may, by plain
information, see somewhat into the greatest mysteries
of nature, because he hath the eye of reason, common
with the best : but the best philosopher, by all the de-
monstration in the world, can conceive nothing of the
mysteries of godliness, because he utterly wants the eye
of faith. Though my insight into matters of the world
be so shallow that my simplicity moveth pity, or maketh
sport unto others, it shall be my contentment and happi-
ness that I see further into better matters. That which
I see not, is worthless, and deserveth little better than
contempt. That which I see, is unspeakable, inestima-
ble, for comfort, for glory.
Lxxxm.
It is not possible for an inferior to live at peace, un-
less he have learned to be contemned. For the pride of
his superiors and the malice of his equals and inferiors
shall offer him continual and inevitable occasions of un-
quietness. As contentation is the mother of inward
70 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
peace with ourselves, so is humility the mother of peace
with others. For if thou be vile in thine own eyes first,
it shall the less trouble thee to be accounted vile of oth-
ers. So that a man of an high heart, in a low place,
cannot want discontentment ; whereas a man of lowly
stomach can swallow and digest contempt without any
distemper. For wherein can he be the worse for being
contemned, who out of his own knowledge of his deserts,
did most of all contemn himself? I should be very im-
provident, if in this calling I did not look for daily con-
tempt, wherein we are made a sjiectacle to the world, to
angels, and men. When it comes, I will either embrace
it or contemn it — embrace it when it is within my mea-
sure ; when above, contemn it. So embrace it, that I
may more humble myself under it ; and so contemn it,
that I may not give heart to him that offers it, nor dis-
grace him for whom I am contemned.
LXXXIV.
Christ raised three dead men to life — one newly de-
parted, another on the bier, a third smelling in the grave
—to show us that no degree of death is so desperate
that it is past help- My sins are many and great ; yet
if they were more, they are far below the mercy of him
that hath remitted them, and the value of his ransom
that hath paid for them. A man hurts himself most by
presumption ; but we cannot do God a greater wrong
than to despair of forgiveness. It is a double injury to
Grod ; first, that we offend his justice by sinning ; then,
that we wrong his mei'cy with despairing and so forth.
CENTUKT II.
71
LXXXV.
For a man to be weary of the world, through mise-
ries that he meets with, and for that cause to covet death,
is neither ditficult nor commendable ; but rather argues
a base weakness of mind. So it may be a cowardly
part, to contemn the utmost of all terrible things, in a
fear of lingering misery ; but for a man either living
happily here on earth or resolving to live miserably, yet
to desire his removal to heaven, doth well become a true
Christian courage, and argues a noble mixture of pa-
tience and faith. Of patience, for that he can and dare
abide to live sorrowfully; of faith, for that he is assured
of his better being other-vvhere, and therefore prefers
the absent joys he looks for, to those he feels in present.
No sorrow shall make me wish myself dead, that I may
not be at all. No contentment shall hinder me from
wishing myself with Christ, that I may be happier.
LXXXVI.
It was not for nothing, that the wise Creator of all
things hath placed gold and silver and all precious min-
erals under our feet to be trod upon, and hath hid
them low in the bowels of the earth, that they cannot
without great labor be either found or gotten ; whereas
he hath placed the noblest part of his creation above our
heads, and that so open to our view that we cannot
choose but every moment behold them. AVherein, what
did he else intend, but to draw away our minds from
these worthless and yet hidden treasures — to which he
foresaw we would be too much addicted — and to call
them to the contemplation of those better things which
72 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
— beside their beauty — are more obvious to us, that in
them we might see and admire the glory of their Maker
and withal seek our own ? How do those men wrong
themselves and misconstrue God, who — as if he had
hidden these things because he would have them sought,
and laid the other open for neglect — bend themselves
wholly to the seeking of these earthly commodities, and
do no more mind heaven than if there were none I If
we could imagine a beast to have reason, how could he be
more absurd in his choice ? How easy is it to observe,
that still the higher we go, the more purity and perfec-
tion we find ! — So earth is the very dross and dregs of
all the elements ; water somewhat more pure than it,
yet also more feculent than the air above it; the lower
air less pure than his uppermost regions ; and yet these
as far inferior to the lowest heavens ; which again are
more exceeded by the glorious and empyreal seat of
God, which is the heaven of the just. — ^Yet these brutish
men take up their rest, and place their felicity, in the
lowest and worst of all God's workmanship ; not regard-
ing that which with its own glory can make them hap-
py. Heaven is the proper place of my soul. I will send
it up thither continually in my thoughts, whiles it so-
journs with me, before it go to dwell there forever.
LXXXVII.
A man need not to care for more knowledge than to
know himself; he needs no more pleasure than to con-
tent himself; no more victory than to overcome him-
self; no more riches than to enjoy himself. "WTiat fools
are they that seek to know all other things, and are
strangers in themselves ; that seek altogether to satisfy
CENTURY II.
73
other men's humours, with their own displeasure ; that
seek to vanquisli kingdoms and countries, when they are
not masters of themselves ; that have no hold of their
own hearts, yet seek to be possessed of all outward com-
modities. Go home to thyself first, vain heart, and when
thou hast made sure work there — in knowing, content-
ing, overcoming, enjoying thyself — ^spend all the super-
fluity of thy time and labor upon others.
Lxxxvin.
It was an excellent rule that fell from the epicure —
whose name is odious to us, for the father of looseness —
that if a man would be rich, honorable, aged, he should
not strive so much to add to his wealth, reputation,
years, as to detract from his desires. For certainly in
these things which stand most upon conceit, he hath the
most, that desireth least. A poor man that hath little
and desires no more, is in truth richer than the greatest
monarch, that thinketh he hath not what he should, or
what he might, or that grieves there is no more to have.
It is not necessity, but ambition, that sets men's hearts
on the rack. If I have meat, drink, apparel I will learn
therewith to be content. If I had the world full of
wealth beside, I could enjoy no more than I use ; the
rest could please me no otherwise but by looking on.
And why can I not thus solace myself while it is
others' ?
LXXXIX.
An inconstant and wavering mind, as it makes a man
unfit for society — for that there can be no assurance of
liis words or purposes, neither can we build on them
74 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
without deceit — so, besides that it makes a man ridicu-
lous, it hinders him from ever attaining any perfection
in himself— for a rolling stone gathers no moss, and the
mind, while it would be everything, proves nothing : oft
changes cannot be without loss — yea, it keeps him from
enjoying that which he hath attained. For it keeps him
ever in work ; building, pulling down, selling, changing,
buying, commanding, forbidding. So, whiles he can be
no other man's friend, he is the least his own. It is the
safest course for a man's profit, credit and ease, to dehbe-
rate long, to resolve surely ; hardly to alter ; not to enter
upon that whose end he foresees not answerable ; and
when he is once entered, not to surcease till he have at-
tained the end he foresaw. So may he to good purpose
begin a new work, when he hath well finished the old.
XC.
The way to heaven is like that which Jonathan and
his armor-bearer passed, betwixt two rocks, one Bozez,
the other Seneh — that is, foul and thorny — whereto we
must make shift to climb on our hands and knees ; but
when we are come up, there is victory and triumph.
God's children have three suits of apparel ; whereof
two are worn daily on earth, the third laid up for them
in the wardrobe of heaven. They are ever either in
black, mourning ; in red, persecuted ; or in white, glori-
ous. Any way shall be pleasant to me, that leads unto
such an end. It matters not what rags or what colors I
wear with men, so I may walk with my Saviour iu white,
and reign with him in glory.
CENTURY II.
75
XCI.
There is nothing more easy than to say divinity by
rote, and to discourse of spiritual matters from the tongue
or pen of otliers ; but to hear God speak it to the soul,
and to feel the power of religion in ourselves, and to ex-
press it out of the truth of experience within, is both
rare and hard. All that we feel not in the matters of
God, is but hypocrisy ; and therefore the more we pro-
fess, the more we sin. It will never be well with me,
till in these greatest things I be careless of others' cen-
sures, fearful only of God's and my own ; till sound ex-
perience have really catechised my heart, and made me
know God and my Saviour otherwise than by words.
I will never be quiet till I can see and feel and taste
God. My hearing I will account as only serving to ef-
fect this, and my speech only to express it.
XCII.
There is no enemy can hurt us, but by our own hands.
Satan could not hurt us, if our own corruption betrayed
us not ; afllictions cannot hurt us, without our own im-
patience ; teiitations cannot hurt us, without our own
yieldance ; death could not hurt us, without the sting of
our own sins ; sin could not hurt us, without our own
impenitence. IIow might I defy all things, if I could
obtain not to be my own enemy ! I love myself too
much, and yet not enough. 0 God, teach me to wish
myself but so well as thou wishest me, and I am safe.
XCIII.
It grieves me to see all other creatures so officious
76
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
to their Maker in tlieir kind ; that both winds and sea,
and heaven, and earth, obey him with all readiness ;
that each of these hears other, and all of them their
Creator, though to the destruction of themselves ; and
man only is rebellious ; imitating herein the evil spirits,
who, in the receipt of a more excellent kind of reason,
are yet more perverse. Hence it is that the prophets
are oft times fain to turn their speech to the earth void
of all sense and Ufe, from this living earth informed with
reason. That only which should make us more phable,
stiffeneth us. God could force us, if he pleased ; but he
had rather incline us by gentleness. I must stoop to his
power — why do I not stoop to his will ? It is a vain
thing to resist His voice, whose hand we cannot resist.
XCIV.
As all natural bodies are mixed, so must all our moral
disposition : no simple passion doth well. If our joy be
not allayed with sorrow, it is madness ; and if our sor-
row be not tempered with some mixture of joy, it is
hellish and desperate. If in these earthly things, we
hope without all doubt, or fear without all hope, we of-
fend on both sides. If we labor without all recreation,
we grow dull and heartless ; if we sport ourselves with-
out all labor, we grow wild and unprofitable. These com-
positions are wholesome, as for the body, so for the mind ;
which, though it be not of a compounded substance, as
the body, yet hath much variety of qualities and affec-
tions, and those contraiy to each other. I care not how
simple my heavenly affections are ; which, the more
free they are from composition, are the nearer to God ;
nor how compounded my earthly, which are easily sub-
CENTURY II.
77
ject to extremities. If joy come alone, I will ask him
for his fellow ; and evermore, in spite of him, couple
him with his contrary ; that so while each are enemies
to other, both may be friends to me.
xcv.
Joy and sorrow are hard to conceal — as from the
countenance, so from the tongue. There is so much
correspondence betwixt the heart and tongue, that they
will move at once. Every man therefore speaks of his
own pleasure and care : — the hunter and falconer, of his
games ; the ploughman, of his team ; the soldier, of his
march and colors. If the heart were as full of God, the
tongue could not refi'ain to talk of him. The rareness
of Christian communication argues the common poverty
of grace. If Christ be not in our hearts, we are godless ;
if he be there without our joy, we are senseless ; if we
rejoice in him and speak not of him, we are shamefully
unthankful. Every man taketh, yea raiseth, occasion
to bring in speech of what he liketh. As I will think
of thee always, O Lord, so it shall be my joy to speak
of thee often ; and if I find not opportunity, I will
make it.
XCVI.
"Wlien I see my Saviour hanging in so forlorn a fash-
ion upon the cross ; his head drooping down, his tem-
ples bleeding witli thorns, his hands and feet with the
nails, and side with the spear : his enemies round about
him, mocking at his shame, and insuUing over his im-
potence ; how should I think any otherwise of him, than
— as himself complaineth — forsaken of his Father?
78 MEDITATIONSANDVOWS.
But when again I turn mine eyes and see the sun dark-
ened, the earth quaking, the rocks rent, the graves open-
ed, the thief confessing, to give witness to his deity ; and
when I see so strong a guard of providence over him,
that all his maUcious enemies are not able so much as to
break one bone of that body which seemed carelessly
neglected ; I cannot but wonder at his glory and safety.
God is ever near, though oft unseen ; and if he wink at
our distress, he sleepeth not. The sense of others must
not be judges of his presence and care, but our faith.
What care I if the world give me up for miserable,
whiles I am under his secret protection ? 0 Lord, since
thou art strong in our weakness, and present in our
senselessness, give me but as much comfort in my sor-
row, as thou givest me security, and at my worst I shall
be well.
XCVII.
In sins and afflictions, our course must be contrary ;
we must begin to detest the greatest sin first, and de-
scend to the hatred of the least ; we must first begin to
suffer small afflictions with patience, that we may ascend
to the endurance of the greatest. Then alone shall I be
happy, when, by this holy method, I have drawn my
soul to make conscience of the least evil of sin, and not
to shrink at the greatest evil of affliction.
XCVIII.
Prescription is no plea against the king ; much less
can long custom plead for error against that our supreme
Lord, to whom a thousand years are but as yesterday : —
yea. Time, which pleads voluntai-ily for continuance of
CENTURY II.
79
things lawful, will take no fee not to speak against an evil
use. Hath an ill custom lasted long ? It is more than time
it were abrogated : ageis an aggravation to sin. Heresy or
abuse, if it be grey-headed, deserves sharper opposition.
To say, I will do ill because I have done so, is perilous and
impious presumption. Continuance can no more make
any wickedness safe, than the author of sin, no devil. If
I have once sinned, it is too much ; if oft, woe be to me
if the iteration of my offence cause boldness, and not
rather more sorrow, more detestation : woe be to me
and my sin, if I be not the better because I have sinned.
XCIX.
It is strange to see the varieties and proportions of
spiritual and bodily diets. There be some creatures
that are fatted and delighted with poisons ; others hve
by nothing but air ; and some, they say, by fire. Others
will taste no water but muddy ; others feed on their fel-
lows, or, perhaps, on part of themselves ; others, on the
excretions of nobler creatures. Some search into the
earth for sustenance, or dive into the waters ; others
content themselves with what the upper earth yields
them without violence. All these, and more, are an-
swered in the palate of the soul. There be some, yea the
most, to whom sin, — which is of a most venomous na-
ture— ^is both food and dainties ; others, that think it the
only hfe, to feed on the popular air of applause ; others,
that are never well out of the fire of contentions, and
that wilfully trouble all waters with their private hu-
mors and opinions ; others, whose cruelty delights in op-
pression and blood — yea, whose envy gnaws upon their
own hearts ; others, that take pleasure to revive the
80 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
wicked and foul heresies of the greater wits of the for-
mer times ; others, whose worldly minds root altogether
in eai'thly cares ; or who, not content with the ordinary
provision of doctrine, affect obscure subdlties, unknown
to wiser men ; others, whose too indifferent minds feed
on whatever opinion comes next to hand, without any
careful disquisition of truth : — so some feed foul ; others,
but few, clean and wholesome. As there is no beast
upon earth which hath not his like in the sea, and which,
perhaps, is not in some sort paralleled in the planets of
the earth ; so there is no bestial disposition, which is not
answerably found in some men. Mankind therefore
hath within itself his goats, chameleons, salamanders,
camels, wolves, dogs, swine, moles, and whatever sorts
of beasts. There are but a few men amongst men. To
a wise man, the shape is not so much as the qualities.
If I be not a man within, in my choices, affections, incli-
nations, it had been better for me to have been a beast
without. A beast is but like itself ; but an evil man is
half a beast and half a devil.
C.
Forced favors are thankless and commonly with no-
ble minds find no acceptation. For a man to give bis
soul to God, when he sees he can no longer hold it ; or
to bestow his goods, when he is forced to part with
them ; or to forsake his sin, when he cannot follow it ;
are but unkind and cold obediences. God sees our ne-
cessity and scorns our compelled offers. What man of
any generous spirit will abide himself made the last re-
fuge of a craved, denied, and constrained courtesy ?
While God gives me leave to keep my soul, yet then to
CENTURY II.
81
bequeath it to him ; and whiles strength and opportuni-
ty serve me to sin, then to forsake it ; is both accepted
and crowned. God loves neither grudged, nor necessa-
ry gifts : I will offer betimes, that he may vouchsafe to
take : I will give him the best, that he may take all.
O God, give me this grace, that I may give thee my-
self freely and seasonably ; and then I know thou canst
not but accept me, because this gift is thine own.
6
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
CENTURY III
I.
Good men are placed by God as so many stars in
the lower firmament of the world. As they must imi-
tate those heavenly bodies in their light and influence,
so also in their motion. And therefore as the planets
have a course proper to themselves, against the sway of
the heaven that carries them about, so must each good
man have a motion out of his own judgment, contrary to
the customs and opinions of the vulgar ; finishing his
own course with the least show of resistance. I will
never affect singularity, except it be among those that
are vicious. It is better to do or think well, alone, than
to follow a multitude in evil.
n.
What strange variety of actions doth the eye of God
see at once round about the compass of the earth and
within it! Some building houses; some delving for
metals ; some marching in troops, or encamping one
CENTURY III.
83
against another ; some bargaining in the market ; some
traveling on their way ; some praying in their closets ;
others quaffing at the tavern ; some rowing in the gal-
leys ; others dallying in their chambers ; and in short,
as many different actions as persons : yet all have one
common intention of good to themselves — true in some,
but in the most, imaginary. The glorified spirits have
but one uniform work, wherein they all join — the praise
of their Creator. This is one difference betwixt the
saints above and below. They above, are free both
from business and distraction : these below are free —
though not absolutely — from distraction ; not at all from
business. Paul could think of the cloak that he left at
Troas, and of the shaping of his skins for his tents ; yet
through these he looked still at heaven. This world is
made for business. My actions must vary according to
occasions : my end shall be but one, and the same now
on earth that it must be one day in heaven.
m.
To see how the martyrs of God died, and the Ufe of
their persecutors, would make a man out of love with
life, and out of all fear of death. They were flesh and
blood as well as we ; life was as sweet to them as to us ;
their bodies were as sensible of pain as ours ; we go to
the same heaven with them. How comes it then that
they were so courageous in abiding such torments in
their death, as the very mention strikes horror into any
reader, and we are so cowardly in encountering a fair
and natural death ? If this valor had been of themselves
I would never have looked after them in hope of imita-
tion. Now I know it was He for whom they suffered,
84: MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
and that suffered in them, which sustained them. They
were of themselves as weak as I ; and God can be as
strong in me as he was in them. 0 Lord, thou art not
more unable to give me this grace, but I am more un-
worthy to receive it : and yet thou regardest not wor-
thiness, but mercy. Give me their strength, and what
end thou wilt.
IV.
Our first age is all in hope. When we are in the
womb, who knows whether we shall have our right
shape and proportion of body — being neither monstrous
nor deformed ? When we are born, who knows whether
with the due features of a man we shall have the facul-
ties of reason and understanding ? When yet our progress
jn years discovereth wit or folly, who knows whether with
the power of reason we shall have the grace of faith to
be Christians ? And wlien we begin to profess well,
whether it be a temporary and seeming, or a true and
saving faith? Our middle age is half in hope for
the future and half in proof for that is past. Our old
age ii out of hope and altogether in proof In our last
times, therefore, we know both what we have been and
what to expect. It is good for youth to look forward,
and stiO to propound the best things unto itself : for an
old man, to look backward and to repent him of that
wherein he hath failed and to recollect himself for the
present. But in my middle age, I will look both back-
ward and forward, comparing my hopes with my proof,
redeeming the time ere it be all spent, that my recovery
may prevent my repentance. It is both a folly and mis-
ery to say, This I might have done.
CENTURY III.
85
V.
It is the wonderful mercy of Grod, both to forgive us
our debts to him in our sins, and to make himself a debt-
or to us in his promises. So that now both ways the
soul may be sure ; since he neither calleth for those
debts which he hath once forgiven, nor withdraweth
those favors and that heaven which he hath promised :
but as he is a merciful creditor to forgive, so he is a true
debtor to pay whatsoever he hath undertaken. Wlience
it is come to pass that the penitent sinner owes nothing to
God but love and obedience, and God owes still much
and all to him ; for he owes as much as he hath prom-
ised, and what he owes by virtue of his blessed promise,
we may challenge. O infinite mercy ! He that lent
us all that we have, and in whose debt-books we run
hourly forward till the sum be endless, yet owes us more,
and bids us look for payment. I cannot deserve the
least favor he can give ; yet will I as confidently chal-
lenge the greatest, as if I deserved it. Promise indebt-
eth no less than loan or desert.
VI.
It is no small commendation to manage a httle, well.
He is a good wagoner who can turn in a narrow room.
To live well in abundance, is the praise of the estate,
not of the person. I will study more how to give a good
account of my little, than how to make it more.
VII.
Many Christians do greatly wrong themselves with a
dull and heavy kind of sullenness ; who, not suffering
86
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
themselves to delight in any worldly thing, are there-
upon oft times so heartless that they dehght in nothing.
These men, like to careless guests when they are invi-
ted to an excellent banquet, lose their dainties for want
of a stomach, and lose their stomach for want of exer-
cise. A good conscience keeps always good cheer. He
cannot choose but fare well that hath it, unless he lose
his appetite with neglect and slothfulness. It is a shame
for us Christians not to find as much joy in God, as
worldlings do in their forced merriments, and lewd
wretches in the practice of their sins.
vm.
A wise Christian hath no enemies. Many hate and
wrong him, but he loves all men and all pleasure him.
Those that profess love to him, pleasure him with the
comfort of their society and the mutual reflection of
friendship ; those that profess hatred, make him more
wary of his ways, show him faults in himself which his
friends would either not have espied or not censured,
send him the more willingly to seek favor above : and
as the worst do bestead him, though against their wills,
so he again doth voluntarily good to them. To do evil
for evil — as Joab to Abner — is a sinful weakness : to
do good for good — as Ahasuerus to Mordecai — is but
natural justice : To do evil for good — as Judas to Christ
— is unthankfulness and villainy. Only to do good for
evil, agrees with Christian profession ; and what greater
work of friendship than to do good ! If men will not be
my friends in love, I will perforce make them my friends
in a good use of their hatred. I will be their friend, that
are mine and would not be.
CENTURY III.
87
IX.
All temporal things are troublesome : for if we have
good things, it is a trouble to forego them ; and when
we see they must be parted from, either we wish they
had not been so good or that we never had enjoyed them.
Yea, it is more trouble to lose them than it was before
joy to possess them. F, contrarily, we have evil things,
their very presence is troublesome ; and still we wish
that they were good, or that we were disburdened of them.
So good things are troublesome in event, evil things in
their use ; they in the future, these in present : they, be-
cause they shall come to an end ; these, because they do
continue. Tell me thy wife or thy child lies dying and
now makes up a loving and dutiful life with a kind and
loving parture : — whether hadst thou rather, for thy own
part, she had been so good or worse ? "Would it have
cost thee so many hearty sighs and tears if she had been
perverse and disobedient ? Yet, if in her hfetime I put
thee to this choice, thou thinkest it no choice at all in
such inequality. It is more torment, sayest thou, to live
one unquiet month than it is pleasure to live an age in
love. Or if thy life be yet dearer : — thou hast lived to
grey hairs ; not hastened with care, but bred with late
succession of years ; thy table was ever covered with
variety of dishes ; thy back softly and richly clad ; thou
never gavest denial to either skin or stomach ; thou ever
favoredst thyself ; and health, thee. Now death is at
thy threshold and unpartially knocks at thy door, dost
thou not wish thou hadst lived with crusts and been
clothed with rags ? Wouldst not thou have given a bet-
ter welcome to death, if he had found thee lying upon a
88 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
pallet of straw and supping of water-gruel, after many
painful nights and many sides changed in vain ? Yet
this beggarly estate thou detestest in health, and pitiest
in ethers, as truly miserable. The sum is, a beggar
wisheth 'he might be a monarch, while he lives ; and the
great potentate wisheth he had lived a beggar, when he
comes to die ; and if beggary be to have nothing, he
shall be so in death, though he wished it not. Nothing
therefore but eternity can make a man truly happy, as
nothing can make perfect misery but eternity : for as
temporal good things afflict us in their ending, so tempo-
ral sorrows afford us joy in the hope of their end. What
folly is this in us — to seek for our trouble, to neglect
our happiness ! I can be but well ; and this, that I was
well, shall one day be grievous. Nothing shall please
me, but that once I shall be happy forever.
X.
The eldest of our forefathers lived not so much as a
day to God, to whom a thousand years is as no more.
We live but as an hour to the day of our forefathers ;
for if nine hundred and sixty were but their day, our
fourscore is but as the twelfth part of it. And yet of
this our hour, we live scarce a minute to God : for take
away all that time that is consumed in sleeping, dressing,
feeding, talking, sporting, of that little time there can re-
main not much more than nothing : yet the most seek
pastimes to hasten it. Those which seek to mend the
pace of time spur a running horse. I had more need to
redeem it with double care and labor, than to seek how
to sell it for nothing.
CENTURY III.
89
XI.
Each day is a new life and an abridgment of the
whole. I will so live as if I counted every day my first
and my last ; as if I began to live but then, and should
live no more afterwards.
xn.
It was not in vain that the ancient founders of lan-
guages used the same word in many tongues to signify
both honor and charge ; meaning therein to teach us the
inseparable connection of these two : for there scarce
ever was any charge without some opinion of honor ;
neither ever was there honor without a charge : which
two, as they are not without reason joined together in
name by human institutions, so they are most wisely
coupled together by God in the disposition of these
worldly estates. Chai-ge, without honor to make it
amends, would be too toilsome ; and must needs discou-
rage and over-lay a man. Honor, without charge, would
be too pleasant ; and therefore both would be too much
sought after, and must needs carry away the mind in the
enjoying it. Now many dare not be ambitious because
of the burden ; choosing rather to live obscurely and se-
curely ; and yet on the other side those that are under
it are refreshed in the charge with the sweetness of hon-
or. Seeing they cannot be separated, it is not the worst
estate to want both. They whom thou enviest for hon-
or, perhaps envy thee more for thy quietness.
xin.
He that taketh his own cares upon himself, loads him-
90 MEDITATIONS AND V0T7S.
self in vain with an uneasy burden. The fear of what
may come, expectation of what will come, desire of what
will not come, and inability of redressing all these, must
needs breed him continual torment. I will cast my cares
upon God. He hath bidden me ; they cannot hurt him ;
he can redress them.
XIV.
Our infancy is full of folly ; youth, of disorder and
toil ; age, of infirmity. Each time hath his burden, and
that which may justly work our weariness. — Yet infancy
longeth after youth, and youth after more age, and he that
is very old, as he is a child for simplicity, so he would be
for years. I account old age the best of three ; partly,
for that it hath passed thorough the folly and disorder of
the others ; partly, for that the inconveniences of this
are but bodily, with a bettered estate of the mind, and
partly for that it is nearest to dissolution. There is no-
thing more miserable than an old man that would be
young again. It was an answer worthy the commenda-
tions of Petrarch, and that which argued a mind truly
philosophical of him, who — when his friend bemoaned
his age appearing in his white temples, telling him he
was sorry to see him look so old — replied. Nay, be sorry
rather that ever I was young, to be a fool.
XV.
There is not the least action or event — whatever the
vain epicures have imagined — which is not overruled
and disposed by a providence : which is so far from de-
tracting aught from the majesty of God, for that the
things are small, as that there can be no greater honor
CENTURT III.
91
to him than to extend his providence and decree to them,
because they are infinite. Neither doth this hold in na-
tural things only, which are chained one to another by a
regular order of succession, but even in those things
which fall out by casualty and imprudence. Whence
that worthy father, when as his speech digressed his in-
tention to a confutation of the errors of the Manichees,
could presently guess that in that unpurposed turning of
it, God intended the conversion of some unknown audi-
tor; as the event proved his conjecture true ere many
days. "V\Tien aught falls out contrary to that I purposed,
it shall content me that God purposed it as it is fallen
out. So the thing hath attained his own end, whiles it
missed mine. I know what I would, but God knoweth
what I should will. It is enough that his will is done,
though mine be crossed.
XVI.
It is the most thankless office in the world to be a
man's pander unto sin. In other wrongs, one man is a
wolf to another ; but in this, a devil. And though, at
the first, this damnable service carry away reward, yet
in conclusion it is requited with hatred and curses. For
as the sick man, extremely distasted with a lothsome po-
tion, hateth the very cruse wherein it was brought him, so
doth the conscience, once soundly detesting sin, lothe
the means that induced him to commit it. Contrarily,
who withstands a man in his prosecution of a sin while he
doteth upon it, bears away frowns and heart-burnings
for a time ; but when the offending party comes to him-
self and right reason, he recompenseth his former dishke
with so much more love and so many more thanks.
92
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
The frantic man returned to his wits, thinks him his best
friend that bound him and beat him most. 1 will do my
best to cross any man in his sins : if I have not thanks
of him, yet of my conscience I shall.
XVII.
God must be magnified in his very judgments. He
looks for praise not only for heaven, but for hell also.
His justice is himself, as well as his mercy. As heaven
then is for the praise of his mercy, so hell for the glory
of his justice. We must therefore be so affected to
judgments as the author of them is, who delighteth not
in blood, as it makes his creature miserable, but as it
makes his justice glorious. Every true Christian then
must learn to sing that compound ditty of the psalmist —
' of mercy and judgment.' It shall not only joy me to
see God gracious and bountiful in his mercies and de-
liverances of his own, but also to see him terrible in
vengeance to his enemies. It is no cruelty to rejoice in
justice. The foolish mercy of men is cruelty to God.
xvm.
Rareness causeth wonder, and more than that, incre-
dulity, in those things which in themselves are not more
admirable than the ordinary proceedings of nature. If
a blazing star be seen in the sky, every man goes forth
to gaze, and spends every evening some time in won-
dering at the beams of it. That any fowl should be
bred of corrupted wood resolved into worms ; or that
the chameleon should ever change his colors and live by
air ; that the ostrich should digest iron ; that the phoe-
nix should burn herself to ashes, and from thence breed
CENTURY III.
93
a successor — we wonder, and can scarce credit. Other
things more usual, no less miraculous, we know and
neglect. That there should be a bird that knoweth and
noteth the hours of day and night, as certainly as any
astronomer by the course of heaven, if we knew not,
who would believe ? Or that the loadstone should by
his secret virtue, so draw iron to itself as that a whole
chain of needles should all hang by insensible points at
each other, only by the influence that it sends down
from the first, — if it were not ordinary, would seem in-
credible. Who would believe, when he sees a fowl
mounted as high as his sight can descry it, that there were
an engine to be framed which could fetch it down into
his fist ? Yea, to omit infinite examples, that a little de-
spised creature should weave nets out of her own en-
trails, and in her platforms of building should observe
as just proportions as the best geometrician, we should
suspect for an untruth, if we saw it not daily practised in
our own windows. If the sun should arise but once to
the earth, I doubt every man would be a Persian and
fall down and worship it ; whereas now it riseth and de-
clineth without any regard. Extraordinary events each
man can wonder at. The frequence of God's best
works causeth neglect ; not that they are ever the worse
for commonness ; but because we are soon cloyed with
the same conceit, and have contempt bred in us through
familiarity. I will learn to note God's power and wis-
dom, and to give him praise of both in his ordinary
works. So those things which are but trivial to the
most ignorant, shall be wonders to me ; and that not for
nine days, but forever.
94 MEDITATIONS AND VOTVS.
XIX.
Those that affect to tell novelties and wonders fall
into many absurdities ; both in busy inquiry after mat-
ters impertinent, and in a light credulity to whatever
they hear ; and in fictions of their own, and additions of
circumstances to make their reports the more admired.
I have noted these men not so much wondered at for
their strange stories, while they are telling, as derided
aftenvards, when the event hath wrought their disproof
and shame. I will deal with rumors as grave men do
by strange fashions — take them up when they are grown
into common use before. I may believe, but I will not
relate them, but under the name of my author ; who
shall either warrant me with defence, if it be true ; or if
false, bear my shame.
XX.
It was a witty and true speech of that obscure Hera-
clitus, that all men awaking are in one common world ;
but when we sleep, each man goes into a several world
by himself ; which though it be but a world of fancies,
yet is the true image of that little world which is in
every man's heart. For the imaginations of our sleep
show us what our disposition is awaking ; and as many in
their dreams reveal those their secrets to others which
they would never have done awake ; so all may and do
disclose to themselves, in their sleep, those secret incli-
nations which, after much searching, they could not have
found out waking. I doubt not therefore but as God
heretofore hath taught future things in dreams, — which
kind of revelation is now ceased, — so still he teacheth the
CENTURY III.
95
present estate of the heart this way. Some dreams are
from ourselves, — vain and idle like ourselves. Others
are divine, which teach us good or move us to good :
and others devilish, which solicit us to evil. Such an-
swer commonly shall I give to any temptation in the day
as I do by night. I will not lightly pass over my very
dreams. They shall teach me somewhat ; so neither
night nor day shall be spent un profitably. The night
shall teach me what I am ; the day, what I should be.
XXI.
Men make difference betwixt servants, friends, and
sons. Servants, though near us in place, yet for their
inferiority, are not familiar. Friends, though by reason of
their equality and our love they are familiar, yet still we
conceive of them as others from ourselves; but children we
think of affectionately as the divided pieces of our own
bodies. But all these are one to God. His servants
are his friends ; his friends are his sons ; his sons, his
servants. Many claim kindred of God and profess
friendship to him, because these are privileges without
difficulty, and not without honor. All the trial is in
service. The other are most in affection, and there-
fore secret, and so may be dissembled. This, consist-
ing in action, must needs show itself to the eyes of
others. ' Ye are my friends if ye do whatsoever I com-
mand you.' Friendship with God is in service ; and
this service is in action. Many wear God's cloth, that
know not their Master, that never did good share in his
service ; so that God hath many retainers that wear his
livery for a countenance — never wait on him — whom he
will never own for servants, either by favor or wages :
96
MEDITATIONS AND VQ-WS.
few servants, and therefore few sons. It is great favor
in God and great honor to me, that he will vouchsafe to
make me the lowest drudge in his family : which place if
I had not, and were a monarch of men, I were accursed.
I desire no more but to serve ; yet, Lord, thou givest
me more, to be thy son. I hear David say ' seemeth it
a small matter to you to be the son in law to a kmg ?'
"What is it then, O what is it, to be the true adopted
son of the King of glory ? Let me not now say as Da-
vid of Saul, but as Saul's grand-child to David, ' Oh
what is thy servant that thou shouldst look upon such a
dead dog as I am ?'
xxn.
I am a stranger here below, my home is above. Yet
I can think too well of these foreign vanities, and can-
not think enough of my home. Surely that is not so
far above my head as my thoughts ; neither doth so far
pass me in distance as in comprehension ; and yet I
would not stand so much upon conceiving, if I could ad-
mire it enough : but ray strait heart is filled with a little
wonder, and hath no room for the greatest part of glory
that remaineth. O God, what happiness hast thou pre-
pared for thy chosen ! What a purchase was this wor-
thy of the blood of such a Saviour ! As yet I do but
look towards it afar off, but it is easy to see by the out-
side how goodly it is within. Although, as thine house
on earth, so that above, hath more glory within than can
be bewrayed by the outer appearance. The outer part
of thy tabernacle here below is but an earthly and base
substance, but within it is furnished with a living spi-
ritual and heavenly guest ; so the outer heavens, though
CENTURY III.
97
they be as gold to all otber material creatures, yet they
are but dross to thee ! Yet how are even the outmost
walls of that house of thine beautified with glorious lights,
whereof every one is a world for bigness and as an hea-
ven for goodliness ! O teach me by this to long after
and wonder at the inner part, before thou lettest me come
in to behold it.
xxni.
Eiches, or beauty, or whatever worldly good that hath
been, doth but grieve us ; that which is, doth not satisfy
us ; that which shall be, is uncertain. What folly is it
to trust to any of them !
XXIV.
Security makes worldlings merry ; and therefore are
they secure, because they are ignorant. That is only solid
joy which ariseth from a resolution, when the heart hath
cast up a full account of all causes of disquietness, and
findeth the causes of his joy more forcible ; thereupon
settling itself in a staid course of rejoicing. For the oth-
er, so soon as sorrow makes itself to be seen, especially
in an unexpected form, is swallowed up in despair ;
whereas this can meet with no occurrence which it hath
not prevented in thought. Security and ignorance may
scatter some refuse morsels of joy sauced with much bit-
terness ; or may be like some boasting housekeeper,
which keepeth open doors for one day with much cheer,
and lives starvedly for all the year after. There is no
good ordinary, but in a good conscience. I pity that
unsound joy in others and will seek for this sound joy ia
7
98
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
myselfl I had rather weep upon a just cause than re-
joice unjustly.
XXV.
As love keeps the whole law, so love only is the
breaker of it ; being the ground, as of all obedience, so
of all sin. For whereas sin hath been commonly account-
ed to have two roots — love and fear — it is plain that
fear hath his original from love : for no man fears to lose
aught but what he loves. Here is sin and righteousness
brought both into a short sum ; depending both upon one
poor affection. It shaU be my only care therefore to be-
stow my love well, both for object and measure. All
that is good I may love, but in several degrees. What
is simply good, absolutely ; what is good by circumstance,
only with limitation. There be these three things that
I may love without exception — Gtod, my neighbor, my
soul : — ^yet so as each have their due place ; my body,
goods, fame, and so forth, as servants to the former.
All other things, I will either not care for or hate.
XXVI.
One would not think that pride and base-mindedness
should so well agree ; yea, that they love so together
that they never go asunder. That envy ever proceeds
from a base mind, is gi-anted of all. Now the proud
man, as he fain would be envied of others, so he envieth
all men. His betters he envies, because he is not so
good as they. He envies his inferiors, because he fears
they should prove as good as he ; his equals, because
they are as good as he. So under big looks he bears a
base mind ; resembling some cardinal's mule, which, to
CENTURY III.
99
make up the train, bears a costly portmanteau stuffed
with trash. On the contrary, who is more proud than
the basest ? The Cynic tramples on Plato's pride, but
with a worse ; especially if he be but a little exalted :
wherein we see base men so much more haughty, as
they have had less before what they might be proud of.
It is just with God, as the proud man is base in himself,
so to make him basely esteemed in the eyes of others ;
and at last to make him base without pride. I will con-
temn a proud man, because he is base ; and pity him
because he is proud.
XXVII.
Let me but have time to my thoughts, but leisure to
think of heaven, and grace to my leisure, and I can be
happy in spite of the world. Nothing but God that
gives it, can bereave me of grace ; and he will not, for
his gifts are without repentance. Nothing but death
can abridge me of time, and when I begin to want time
to think of heaven, I shall have eternal leisure to enjoy it.
I shall be both ways happy, not from any virtue of ap-
prehension in me which have no peer in unworthiness
— but from the glory of that I apprehend ; wherein the
act and object are from the author of happiness. He
gives me this glory. Let me give him the glory of his
gift. His glory is my happiness ; let my glory be his.
XXVIII.
God bestows favors upon some in anger, as he strikes
other some in love. — The Israelites had better have
wanted their quails, than to have eaten them with such
sauce. — And sometimes, at our own instance, removing
100 JIEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
a lesser punishment leaves a greater, though insensible,
in the room of it. I will not so much strive against af-
fliction as displeasure. Let me rather be afflicted in
love than prosper without it.
XXEX.
It is strange that we men, having so continual use of
God and being so perpetually beholding to him, should
be so strange to him, and so little acquainted with him ;
since we account it a perverse nature in any man, that,
being provoked with many kind offices, refuses the fa-
miliarity of a worthy friend, which doth still seek it and
hath deserved it. So hence it comes that we are so
loth to think of our dissolution and going to God ; for
naturally where we are not acquainted, we list not to
hazard our welcome ; choosing rather to spend our mo-
ney, at a simple inn, than to turn in for a free lodging
to an unknown host, whom we have only heard of, never
had friendship with. Whereas to an entire friend, whose
nature and welcome we know, and whom we have else-
where familiarly conversed withal, we go as boldly and
willingly as to our home ; knowing that no hour can be
unseasonable to such a one : — whiles on the other side,
we scrape acquaintance with the world, that never did
us good, even after many repulses. I ^vill not Uve with
God and in God without his acquaintance. Knowing it
my happiness to have such a friend, I will not let one
day pass without some act of renewing my familiarity
with him ; not giving over till I have given him some
testimony of my love to him, and joy in him, and till he
hath left behind him some pledge of his continued favor
to me.
CENTURY III.
101
XXX.
Men, for the most part, would neither die nor be old.
When we see an aged man that hath over-lived all the
teeth of his gums, the hair of his head, the sight of his
eyes, the taste of his palate, we profess we would not
live till such a cumbersome age wherein we prove bur-
dens to our dearest friends and ourselves. Yet, if it be
put to our choice what year we would die, we ever shift
it off till the next, and want not excuses for this proro-
gation rather than fail ; — alleging we would live to
amend, when yet we do but add more to the heap of our
sins by continuance. Nature hath nothing to plead for
this folly, but that life is sweet. Wherein we give oc-
casion of renewing that ancient check, or one not unlike
to it, whereby that primitive vision taxed the timorous-
ness of the skrinking confessors — ' Ye would neither
live to be old nor die ere your age. What should I do
with you ?' The Christian must not think it enough to
endure the thought of death with patience, when it is
obtruded upon him by necessity ; but must voluntarily
call it into his mind, with joy ; not only abiding it should
come, but wishing that it might come. I will not leave
till I can resolve, if I might die to-day not to live till to-
morrow.
XXXI.
As a true friend is the sweetest contentment in the
world, so in his qualities he well resembleth honey, —
the sweetest of all hquors. Nothing is more sweet to
the taste, nothing more sharp and cleansing when it meets
with an exulcerate sore. For myself I know I must have
102 MEDITATIONS AND TOWS.
faults, and therefore I care not for that friend that I
shall never smart by. For my friends, I know they
cannot be faultless, and therefore as they shall find me
sweet in their praises and encouragements ; so sharp also
in their censure. Either let them abide me no friend
to their faults or no friend to themselves.
XXXII.
In all other things, we are led by profit ; but in the
main matter of all, we show ourselves utterly unthrifty ;
and whiles we are wise in making good markets in these
base commodities, we show ourselves foolish in the great
match of our souls. God and the world come both to
one shop and make proffers for our souls. The world
like a frank chapman says ' all these will I give thee,'
— showing us his bags and promotions and thrusting
them into our hands. God ofiers a crown of glory,
which yet he tells us we must give him day to perform,
and have nothing in present, but our hope and some
small earnest of the bargain. Though we know there
is no comparison betwixt these two in value, finding
these earthly things vain and unable to give any con-
tentment, and those other of invaluable worth and bene-
fit, yet we had rather take these in hand than trust God
on his word for the future ; while yet in the same kind,
we choose rather to take some rich lordships in rever-
sion, after the long expectation of three lives expired,
than a present sum much under foot. As, contrarily,
when God and the world are sellers, and we come to
the mart, the world offers fine painted wares but will
not part with them under the price of our torment.
God proclaims, Come ye that want, buy for nought.
CENTURY III.
103
Now we thrifty men that try all shops for the cheapest
penny worth, refuse God proifering his precious com-
modities for nothing, and pay an hard price for that
which is worse than nothing, — painful. Surely we are
wise for anything but our souls, and not so wise for the
body as foolish for them. 0 Lord, thy payment is sure
and who knows how present ! Take the soul that thou
hast both made and bought, and let me rather give my
life for thy favor, than take the offers of the world for
nothing.
XXXIII.
There was never age that more bragged of knowledge,
and yet never any that had less soundness. He that
knows not God knoweth nothing ; and he that loves not
God knows him not ; for he is so sweet and infinitely
full of delight, that whoever knows him cannot choose
but affect him. The little love of God, then, argues the
great ignorance even of those that profess knowledge.
I will not suffer my affections to run before my know-
ledge, for then I shall love fashionably,— only because I
hear God is worthy of love and so be subject to re-
lapses ; but I will ever lay knowledge as the ground of
my love. So as I grow in divine knowledge, I shall
still profit in an heavenly zeal.
XXXIV.
Those that travel in long pilgrimages to the Holy
Land, what a number of weary paces they measure;
what a number of hard lodgings and known dangers they
pass ; and, at last, when they are come within view of their
journey's end, what a large tribute pay they, at the Pi-
104
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
Ban castle, to the Turks ! And when they are come
thither, what see they, but the bare sepulchre wherein
their Saviour lay, and the earth that he trod upon, — to
the increase of a carnal devotion ? ^\'hat labor should I
willingly undertake in my journey to the true land of
promise, the celestial Jerusalem, where I shall see and
enjoy my Saviour himself! What tribute of pain or
death should I refuse to pay for my entrance, not into
his sepulchre, but his palace of glory ; and that not to
look upon but to possess it !
XXXV.
Those that are all in exhortation, no whit in doctrine,
are like to them that snuff the candle, but pour not in
oil. Again, those that are all in doctrine, nothing in
exhortation, drown the wick in oil, but light it not ; —
making it fit for use, if it had fire put to it, but as it is,
rather capable of good, than profitable in present. Doc-
trine without exhortation, makes men all brain, no heart.
Exhortation without doctrine, makes the heart full,
leaves the brain empty. Both together make a man :
one makes a man wise ; the other, good. One serves
that we may know our duty ; the other, that we may
perform it. I will labor in both ; but I know not in
whether, more. Men cannot practice, unless they know ;
and they know in vain, if they practice not.
XXXVI.
There be two things in every good work, — honor and
profit. The latter, God bestows upon us ; the former,
he keeps to himself. The jirofit of our works redound-
eth not to God. ' My well-doing extendeth not to thee.'
CENTURY III.
105
The honor of our work may not be allowed us. ' My
glory I will not give to another.' I will not abridge
God of his part, that he may not bereave me of mine.
XXXVII.
The proud man hath no God ; the envious man hath
no neighbor ; the angry man hath not himself. What can
that man have that wants himself? What is a man
better, if he have himself and want all others ? What
is he the nearer, if he have himself and others, and yet
want God.'' What good is it then to be a man, if he be
either wrathful, proud, or envious ?
XXXVIII.
Man, that was once the sovereign lord of all crea-
tures, whom they serviceably attended at all times, is
now sent to the very basest of all creatures to learn good
qualities. ' Go to the pismire ' and so forth, and see,
the most contemptible creature is preferred before
hiin ! ' The ass knoweth his owner :' wherein we, like
the miserable heir of some great peer, whose house is
decayed through the treason of our progenitors, hear and
see what honors and lordships we should have had, but
now find ourselves below many of the vulgar. We have
not so much cause of exaltation, that we are men and
not beasts, as we have of humiliation, in thinking how
much we were once better than we are, and that now in
many duties we are men inferior to beasts : so as those
whom we contemn, if they had our reason might more
justly contemn us ; and as they are, may teach us by
their examples, and do condemn us by their practice.
106
MEDITATIONS AKD VOWS.
XXXIX.
The idle man is the devil's cushion, on which he
taketh his free ease ; who, as he is uncapable of any good,
so he is fitly disposed for all evil motions. The stand-
ing water soon stinketh ; whereas the current ever keeps
clear and cleanly, conveying down all noisome matter
that might infect it, by the force of his stream. If I do
but little good to others by my endeavors, yet this is
great good to me, that by my labor I keep myself from
hurt.
XL.
There can be no nearer conjunction in nature, than is
betwixt the body and the soul ; yet these two are of so
contrary disposition, that — as it falls out in an ill-match-
ed man and wife, those servants which the one likes
best, are most dispraised of the other — so here, one still
takes part against the other in their choice : what bene-
fits the one, is the hurt of the other. The glutting of
the body pines the soul ; and the soul thrives best when
the body is pinched. "Who can wonder that there is
such faction amongst others, that sees so much in his
very self? True wisdom is to take, not with the strong-
er, as the fashion of the world is, but with the better ;
following herein, not usurped power, but justice. It is
not hard to discern whose the right is — whether the ser-
vant should rule, or the mistress. I will labor to make
and keep the peace by giving each part his own, indif-
ferently ; but if more be affected with an ambitious con-
tention, I will rather beat Hagar out of doors than she
shall over-rule her mistress.
C ENTURT III.
107
XLI.
I see iron first heated red hot in the fire, and after
beaten and hardened with cold water. Thus will I
deal with an offending friend ; first heat him with de-
served praise of his virtue, and then beat upon him with
reprehension. So good nurses, when their children are
fallen, first take them up and speak them fair — chide
them afterwards. Gentle speech is a good preparative
for rigor. He shall see that I love him, by my appro-
bation ; and that I love not his faults, by my reproof.
If he love himself, he will love those that mislike his
vices ; and if he love not himself, it matters not whether
he love me.
XLn.
The liker we are to God, which is the best and only
good, the better and happier we must needs be. All
sins make us unlike hira, as being contrary to his per-
fect holiness ; but some show more direct contrariety. —
Such is envy : for whereas God bringeth good out of
evil, the envious man fetcheth evil out of good. Whei'e-
in also his sin proves a kind of punishment. For where-
as, to good men, even evil things work together to their
good ; contrarily, to the envious, good things work to-
gether to their evil. The evil in any man — though nev-
er so prosperous — I will not envy, but pity. The good
graces, I will not repine at, but holily emulate ; rejoic-
ing that they are so good, but grieving that I am no
better.
108
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
XLffl.
The covetous man is like a spider ; as in this, that he
doth nothing but lay his nets to catch every fly, gaping
only for a booty of gain ; so, yet more, in that whiles he
makes nets for these flies, he consumeth his own bow-
els ; so that which is his life, is his death. If there be
any creature miserable, it is he ; and yet he is least to
be pitied, because he makes himself miserable. Such
as he is, I will account him ; and will therefore sweep
down his webs and hate his poison.
XLIV.
In heaven, there is all hfe and no dying ; in hell, is
all death and no life. In earth there is both living and
dying ; which as it is betwixt both, so it prepares for
both. So that he which here below dies to sin, doth
after live in heaven ; and, contrarily, he that lives in sin
upon earth, dies in hell afterwards. What if I have no
part of joy here below, but still succession of afflictions !
The wicked have no part in heaven, and yet they enjoy
the earth with pleasure. I would not change portions
with them. I rejoice that, seeing I cannot have both,
yet I have the better. O Lord, let me pass both my
deaths here upon earth. I care not how I live or die,
so I may have nothing but life to look for in another
world.
XLV.
The conceit of propriety hardens a man against
many inconveniences, and addeth much to our pleasure.
The mother abides many unquiet nights, many painful
CENTURY III.
109
throes, and unpleasant savors of her child, upon this
thought — it is ray own. The indulgent father magni-
fies that, in his own son, which he would scarce like in
a stranger. The want of this to God-ward makes us
so subject to discontentment, and cooleth our delight in
him, because we think of him aloof, as one in whom we
are not interessed. If we could think — It is my God
that cheereth me with his presence and blessings, while
I prosper ; that afilicteth me in love, when I am deject-
ed ; my Saviour is at God's right hand ; my angels
stand in his presence ; — ^it could not be but God's favor
would be sweeter, his chastisements more easy, his bene-
fits more effectual. I am not mine own while God is
not mine ; and while he is mine, since I do possess him,
I will enjoy him.
XLVI.
Nature is of her own inclination froward, importu-
nately longing after that which is denied her, and scorn-
ful of what she may have. If it were appointed that we
should hve always upon earth, how extremely would we
exclaim of weariness and wish rather that we were not !
Now it is appointed'we shall live here but a while and
then give room to our successors, each one affects a
kind of eternity upon earth. I will labor to tame this
peevish and sullen humor of nature ; and will like that
best that must be.
XLVII.
All true earthly pleasure forsook man when he for-
sook his Creator. What honest and holy delight he
took before, in the dutiful services of the obsequious
110 MEDITATIONSANDVOWS.
creatures ; in the contemplation of that admirable va-
riety and strangeness of their properties ; in seeing
their sweet accordance with each other, and all with
himself! Now, most of our pleasure is to set one crea-
ture together by the ears with another ; sporting our-
selves only with that deformity which was bred through
our own fault ; yea, there have been that have delight-
ed to see one man spill another's blood upon the sand,
and have shouted for joy at the sight of that slaughter
which hath fallen out upon no other quarrel but the
pleasure of the beholders. I doubt not but as we solace
ourselves in the discord of the inferior creatures, so the
evil spirits sport themselves in our dissensions. There
are better qualities of the creature, which we pass over
without pleasure. In recreations, I will choose those
which are of best example and best use ; seeking those
by which I may not only be the merrier, but the better.
XLvni.
There is no want for which a man may not find a
remedy in himself. Do I want riches ? He that de-
sires but little, cannot want much. Do I want friends ?
If I love God enough, and myself but enough, it mat-
ters not. Do I want health ? If I want it but little and
recover, I shaU esteem it the more because I wanted.
If I be long sick and unrecoverably, I shall be the fit-
ter and willinger to die ; and my pain is so much less
sharp by how much more it lingereth. Do I want
maintenance ? A little and coarse will content nature.
Let my mind be no more ambitious than my back and
and belly, I can hardly complain of too little. Do I
want sleep ? I am going whither there is no use of
CENTURY III
111
sleep ; where all rest and sleep not. Do I want chil-
dren ? Many that have them wish they wanted : it is
better to be childless than crossed with their miscarriage.
Do I want learning ? He hath none that saith he hath
enough. The next way to get more, is to find thou
wantest. There is remedy for all wants in ourselves,
saving only for want of grace ; and that a man cannot
so much as see and complain that he wants, but from
above.
XLIX.
Every virtuous action — like the sun eclipsed — hath a
double shadow, according to the divers aspects of the be-
holders ; one of glory, the other of envy. Glory follows
upon good deserts ; envy, upon glory. He that is en-
vied may think himself well ; for he that envies him,
thinks him more than well. I know no vice in another,
whereof a man may make so good and comfortable use
to himself. There would be no shadow if there were
no light.
L.
In meddling with the faults of friends, I have observed
many wrongful courses ; — what for fear, or self-love, or
indiscretion. Some, I have seen like unmerciful and
covetous chirurgeons, keep the wound raw, — which they
might have seasonably remedied — for their own gain.
Others, that have laid healing plasters to skin it aloft,
when there hath been more need of corrosives to eat out
the dead flesh within. Others, that have galled and
drawn, when there hath been nothing but solid flesh,
that hath wanted only filling up. Others, that have
112
MEDITATIONS AND Y OW
healed the sore, but left an unsightly scar of dis-
credit behind them. He that would do good this way
must have fidelity, courage, discretion, patience : fidelity,
not to bear with ; courage, to reprove them ; discretion,
to reprove them well ; patience, to abide the leisure of
amendment — making much of good beginnings, and put-
ting up many repulses ; bearing with many weakness-
es ; still hoping, still soliciting ; as knowing that those
who have been long used to fetters, cannot but halt
awhile when they are taken off.
LI.
God hath made all the world, and yet what a little
part of it is his ! Divide the world into four parts : —
but one and the least containeth all that is worthy the
name of Christendom ; the rest, overwhelmed with Tur-
cism and paganism : and of this least part, the greater
half, yet holding aright concerning God and their Sa-
viour in some common principles, overthrow the truth
in their conclusions ; and so leave the lesser part of the
least for God. Yet lower ; — of those that hold aright
eoncerning Christ, how few are there that do otherwise
than fashionably profess him ? And of those that do
seriously profess him, how few are there tliat in their
lives deny him not, living unworthy of so glorious a
calling. Wherein I do not pity God who will have glo-
ry even of those that are not his. I pity miserable men,
that do reject their Creator and Redeemer and them-
selves in him : and I envy Satan, that he ruleth so large.
Since God hath so few, I will be thankful that he hath
vouchsafed me one of his ; and be the more zealous of
glorifying him, because we have but a few fellows.
CENTURY III.
113
LII.
As those that have tasted of some delicate dish find
other plain dishes but unpleasant, so it fareth with those
which have once tasted of heavenly things — they cannot
but contemn the best worldly pleasures. As therefore
some dainty guest, knowing there is so pleasant fare to
come, I will reserve my appetite for it, and not suffer
myself cloyed with the coarse diet of the world.
LIII.
I find many places where God hath used the hand of
good angels for the punishment of the wicked ; but never
could yet find one wherein he employed an evil angel in
any direct good to his ehildrep. Indirect I find many, if
not all, through the power of him that brings light out of
darkness and turns their evil to our good. In this choice,
God would and must be imitated. From an evil spirit I
dare not receive aught, if never so good. I will receive
as little as I may from a wicked man. If he were as
perfectly evil as the other, I durst receive nothing. I
had rather hunger, than wilfully dip my hand in a vyck-
ed man's dish.
LIV.
"We are ready to condemn others for that which is as
eminently faulty in ourselves. If one blind man rush
upon another in the way, either complains of other's
bhndness ; neither, of his own. I have heard those
which have had most corrupt lungs complain of the
unsavory breath of others. The reason is, because the
mind casteth altogether outward, and reflecteth not into
8
114 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
itself. Yet it is more shameful to be either ignorant of,
or favorable to, our own imperfections. I will censure
others' vices fearfully ; ray own, confidently, because I
know them ; and those I know not, I will suspect.
LV.
He is a very humble man that thinks not himself bet-
ter than some others ; and he is very mean, whom some
others do not account better than themselves — so that
vessel that seemed very small upon the main, seems a tall
ship upon the Thames. As there are many better for es-
tate than myself, so there are some worse ; and if I were
yet worse, yet would there be some lower ; and if I were
so low that I accounted myself the worst of all, yet some
would account themselves in worse case. A man's opin-
ion is in others ; his being is in himself. Let me know
myself, let others guess at me. Let others either envy
or pity me ; I care not, so long as I enjoy myself.
LVI.
He can never wonder enough at God's workmanship»
that knows not the frame of the world ; for he can never
else conceive of the hugeness and strange proportion of
the creature : and he that knows this, can never wonder
more at anything else. I will learn to know, that I may
admire ; and by that little I know, I will more wonder
at that I know not.
LVII.
There is nothing below but toiling, grieving, wishing,
hoping, fearing ; and weariness in all these. What
fools are we, to be besotted with the love of our own
CENTURY III.
115
trouble and to hate our liberty and rest. The love of
misery, is much worse than misery itself. We must
first pray that God would make us wise, before we can
wish he would make us happy.
LVIII.
If a man refer all things to himself, nothing seems
enough. If all things to Grod, any measure will content
him of earthly things : but in grace he is insatiable.
Worldlings serve themselves altogether in God ; making
religion but to serve their turns, as a color of their am-
bition and covetousness. The Christian seeks God only
in seeking himself ; using all other things but as subor-
dinately to him ; not caring whether himself win or lose,
so that God may win glory in both. I will not suffer
mine eyes and mind to be bounded with these visible
things, but still look through these matters at God
which is the utmost scope of them ; accounting them
only as a thoroughfare to pass by, not as an habitation
to rest in.
LIX.
He is wealthy enough, that wanteth not. He is great
enough, that is his own master. He is happy enough,
that lives to die well. Other things I will not care for ;
nor too much for these, save only for the last, which
alone can admit of no immoderation.
LX.
A man of extraordinary parts makes himself, by
strange and singular behaviour, more admired ; which if
a man of but common faculty do imitate, he makes him-
self ridiculous ; for that which is construed as natural to
116 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
the one, is descried to be affected in the other : — and
there is nothing forced by affectation can be comely. I
will ever strive to go in the common road ; so, wliile I
am not notable, I shall not be notorious.
LXI.
Gold is the best metal, — and for the purity, not sub-
ject to rust as all others ; and yet the best gold hath
some dross. I esteem not that man that hath no faults.
I like him well that hath but a few, and those not great.
LXII.
Many a man mars a good estate, for want of skill to
proportion his carriage answerably to his ability. A
little sail to a large vessel rids no way, though the wind
be fair. A large sail to a little bark drowns it. A top-
sail to a ship of mean burden in a rough weather is dan-
gerous. A low sail in an easy gale yields little advan-
tage. This disproportion causeth some to live misera-
bly in a good estate, and some to make a good estate
miserable. I will first know what I may do for safety ;
and then I will tiy what I can do for speed.
LXIII.
The rich man hath many friends ; although in truth
riches have them, and not the man. As the ass that
carried the Egyptian goddess had many bowed knees,
yet not to the beast, but to the burden ; for separate the
riches from the person, and thou shall see friend5hip
leave the man and follow that which was ever her ob-
ject. While he may command, and can either give or
control, he hath attendance and proffer of love at all
CENTURT in.
117
hands : but which of these dares acknowledge him, when
he is going to prison for debt ? Then these wasps that
made such music about this gallipot, show plainly that
they came only for the honey that was in it. This is
the misery of tiie wealthy, — that they cannot know their
friends ; whereas those that love the poor man, love him
for himself. He that would choose a true friend, must
search out one that is neither covetous nor ambitious ;
for such a one loves but himself in thee ; and if it be rare
to find any not infected with these qualities, the best is,
to entertain all and trust few.
LXIV.
That which the French proverb hath of sicknesses, is
true of all evils, — that they come on horseback and go
away on foot. We have oft seen a sudden fall, or one
meal's surfeit, hath stuck by many to their graves ;
whereas pleasures come like oxen, slow and heavily,
and go away like post-horses upon the spur. Sorrows,
because they are lingering guests, I will entertain but
moderately ; knowing that the more they are made of,
the longer they will continue : and for pleasures, because
they stay not and do but call to drink at my door, I will
use-them as passengers, with slight respect. He is his
own best friend, that makes least of both of them.
LXV.
It is indeed more commendable to give good exam-
ple, than to take it ; yet imitation — however in civil
matters it be condemned of servility — in Christian prac-
tice, halh his due praise ; and though it be more natural
for beginners at their first imitation that cannot swim
118 MEDITATIONS AND V O TT S .
without bladders, yet the best proficient shall see ever
some higher steps of those that have gone to heaven be-
fore him, worthy of his tracing. Wherein much caution
must be had that we follow good men, and in good :
good men, for if we propound imperfect patterns to our-
selves, we shall be constrained first to unlearn those ill
habits we have got by their imitation, before we can be
capable of good ; so, besides the loss of labor, we are
further off from our end : in good, for that a man should
be so wedded to any man's person, that he can make no
separation from his infirmities, is both absurdly servile
and unchristian. He, therefore, that would follow well,
must know to distinguish well betwixt good men and
evil ; betwixt good men and better ; betwixt good quali-
ties and infirmities. Why hath God given me educa-
tion not in a desert alone, but in the company of good
and virtuous men, — but that by the sight of their good
carriage, I should better my own ? Why should we
have interest in the vices of men, and not in their vir-
tues ? And although precepts be surer, yet a good
man's action is according to precept ; yea, is a precept
itself. The psalmist compares the law of God to a lan-
tern : — good example bears it. It is safe following him
that carries the light. If he walk without the light, ^he
shall walk without me.
LXVI.
As there is one common end to all good men — salva-
tion ; and one author of it — Christ; so there is but one
way to it — doing well and suffering evil. Doing well,
methinks, is like the zodiac in the heaven, the highway
of the sun, thorough which it daily passeth : suffering
CENTURY III.
119
evil, is like the ecliptic line that goes thorough the mid-
dest of it. The rule of doing well — the law of God — is
uniform and eternal ; and the copies of suffering evil, in
all times, agree with the original. No man can either
do well, or suffer ill, without an example. Are we sawn
in pieces? So was Isaiah. Are we beheaded? So
John Baptist. Crucified ? So Peter. Thrown to wild
beasts ? So Daniel. Into the furnace ? So the three
children. Stoned ? So Stephen. Banished ? So the
beloved disciple. Burnt ? So millions of martyrs. De-
famed and slandered? What good man ever was not?
It were easy to be endless both in torments and suffer-
ers ; whereof each hath begun to other, all to us. I may
not hope to speed better than the best Christians. I
cannot fear to fare worse. It is no matter which way I
go, so I come to heaven.
LXVII.
There is nothing beside life, of this nature, that it is
diminished by addition. Every moment we live longer
than other, and each moment that we live longer is so
much more taken out of our life. It increaseth and dimin-
isheth only by minutes, and therefore is not perceived.
The shorter steps it taketh, the more slily it passeth.
Time shall not so steal upon me, that I shall not discern
it, and catch it by the forelocks ; nor so steal from me ,
that it shall carry with it no witness of his passage, in
my proficiency.
LXVIII.
The prodigal man, while he spendeth, is magnified ;
when he is spent, is pitied; and that is all his re com-
120 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
pense for his lavished patrimony. The covetous man is
grudged while he lives, and his death is rejoiced at ; for
when he ends, his riches begin to be goods. He that
wisely keeps the mean between both, liveth well, and
hears well ; — neither repined at by the needy, nor pitied
by greater men. I would so manage these worldly
commodities, as accounting them mine to dispose, others'
to partake of.
LXIX.
A good name — if any earthly thing — is worth seek-
ing, worth striving for. Yet to affect a bare name,
when we deserve either ill or nothing, is but a proud
hypocrisy ; and to be puffed up with the wrongful esti-
mation of others mistaking our worth, is an idle and ri-
diculous pride. Thou art well spoken of upon no de-
sert. AVhat then ? Thou hast deceived thy neighbors,
they one another, and all of them have deceived thee ;
for thou madest them think of thee otherwise than thou
art ; and they have made thee think of thyself as thou
art accounted. The deceit came from thee, the shame
will end in thee. I will account no wrong gi-eater thaa
for a man to esteem and report me above that I am :
not rejoicing in that I am well thought of, but in that I
am such as I am esteemed.
LXX.
It was a speech worthy the commendation and fre-
quent remembrance of so divine a bishop as Augustine,
which is reported of an aged father in his time ; who,
when his friends comforted him on his sick bed, and told
him they hoped he should recover, answered, If I shall
CENTURY III.
121
not die at all, well ; but if ever, why not now ? Surely
it is folly, what we must do, to do unwillingly. I will
never think my soul in a good case, so long as I am loth
to think of dying ; and will make this my comfort — not,
I shall yet hve longer ; but, 1 shall yet do more good.
LXXI.
Excesses are never alone. Commonly those that
have excellent parts, have some extremely vicious quali-
ties. Great wits have great errors, and great estates
have great cares : whereas mediocrity of gifts or of es-
tates hath usually but easy inconveniences ; else the
excellent would not know themselves, and the mean
would be too much dejected. Now those whom we ad-
mire for their faculties, we pity for their infirmities ; and
those which find themselves but of the ordinary pitch,
joy that as their virtues, so their vices, are not eminent.
So the highest have a blemished glory, and the mean
ai-e contentedly secure. I will magnify the highest, but
afTect the mean.
LXXII.
The body is the case, or sheath of the mind, yet as
naturally it hideth it, so it doth also many times discover
it ; for altiiough the forehead, eyes, and frame of the
countenance, do sometimes belie the disposition of the
heart, yet most commonly they give true general ver-
dicts. An angry man's brows are bent together and his
eyes sparkle with rage ; which, when he is well pleased
look smooth and cheerfully. Envy hath one look, de-
sire another ; sorrow yet another ; contentment a fourth,
difierent from all the rest. To show no passion, is too
122 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
Stoical ; to show all, is impotent ; to show other than we
feel, hypocritical. The face and gesture do but write and
make commentaries upon the heart. I will first endeavor
80 to frame and order that, as not to entertain any passion
but what I need not care to have laid open to the world ;
and therefore will first see that the text be good ; then,
that the gloss be true ; and lastly, that it be sparing.
To what end hath God so walled in the heart, if I should
let every man's eyes into it by my countenance ?
Lxxni.
There is no public action which the world is not rea-
dy to scan. There is no action so private which the
evil spirits are not witnesses of. I will endeavor so to
live as knowing that I am ever in the eyes of mine ene-
mies.
LXXIV.
When we ourselves, and all other vices are old, then
covetousness alone is young and at his best age. This
vice loves to dwell in an old ruinous cottage ; yet that
age can have no such honest color for niggardliness and
insatiable desire. A young man might plead the uncer-
tainty of his estate, and doubt of his future need ; but
an old man sees his set period before him. Since this
humor is so necessarily annexed to this age, I will turn
it the right way, and nourish it in myself The older I
grow the more covetous I will be ; but of the riches, not
of the world I am leaving, but of the world I am enter-
ing into. It is good coveting what I may have, and
cannot leave behind me.
CENTURT III.
123
LXXV.
There is a mutual hatred betwixt a Christian and the
world ; for, on the one side, the love of the world is en-
mity with God, and God's children cannot but take their
Father's part. On the other, the world hates you be-
cause it hated me first ; but the hatred of the good man
to the wicked is not so extreme as that wherewith he is
hated ; for the Christian hates ever with commiseration
and love of that good he sees in the worst ; knowing
that the essence of the very devils is good, and that the
lewdest man hath some excellent parts of nature, or
common graces of the Spirit of God, — which he warily
singlcth out in his atFection. But the wicked man hates
him for goodness, and therefore finds nothing in himself
to moderate his detestation. There can be no better
music in my ear than the discord of the wicked. If he
like me, I am afraid he spies some quality in me like to
his own. If he saw nothing but goodness, he could not
love me and be bad himself It was a just doubt of
Phocion, who, when the people praised him, asked,
' Wliat evil have I done ?' I will strive to deserve evil
of none ; but not deserving ill, it shall not grieve me to
hear ill, of those that are evil. I know no greater ar-
gument of goodness, than the hatred of a wicked man.
LXXVI.
A man that comes hungry to his meal, feeds heartily
on the meat set before him ; not regarding the metal or
form of the platter wherein it is served ; who, afterwards,
when his stomach is satisfied, begins to play with the
dish, or to read sentences on his trencher. Those auditors
124 MEDITATIONS AKD VOWS.
which can find nothing to do, but note elegant words and
phrases in rhetorical colors, or perhaps an ill grace of
gesture in a pithy and material speech, argue themselves
full ere they came to the feast, and therefore go away
with a little pleasure, no profit. In hearing others, my
only intention shall be, to feed my mind with solid mat-
ter. If my ear can get aught by the way, I will not
grudge it, but I will not intend it.
LXXVII.
The joy of a Christian in these worldly things is lim-
ited, and ever awed with fear of excess, but recom-
pensed abundantly with his spiritual mirth ; whereas the
worldling gives the reins to his mind and pours himself
out into pleasure, fearing only that he shall not joy
enough. He that is but half a Christian, lives but miser-
ably ; for he neither enjoyeth God, nor the world.
Not Grod, because he hath not grace enough to make
him his own ; not the world, because he hath some taste
of grace, enough to show him the vanity and sin of his
pleasures. So the sound Christian hath his heaven
above ; the worldling, here below ; the unsettled Chris-
tian, nowhere.
LXXVIII.
Good deeds are very fruitful ; and — not so much of
their nature as of God's blessing — multipliable. We
think ten in the hundred, extreme and biting usury.
God gives us more than an hundred for ten ; yea, above
the increase of the grain which we commend most for
multiplication ; for out of one good action of ours, God
produceth a thousand, the harvest whereof is perpetual.
CENTURY III.
125
Even the faithful actions of the old patriarchs, the con-
stant sufferings of ancient martyrs, live still, and do good
to all successions of ages by their example ; for public
actions of virtue — besides that they are presently com-
fortable to the doer — are also exemplary to others ; and
as they are more beneficial to others, so are more crown-
ed in us. If good deeds were utterly barren and incom-
modious, I would seek after them for the conscience of
their own goodness. How much more shall I now be
encouraged to perform them, for that they are so profit-
able both to myself and to others, and to me in others.
My principal care shall be that while my soul lives in
glory in heaven, my good actions may live upon earth ;
and that they may be put into the bank and multiply,
while my body lies in the grave and consumeth.
LXXIX.
A Christian, for the sweet fruit he bears to God and
men, is compared to the noblest of all plants, the vine.
Now as the most generous vine if it be not pruned, runs
out into many superfluous stems, and grows at last weak
and fruitless ; so doth the best man, if he be cut short of
his desires, and pruned with afflictions. If it be painful
to bleed, it is worse to wither. Let me be pruned that I
may grow, rather than cut up to burn.
LXXX.
Those that do but supei-ficially taste of divine know-
ledge, find little sweetness in it ; and are ready, for the
unpleasant relish, to abhor it ; whereas if they would
dive deep into the sea, they should find fresh water near
to the bottom. That it savors not well at the first, is the
126
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
fault, not of it, but of the distempered palate that tastes
it. Good metals and minerals are not found close un-
der the skin of the earth, but below in the bowels of it.
No good miner casts away his mattock because he finds
a vein of tough clay, or a shelf of stone, but still delveth
lower, and passing thorough many changes of soil, at
last comes to his rich treasure. We are too soon dis-
couraged in our spiritual gains. I will still persevere to
seek, hardening myself against all difficulty. There is
comfort even in seeking hope ; and there is joy in hop-
ing good success ; and in that success is happiness.
LXXXI.
He that hath any experience in spiritual matters,
knows that Satan is ever more violent at the last ; then
raging most furiously, when he knows he shall rage but
a while. Hence of the persecutions of the first church,
the tenth and last, under Diocletian and Maximinian,
and those other five tyrants, was the bloodiest- Hence
this age is the most dissolute, because nearest the con-
clusion. And as this is his course in the universal as-
saults of the whole church ; so it is the same in his con-
flicts with every Christian soul. Like a subtil orator,
he reserves his strongest force till the shutting up. And
therefore miserable is the folly of those men who defer
their repentance till then, when their onset shall be most
sharp, and they through pain of body and perplexedness
of mind, shall be least able to resist. Those that have
long furnished themselves with spiritual munition, find
work enough in this extreme brunt of temptation ; how
then should the careless man, that with the help of all
opportunities could not find grace to repent, hope to
CENTURT nr. ' 127
achieve it at the last gasp, against greater force, with less
means, more distraction, no leisure? Wise princes
use to prepare ten years before for a field of one day. I
will every day lay up somewhat for my last. If I win
that skirmish, I have enough. The first and second
blow begin the battle, but the last only wins it.
LXXXII.
I observe three seasons wherein a wise man differs
not from a fool ; — in his infancy, in sleep, and in silence.
For in the two former, we are all fools ; and in silence,
all are wise. In the two former, yet there may be con-
cealment of folly ; but the tongue is a blab. There can-
not be any kind of folly, either simple or wicked, in the
heart, but the tongue will bewray it. He cannot be wise
that speaks much, or without sense, or out of season ;
nor he known for a fool, that says nothing. It is a
great misery to be a fool ; but this is yet greater, that a
man cannot be a fool but he must show it. It were well
for such a one if he could be taught to keep close his
foolishness. But then there should be no fools. I have
heard some — which have scorned the opinion of folly in
themselves — for a speech wherein they have hoped to
show most wit, censured of folly, by him that hath thought
himself wiser ; and another, hearing his sentence again,
hath condemned him for want of wit in censuring. Sure-
ly he is not a fool that hath unwise thoughts, but he that
utters "them. Even concealed folly is wisdom; and
sometimes wisdom uttered is folly. While others care
how to speak, my care shall be how to hold my peace.
128 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
Lxxxm.
A work is then only good and acceptable when the
action, meaning and manner, are all good ; for to do
good with an ill meaning — as Judas saluted Christ to be-
tray him — is so much more sinful, by how much the ac-
tion is better ; which, being good in the kind, is abused
to an ill purpose. To do ill in a good meaning — as
Uzzah in staying the ark — is so much amiss, that the
good intention cannot bear out the unlawful act ; which,
although it may seem some excuse why it should not be
so ill, yet is no warrant to justify it. To mean well, and
do a good action in an ill manner — as the Pharisee made
a good prayer, but arrogantly — is so offensive, that the
evil manner depraveth both the other. So a thing may
be evil upon one circumstance ; it cannot be good, but
upon all. In whatever business I go about, I will in-
quire, what I do, for the substance ; how, for the man-
ner ; why, for the intention : for the two first, I will
consult with God ; for the last, with my own heart.
LXXXIV.
I can do nothing without a million of witnesses. The
conscience is as a thousand witnesses, and God is as a
thousand consciences. I will therefore so deal with men,
as knowing that God sees me ; and so with God, as if the
world saw me ; so with myself and both of them, as
knowing that my conscience seeth me ; and so with them
all, as knowing I am always overlooked by my accuser,
by my Judge.
CENTURY III.
129
LXXXV.
Earthly inheritances are divided ofttimes with much
inequality. Tlie privilege of primogeniture stretcheth
larger in many places now, than it did among the an-
cient Jews. The younger many times serves the elder ;
and while the eldest aboundeth, all the latter issue is
pinched. In heaven it is not so. All the sons of God
are heirs, none underlings ; and not heirs under wardship
and hope, but inheritors ; and not inheritors of any little
pittance of land, but of a kingdom ; nor of an earthly
kingdom, subject to danger of loss or alteration, but one
glorious and everlasting. It shall content me here, that
having right to all things, yet I have possession of no-
thing but sorrow. Since I shall have possession above,
of all that whereto I have right below, I will serve wil-
lingly, that I may reign ; serve for a while, that I may
reign forever.
LXXXVI.
Even the best things, ill used, become evils ; and con-
trarily the worst things, used well, prove good. A good
tongue, used to deceit ; a good wit, used to defend er-
ror ; a strong arm, to murder ; authority, to oppress ; a
good profession, to dissemble — are all evil.. Yea, God's
own word is the sword of the Spirit ; which, if it kill not
our vices, kills our souls. Contrariwise — as poisons are
used to wholesome medicine — afflictions and sins, by a
good use, prove so gainful, as nothing more. Words
are as they are taken, and things are as they are used.
There are even cursed blessings. 0 Lord, rather give me
no favors, than not grace to use them. If I want them,
9
130 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
thou requirest not what thou dost not give ; but if I have
them, and want their use, thy mercy proves my judg-
ment.
Lxxxm
Man is the best of all these inferior creatures ; yet
lives in more sorrow and discontentment than the worst
of them ; whiles that reason, wherein he excels them,
and by which he might make advantage of his life, he
abuses to a suspicious distrust. How many hast thou
found of the fowls of the air, lying dead in the way for
want of provision ? They eat and rest and sing and
want nothing. Man, which hath far better means, to
live comfortably, toileth and careth and wantefh, whom
yet his reason alone might teach that He which careth
for these lower creatures made only for man, will much
more provide for man, to whose use th^ were made.
There is an holy carelessness, free from idleness, free
from distrust. In these eartlily things, I will so depend
on my Maker, that my trust in him may not exclude all
my labor ; and yet so labor — upon my confidence on
him — as my endeavor may be void of perplexity.
LXXXVIII.
The precepts and practice of those with whom we
live, avail much on either part. For a man not to be
ill, where he hath no provocations to evil, is less com-
mendable. But for a man to live continently in Asia —
as he said — where he sees nothing but allurements to un-
cleanness ; for Lot to be a good man in the middest
of Sodom ; to be abstemious in Germany ; and in Italy,
chaste ; this is truly praiseworthy. To sequester our-
CENTURY III.
131
selves from the company of the world, that we may de-
part from their vices, proceeds from a base and distrust-
ing mind ; as if we would so force goodness upon our-
selves, that therefore only we would be good, because
we cannot be ill. But for a man so to be personally and
in the throng of the world, as to withdraw his affections
from it ; to use it, and yet to contemn it at once ; to
compel it to his service without any infection ; becomes
well the noble courage of a Christian. The world shall
be mine, I will not be his ; and yet so mine, that his
evil shall be still his own.
L XXXIX.
He that lives in God, cannot be weary of his life, be-
cause he ever finds both somewhat to do, and somewhat
to solace himself with ; cannot be over-loth to part with it,
because he shall enter into a nearer life and society with
that God in whom he delighteth. Whereas he that lives
without him, lives many times uncomfortablj' here ; be-
cause partly he knows not any • use of joy in himself,
and partly he finds not any worthy employment to while
himself withal ; dies miserably, because he either knows
not whither he goes, or knows he goes to torment. There
is no true life, but the life of faith. 0 Lord, let me Hve
out of the world with thee, if thou wilt; but let me not
live in the world without thee.
XC.
Sin is both evil in itself, and the effect of a former
evil, and the cause of sin following ; a cause of punish-
ment, and lastly a punishment itself. It is a damnable
iniquity in man, to multiply one sin upon another ; but
132 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
to punish one sin by another, in God is a judgment, both
most just and most fearful — so as all the storehouse of
God hath not a greater vengeance. With other punish-
ments, the body smarteth ; the soul with this. I care
not how God oifends me with punishments, so he pun-
ish me not with oBFending him.
XCI.
I have seen some afflict their bodies with willful fam-
ine, and scourges of their own making. God spares me
that labor ; for he whips me daily with the scourge of a
weak body, and sometimes with ill tongues. He holds
me short many times of the feehng of his comfortable
presence ; which is in truth so much more miserable an
hunger than that of the body, by how much the soul is
more tender, and the food denied, more excellent. He
is my Father ; infinitely wise to proportion out my cor-
rection according to my estate ; and infinitely loving, in
fitting me with a due measure. He is a presumptuous
child that will make choice of his own rod. Let me learn
to make a right use of his corrections, and I shall not
need to correct myself ; and if it should please Grod to
remit his hand a little, I will govern my body as a mas-
ter, not as a tyrant.
xcn.
If God had not said ' Blessed are those that hunger,'
I know not what could keep weak Christians from sink-
ing in despair. Many times, all I can do is to find and
complain that I want him and wish to recover him.
Now this is my stay, that he in mercy esteems us not
only by having, but by desu-ing also, and, after a sort,
CENTURY III.
133
accounts us to have that which we want, and desire to
have ; and my soul, assuming, tells me I do unfeignedly
wish him, and long after that grace I miss. Let me de-
sire still more, and I know I shall not desire always.
There was never soul miscarried with longing after
grace. 0 blessed hunger, that ends always in fullness !
I am sorry that I can but hunger, and yet I would not
be full ; for the blessing is promised to the hungry.
Give me more, Lord, but so as I may hunger more.
Let me hunger more, and I know I shall be satisfied.
XCIII.
There is more in the Christian than thou seest ; for
he is both an entire body of himself, and he is a limb of
another more excellent — even that glorious mystical body
of his Saviour, to whom he is so united, that the actions
of either are reciprocally referred to each other — for on
the one side, the Christian Uves in Christ, dies in Christ,
in Christ fulfils the law, possesseth heaven ; on the other,
Christ is persecuted by Paul, in his members, and is per-
secuted in Paul afterwards by others. He suffers in us
he lives in us, he works in and by us. So thou canst not
do either good or harm to a Christian, but thou dost it to
his Redeemer, to whom he is invisibly united. Thou
seest him as a man, and therefore worthy of favor for
humanity's sake. Thou seest him not as a Christian,
worthy of honor for his secret and yet true union with
our Saviour. I will love every Christian for that I see ;
honor him, for that I shall see.
XCIV.
Hell itself is scarce a more obscure dungeon in com-
134 MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
parison of the earth, than earth is in respect of heaven.
Here, the most see nothing, and the best see little ; here,
half our life is night, and our very day is darkness, in re-
spect of God. The true light of the world, and the Fa-
ther of lights dwelleth above. There is the light of
knowledge to inform us, and the light of joy to comfort
us, without all change of darkness. There was never
any captive loved his dungeon, and complained when he
must be brought out to light and liberty. Whence then
is this natural madness in us men, that we delight so
much in this unclean, noisome, dark and comfortless
prison of earth, and think not of our release to that light-
some and glorious Paradise above us, without grief and
repining ? We are sure that we are not perfectly well
here. If we could be as sure that we should be better
above, we would not fear changing. Certainly our
sense tells us we have some pleasure here, and we have
not faith to assure us of more pleasure above ; and
hence we settle ourselves to the present, with neglect of
the future, though infinitely more excellent. The heart
follows the eye, and unknown good is uncared for. O
Lord, do thou break thorough this darkness of ignorance
and faithlessness wherewith I am compassed. Let me
but see my heaven, and I know I shall desire it.
xcv.
To be carried away with an affectation of fame, is so
vain and absurd, that I wonder it can be incident to
any wise man. For what a molehill of earth is it to
which his name can extend, when it is furthest carried
by the wings of report ; and how short a while doth it
continue where it is once spread ! Time, the devourer of
CENTUKY III.
135
his own brood, consumes both us and our memories.
Not brass, nor marble, can bear age. How many flat-
tering poets have promised immortality of name to their
princes, who now together are buried long since in for-
getfulness ! Those names and actions that are once on
the file of heaven, are past the danger of defacing. I
will not care whether I be known, or remembered, or
forgotten amongst men, if my name and good actions
may live with God, in the records of eternity.
XCVI.
There is no man, nor no place, free from spirits ; al-
though they testify their presence by visible etfects but
in few. Every man is an host to entertain angels,
though not in visible shapes, as Abraham and Lot.
The evil ones do nothing but provoke us to sin, and plot
mischiefs against us, by casting into our way dangerous
objects, by suggesting sinful motions to our minds, stir-
ring up enemies against us amongst men, by fi'ighting us
with terrors in ourselves, by accusing us to God. On
the contrary, the good angels are ever removing our
hinderances from good, and our occasions of evil ; miti-
gating our tentations, lielping us against our enemies,
delivering us from dangers, comforting us in sorrows,
furthering our good purposes, and at last carrying up our
souls to heaven. It would affright a weak Christian,
that knows the power and malice of wicked spirits, to
consider their presence and number ; but when, with the
eyes of Elisha's servant, he sees those on his side as
present, as diligent, more powerful, he cannot but take
heart again ; especially if he considers that neither of
them is without God Umiting the one tlie bounds of
136
SIEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
their tentation, directing the other in the safe-guard of
his children. Whereupon it is come to pass, that, though
there be many legions of devils and every one more
strong than many legions of men, and more malicious
than strong, yet the little flock of God's church Hveth and
prospereth. I have ever with me invisible friends and
enemies. The consideration of mine enemies shall keep
me from security and make me fearful of doing aught to
advantage them. The consideration of my spiritual
friends shall comfort me against the terror of the other ;
shall remedy my solitariness ; shall make me wary of
doing aught indecently ; grieving me rather that I have
ever heretofore made them turn away their eyes, for
shame of that whereof I have not been ashamed ; that I
have no more enjoyed their society ; that I have been
no more affected with their presence. What though I
see them not ; I believe them. I were no Christian, if
my faith were not as sure as my sense.
xcvn.
There is no word or action, but may be taken with
two hands, — either with the right hand of charitable
construction, or the sinister interpretation of malice and
suspicion — and all things do so succeed as they are ta-
ken. I have noted evil actions well taken, pass current
for either indifferent or commendable. Contrarily, a
good speech or action, ill taken, scarce allowed for in-
different ; an indifferent one, censured for evil ; an evil
one, for notorious. So favor makes virtues of vices, and
suspicion makes virtues faults, and faults crimes. Of
the two, I had rather my right hand should offend. It
is always safer offending on the better part. To con-
CENTURY III.
137
strue an evil act well, is but a pleasing and profitable
deceit of myself; but to misconstrue a good thing is a
treble wrong ; to myself, the action, the author. If no
good sense can be made of a deed or speech, let the
bliune light upon the author ; if a good interpretation
may bo given, and I choose a worse, let me be as much
censured of others, as that misconceit is punishment to
myself.
XCVIIL
I know not how it comes to pass that the mind of
man doth naturally both over-prize his own, in compari-
son of others', and yet contemn and neglect his own, in
comparison of what he wants. The remedy of this lat-
ter evil is, to compare the good things we have, with the
evils which we have not and others groan under. Thou
art in health and regardest it not. Look on the misery
of those which on their bed of sickness, through extrem-
ity of pain and anguish, entreat death to release them.
Thou hast clear eyesight, sound limbs, use of reason,
and passest these over with slight respect. Think how
many there are which, in their uncomfortable blindness,
would give all the world for but one glimpse of light ;
how many that deformedly crawl on all four, after the
manner of the most lothsome creatures ; how many that
in mad phrensies are worse than brutish, worse than
dead. Thus thou mightest be and art not. If I be
not happy for, the good that I have, I am yet happy for
the evils that I might have had, and have escaped. I
have deserved the greatest evil. Every evil that I miss,
is a new mercy.
138
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
XCIX.
Eartli, which is the basest element, is both our moth-
er that brought us forth, our stage that bears us alive,
and our grave wherein at last we are entombed ; giving
to us both our original, our harbor, our sepulchre. She
hath yielded her back to bear thousands of generations,
and at last opened her mouth to receive them ; so swal-
lowing that she still both beareth more, and looks for
more ; not bewraying any change in herself, while she
so oft hath changed her brood and her burden. It is a
wonder we can be proud of our parentage or of ourselves,
while we see both the baseness and stability of the earth,
whence we came. What diflference is there ? Living
earth treads upon the dead earth, which afterwards de-
scends into the grave, as senseless and dead, as the earth
that receives it. Not many are proud of their souls,
and none but fools can be proud of their bodies. While
we walk and look upon the earth, we cannot but acknowl-
edge sensible admonitions of humility, and while we re-
member them, we cannot forget ourselves. It is a mo-
ther-like favor of the earth, that she bears and nourish-
es me, and at the last entertains my dead cai-cass ; but
it is a greater pleasure, that she teaches me my vileness
by her own, and sends me to heaven, for what she
wants.
C.
The wicked man carrieth every day a brand to his
hell, till his heap be come to the height ; then he ceaseth
sinning, and begins his torment ; whereas the repentant,
in every fit of holy sorrow, carries away a whole faggot
CENTURY III.
139
from the flame, and quencheth the coals that remain,
with his tears. There is no torment for the penitent ;
no redemption for the obstinate. Safety consisteth not
in not sinning, but in repenting ; neither is it sin that
condemns, but impenitence. 0 Lord, I cannot be right-
eous, let me be repentant.
The estate of heavenly and earthly things is plainly
represented to us, by the two lights of heaven, which are
appointed to rule the night and the day. Earthly things
a^e rightly resembled by the moon, which being nearest
to the region of mortality is ever in changes, and never
looks upon us twice with the same face ; and when it is
at the full, is blemished with some dark blots not capable
of any illumination. Heavenly things are figured by
the sun, whose great and glorious light is botli natural to
itself and ever constant. That other fickle and dim star
is fit enough for the night of misery, wherein we live
here below ; and this firm and beautiful light is but good
enough for that day of glory, which the saints live in. If
it be good living here, where our sorrows are changed
with joys, what is it to live above where our joys change
not ? I cannot look upon the body of the sun, and yet
I cannot sec at all without the light of it. I cannot be-
hold tlie glory of thy saints, 0 Lord ; yet without the
knowledge of it, I am blind. If thy creature be so glori-
ous to us here below ; how glorious shall thyself be to
us when we are above this sun ! This sun shall not
shine upward, where thy glory ghineth. The greater
140
MEDITATIONS AND VOWS.
light extinguisheth the lesser. 0 thou Sun of righteous-
ness— which shall only shine to me when I am glorified
— do thou heat, enlighten, comfort me with the beams
of thy presence, till I be glorified ! Amen.
PIOLY OBSERVATIONS:
ONE BOOK
HOLY OBSERVATIONS.
I.
As there is nothing sooner dry than a tear, so there
is nothing sooner out of season than worldly sorrow :
which if it be fresh and still bleeding, finds some to com-
fort and pity it; if stale and skinned over with time,
is rather entertained with smiles than commiseration.
But the sorrow of repentance comes never out of time.
All times are alike unto that eternity, whereto we make
our spiritual moans : — that which is past, that which is
future, are both present with him. It is neither weak
nor uncomely, for an old man to weep for the sins of his
youth. Those tears can never be shed either too soon
or too late.
II.
Some men live to be their own executors for their
good name, which they see — not honestly — buried, be-
fore themselves die. Some other, of great place and ill
desert, part with their good name and breath at once.
There is scarce a vicious man whose name is not rotten
before his carcass. Contrarily, the good man's name is
ofttimes heir to his life ; either born after the death of
144
HOLT O B S EE V A T I O N S .
the parent, — for that envy would not suffer it to come
forth before, — or, perhaps, so well grown up in his life-
time, that the hope thereof is the staff of his age and joy
of his death. A wicked man's name may be feared
awhile ; soon after, it is either forgotten or cursed. The
good man either sleepeth, with his body, in peace, or wa-
keth — as his soul — in glory.
III.
Ofttimes those which show much valor while there is
equal possibility of life, when they see a present neces-
sity of death, are found most shamefully timorous.
Their courage was before grounded upon hope ; that cut
off, leaves them at once desperate and cowardly : where-
as men of feebler spirits meet more cheerfully with
death ; because though their courage be less, yet their
expectation was more.
IV.
I have seldom seen the son of an excellent and famous
man, excellent. But that an ill bird hath an ill egg, is
not rare — children possessing, as the bodily diseases, so
the vices, of their parents. Virtue is not propagated :
vice is, even in them vchich have it not reigning in them-
selves. The grain is sown pure, but comes up with
chaff and husk. Hast thou a good son ? He is God's,
not thine. Is he evil ? Nothing but his sin is thine.
Help, by thy prayers and endcavoi-s, to take away that
which thou hast given him, and to obtain from God that
which thou hast, and canst not give. Else thou may-
est name him a possession, but thou shalt find him a
loss.
HOLT 0 B S E R V A T I OX S .
U5
V.
These things be comely and pleasant to see, and
worthy of honor from the beholder : — a young saint, an
old martyr, a religious soldier, a conscionable statesman,
a great man courteous, a learned man humble, a silent wo-
man, a child understanding the eye of his parent, a mer-
ry companion without vanity, a friend not changed with
honor, a sick man cheerful, a soul departing with com-
fort and assurance.
VI.
I have oft observed in merry meetings solemnly made,
that somewhat hath fallen out cross, either in the time
or immediately upon it ; to season, as I think, our im-
moderation in desiring or enjoying our friends: and
again, events suspected have proved ever best — God
herein blessing our awful submission with good success.
In all these human things, indifferency is safe. Let thy
doubts be ever equal to thy desires : so thy disappoint-
ment shall not be grievous, because thy expectation was
not peremptory.
VII.
You shall rarely find a man eminent in sundry fac-
ulties of mind, or sundry manuary trades. If his mem-
ory be excellent, his fantasy is but dull : if his fancy
be busy and quick, his judgment is but shallow : if
his judgment be deep, his utterance is harsh :— which
also holds no less in the activities of the hand. And if
it happen that one man be qualified with skill of di-
vers trades, and practice this variety, you shall seldom
10
146
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
find such one thriving in his estate. With spiritual
gifts, it is otherwise ; which are so chained together, that
who excels in one hath some eminence in more ; yea,
in all. Look upon Faith — she is attended with a bevy
of graces : he that believes, cannot but have hope ; if
hope, patience. He that believes and hopes, must
needs find joy in God : if joy, love of Grod : he that
loves God, cannot but love his brother. His love to
God breeds piety and care to please, sorrow for offend-
ing, fear to offend : his love to men, fidehty and Chris-
tian beneficence. Vices are seldom single, but virtues
go ever in troops. They go so thick, that sometimes
some are hid in the crowd ; which yet are, but appear
not. They may be shut out from sight ; they cannot
be severed.
vm.
The heaven ever moves, and yet is the place of our
rest: earth ever rests, and yet is the place of our
trouble. Outward motion can be no enemy to inward
rest ; as outward rest may well stand with inward un-
quietness.
IX.
None live so ill but they content themselves in some-
■what : even the beggar hkes the smell of his dish. It is
a rare evil that hath not something to sweeten it, either
in sense or in hope — otherwise men would grow desper-
ate, mutinous, envious of others, weary of themselves.
The better that thing is, wherein we place our comfort,
the happier we live ; and the more we love good things,
the better they are to us. The worldling's comfort,
HOLT OBSERVATIONS. 147
though it be good to him because he loves it, yet be-
cause it is not absolutely and eternally good, it fails
him : wherein the Christian hath just advantage of him ;
while he hath all the same causes of joy, refined and ex-
alted, besides more and higher which the other knows
not of. The worldling laughs more, but the Christian
is more delighted. These two are easily severed.
Thou seest a goodly picture, or an heap of thy gold :
thou laughest not, yet thy delight is more than in a jest
that shaketh thy spleen. As grief, so joy, is not less
when it is least expressed.
X.
I have seen the worst natures and most depraved
minds, not affecting all sins : but still some they have
condemned in others and abhorred in themselves. One
exclaims on covetousness ; yet he can too well abide
riotous good-fellowship. Another inveighs against
drunkenness and excess, not caring how cruel he be in
usury and oppression. One cannot endure a rough and
quarrelsome disposition, yet gives himself over to unclean
and lascivious courses. Another hates all wrongs, save
wrongs to God. One is a civil atheist ; another a re-
hgious usurer ; a third an honest drunkard ; a fourth an
unchaste justicer ; a fifth a chaste quarreler. I know not
whether every devil excel in all sins. I am sure some
of them have denomination from some sins more special.
Let no man applaud himself for those sins he wanteth,
but condemn himself rather for that sin he hath. Thou
censurest another man's sin, he thine ; God curseth
both.
148
HOLY OBSERVATIONS.
XI.
Gold is the heaviest 'of all metals. It is no wonder
that the rich man is usually carried downward to his place.
It is hard for the soul, clogged with many weights to as-
cend to heaven. It must be a strong and nimble soul,
that can carry up itself and such a load ; yet Adam and
Noah flew up thither, with the double monarchy of the
world ; the patriarchs with much wealth ; many holy
kings with massy crowns and sceptres. The burden of
covetous desires, is more heavy to an empty soul, than
much treasure to the full. Our affections give poise or
lightness to earthly things. Either abate of thy load
if thou find it too pressing — whether by having less or
loving less — or add to thy strength and activity, that
thou mayest yet ascend. It is more commendable, by
how much more hard, to climb into heaven with a bur-
den.
XII.
A Christian in all his ways must have three guides —
truth, charity, wisdom. Truth, to go before him ; cha-
rity and wisdom, on either hand. If any of the three
be absent, he walks amiss. I have seen some do hurt
by following a truth uncharitably ; and others, while
they would salve up an error with love, have failed in
their wisdom, and offended against justice. A charita-
ble untruth, and an uncharitable truth, and an unwise
managing of truth or love, are all to be carefully avoid-
ed of him that would go with a right foot in the narrow
way.
HOLY OBSERVATIONS.
149
xm.
God brought man forth at first, not into a wilderness,
but a garden ; yet then he expected the best service of
him. I never find that he delights in the misery, but in
the prosperity, of his servants. Cheerfulness pleases
him better than a dejected and dull heaviness of heart.
If we can be good with pleasure, he grudgeth not our
joy ; if not, it is best to stint ourselves ; not for that these
comforts are not good, but because our hearts are evil ;
faulting not their nature, but our use and cori'uption.
XIV.
The homeliest service that we do in an honest calling,
though it be but to plough or dig, if done in obedience,
and conscience of God's commandment, is crowned with
an ample reward ; whereas the best works for their kind
— preaching, praying, offering evangelical sacrifices — if
without respect of God's injunction and glory, are loaded
with curses. God loveth adverbs ; and cares not how
good, but how well.
XV.
The golden infancy of some hath proceeded to a bra-
zen youth, and ended in a leaden age. All human ma-
turities have their period; only grace hath none. I
durst never lay too much hope on the forward beginnings
of wit and memory, which have been applauded in chil-
dren. I knew they could but attain their vigor, and that
if sooner, no whit the better ; for (he earlier is their per-
fection of wisdom, the longer shall be their witless age.
Seasouableness is the best in all these things, which have
150
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
their ripeness and decay. We can never hope too much
of the timely blossoms of grace, whose spring is perpet-
ual, and whose harvest begins with our end.
XVI.
A man must give thanks for somewhat which he may
not pray for. It hath been said of courtiers, that they
must receive injuries, and give thanks. God cannot
wrong his, but he will cross them. Those crosses are
beneficial. All benefits challenge thanks ; yet I have
read, that God's children have with condition prayed
against them, never for them. In good things, we pray
both for them and their good use ; in evil, for their good
use, not themselves : yet we must give thanks for both,
for there is no evil of pain which God doth not ; nothing
that God doth, is not good ; no good thing but is worthy
of thanks.
XVII.
One half of the world knows not how the other lives ;
and therefore the better sort pity not the distressed ; and
the miserable envy not those which fare better, because
they know it not. Each man judges of others' condi-
tions, by his own. The worst sort would be too much
discontented, if they saw how far more pleasant the life
of others is. And if the better sort — such we call those
which are greater — could look down to the infinite miser-
ies of inferiors, it would make them either miserable in
compassion, or proud in conceit. It is good, sometimes,
for the delicate rich man to look into the poor man's
cupboard ; and seeing God in mercy gives him not to
know their sorrow by experience, to know it yet in spec-
HOLT OBSERVATIONS. 151
ulation. This shall teach him more thanks to God,
more mercy to men, more contentment in himself.
xvm.
Such as a man's prayer is for another, it shall be in
his extremity for himself: for though he love himself
more than others, yet his apprehension of God is alike
for both. Such as his prayer is in a former extremity,
it shall be also in death : this way we may have experi-
ence even of a thing future. If God have been far off
from thee in a fit of thy ordinary sickness, fear lest he
will not be nearer thee in thy last. What ditfers that
from this, but in time ? Correct thy dullness upon for-
mer proofs ; or else, at last, thy devotion shall want life
before thy body.
XIX.
Those that come to their meat as to a medicine — as
Augustine reports of himself — live in an austere and
Christian temper, and shall be sure not to joy too much
in the creature, nor to abuse themselves. Those that
come to their medicine as to meat, shall be sure to live
miserably and die soon. To come to meat, if without a
gluttonous appetite and palate, is allowed to Christians.
To come to meat as to a sacrifice unto the belly, is a
most base and brutish idolatry.
XX.
The worst that ever were — even Cain and Judas — have
had some fautors that have honored them for saints ; and
the serpent that beguiled our first parents, hath, in that
name, had divine honor and thanks. Never any man
152
HOLY OBSERVATIONS.
trod so perilous and deep steps, but some have followed
and admired him. Each master of heresy hath found
some clients — even he that tauglit all men's opinions
were true. Again, no man hath been so exquisite but
some have detracted from him, even in those qualities
which have seemed most worthy of wonder to others.
A man shall be sure to be backed by some, either in
good or evil ; and by some, shouldered in both. I( is
good for a man not to stand upon his abettors, but his
quarrel ; and not to depend upon others, but himself.
XXI.
We see thousands of creatures die for our use, and
never do so much as pity them : — why do we think much
to die once for God ? They are not ours so much as we
are his, nor our pleasure so much to us as his glory to
him. Their lives are lost to us ; ours, but changed to
him.
xxn.
Much ornament is no good sign — painting of the face
argues an ill complexion of body, a worse mind. Truth
hath a face both honest and comely, and looks best in
her own colors. But, above all, divine truth is most
fair, and most scorneth to borrow beauty of man's wit
or tongue. She loveth to come forth in her native
grace, like a princely matron ; and counts it the greatest
indignity to be dallied with as a wanton strumpet : she
looks to command reverence, not pleasure : she would
be kneeled to, not laughed at. To prank her up in vain
dresses and fashions, or to sport wiih her in a hght and
youthful manner, is most abhorring from her nature.
HOLY OBSERVATIONS.
153
They know her not, that give her such entertainment ;
and shall first know her angry, when they do know her.
Again, slie would be plain, but not base, not sluttish. She
would be clad, not garishly, yet not in rags. She likes
as little to be set out by a base soil, as to seem credited
with gay colors. It is no small wisdom to know her just
guise, but more to follow it ; and so to keep the mean,
that while we please her, we discontent not the behold-
ers.
XXIII.
In worldly carriage, so much is a man made of, as he
takes upon himself ; but such is God's blessing upon
true humility, that it still procureth reverence. I never
saw Christian less honored, for a wise neglect of himself.
If our dejection proceed from the conscience of our want,
it is possible we should be as little esteemed of others as
of ourselves : but if we have true graces, and prize them
not at the highest, others shall value both them in us and
us for them, and with usury give us that honor we with-
held modestly from ourselves.
XXIV.
He that takes his full liberty in what he may, shall
repent him — how much more, in what he should not !
I never read of Christian that repented him of too little
worldly delight. The surest course I have still found in
all earthly pleasures, to rise with an appetite, and to be
satisfied with a little.
XXV.
There is a time when kings go not forth to warfai'e.
154 HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
Our spiritual war admits no intermission : it knows no
night, no winter ; abides no peace, no truce. This calls
us not into a garrison, where we may have ease and res-
pite, but into pitched fields continually. We see our
enemies in the face always, and are always seen and as-
saulted ; ever resisting, ever defending — receiving and
returning blows. If either we be negligent or weary,
we die : what other hope is there, while one fights and
the other stands still ? We can never have safety and
peace, but in victory. Then must our resistance be
courageous and constant, where both yielding is death,
and all treaties of peace, mortal.
XXVI.
Neutrality in things good or evil, is both odious and
prejudicial ; but in matters of an indifferent nature, is
safe and commendable. Herein, taking of parts maketh
sides, and breaketh unity. In an unjust cause of sepa-
ration, he that favoreth both parts may perhaps have
least love of either side, but hath most charity in him-
self.
xxvn.
Nothing is more absurd than that epicurean resolution,
' Let us eat and drink ; tomorrow we shall die ' — as if
we were made only for the paunch, and lived that we
might live. Yet there was never any natural man that
found savor in that meat which he knew would be his
last : whereas they should say, ' Let us fast and pray ;
tomorrow we shall die ' — for to what purpose is the body
strengthened, that it may perish ? — whose greater
strength makes our death more violent. No man be-
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
155
stows a costly roof on a ruinous tenement. That man's
end is easy and happy, whom death finds with a weak
body and a strong soul.
XXVIII.
Sometime, even things in themselves naturally good,
are to be refused for those, which, being evil, may be an
occasion to a greater good. Life is in itself good, and
death evil : else David, Elias, and many excellent mar-
tyrs would not have fled to hold life and avoid death ;
nor Hezekiah have prayed for it ; nor our Saviour have
bidden us to flee for it ; nor God promised it to his for a
reward. Yet if, in some cases, we hate not life, we love
not God nor our souls. Herein — as much as in any-
thing— the perverseness of our nature appears, that we
wish death, or love life upon wrong causes. We would
live for pleiisure, or we would die for pain : — Job for his
sores, Elias for his persecution, Jonah for his gourd,
would presently die, and will needs out-face God that it
is better for him to die than to live : — wherein we are
like to garrison-soldiers, that, while they live within safe
walls and show themselves once a day, rather for cere-
mony and pomp than need or danger, like warfare well
enough ; but if once called forth to the field, they wish
themselves at home.
XXIX.
Not only the least, but the worst, is ever in the bot-
tom. What should God do with the dregs of our age ?
When sin will admit thee his client no longer, then God
shall be beholden to thee for thy service. Thus is God
dealt with in all other offerings : — the worst and least
156
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
sheaf must be God's tenth ; the deformedst or simplest
of our children must be God's ministers ; the uncleanli-
est and most careless house must be God's temple ; the
idlest and sleepiest hours of the day must be reserved
for our prayers ; the worst part of our age, for devotion.
"VVe vs'ould have God give us still of the best ; and are
ready to murmur at every little evil he sends us — ^yet
nothing is bad enough for him of whom we receive all.
Nature condemns this inequality, and tells us that he
which is the Author of good, should have the best, and
he which gives all, should have his choice.
XXX.
When we go about an evil business, it is strange how
ready the devil is to set us forward ; how careful that
we should want no furtherances. So that if a man
would be lewdly witty, he shall be sure to be furnished
with a store of profane jests, wherein a loose heart hath
double advantage of the conscionable. If he would be
voluptuous, he shall want neither objects nor opportuni-
ties. The current passage of ill enterprises is so far from
giving cause of encouragement, that it should justly
fright a man to look back to the author ; and to consider
that he therefore goes fast, because the devil drives
him.
XXXI.
In the choice of companions for our conversation, it is
good dealing with men of good natures ; for though grace
exerciseth her power in bridling nature, yet — sith we
are still men, at the best — some swing she wiU have in
the most mortified. Austerity, sullenness, or strange-
HOLY OBSERVATIONS. 157
ness of disposition, and whatsoever qualities may make
a man unsociable, cleave faster to our nature, than those
which are morally evil. True Christian love may be
separated from acquaintance, and acquaintance from en-
tireness. These are not qualities to hinder our love,
but our familiarity.
XXXU.
Ignorance, as it makes bold — intruding men carelessly
into unknown dangers — so also it makes men ofttimes
causelessly fearful. Herod feared Christ's coming, be-
cause he mistook it. If that tyrant had known the man-
ner of His spiritual regiment, he had spared both his
own fright and the blood of other. And hence it is that
we fear death — because we are not acquainted with the
virtue of it. Nothing but innocency and knowledge can
give sound confidence to the heart.
xxxm.
Where are divers opinions, they may be all false ;
there can be but one true : and that one truth ofttimes
must be fetched by piece-meal out of divers branches of
contrary opinions. For it falls out not seldom that truth
is, through ignorance or rash vehemency, scattered into
sundry parts ; and like to a little silver melted amongst
the ruins of a burnt house, must be tried out from heaps
of much superfluous ashes. There is much pains in the
search of it ; much skill in finding it : the value of it
once found, requites the cost of both.
XXXIV.
AflFectation of superfluity, is in all things a sign of
158
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
weakness : — as in words, he that useth circumlocutions
to express himself shows want of memory and want of
proper speech ; and much talk argues a brain feeble and
distempered. What good can any earthly thing yield
us, besides his use ? And what is it but vanity, to affect
that which doth us no good ? And what use is it in that
which is superfluous ? It is a gi-eat skill to know what
is enough, and great wisdom to care for no more.
XXXV.
Good things which in absence were desired, now of-
fering themselves to our presence, are scarce entertain-
ed ; or at least not with our purposed cheerfulness.
Christ's coming to us, and our going to him, are in our
profession well esteemed, much wished. But when he
singleth us out by a direct message of death, or by some
fearful sign giveth likelihood of a present return, we are
as much affected with fear, as before with desire. All
changes, although to the better, are troublesome for the
time, until our settling. There is no remedy hereof, but
inward prevention ; our mind must change before our
estate be changed.
XXXVI.
Those are greatest enemies to religion, that are not
most irreligious. Atheists, though in themselves they
be the worst, yet are seldom found hot persecutors of
others ; whereas those which in some one fundamental
point be heretical, are commonly most violent in opposi-
tions. One hurts by secret infection, the other by open
resistance. One is careless of all truth ; the other, ve-
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
159
hement for some untruth. An atheist is worthy of more
hatred ; an lieretic, of more fear : both, of avoidance.
XXXVII.
Ways, if never used, cannot but be fair : if much
used, are made commodiously passable. If before oft
used, and now seldom, they become deep and dangerous.
If the heart be not at all inured to meditation, it findeth
no fault with itself : — not for that it is innocent, but se-
cure. If often, it findeth comfortable passage for his
thoughts : if rarely, and with intermission, tedious and
troublesome. In things of this nature, we only escape
complaint, if we use them either always or never.
XXXVIII.
Our sensual hand holds fast whatsoever delight it ap-
prehendeth ; our spiritual hand easily remitteth ; because
appetite is stronger in us than grace : whence it is that
we so hardly deliver ourselves of earthly pleasures which
■we have once entertained, and with such difficulty draw
ourselves to a constant course of faith, hope, and spiritu-
al joy, or to the renewed acts of them, once intermitted.
Age is naturally weak, and youth vigorous ; but in us
the old man is strong ; the new, faint and feeble. The
fault is not in grace, but in us. Faith doth not want
strength, but we want faith.
XXXIX.
It is not good in worldly estates, for a man to make
himself necessary ; for hereupon he is both more toiled
and more suspected. But in the sacred commonwealth
of the church, a man cannot be engaged too deeply by
160
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
his service. The ambition of spiritual well-doing, breeds
no danger. He that doth best, and may worst be spared,
is happiest.
XL.
It was a fit comparison of worldly cares, to thorns ;
for as they choke the word, so they prick our souls :
neither the word can grow up amongst them, nor the
heart can rest upon them : neither body nor soul can
find ease while they are within or close to us. Spiritual
cares are as sharp, but more profitable : they pain us,
but leave the soul better. They break our sleep, but
for a sweeter rest. We are not well, but either while
we have them, or after we have had them. It is as im-
possible to have spiritual health without these, as to have
bodily strength without the other.
XLI.
In temporal good things, it is best to live in doubt ;
not making full account of that which we hold in so weak
a tenure : in spiritual, with confidence ; not fearing that
which is warranted to us by an infallible promise and
sure earnest. He lives more contentedly, that is most
secure for this world, most resolute for the other.
XLII.
God hath in nature given every man inclinations to
some one particular calling; which if he follow, he ex-
cels ; if he cross, he proves a non-proficient and change-
able. But all men's natures are equally indisposed to
grace, and to the common vocation of Christianity : we
are all born heathens. To do well, nature must in the
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
161
first, be observed and followed ; in the other, crossed and
overcome.
XLIII.
Good-man is a title given to the lowest ; whereas all
titles of greatness, worship, honor, are observed and at-
tributed with choice. The speech of the world bewrays
their mind, and shows the common estimation of good-
ness, compared with other qualities. The world there-
fore is an ill herald, and unskillful in the true styles. It
were happy that goodness were so common ; and pity
that it either should not stand with greatness, or not be
preferred to it.
XLIV.
Amongst all actions, Satan is ever busiest in the
best, and most in the best part of the best — as in the end
of prayer, when the heart should close up itself with most
comfort. He never fears us but when we are well em-
ployed ; and the more likelihood he sees of our profit,
the more is his envy and labor to distract us. We should
love ourselves as much as he hates us ; and therefore
strive so much the more towards our good, as his malice
striveth to interrupt it. We do nothing, if we contend
not when we are resisted. The good soul is ever in
contradiction ; denying what is granted, and contending
for that which is denied ; suspecting when it is gainsay-
ed, and fearing hberty.
XLV.
God forewarns ere he try, because he would be pre-
vented. Satan steals upon us suddenly, by temptations,
11
162
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
because he would foil us. If we relent not upon God's
premonition, and meet not the lingering pass of his pun-
ishments to forestall them, he punishcth more, by how
much his warning was more evident and more large.
God's trials must be met when they come. Satan's must
be seen before they come ; and if we be not armed ere
we be assaulted, we shall be foiled ere we can be armed.
XLVI.
It is not good to be continual in denunciation of judg-
ment. The noise to which we are accustomed, though
loud, wakes us not ; whereas a less, if unusual, stirreth
us. Tlie next way to make threatenings contemned, is
to make them common. It is a profitable rod that strikes
sparingly, and frights somewhat oftener than it smiteth.
XLVII.
"Want of use causeth disability ; and custom, perfec-
tion. Those that have not used to pray in their closet,
cannot pray in public, but coldly and in form. lie that
discontinues meditation, shall be long in recovering ;
whereas the man inured to these exercises — who is not
dressed till he have prayed, nor have supped till he have
meditated —doth both these well, and with ease. He
that intermits good duties, incurs a double loss : — of the
blossii g that foUoweth good ; of the faculty of doing it.
XL\aii.
Christianity is both an easy yoke, and an hard ; hard
to take up, easy to bear when once taken. The heart
requires much labor, ere it can be induced to stoop un-
der it : and finds as much contentment, when it hath
HOLT OBSERVATIONS. 163
Stooped. The worldling thinks religion servility ; but
the Christian knows whose slave he was, till he entered
into this service, and that no bondage can be so evil, as
freedom fi-ora these bonds.
XLIX.
It is a wonder how full of shifts nature is; ready to
turn over all good purposes. If we think of death, she
suggests secretly, ' Tush, it shall not come yet.' If of
judgment for sin, ' This concerns not thee ; it shall
not come at all.' If of heaven, and our labor to reach it,
' Trouble not thyself; it will come soon enough alone.'
Address thyself to pray : ' It is yet unseasonable ; stay for
a better opportunity.' To give alms : ' Thou knovvest
not thine own future wants.' To reprove: 'Whatneedest
thou thrust thyself into willful hatred?' Every good action
hath his let. He can never be good, that is not resolute.
L.
All arts are maids to Divinity ; therefore they both
veil to her, and do her service ; and she, like a grave
mistress, controls them at pleasure. Natural philosophy
teacheth that of nothing can be nothing made ; and that
from the privation to the habit, is no return. Divinity
takes her up for these, and, upon supernatural principles,
teaches her a creation, a resurrection. Philosophy teach-
es us to follow sense as an infallible guide. Divinity
tells her that faith is of things not seen. Logic teaches
us first to discourse, then to resolve : Divinity to assent
without arguing. Civil law teacheth that long custom
prescribeth : Divinity, that old things are passed. Mo-
ral philosophy, that tallying of injuries is justice : Divin-
164
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
ity, that good must be returned for ill. Policy, that bet-
ter is a mischief than an inconvenience : Divinity, that
we may not do evil that good may ensue. The school
is well ordered, while Divinity keeps the chair ; but if
any other skill usurp it, and check their mistress, there
can follow nothing but confusion and atheism.
LI.
Much difference is to be made betwixt a revolter and
a man trained up in error. A Jew and an Arian
both deny Christ's deity ; yet this opinion is not in both
punished with bodily death. Yea, a revolt to a less er-
ror, is more punishable than education in a capital here-
sy. Errors of judgment, though less regarded than er-
rors of practice, yet are more pernicious : but none so
deadly as theirs, that were once in the truth. If truth
be not sued to, it is dangerous ; but if forsaken, despe-
rate.
LU.
It is an ill argument of a good action not well done,
when we are glad that it is done. To be affected with
the comfort of the conscience of well performing it, is
good : but merely to rejoice that the act is over, is car-
nal. He never can begin cheerfully, that is glad he
hath ended.
Lin.
He that doth not secret service to God with some de-
light, doth but counterfeit in public. The truth of any
act or passion is then best tried, when it is without wit-
ness. Openly, many sinister respects may draw from
us a form of religious duties: — secretly, nothing but
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
165
the power of a good conscience. It is to be feared God
hath more true and devout service in closets than in
churches.
LIV.
Words and diseases grow upon us with years. In
age, we talk much, because we have seen much, and
soon after shall cease talking forever. We are most
diseased, because nature is weakest, and death — which
is near — must have harbingers. Such is the old age of
the world. No marvel if this last time be full of writing
and weak discourse ; full of sects and heresies, which are
the sicknesses of this great and decayed body.
LV.
The best ground, untilled, soonest runs out into rank
weeds. Such are God's children — overgrown with se-
curity ere they are aware, unless they be well exercised
both with God's plow of affliction, and their own indus-
try in meditation. A man of knowledge, that is either
negligent or uncorrected, cannot but grow wild and god-
less.
LVI.
With us, vilest things are most common ; but with
God, the best things are most frequently given. Grace,
which is the noblest of all God's favors, is unpartially
bestowed upon all willing receivers ; whereas nobility
of blood, and height of place, — blessings of an inferior
nature, — are reserved for few. Herein the Christian
follows his Father : — ^his prayers, which are his richesf
166
HOLT O BSE K VAT ION 8.
portion, he communicates to all ; his substance, accord-
ing to Lis ability, to few.
LVIL
God therefore gives, because he hath given ; making
his former favors arguments for more. Man therefore
shuts his hand, because he hath opened it. There is no
such way to procure more from God, as to urge him with
what he hath done. All God's blessings are profitable
and excellent ; not so much in themselves, as that they
are inducements to greater.
LVIU.
God's immediate actions are best at first. The frame
of this creation, how exquisite was it under his hand ! —
afterward, blemished by our sin. Man's endeavors are
weak in their beginnings, and perfecter by degrees. No
science, no device, hath ever been perfect in his cradle,
or at once hath seen his birth and maturity. Of the
same nature are those actions which God worketh me-
diately by us, according to our measure of receipt. The
cause of both is, on the one side, the infiniteness of his
wisdom and power, which cannot be corrected by any
second assays ; on the other, our weakness, helping it-
self by former grounds and trials. He is an happy man
that detracts nothing from God's works, and adds most
to his own.
UX.
The old saying is more common than true, — that
those which are in hell, know no other heaven : for this
makes the damned perfectly miserable, that out of their
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
167
own torment they see the felicity of the saints, together
with their impossibility of attaining it. Sight, without
hope of fruition, is a torment alone. Those that here
might see God and will not, or do see him obscurely and
love him not, shall once see him with anguish of soul
and not enjoy him.
LXX.
Sometimes evil speeches come from good men, in
their unadvisedness ; and sometimes even the good
speeches of men may proceed from an ill spirit. No
confession could be better than Satan gave of Christ. It
is not enough to consider what is spoken, or by whom ;
but whence, and for what. The spirit is often-times
tried by the speech ; but other times the speech must be
examined by the spirit; and the spirit by the rule of an
higher word.
LXI.
Greatness puts high thoughts and big words into a
man ; whereas the dejected mind takes carelessly what
offers itself. Every worldling is base-minded, and there-
fore his thoughts creep still low upon the earth. The
Christian both is, and knows himself truly great ; and
therefore minJetli and spcaketh of spiritual, immorlal,
glorious, heavenly things. So much as the soul stoop-
eth unto earthly thoughts, so much is it unregenerate.
LXII.
Long acquaintance, as it maketh those things which
are evil to seem less evil, so it makes good things which
at first were unpleasant, delightful. There is no evil
168
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
of pain, nor no moral good action, which is not harsh
at the first. Continuance of evil, which might seem to
weary us, is the remedy and abatement of weariness ;
and the practice of good, as it profiteth, so it pleaseth.
He that is a stranger to good and evil, finds both of tliem
troublesome. God therefore doth well for us, while he
exerciseth us with long afflictions ; and we do well to
ourselves, while we continually busy ourselves in good
exercises.
Lxm.
Sometimes it is well taken by men, that we humble
ourselves lower than there is cause. ' Thy servant Ja-
cob,' saith that good patriarch to his brother, to his infe-
rior. And no less well doth God take these submiss
extenuations of ourselves : ' I am a worm, and no man ;
surely I am more foolish than a man, and have not the
understanding of a man in me.' But I never find that
any man bragged to God, although in a matter of truth,
and within the compass of his desert, and was accepted.
A man may be too lowly in his dealing with men, even
unto contempt. With God, he cannot ; but the lower
he falleth, the higher is his exaltation.
LXIV.
The soul is fed as the body, starved with hunger as
the body, requires proportionable diet and necessary va-
riety as the body. All ages and statures of the soul
bear not the same nourishment. There is milk for
spiritual infants, strong meat for the grown Christian.
The spoon is fit for one, the knife for the other. The
best Christian is not so grown that he need to scora
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
169
the spoon ; but the weak Christian may find a strong
feed dangerous. How many have been cast away with
spiritual surfeits, because, being but new born, they
have swallowed down big morsels of the highest myste-
ries of godliness — which tliey never could digest — but
together with them, have cast up their proper nourish-
ment. A man must first know the power of his stomach,
ere he know how with safety and profit to frequent
God's ordinary.
LXV.
It is very hard for the best man in a sudden extremity
of death, to satisfy himself in apprehending his stay, and
reposing his heart upon it ; for the soul is so oppressed
with sudden terror, that it cannot well command itself
till it have digested an evil. It were miserable for the
best Christian, if all his former prayers and meditations
did not serve to aid him in his last straits, and meet
together in the centre of his extremity ; yielding, though
not sensible relief, yet secret benefit to the soul: where-
as the worldly man in this case, having not laid up for
this hour, hath no comfort from God, or from others, or
from himself.
LXVI.
All external good or evil is measured by sense ; neither
can we account that either good or ill, which doth nei-
ther actually avail nor hurt us. Spiritually, this rule
holds not. All our best good is insensible ; for all our
future — which is the greatest good — we hold only m
hope, and the present favor of God we have many
times, and feel not. The stomach finds the best diges-
170
HOLT OBSEBTATIONS.
tion even in sleep, when we least perceive it ; and whiles
we are most awake, this power worketh in us, either to
further strength or disease, without our knowledge of
what is done within. And, on the other side, that man
is most dangerously sick, in whom nature decays with-
out his feeling, without complaint. To know ourselves
happy, is good ; but woe were to us Christians, if we
could not be happy and know it not.
LXVII.
There are none that ever did so much mischief to the
church, as those that have been excellent in wit and
learning. Others may be spiteful enough, but want
power to accomplish their malice. An enemy that
hath both strength and craft is worthy to be feared.
None can sin against the Holy Ghost, but those which
have had former illumination. Tell not me what parts
a man hath, but what grace ; honest sottishness is bet-
ter than profane eminence.
LXVIII.
The entertainment of all spiritual events must be with
fear or hope ; but of all earthly extremities, must be
with contempt or derision. For what is terrible, is wor-
thy of a Christian's contempt ; what is pleasant, to be
turned over with a scorn. The mean requires a mean
aflPection betwixt love and hatred. We may not love
them, because of their vanity ; we may not hate them,
because of their necessary use. It is an hard thing to
be a wise host, and to fit our entertainment to all com-
ers ; which if it be not done, the soul is soon wasted
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
171
either for want of customers, or for the misrule of ill
guests.
LXIX.
God and man build in a contrary order. Man lays
the foundation first, then adds the walls, the roof last.
God began the roof first, spreading out this vault of hea-
ven, ere he laid the base of the earth. Our thoughts
must follow the order of his workmanship. Heaven
must be minded first — earth afterward ; and so much
more, as it is seen more. Our meditation must herein
follow our sense. A few miles give bounds to our view
of earth, whereas we may near see half the heaven at
once. He that thinks most both of that which is most
seen and of that which is not seen at all, is happiest.
LXX.
I have ever noted it a true sign of a false heart, to be
scrupulous and nice in small matters, negligent in the
main ; whereas the good soul is still curious in substan-
tial points, and not careless in things of an inferior na-
ture ; accounting no duty so small as to be neglected,
and no care great enough for principal duties ; not so
tithing mint and cummin, that he should forget justice
and judgment, nor yet so regarding judgment and jus-
tice, that he should contemn mint and cummin. He
that thus misplaces his conscience, will be found either
hypocritical or superstitious.
LXXI.
It argues the world full of atheists, that those offences
which may impeach human society, are entertained with
172
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
an answerable hatred and rigor : those which do imme-
diately wrong the supreme majesty of God, are turned
over with scarce so much as dislike. If we conversed
with God as we do with men, his right would be at least
as precious to us as our own. All that converse not
with God, are without God ; not only those that are
against God, but those that are without God, are athe-
ists. We may be too charitable : — I fear not to say
that these our last times abound with honest atheists.
LXXII.
The best thing, corrupted, is worst. An ill man is
the worst of all creatures ; an ill Christian, the worst of
all men ; an ill professor, the worst of all Christians ; an
ill minister, the worst of all professors.
LXXIII.
Naturally, life is before death, and death is only a
privation of life. Spiritually, it is contrary. As Paul
saith of the grain, so may we of man in the business of
regeneration — he must die before he can live. Yet this
death presupposes a life that was once, and should be.
God chooses to have the difficultest first ; we must be
content with the pain of dying, ere we feel the comfort
of life. As we die to nature, ere we live in glory, so
we must die to sin, ere we can live to grace.
LXXIV.
Death did not first strike Adam, the first sinful man ;
nor Cain, the first hypocrite ; but Abel, the innocent
and righteous. The first soul that met with death,
overcame death ; the first soul that parted from earth,
HOLT OBSERTATIONS.
173
went to heaven. Death argues not displeasure ; because
he whom God loved best, dies first ; and the murderer
is punished with living.
LXXV.
The lives of most are misspent only for want of a cer-
tain end of their actions ; wherein they do as unwise arch-
ers— shoot away their arrows, they know not at what
mark. They live only out of the present, not directing
themselves and their proceedings to one universal scope ;
whence they alter upon all change of occasions, and
never reach any perfection ; neither can do other but
continue in uncertainty, and end in discomfort. Others
aim at one certain mark, but a wrong one. Some —
though fewer — level at the right end, but amiss. To
live without one main and common end, is idleness and
folly. To live to a false end, is deceit and loss. True
Christian wisdom both shows the end, and finds the way ;
and as cunning politics have many plots to compass one
and the same design by a determined succession, so the
wise Christian, failing in the means, yet still fetcheth
about to his steady end, with a constant change of en-
deavors. Sucii one only lives to purpose, and at last
repents not that he hath lived.
LXXVI.
The shipwreck of a good conscience, is the casting
away of all other excellencies. It is no rare thing to
note tlie soul of a willful sinner stripped of all her graces,
and by degrees exposed to shame. So those whom we
have known admired, have fallen to be level with their
fellows ; and from thence beneath them, to a mediocrity ;
174
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
and afterwards to sottishness and contempt, below the
vulgar. Since they have cast away the best, it is just
with God to take away the worst ; and to cast off them
in lesser regards, which have rejected him in greater.
LXXVIL
It hath ever been counted more noble and successful
to set upon an open enemy in his own home, than to
expect till he set upon us, whiles we make only a de-
fensive war. This rule serves us for our last enemy,
death ; whence that old demand of Epicure is easily an-
swered, ' Whether it be better death should come to us,
or that we should meet him in the way ; meet him in
our minds, ere lie seize upon our bodies ?' Our coward-
liness, our unpreparation, is his advantage ; whereas true
boldness in confronting him, dismays and weakens his
forces. Happy is that soul, that can send out the scouts
of his thoughts beforehand, to discover the power of
death afar off ; and then can resolutely encounter him at
unawares, upon advantage. Such one lives with secu-
rity, dies with comfort.
LXXVIII.
Many a man sends others to heaven, and yet goes to
hell himself ; and not few, having drawn others to hell,
yet themselves return by a late repentance, to life. In
a good action, it is not good to search too deeply into
the intention of the agent ; but in silence to make our
best benefit of the work. In an evil, it is not safe to re-
gard the quality of the person, or his success ; but to
consider the action, abstracted from all circumstances, in
his own kind. So we shall neither neglect good deeds,
HOLT OB SKE V ATI 0 N S .
175
because tlicy speed not well in some hands, nor affect a
prosperous evil.
LXXIX.
God doth some singular actions, wherein we cannot
imitate him ; some wherein we may not ; most wherein
he may and would fi\in be followed. He fetcheth good
out of evil ; so may we turn our own and others' sins to
private or public good. We may not do evil for a good
use ; but we must use our evil, once done, to good. I
hope I shall not offend to say, that the good use which
is made of sins is as gainful to God, as that which arises
from good actions. Happy is that man that can use
either his good, well, or his evil.
LXXX.
There is no difference betwixt anger and madness,
but continuance ; for raging anger is a short madness.
What else argues the shaking of the hands and lips ;
paleness, or redness, or swelling of the face ; glaring of
the eyes ; stammering of the tongue ; stamping with the
feet; unsteady motions of tlie whole body; rash actions
which we remember not to have done ; distracted and
wild speeches ? And madness again is nothing but a
continued rage ; yea, some madness rageth not. Such
a mild madness is more tolerable than frequent and furi-
ous anger.
LXXXl.
Those that would keep state, must keep aloof off ; es-
pecially if their qualities be not answerable in height
to their place : for many great persons are like a well-
176
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
wrought picture upon a coarse cloth ; which afar off
shows fair, but near hand the roundness of the thread
mars the good workmanship. Concealment of gifts, af-
ter some one commended act, is the best way to admira-
tion, and secret honor ; but he that would profit, must
vent himself oft and liberallj, and show what he is, with-
out all private regard. As therefore many times, honor
follows modesty unlooked for ; so contrarily, a man may
show no less pride in silence and obscurity, than others
which speak and write for glory. And that other pride
is so much the worse, as it is more unprofitable ; for
whereas those which put forth their gifts, benefit others
whiles they seek themselves ; these are so wholly de-
voted to themselves, that their secrecy doth no good to
others.
LXXXU.
Such as a man's delights and cares are in health, such
are both his thoughts and speeches, commonly, on his
death bed. The proud man talks of his fair suits ; the
glutton, of his dishes ; the wanton, of his beastliness ;
the religious man, of heavenly things. The tongue will
hardly leave that to which the heart is inured. If we
would have good motions to visit us while we are sick,
we must send for them familiarly in our health.
Lxxxm.
He is a rare man, that hath not some kind of madness
reigning in him. One, a dull madness of melancholy ;
another, a conceited madness of pride ; another, a super-
stitious madness of false devotion ; a fourth, of ambition
or covetousness ; a fifth, the furious madness of anger :
HOLY OBSERVATIONS.
177
a sixth, the laughing madness of extreme mirth ; a sev-
enth, a drunken madness ; an eighth, of outrageous lust ;
a ninth, the learned madness of curiosity ; a tenth, the
worst madness, of profaneness and atheism. It is as
hard to reckon up all kinds of madnesses, as of disposi-
tions. Some are more noted and punished than others
— for that the madman in one kind as much condemna
another, as the sober man condemns him. Only that
man is both good, and wise, and happy, that is free from
all kinds of phrensy.
LXXXIV.
There be some honest errors, wherewith I never
found that God was offended. That an husband should
think his own wife comely, although ill-favored in the
eyes of others ; that a man should think more meanly
of his own good parts than of weaker in others ; to give
charitable, though mistaken, constructions of doubtful ac-
tions and persons ; — which are the effects of natural af-
fection, humility, love, — were never censured by God.
Herein alone, we err if we err not.
LXXXV.
No marvel if the worldling escape earthly afflictions.
God corrects him not, because He loves him. not. He
is base-born and begot. God vvill not do him the favor
to whip him. The world afflicts him not, because it
loves him — for each one is indulgent to his own. God
uses not the rod, where he means to use the sword. The
pillory or scourge is for those malefactors which shall
escape execution.
12
178
HOLT OBSERVATIONS.
LXXXVI.
Weak stomachs, which cannot digest large meals, feed
■oft and little. For our souls, that which we want in
measure, we must supply in frequence. We can never
fully enough comprehend in our thoughts the joys of
heaven, the meritorious sufferings of Christ, the terrors
of the second death : — therefore we must meditate of
them often.
LXXXVII.
The same thoughts do commonly meet us in the same
places ; as if we had left them there till our return. For
that the mind doth secretly frame to itself memorative
heads, whereby it recalls easily the same conceits. It
is best to employ our mind there, where it is most fixed.
Our devotion is so dull, it cannot have too many advan-
tages.
Lxxxvra,
I find but one example in all Scripture, of any bodily
cure which our Saviour wrought by degrees : only the
blind man whose weak faith craved help by others, not
by himself, saw men first like trees, then in their true
shape. All other miraculous cures of Christ were done
at once, and perfect at first. Contrarily, I find but one
example of a soul fully healed — that is sanctified and
glorified — both in a day : all other, by degrees and lei-
sure. The steps of grace are soft and short. Those ex-
ternal miracles, he wrought immediately by himself ; and
therefore no marvel if they were absolute, hke their au-
thor. The miraculous work of our regeneration, he
works together with us. He giveth it efficacy ; we give
it imperfection.
CHARACTERISMS OF VIRTUES AND VICES:
TWO BOOKS.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
BOOK I.
The Premonition.— The Proem.— Character of Wisdom— Of
Honesty— Of Faith— Of Humility— Of Valor— Of Patience— Of
True Friendship— Of True Nobility— Of the Good Magistrate— Of
the Penitent — Of the Happy Man.
BOOK II.
The Proem. — Character of the Hypocrite — Of the Busy-body —
Of the Superstitious — Of the Profane — Of the Malcontent — Of the
Inconstant— Of the Flatterer— Of the Slothful— Of the Covetous—
Of the Vain-glorious — Of the Presumptuous — Of the Distrustful —
Of the Ambitious— Of the Untlmft^Of the Envious.
A PREMONITION:
OF THE TITLE AND USE OF CHAEACTERS.
Reader: — The Divines of the old heathens were their
Moral Philosophers. Tiiese received the acts of an inbred
law in the Sinai of nature, and delivered them, with many
expositions, to the multitude. These were the overseers of
manners, correctors of vices, directors of lives, doctors of
virtue ; which yet taught their people the body of their
natural divinity — not after one manner. While some
spent themselves in deep discourses of human felicity, and
the way to it in common, others thought it best to apply
the general precepts of goodness or decency to particular
conditions and persons. A third sort, in a mean course be-
twixt the two other, and compounded of them both, be-
stowed their time in drawing out the true lineaments of
every virtue and vice, so lively, that who saw the medals
might know the face : — which art they significantly termed
Charactery. Their papers were so many tables ; their
writings, so many speaking pictures, or living images,
whereby the ruder multitude might even by their sense
learn to know virtue, and discern what to detest. I am de-
ceived if any course could be more likely to prevail ; for
herein the gross conceit is led on with pleasure, and in-
formed, while it feels nothing but delight : and if pictures
182
A PEE MONITION.
have been accounted the books of idiots, behold here the
benefit of an image without the offence !
It is no shame for us to learn wit of heathens ; neither is
it material in whose school we take out a good lesson —
yea, it is more shame not to follow their good, than not to
lead them better. As one, therefore, that in worthy ex-
amples hold imitation better than invention, I have trod in
their paths, but with an higher and wider step ; and out of
their tablets have drawn these larger portraitures of both
sorts. More might be said, I deny not, of every virtue, of
every vice. I desired not to say all, but enough. If thou
do but read or like these, I have spent good hours il) ; but
if thou shalt hence abjure those vices, which before thou
thoughtest not ill-favored ; or fall in love with any of these
goodly faces of virtue, or shalt hence find where thou hast
any little touch of these evils, to clear thyself; or where
any defect in these graces, to supply it — neither of us shall
need to repent of our labor.
BOOK I.
CHARACTERISMS OF VIRTUES.
THE PROEM.
Virtue is not loved enough, because she is not seen ;
and vice loseth much detestation, because her ugliness is
secret. Certainly, there are so many beauties and so
many graces in the face of goodness, that no eye can
possibly see it without affection, without ravishment :
and the visage of evil is so monstrous, through lothsome
deformities, that if her lovers were not ignoi-ant, they
would be mad with disdain and astonishment. What
need we more than to discover these two to the world ?
This work shall save the labor of exhorting and dissua-
sion. I ha^'e here done it as I could ; following that an-
cient master of morality, Theophrastiis, who thought
this the fittest task for the ninety-and-ninth year of his
age, and the profitablest monument that he could leave
for a farewell to his Grecians. Lo here, then, virtue
and vice stripped naked to the open view ; and despoil-
ed, one of her rags, the other of her ornaments ; and
nothing left them but bare presence, to plead for affec-
tion : — see now whether shall find more suitors. And if
still the vain minds of lewd men shall dote upon their
184 CHARA CTERISMS OF VIRTUES.
old mistress, it will appear to be, not because she is not
foul, but for that they are blind and bewitched. And
first behold the goodly features of Wisdom, an amiable
virtue, and worthy to lead this stage : which, as she ex-
tends herself to all the following graces, so amongst the
rest is for her largeness most conspicuous.
CHARACTER OF THE WISE 3VLAN.
There is nothing that he desires not to know ; but
most and first, himself ; and not so much his own strength
as his weaknesses : neither is his knowledge reduced to
discourse, but practice. He is a skilful logician, not by
nature so much as use : his working mind doth nothing
all his time, but make syllogisms and draw out conclu-
sions. Everything that he sees and hears, serves for one
of the premises : with these he cares first to inform him-
self, then to direct others. Both his eyes are never at
once from home, but one keeps house while the other
roves abroad for intelligence. In material and weighty
points, he abides not his mind suspended in uncertain-
ties ; but hates doubting, where he may, where he should
be resolute : and first he makes sure work for his soul,
accounting it no safety to be unsettled in the foreknow-
ledge of his final estate. The best is first regarded : and
vain is that regard which endeth not in security. Every
care hath his just order ; neither is there any one either
neglected or misplaced. He is seldom overseen with
credulity ; for knowing the falseness of the world, he
hath learned to trust himself always ; others, so far as
he may not be damaged by their disappointment. He
THE WISE MAN.
185
seeks his quietness in secrecy ; and is wont both to hide
himself in retiredness, and his tongue in himself. He
loves to be guessed at, not known ; and to see the world
unseen ; and when he is forced into the light, shows by
his actions that his obscurity was neither from affectation
nor weakness. His purposes are neither so variable as
may argue inconstancy, nor obstinately unchangeable ;
but framed according to lii^ after-wits, or the strength of
new occasions. He is both an apt scholar, and an ex-
cellent master ; for both everything he sees informs him,
and his mind, enriched with plentiful observation, can
give the best precepts. His free discourse runs back to
the ages past, and recovers events out of memory ; and
then preventeth Time, in flying forward to future things ;
and comparing one with the other, can give a verdict
well-near prophetical — wherein his conjectures are bet-
ter than another's judgments. His passions are so many
good sei-vants, which stand in a diligent attendance, rea-
dy to be commanded by reason, by religion ; and if at
any time, forgetting their duty, they be miscarried to re-
bel, he can first conceal their mutiny, then suppress it.
In all his just and worthy designs, he is never at a loss ;
but hath so projected all his courses, that a second be-
gins where the first failed ; and fetcheth strength from
that which succeeded not. There be wrongs which he will
not see ; neither doth he always look that way which he
meaneth ; nor lake notice of his secret smarts when they
come from great ones. In good turns, he loves not to
owe more than he must ; in evil, to owe and not pay.
Just censures he deserves not, for he lives without the
compass of an adversary : unjust, he contemneth ; and
had rather suffer false infamy to die alone, than lay hands
186 CHAEACTEEISM3 OF VIKTUES.
upon it in an open violence. He confineth himself in
the circle of his own affairs, and lists not to thrust his
finger into a needless fire. He stands like a centre un-
moved, while the circumference of his estate is drawn
above, beneath, about him. Finally, his wit hath cost
him much ; and he can both keep, and value, and em-
ploy it. He is his own lawyer ; the treasury of know-
ledge ; the oracle of counsel ; blind in no man's cause ;
best-sighted in his own.
OF AN HOXEST MAN.
He looks not to what he might do, but what he should.
Justice is his first guide ; the second law of his actions
is expedience. He had rather complain than offend, and
hates sin more for the indignity of it than the danger.
His simple uprightness works in him that confidence
which ofttimes wrongs him, and gives advantage to the
subtil ; when he rather pities their faithlessness, than re-
pents of his credulity. He hath but one heart, and that
lies open to sight ; and were it not for discretion, he nev-
er thinks aught whereof be would avoid a witness. His
word is bis parchment ; and his yea, bis oath, which he
will not violate for fear, or for loss. The mishaps of
following events may cause bim to blame his provi-
dence— can never cause him to eat his promise : neither
saith he, ' This I saw not,' but, ' This I said.' When he
is made bis friend's executor, he defrays debts, pays le-
gacies, and scometh to gain by orphans, or to ransack
graves ; and therefore will be true to a dead friend, be-
cause he sees him not. All his dealings are square and
above the board : he bewrays the fault of what he sells, and
AN HONEST MAN
187
restores the overseen gain of a false reckoning. He es-
teems a bribe venomous, though it come gilded over with
the color of gratuity. His cheeks are never stained
with the blushes of recantation ; neither doth his tongue
falter, to make good a lie with the secret glosses of dou-
ble or reserved senses ; and when his name is traduced,
his innocency bears him out with courage : then, lo, he
goes on the plain way of truth ; and will either triumph
in his integrity, or suffer with it. His conscience over-
rules his providence ; so as in all things, good or ill, he
respects the nature of the actions, not the sequel. If he
see what he must do, let God see what shall follow.
He never loadeth himself with burdens above his
strength, beyond his will : and once bound, what he can,
he will do ; neither doth he will but what he can do.
His ear is the sanctuary of his absent friend's name, of
his present friend's secret ; neither of them can miscarry
in his trust. He remembers the wrongs of his youth,
and repays them with that usury which he himself would
not take. He would rather want than borrow ; and beg,
than not to pay. His fair conditions are without dis-
sembling, and he loves actions above words. Finally,
he hates falsehood worse than death ; he is a faithful
client of truth ; no man's enemy ; and it is a question,
whether more another man's friend, or his own ; and if
there were no heaven, yet he would be virtuous.
OF THE FAITHFUL IVIAN.
His eyes have no other objects but absent and invisi-
ble ; which they see so clearly, as that to them sense
is blind. That which is present, they see not : if I may
188 CHARACTERISMS OF TIHTUES.
not rather say that what is past or future, is present to
them. Herein he exceeds all others, that to him nothing
is impossible, nothing difficult, whether to bear or under-
take. He walks every day with his Maker, and talks
with liim familiarly, and lives ever in heaven, and sees
all earthly things beneath him. When he goes in to
converse with God, he wears not his own clothes, but
takes them still out of the rich wardrobe of his Redeem-
er ; and then dare boldly press in and challenge a bless-
ing. The celestial spirits do not scorn his company, yea
his service. He deals in these worldly affairs as a
Stranger, and hath his heart ever at home. Without a
written warrant, he dare do nothing; and with it, any-
thing. His war is perpetual, without truce, without in-
termission, and his victory certain. He meets with the
infernal powers, and tramples them under feet. The
shield that he ever bears before him can neither be miss-
ed nor pierced ; if his hand be wounded, yet his heart is
safe ; he is often tripped, seldom foiled ; and if some-
times foiled, never vanquished. He hath white hands
and a clean soul fit to lodge God in, all the rooms where-
of are set apart for his holiness. Iniquity hath oft call-
ed at the door and craved entertainment, but with a re-
pulse ; or if sin of force will be his tenant, his lord he
cannot. His faults are few ; and those he hath, God
will not see. He is allied so high that he dare call God,
father; his Saviour, brother; heaven, his patrimony;
and thinks it no presumption to trust to the attendance
of angels. His understanding is enlightened with the
beams of divine truth ; God hath acquainted him with
His will ; and what he knows, he dare confess ; there is
not more love in his heart, than liberty in his tongue. If
THE FAITHFPL MAN.
189
torments stand betwixt him and Christ, if deatli, he con-
temns thera ; and if his own parents lie in his way to
God, his holy carelessness makes them his footsteps.
His experiments have drawn forth rules of confidence,
which he dares oppose against all the fears of distrust:
wherein he thinks it safe to charge God with what He
hath done, Avith what He hath promised. Examples are
his proofs ; and instances, his demonstrations. What
hath God given which He cannot give ? What have
others suffered, which he may not be enabled to endure ?
Is he threatened banishment ? There he sees the dear
evangelist in Patmos. Cutting in pieces? He sees
Isaiah under tlie saw. Drowning? He sees Jonah div-
ing into the living gulf. Burning? He sees the three
children in the hot walk of the furnace. Devouring ?
He sees Daniel in the sealed den amidst his terrible com-
panions. Stoning ? He sees the first martyr under his
heap of many grave-stones. Heading ? Lo, there the
Baptist's neck, bleeding in Herodias' platter. He emu-
lates their pain, their strength, their glory. He wearies
not himself with cares ; for he knows he lives not of his
own cost: not idly omitting means, but not using them
with diffidence. In the midst of ill rumors and amaze-
ments, his countenance changetli not ; for he knows both
whom he hath trusted, and whither death can lead him.
He is not so sure he shall die, as that he shall be re-
stored ; and out-faceth his death with his resurrection.
Finally, he is rich in works, busy in obedience, cheer-
ful and unmoved in expectation, better with evils, in
common opinion miserable, but in true judgment more
than a man.
190 CHABACTERISMS OF VIRTUES.
OF THE HUMBLE MAN.
He is a friendly enemy to himself : for though he be
not out of his own favor, no man sets so low a value of
his worth as himself — not out of ignorance or careless-
ness, but of a voluntary and meek dejectedness. He
admires everything in another, whiles the same or bet-
ter in himself he thinks not unworthily contemned. His
eyes are full of his own wants, and others' perfections.
He loves rather to give than take honor ; not in a fash-
ion of compHmental courtesy, but in simplicity of his
judgment ; neither doth he fret at those on whom he for-
ceth precedency, as one that hoped their modesty would
have refused, but holds his mind unfeignedly below his
place, and is ready to go lower, if need be, without dis-
content. When he hath but his due, he magnifieth
courtesy, and disclaims his deserts. He can be more
ashamed of honor than grieved with contempt ; because
he thinks that causeless, this deserved. His face, his
carriage, his habit, savor of lowliness without affectation,
and yet he is much under that he seemeth. His words
are few and soft, never either peremptory or censorious ;
because he thinks both each man more wise, and none
more faulty than himself; and when he ai)proacheth to
the throne of God, he is so taken up with the divine
greatness, that in his own eyes he is either vile or no-
thing. Places of public charge are fain to sue to him,
and hale him out of his chosen obscurity ; which he holds
off — not cunningly to cause importunity, but sincerely,
in the conscience of his defects. He frequenteth not the
Stages of common resorts ; and then alone thinks him-
A VALIANT MAN.
191
self in his natural element, when he is shrouded within
his own walls. He is ever jealous over himself, and
still suspecteth that which others applaud. There is no
better object of beneficence ; for what he receives, he as-
cribes merely to the bounty of the giver, nothing to
merit. He emulates no man in anything but goodness,
and that with more desire than hope, to overtake. No
man is so contented with his little, and so patient under
miseries ; because he knows the greatest evils are below
his sins, and the least favors above his deservings. He
walks ever in awe, and dare not but subject every word
and action to an high and just censure. He is a lowly
valley, sweetly planted and well watered; the proud
man's earth whereon he trampleth ; but secretly full of
wealthy mines, more worth than he that walks over
them ; a rich stone set in lead ; and lastly, a true temple
of God, built with a low roof.
OF A VALIANT MAN.
He undertakes without rashness, and performs with-
out fear. He seeks not for dangers ; but when they
find him, he bears them over with courage, with success.
He hath ofttimes looked dcatli in the face, and passed
by it with a smile ; and when he sees he must yield, doth
at once welcome and contemn it. He forecasts the
worst of all events, and encounters them before they
come, in a secret and mental war ; and if the sudden-
ness of an unexpected evil have surprised his thoughts,
and infected his cheeks with paleness, he hath no sooner
digested it in iiis conceit, than he gathers up himself,
and insults over mischief. He is the master of himself,
192 CHAKACTEKISMS OF VIRTUES.
and subdues his passions to reason ; and, by this inward
victory, works his own peace. He is afraid of nothing
but tlie displeasure of the Highest, and runs away from
nothing but sin. He looks not on his hands, but his
cause ; not how strong he is, but how innocent ; and
where goodness is his warrant, he may be over-master-
ed, he cannot be foiled. The sword is to him the last
of all trials ; which he draws forth still as defendant,
not as challenger, with a willing kind of unwillingness :
no man can better manage it, with more safety, with
more favor. He had rather have his blood seen than
his back, and disdains life upon base conditions. No
man is more mild to a relenting or vanquished adversa-
ry, or more hates to set his foot on a carcass. He had
rather smother an injury than revenge himself of the
impotent ; and I know not whether more detests cow-
ardliness or cruelty. He talks little, and brags less;
and loves rather the silent language of the hand — to be
seen than heard. He lies ever close within himself,
armed with wise resolution, and will not be discovered
but by death or danger. He is neither prodigal of
blood, to misspend it idly, nor niggardly to grudge it, when
either God calls for it, or his country : neither is he more
liberal of Lis own life than of others. His power is lim-
ited by his will ; and he holds it the noblest revenge,
that he might hurt and doth not. He commands with-
out tyranny and imperiousness, obeys without servility,
and changes not his mind with his estate. The height
of his spirits overlooks all casualties, and his boldness
proceeds neither from ignorance nor senselessness ; but
first he values evils, and then despises them. He is so
balanced with wisdom that he floats steadily in the midst
A PATIENT MAN.
193
of all tempests. Deliberate in his purposes, firm in res-
olution, bold in enterprising, unwearied in achieving,
and, howsoever, happy in success : and if ever he be
overcome, his heart yields last.
OF A PATIENT MAN.
The patient man is made of a metal not so hard as
flexible. His shoulders are large, fit for a load of inju-
ries ; which he beat's, not out of baseness and cowardli-
ness, because he dare not revenge, but out of Christian
fortitude, because he may not. He hath so conquered
himself that wrongs cannot conquer him ; and herein,
alone finds that victory consists in yielding. He is
above nature, while he seems below himself. The
vilest creature knows how to turn again, but to com-
mand himself not to resist, being urged, is more than he-
roical. His constructions are ever full of charity and
favor — either this wrong was not done, or not with in-
tent of wrong ; or if that, upon misinformation ; or if
none of these, rashness, though a fault, shall serve for an
excuse. Himself craves the offender's pardon, before
his confession ; and a slight answer contents, where the
offended desires to forgive. He is God's best witness ;
and when he stands before the bai- for truth, his tongue
is calmly free, his forehead firm, and he, with erect and
settled countenance, hears his just sentence and rejoices
in it. The jailors that attend him, are to him his pages
of honor ; his dungeon, the lower part of the vault of
heaven ; his rack or wheel, the stairs of his ascent to
glory. He challengeth his executioners, and encounters
the fiercest pains with strength of resolution ; and while
13
194 CHARACTEEISMS OF VIRTUES.
he suffers, the beholders pity him, the tormentors com-
plain of weariness, and both of them wonder. No an-
guish can master him, whether by violence or by hngering.
He accounts expectation no punishment, and can abide
to have his hopes adjourned till a new day. Good laws
serve for his protection, not for his revenge ; and his
own power, to avoid indignities, not to return them.
His hopes are so strong that they can insult over the
greatest discouragements ; and his apprehensions so
deep, that when he hath once fastened, he sooner leaveth
his life than his hold. Neither time nor perverseness can
make him cast off his charitable endeavors, and despair
of prevailing ; but in spite of all crosses and all denials,
he redoubleth his beneficial offers of love. He trieth
the sea after many shipwrecks, and beats still at that
door which he never saw opened. Contrariety of events
doth but exercise, not dismay him ; and when crosses
afflict him, he sees a divine hand invisibly striking with
these sensible scourges ; against which he dares not re-
bel nor murmur. Hence all things befall him ahke ;
and he goes, with the same mind, to the shambles and
to the fold. His recreations are calm and gentle ; and
not more full of relaxation, than void of fury. This
man only can turn necessity into virtue, and put evil to
good use. He is the surest friend, the latest and easiest
enemy, the greatest conqueror, and so much more happy
than others, by how much he could abide to be more
miserable.
THE TRUE FRIEND.
195
OF TILE TRUE FRIENT).
His affections are both united and divided — united to
him he loveth, divided betwixt another and himself;
and his one heart is so parted, that whiles he hath
some, his friend hath all. His choice is led by virtue,
or by the best of virtues. Eeligion — not by gain, not
by pleasure ; yet not without respect of equal condition,
of disposition not unlike : which, once made, admits of
no change, except he whom he loveth be changed quite
from himself; nor that suddenly, but after long ex-
pectation. Extremity doth but fasten him ; whiles he,
like a well-wrought vault, lies the stronger by how
much more weight he bears. When necessity calls
him to it, he can be a servant to his equal, with the same
will wherewith he can command his inferior ; and though
he rise to honor, forgets not his famiharity, nor suffers
inequality of estate to work strangeness of countenance ;
on the other side, he lifts up his friend to advance-
ment with a willing hand, without envy, without
dissimulation. When his mate is dead, he accounts
himself but half alive ; then his love, not dissolved by
death, derives itself to those orphans which never knew
the price of their father ; they become the heirs of his
affection, and the burden of his cares. He embraces a
free community of all things, save those which either
honesty reserves proper, or nature ; and hates to enjoy
that which would do his friend more good. His charity
serves to cloak noted infirmities, not by untruth, not by
flattery, but by discreet secrecy ; neither is he more favor-
able in concealment than round in his private reprehen-
196 CHAKAC TEBI8MS OF VIRTUE 8.
sions; and when another's simple fidelity shows itself in
his reproof he loves his monitor so much the more, by how
much more he smarteth. His bosom is his friend's closet,
where he may safely lay up his complaints, his doubts,
his cares ; and look, how he leaves, so he finds them —
save for some addition of seasonable counsel for redress.
If some unhappy suggestion shall either disjoint his ^-
fection or break it, it soon knits again, and grows the
stronger by that stress. He is so sensible of another's
injuries, that when his friend is stricken he cries out, and
equally smarteth, untouched, as one affected not with
sympathy, but with a real feeling of pain : and in what
mischief may be prevented, he interposeth his aid, and of-
fers to redeem his friend with himself. No hour can be
unseasonable, no business difficult, nor pain grievous in
condition of his ease ; and what either he doth or suf-
fereth, he neither cares nor desires to have known, lest
he should seem to look for thanks. If he can therefore
steal the performance of a good office, unseen, the con-
science of his faithfulness herein is so much sweeter as
it is more secret. In favors done, his memory is frail ;
in benefits received, eternal. He scometh either to re-
gard recompense, or not to offer it. He is the comfort
of miseries, the guide of difficulties, the joy of life, the
treasure of earth ; and n o other than a good angel
clothed in flesh.
OF THE TRULY NOBLE.
He stands not upon what he borrowed of his ances-
tors, but thinks he must work out his own honor ; and
if he cannot reach the virtue of them that gave him
THE TROLT NOBLE.
197
outward glory by inheritance, he is more abashed of his
impotency, than transported with a great name. Gfe&t-
ness doth not make him scornful and imperious ; but fath-
er, like the fixed stars, the higher he is, the less he de-
sires to seem. Neither cares he so much for pomp and
frothy ostentation, as for the solid truth of nobleness.
Courtesy and sweet affability can be no more severed
from him, than life from liis soul ; — not out of a base and
servile popularity, and desire of ambitious insinuation ;
but of a native gentleness of disposition, and true value of
himself. His hand is open and bounteous ; yet not so as
that he should rather respect his glory than his estate :
wherein his wisdom can distinguish betwixt parasites and
friends, betwixt changing of favors and expending them.
He scorneth to make his height a privilege of looseness ;
but accounts his titles vain, if he be inferior to others in
goodness ; and thinks he should be more strict, the more
eminent he is — because he is more observed, and now
his offences are become exemplar. There is no virtue
that he holds unfit for ornament, for use ; nor any vice,
which he condemns not as sordid and a fit companion
of baseness ; and whereof he doth not more hate the
blemish, than affect the pleasure. He so studies, as one
that knows ignorance can neither purchase honor nor
wield it ; and that knowledge must both guide and grace
him. His exercises are, from his childhood, ingenuous,
manly, decent, and such as tend still to wit, valor,
activity ; and if, as seldom, he descend to disports of
chance, his games shall never make him either pale with
fear, or hot with desire of gain. He doth not so use his
followers, as if he thought they were made for nothing
but his servitude ; whose felicity were only to be com-
198 CHARACTEEI8MS OF VIRTUES.
manded and please ; wearing them to the back, and then
either finding or framing excuses to discard them empty ;
— but upon all opportunities, lets tliem feel the sweet-
ness of their own serviceableness and his bounty. Si-
lence in officious service, is the best oratory to plead for
his respect. All diligence is but lent to him, none lost.
His wealth stands in receiving; his honor in giving.
He cares not either how many hold of his goodness, or
to how few he is beholden ; and if he have cast away
favors, he hates either to upbraid them to his enemy, or
to challenge restitution. None can be more pitiful to
the distressed, or more prone to succor ; and then most,
where is least means to solicit, least possibility of requi-
taL He is equally addressed to war and peace ; and
knows not more how to command others, than how to be
his country's servant in both. He is more careful to
give true honor to his ISIaker, than to receive civil hon-
or from men. He knows that this service is free and
noble, and ever loaded with sincere glory ; and how
vain it is to hunt after applause from the world, till he
be sure of Him that moldeth all hearts and poureth con-
tempt on princes ; and, shortly, so demeans himself, as
one that accounts the body of nobility to consist in blood,
the soul in the eminence of virtue.
OF THE GOOD MAGISTRATE.
He i.? the faithful deputy of his Maker, whose obedi-
ence is the rule whereby he ruleth. His breast is the
ocean whereinto all the cares of private men empty
themselves ; which, as he receives without complaint
and overflowing, so he sends them forth again by a wise
THE GOOD MAGISTRATE.
199
conveyance, in the streams of justice^ His doors, his
ears, are ever open to suitors ; and not who comes first,
speeds well, but whose cause is best. His nights, his
meals, are short and interrupted ; all which he bears
well, because he knows himself made for a public ser-
vant of peace and justice. He sits quietly at the stern,
and commands one to the top-sail, another to the main,
a third to the plummet, a fourth to the anchor, as he sees
the need of their course and weather requires ; and doth
no less by his tongue, than all the mariners with their
hands. On the bench, he is another from himself at
home : now all private respects of blood, alliance, amity,
are forgotten ; and if his own son come under trial, he
knows him not. Pity — which in all others is wont to
be the best praise of humanity, and the fruit of Chris-
tian love, is by him thrown over the bar, for corruption.
As for favor, the false advocate of the gracious, he al-
lows him not to appear in the court : — there only causes
are heard speak, not persons. Eloquence is then only
not discouraged, when she serves for a client of truth.
Mere narrations are allowed in this oratory ; not pro-
ems, not excursions, not glosses. Truth must strip her-
self and come in naked to his bar, without false bodies,
or colors, without disguises. A bribe in his closet, or a
letter on the bench, or the whispering and winks of a
great neighbor, are answered with an angry and coura-
geous repulse. Displeasure, revenge, recompense, stand
on both sides the bench, but he scorns to turn his eye
towards them ; looking only right forward at equity,
which stands full before him. His sentence is ever de-
liberate, and guided with ripe wisdom, yet his hand is
slower than his tongue : but when he is urged by occa-
200 CHARACTERISMS OF VIRTUES.
sion, either to doom or execution, he shows how much
he hateth merciful injustice ; neither can his resolution
or act be reversed with partial importunity. His fore-
head is rugged and severe, able to discountenance vil-
lainy ; yet liis words are more awful than his brow ; and
his hand, than his words. I know not whether he be
more feared or loved, both affections are so sweetly con-
tempered in all hearts. The good fear him lovingly,
the middle sort love him fearfully, and only the wicked
man fears him slavishly without love. He hates to pay
private wrongs with the advantage of his office ; and if
ever he be partial, it is to his enemy. He is not more
sage in his gown than valorous in arms ; and increaseth
in the rigor of discipline, as the times in danger. His
sword hath neither rusted for want of use, nor surfeiteth
of blood ; but, after many threats, is unsheathed as the
di'eadful instrument of divine revenge. He is the guard
of good laws, the refuge of innocency, the comet of the
guilty, the pay-master of good deserts, the champion of
justice, the patron of peace the tutor of the church, the
father of his country, and, as it were, another God upon
earth.
OF THE PEXITEXT.
He hath a wounded heart and a sad face ; yet not so
much for fear as for unkiudness. The wrong of his sin
troubles him more than the danger. None but he is the
belter for his sorrow ; neither is any passion more hurt-
ful to others, than this is gainful to him. The more he
seeks to hide his grief, the less it will be hid : every man
may read it, not only in his eyes, but in his bones.
THE PENITENT
201
Whiles he is in charity with all others, he is so fallen out
with himself, that none but God can reconcile him. He
hath sued himself in all courts, accuseth, arraigneth, sen-
tenceth, punisheth himself unpartially ; and sooner may
find mercy at any hand, than at his own. He only hath
pulled off the fair visor of sin ; so as that appears not,
but masked, unto others, is seen of him, barefaced ; and
bewrays that fearful ugliness which none can conceive,
but he that hath viewed it. He hath looked into the
depth of the bottomless pit, and hath seen his own of-
fence tormented in others, and the same brands shaken
at him. He hath seen the change of faces in that evil
one, as a tempter, as a tormentor ; and hath heard the
noise of a conscience ; and is so frighted with all these,
that he never can have rest till he have run out of him-
self to God, in whose face at first he finds rigor, but af-
terwards sweetness in his bosom. He bleeds first from
the hand that heals him. The law of God hath made
work for mercy : which he hath no sooner apprehended,
than he forgets his wounds, and looks carelessly upon all
these teiTors of guiltiness. When he casts his eye back
upon himself, he wonders where he was, and how he
came there, and grants that if there were not some
witchcraft in sin, he could not have been so sottishly
graceless. And now in the issue Satan finds, not with-
out indignation and repentance, that he hath done him a
good turn in tempting him : for he had never been so
good, if he had not sinned ; he had never fought with
such courage, if he had not seen his blood and been
ashamed of his foil. Now he is seen and felt in the
front of the spiritual battle, and can teach others how to
fight, and encourage them in fighting. His heart was
202 CHAEACTEKI9MS OF VIETUES.
never more taken up with the pleasure of sin, than now
with care of avoiding it. The very sight of that cup
wherein such a fulsome potion was brought him, turns
his stomach. The first offers of sin make him tremble
more now, than he did before at the judgments of his sin ;
neither dares he so much as look towards Sodom. All
the powers and craft of hell cannot fetch him in for a
customer to evil : his infirmity may yield once ; his res-
olution, never. There is none of his senses or parts
which he hath not within covenants for their good be-
haviour ; which they cannot ever break with impunity.
The wrongs of his sin he repays to men, with recom-
pense, as hating it should be said he owes anything to
his offence : to God, what in him lies, with sighs, tears,
vows, and endeavors of amendment. No heart is more
waxen to the impressions of forgiveness ; neither are
his hands more open to receive, than to give pardon.
All the injuries which are offered to him, are swallowed
up in his wrongs to his JVIaker and Redeemer, neither
can he call for the arrearages of his farthings, when he
looks upon the millions forgiven him. He feels not
what he suffers from men, when he thinks of what he
hath done and should have suffered. He is a thankful
herald of the mercies of his God ; which if all the world
hear not from his mouth, it is no fault of his. Neither
did he so burn with the evil fires of concupiscence, as
now with the holy flames of zeal to that glory which he
hath blemished ; and his eyes are as full of moisture as
his heart of heat. The gates of heaven are not so knock-
ed at by any suitor, whether for frequence or importu-
nity. You shall find his cheeks furrowed, his knees
hard, his lips sealed up — save when he must accuse him-
THE PENITENT.
203
self or glorify God — his eyes humbly dejected ; and
sometimes you shall take hira breaking off a sigh in the
midst, as one that would steal an humiliation unknown,
and would be offended with any part that should not
keep his counsel. Wlien he finds his soul oppressed with
the heavy guilt of a sin, he gives it vent thorough his
mouth into the ear of his spiritual Physician, from whom
he receives cordials answerable to his complaint. He is
a severe exactor of discipline, first upon himself, on whom
he imposes more than one lent ; then upon others, as one
that vowed to be revenged on sin wheresoever he finds
it : and though but one hath offended him, yet his de-
testation is universal. He is his own task-master for de-
votion ; and if Christianity have any work more difficult
or perilous than other, that he enjoins himself, and re-
solves contentment even in miscarriage. It is no marvel
if the acquaintance of his wilder times know him not, for
he is quite another from himself ; and if his mind could
have had any intermission of dwelling within his breast,
it could not have known this was the lodging. Nothing
but an outside is the same it was ; and that altered more
vvitli regeneration, than with age. None but he can
relish the promises of the gospel ; which he finds so sweet
that he complains not his thirst after them is unsatiable ;
and now that he hath found his Saviour, he hugs him so
fast, and holds him so dear, that he feels not when his
life is fetched away from him, for his martyrdom. The
latter part of his life is so led, as if he desired to unlive
his youth ; and his last testament is full of restitutions
and legacies of piety. In sum, he hath so lived and died,
as that Satan hath no such match, sin hath no such ene-
my, God hath no such servant, as he.
204 CHARACTERISMS OF VIBTUES.
OF THE HAPPY MAK.
He is an happy man that hath learned to read him-
self more than all books, and hath so taken out this les-
son that he can never forget it : that knows the world,
and cares not for it : that after many traverses of thoughts
is grown to know what he may trust to, and stands now
equally armed for all events : that hath got the mastery
at home, so as he can cross his will without a mutiny ;
and so please it, that he makes it not a wanton : that in
earthly things, wishes no more tlian nature ; in spiritual,
is ever graciously ambitious : that for his condition,
stands on his own feet, not needing to lean upon the
great ; and can so frame his thoughts to his estate, that
when he hath least he cannot want, because he is as free
from desire as superfluity : that hath seasonably broken
the headstrong restiness of prosperity, and can now ma-
nage it at pleasure : upon whom all smaller crosses light
as hailstones upon a roof ; and for the greater calamities,
he can take them as tributes of life and tokens of love ;
and if his ship be tossed, yet he is sure his anchor is
fast. If all the world were his, he could be no other than
he is ; no whit gladder of himself, no whit higher in his
Carriage ; because he knows contentment lies not in the
things he hath, but in the mind that values them. The
powers of his resolution can either multiply or subtract,
at pleasure. He can make his cottage a manor or a
palace when he lists ; and bis home-close, a large domin-
ion ; his stained cloth, arras ; his earth, plate ; and can
see state in the attendance of one servant — as one that
hath learned, a man's greatness or baseness is in himself;
THE HAPPr MAN.
205
and in this, he may even contest with the proud, that he
thinks his own the best. Or, if he must be outwardly
great, he can but turn the other end of the glass, and
make his stately manor a low and strait cottage ; and in
all his costly furniture, he can see not richness but use ;
he can see dross in the best metal, and earth thorough
the best clothes ; and in all his troop, he can see himself
his owu servant He lives quietly at home, out of the
noise of the world, and loves to enjoy himself always,
and sometimes his friend ; and hath as fuU scope to his
thoughts, as to his eyes. He walks ever even, in the
mid-way betwixt hopes and fears, resolved to fear nothing
but God, to hope for nothing but that which he must
have. He hath a wise and virtuous mind in a servicea-
ble body ; which that better part affects as a present ser-
vant and a future companion — so cherisliing his flesh, as
one that would scorn to be all flesh. He hath no ene-
mies ; not for that all love him, but because he knows
to make a gain of malice. He is not so engaged to any
earthly thing that they two cannot part on even terms —
there is neither laughter in their meeting, nor in their
shaking of hands, tears. He keeps ever the best com-
pany, the God of spirits, and the spirits of that God,
whom he entertains continually in an awful familiarity ;
not being hindered either with too much hght or with
none at all.
His conscience and his hand are friends, and — what
devil soever tempt him — will not fall out. That divine
part goes ever uprightly and freely, not stooping under
the bm-den of a willing sin, not fettered with the gyves
of unjust scruples. He would not, if he could, run away
from himself or from God ; not caring from whom he
206 CHARACTEKISM3 OF TIKTtJES.
lies hid, so he may look these two in the face. Censures
and applauses are passengers to him, not guests : his ear
is their thoroughfare, not their harbor : he hath learned
to fetch both his counsel and his sentence from his own
breast. He doth not lay weight upon his own shoulders
as one that loves to torment himself with the honor of
much employment ; but as he makes work his game, so
doth he not list to make himself work. His strife is
ever to redeem, and not to spend, time. It is his trade
to do good ; and to think of it, his recreation. He hath
hands enow for himself and others, which are ever
stretched forth for beneficence, not for need. He walks
cheerfully in the way that God hath chalked, and never
wishes it more wide or more smooth. Those very ten-
tations whereby he is foiled, strengthen him : he comes
forth crowned and triumphing out of the spiritual bat-
tles ; and those scars that he hath, make him beautiful.
His soul is every day dilated to receive that God in
whom he is ; and hath attained to love himself for God,
and God for His own sake. His eyes stick so fast in
heaven, that no earthly object can remove them ; yea,
his whole self is there before his time, and sees with
Stephen, and hears with Paul, and enjoys with Lazarus,
the glory that he shall have ; and takes possession be-
fore-hand of his room amongst the saints ; and these
heavenly contentments have so taken him up, that now
he looks down displeasedly upon the earth as the region
of his sorrow and banishment ; yet joying more in hope
than troubled with the sense of evils, he holds it no great
matter to live, and his greatest business to die ; and is
so well acquainted with his last guest, that he fears no
unkindness from him : neither makes he any other of
THE HAPPY MAN.
207
dying, than of walking home when he is abroad, or of
going to bed when he is weary of the day. He is well
provided for both worlds, and is sure of peace here, of
glory hereafter ; and therefore hath a light heart and a
cheerful face. All his fellow creatures rejoice to serve
him ; his betters, the angels, love to observe him ; God
himself takes pleasure to converse with him, and hath
sainted him afore his death, and in his death ci'owned
him.
BOOK II.
CHARACTERISMS OF VICES.
THE PROEM.
I HAVE showed you many fair virtues. I speak not
for them. If their sight cannot command affection, let
tliem lose it. They shall please yet better, after you
have troubled your eyes a little with the view of deform-
ities : and by how much more they please, so much more
odious and like themselves, shall these deformities ap-
pear. This light contraries give to each other, in the
midst of their enmity, — that one makes the other seem
more good or ill.
Perhaps in some of these — which thing I do at once
fear and hate — my style shall seem to some less grave,
more satirical. If you find me, not without cause, jeal-
ous, let it please you to impute it to the nature of those
vices, which will not be otherwise handled. The fash-
ions of some evils, are — besides the odiousness — ridicu-
lous ; which to repeat, is to seem bitterly merry. I ab-
hor to make sport with wickedness ; and forbid any
laughter here, but of disdain.
THE HTPOCKITE.
209
Hypocrisy shall lead this ring ; worthily, I think, be-
cause both she cometh nearest to virtue, and is the worst
of vices.
CHAUACTEK OF THE HYPOCRITE.
An hypocrite is the worst kind of player, by so much
as he acts the better part : which hath always two faces,
ofttimes two heafts : that can compose his forehead to
sadness and gravity, while he bids his heart be wanton
and careless within ; and in the meantime laughs within
himself to think how smoothly he hath cozened the be-
holder : in whose silent face are written the characters
of religion, which his tongue and gestures pronounce,
but his hands recant : that hath a clean face and gar-
ment, with a foul soul : whose mouth belies his heart,
and his fingers belie his mouth. Walking early up into
the city, he turns into the great church, and salutes one
of the pillars on one knee — worshiping that God which,
at home he cares not for, — while his eye is fixed on some
window or some passenger, and his lieart knows not
whither his lips go. He rises, and looking about with
admiration, complains on our frozen charity, commends
the ancient. At church, he will ever sit where he may
be seen best, and in the middest of the sermon pulls out
his tables in haste, as if he feared to leese that note ;
when he writes either his forgotten errand or nothing :
then he turns his Bible with a noise, to seek an omitted
quotation, and folds the leaf as if he had found it ; and
asks aloud the name of the preacher, and repeats it ;
whom he publicly salutes, thanks, praises, invites, en-
14
210 CHAEACTEK18M8 OP VICES.
tertains with tedious good counsel, with good discourse,
— if it had come from an honester mouth. He can
command tears when he speaks of his youth, indeed
because it is past, not because it was sinful — himself is
now better but the times are worse. All other sins he
reckons up with detestation, while he loves and hides his
darling in his bosom. All his speech returns to himself
and every occurrent draws in a story to his own praise.
When he should give, he looks about him and says ' Who
sees me ?' No alms, no prayers, fall from him without
a witness — ^belike lest God should deny that He hath
received them : and when he hath done, lest the world
should not know it, his own mouth is his trumpet to pro-
claim it. With the supei-fluity of his usury, he builds
an hospital, and harbors them whom his extortion hath
spoiled ; so while he makes many beggars, he keeps
some. He turneth all gnats into camels, and caies not
to undo the world for a circumstance. Flesh on a Fri-
day, is more abomination to him than his neighbor's bed.
He abhors more not to uncover at the name of Jesus,
than to swear by the name of God. When a rhymer
reads his poem to him, he begs a copy and persuades the
press. There is nothing that he disHkes in presence,
that in absence he censures not. He comes to the sick
bed of his step-mother, and weeps, when he secretly
fears her recovery. He greets his friend in the street,
with so clear a countenance, so fast a closure, that the
other thinks he reads his heart in his face ; and shakes
hands with an indefinite invitation of • When will you
come ?' — and when his back is turned, joys that he is so
well rid of a guest ; yet if that guest visit him unfeared,
he counterfeits a smiling welcome, and excuses his cheer,
THE BUS T-B O D T.
211
when closely he frowns on his wife for too much. He
shows well, and says well ; and himself is the worst thing
he hath. In brief, he is the stranger's saint, the neigh-
bor's disease, the blot of goodness, a rotten stick in a
dark night, a poppy in a corn-field, an ill-tempered can-
dle with a great snufF — that in going out smells ill ; and
an angel abroad, a devil at home ; and woi'se when an
angel, than when a devil.
OF TIIE BUSY-BODY.
His estate is too narrow for his mind, and therefore
he is fain to make himself room in others' affairs — yet
ever in pretence of love. No news can stir but by his
door ; neither can he know that which he must not tell.
What every man ventures in Guiana voyage, and what
they gained he knows to a hair. Whether Holland will
have peace he knows ; and on what conditions, and with
what success, is familiar to him ere it be concluded. No
post can pass him without a question ; and rather than he
shall leese the news, he rides back with him to appose
him of tidings, and then to the next man he meets, he
supplies the wants of his hasty intelligence, and makes
up a perfect tale ; wherewith he so haunteth the patient
auditor, that, after many excuses, he is fain to endure
rather the censure of his manners in running away, than
the tediousness of an impertinent discourse. His speech
is oft broken off with a succession of long parentheses,
which he ever vows to fill up ere the conclusion, and
perhaps would effect it, if the other's ear were as un-
weariable as his tongue. If he see but two men talk and
read a letter in the street, he runs to them and asks them
212 CHARACTER ISMS OF VICES.
if he may not be partner of that secret relation ; and if
thej deny it, he offers to tell, since he may not hear,
wonders : and then falls upon the report of the Scottish
mine, or of the great fish taken up at Lynn, or of the
freezing of the Thames ; and after many thanks and
dismissions, is hardly entreated silence. He undertakes
as much as he performs Utile. This man will thrust
himself forward to be the guide of the way he knows
not ; and calls at his neighbor's window and asks why his
servants are not at work. The market hath no com-
modity which he prizeth not, and which the next table
shall not hear recited. His tongue, like the tail of Sam-
son's foxes, carries fire-brands, and is enough to set the
whole field of the world on a flame. Himself begins ta-
ble-talk of his neighbor at another's board ; to whom he
bears the first news, and adjures him to conceal the re-
porter : whose choleric answer he returns to his first
host, enlarged with a second edition ; so, as it uses to be
done in the fight of unwilling mastiffs, he claps each on
the side apai-t, and provokes them to an eager conflict.
There can no act pass without his comment, which is
ever far-fetched, rash, suspicious, dilatory. His ears
are long and his eyes quick ; but most of all to imper-
fections— which, as he easily sees, so he iucreaseth with
intermeddling. He harbors another man's servant, and
amidst his entertainment, asks what fare is usual at home,
what hours are kept, what talk passeth their meals, what
his master's disposition is, what his government, what
his guests. And when he hath, by curious inquiries,
extracted all the juice and spirit of hoped intelligence,
turns him off whence he came, and works on a new.
He hates constancy, as an earthen dullness, unfit for
THE S U PE KS T IT! O U S. 213
men of spirit ; and loves to change his work and his
place : neither yet can he be so soon weary of any place,
as every place is weary of him ; for as he sets himself
on work, so others pay him with hatred ; and look, how
many masters he hath, so many enemies ; neither is it
possible that any should not hate him, but who know him
not. So then he labors without thanks, talks without
credit, lives without love, dies without tears, wthout
pity — save that some say it was a pity he died no
sooner.
OF THE SUPEBSTITIOUS.
Superstition is godless rehgion, devout impiety. The
Superstitious is fond in observation, servile in fear. He
worships God but as he lists : he gives God what He
asks not, more than He asks, and all but what he should
give ; and makes more sins than the ten commandments.
This man dares not stir forth till his breast be crossed
and his face sprinkled. If but an hare cross him the
way, he returns ; or if his joui-ney began unawares on
the dismal day ; or if he stumble at tlie threshold. If
he see a snake unkilled, he fears a mischief : if the salt
fall towards him, he looks pale and red, and is not quiet
till one of the waiters have poured wine on his lap ; and
when he neezeth, thinks them not his fi-iends that un-
cover not. In the morning, he listens whether the crow
crieth even or odd, and by that token presages of the
weather. If he hear but a raven croak from the next
roof, he makes his will ; or if a bittour fly over his head
by night : but if his troubled fancy shall second his
thoughts with the dream of a fair garden, or green rush-
214 CHAKACTERISMS OF VICES.
es, or the salutation of a dead friend, lie takes leave of
the world, and says he cannot live. He will never set
to sea but on a Sunday ; neither ever goes without an
' Erra Pater ' in his pocket. Saint Paul's day, and
Saint Swithune's, with the twelve, are his oracles ; which
he dares believe, against the almanac. When he Ues
sick on his death-bed, no sin troubles him so much as
that he did once eat flesh on a Friday. No repentance
can expiate that; the rest need none. There is no
dream of his without an interpretation, without a pre-
diction : and if the event answer not his exposition, he
expounds it according to the event. Every dark grove
and pictured wall strikes him with an awful, but carnal,
devotion. Old wives and stars are his counsellors, his
night-spell is his guard ; and charms, his physicians. He
wears Paracelsian characters for the tooth-ache, and a
little hallowed wax is his antidote for all evils. This
man is strangely credulous ; and calls impossible things,
miraculous. If he hear that some sacred block speaks,
moves, weeps, smiles, his bare feet carry him thither
with an offering ; and if a danger miss him in the way,
his saint hath the thanks. Some ways he vrill not go
and some he dares not — either there are bugs or he
feigneth them ; every lantern is a ghost, and every noise
is of chains. He knows not why, but his custom is to
go a little about, and to leave the cross still on the right
hand. One event is enough to make a rule : out of
these he concludes fashions proper to himself ; and no-
thing can turn him out of his own course. If he have
done his task, he is safe ; it matters not with what afiPec-
tion. Finally, if God would let him be the carver of his
THE PROFANE.
215
own obedience, He could not have a better subject ; as
he is, He cannot have a worse.
OF THE PROFANE.
The superstitious hath too many gods : the profane
man hath none at all, unless perhaps himself be his own
deity, and the world his heaven. To matter of religion,
his heart is a piece of dead flesh, without feeling of love,
of fear, of care, or of pain from the deaf strokes of a re-
venging conscience. Custom of sin hath wrought this
senselessness ; which now hath been so long entertained,
that it pleads prescription, and knows not to be altered.
This is no sudden evil : we are born sinful, but have
made ourselves profane. Through many degrees, we
chmb to this height of impiety. At first, he sinned and
cared not : now, he sinneth and knoweth not. Appetite
is his lord, and reason his servant, and religion his
drudge. Sense is the rule of his belief ; and if piety
may be an advantage, he can at once counterfeit and de-
ride it. Wlien aught succeedeth to him. he sacrifices to
his nets, and thanks either his fortune or his wit ; and
will rather make a false god, than acknowledge the true :
if contrary, he cries out of destiny, and blames Him to
whom he will not be beholden. His conscience would
fain speak with him, but he will not hear it ; sets the
day but he disappoints it ; and when it cries aloud for
audience, he drowns the noise with good-fellowship. He
never names God, but in his oaths ; never thinks of
Him, but in extremity ; and then he knows not how to
think of Him, because he begins but then. He quarrels
for the hard conditions of his pleasure, for his future dam-
•216 CHARACTERISMS OP VICES.
nation ; and from himself, lays all the fault upon his Ma-
ker, and from his decree fetcheth excuses of his wicked-
ness. The inevitable necessity of God's counsel makes
him desperately careless ; so with good food he poisons
himself Goodness is his minstrel ; neither is any mirth
so cordial to him as his sport with God's fools. Every
virtue hath his slander and his jest, to laugh it out of fash-
ion ; every vice, his color. His usualest theme is the
boast of his young sins, which he can still joy in, though
he cannot commit ; and, if it may be, his speech makes
him worse than he is. He cannot think of death with
patience, without terror ; which he therefore fears worse
than hell, because this he is sure of, the other he but
doubts of. He comes to church as to the theatre — sav-
ing that not so willingly — for company, for custom, for
recreation, perhaps for sleep, or to feed his eyes or his
ears : as for his soul, he cares no more than if he had
none. He loves none but himself, and that not enough
to seek his time good ; neither cares he on whom he
reads, that he may rise. His life is full of license, and
his practice, of outrage. He is hated of God as much
as he hateth goodness ; and differs little from a devil,
but that he haih a bod}'.
OF TIIE JL^COXTENT.
He is neither well, full nor fasting; and though he
abound with complaints, yet nothing dislikes him but
the present : for what he condemned while it was, once
past he magnifies, and strives to recall it out of the jaws
of Time. What he hath, he seeth not, his eyes are so
taken up with what he wants ; and what he sees, he cares
OF THE MALCOXTENT.
217
not for, because he cares so much for that which is not.
"When his friend carves him the best morsel, he mur-
murs that it is an happy feast wherein each one may cut
for himself. When a present is sent him, he asks, ' Is
this all ?' and ' What, no better ?' and so accepts it, as if
he would have his friend know how much he is bound
to him for vouchsafing to receive it. It is hard to en-
tertain him with a proportionable gift. If nothing, he
cries out of unthankfulness ; if little, that he is basely
regarded ; if much, he exclaims of flattery, and expecta-
tion of a large requital Every blessing hath some-
what to disparage and distaste it : — children bring cares ;
single life is wild and solitary ; eminency is envious ;
retiredness, obscure ; fasting, painful ; satiety, unwieldy ;
religion, nicely severe ; liberty is lawless ; wealth,
burdensome ; mediocrity, contemptible. Eveiything
faulteth, either in too much or too little. This man is
ever headstrong and self-willed, neither is he always
tied to esteem or pronounce according to reason : some
things he must dislike, he knows not wherefore, but he
likes them not : and other-where, rather than not censure,
he will accuse a man of vinue. Every thing he med-
dleth with, he either findeth imperfect, or maketh so ;
neither is there anything that soundeth so harsh in his
ear, as the commendation of another ; whereto yet per-
haps he fashionably and coldly assenteth, but with such
an after-clause of exception, as doth more than mar his
former allowance ; and if he list not to give a verbal
disgrace, yet he shakes his head and smiles, as if his si-
lence should say, ' I could, and will not.' And when
himself is praised without excess, he complains that such
imperfect kindness hath not done him right. If but an
218 CHAEACTERISMS OF VICES.
unseasonable shower cross his recreation, he is ready to
fall out with heaven ; and thinks he is wronged, if God
will not take his times when to rain, when to shine.
He is a slave to envy, and loseth flesh with fretting, not
so much at his own infelicity, as at others' good : nei-
ther hath he leisure to joy in his own blessings, whilst
another prospereth. Fain would he see some mutinies,
but dares not raise them ; and suffers his lawless tongue
to walk thorough the dangerous paths of conceited alter-
cations ; but so, as in good manners, he had rather
thrust every man before him when it comes to acting.
Nothing but fear keeps him from conspiracies : and no
man is more cruel, when he is not manacled with dan-
ger. He speaks nothing but satires and libels, and
lodgeth no guests in his heart, but rebels. The incou-
etant and he agree well in their felicity, which both
place in change ; but herein they differ — the inconstant
man affects that which will be ; the malcontent com-
monly, that which was. Finally, he is a querulous
cur, whom no horse can pass by without barking at ;
yea, in the deep silence of night, the very moonshine
openeth his clamorous mouth. He is the wheel of a
well-couched fire-work, that flies out on all sides, not
without scorching itself. Every ear is long ago wea-
ry of him, and he is now almost weary of himself.
Give him but a little respite, and he will die alone, of
no other death than others' welfare.
OF THE LTsCONSTAKT.
The inconstant man treads upon a moving earth and
keeps no pace. His proceedings are ever heady and
THE UNO ONST ANT.
219
peremptory ; for he hath not the patience to consult
with reason, but determines merely upon fancy. No
man is so hot in the pursuit of what he Hketh ; no man
sooner weary. He is fiery in his passions, which yet
are not more violent than momentary. It is a wonder
if his love or hatred last so many days as a wonder.
His heart is the inn of all good motions, wherein if they
lodge for a night, it is well : by morning, they are gone,
and take no leave ; and if they come that way again,
they arc entertained as guests, not as friends. At first,
like another Ecebolius, he loved simple truth ; thence
diverting his eyes, he fell in love with idolatry. Those
heathenish shi-ines had never any more doting and be-
sotted client ; and now, of late, he has leaped from
Rome to Munster, and is grown to giddy anabaptism.
What he will be next, as yet he knoweth not ; but ere
he have wintered his opinion, it will be manifest. He
is good to make an enemy of ; ill for a friend ; because,
as there is no trust in his affection, so no rancour in his
displeasure. The multitude of his changed purposes
bringi with it forgetfulness, and not of others more than
of himself. He says, swears, renounces ; because what
he promised, he meant not long enough to make an im-
pression. Herein alone he is good for a commonwealth,
that he sets many on work with building, ruining, altering ;
and makes more business than time itself : neither is he
a greater enemy to thrift, than to idleness. Propriety
is to him enough cause of dislike — each thing pleases
him better that is not his own. Even in the best things,
long continuance is a just quarrel. Manna itself grows
tedious with age, and novelty is the highest style of com-
mendation to the meanest offers ; neither doth he in books
220 CHAKACTERISMS OF VICES.
and fashions, ask ' How good ?' but ' How new ?' Varie-
ty carries him away with deHght ; and no uniform pleaisure
can be without an irksome fullness. He is so transform-
able into all opinions, manners, qualities, that he seems
rather made immediately of the first matter, than of well-
tempered elements ; and therefore is in possibility any-
thing or everything — nothing is present substance. Fi-
nally, he is servile in imitation, waxy to persuasions,
witty to wrong himself, a guest in his own house, an ape
of others, and, in a word, anything rather than himself.
OF Tlffi FLATTERER.
Flattery is nothing but false friendship, fawning hy-
pocrisy, dishonest civility, base merchandise of words, a
plausible discord of the heart and lips. The flatterer is
blear-eyed to ill, and cannot see vices ; and his tongue
walks ever in one track of unjust praises, and can no
more tell how to discommend, than to speak true. His
speeches are full of wondering interjections, and all his
titles are superlative, and both of them seldom ever but
in presence. His base mind is well-matched with a
mercenary tongue, which is a willing slave to another
man's ear ; neither regardeth he how true, but how pleas-
ing. His art is nothing but delightful cozenage, whose
rules are smoothing and guarded with perjury ; whose
scope is to make men fools, in teaching them to over-
value themselves ; and to tickle his friends to death.
This man is a porter of all good tales, and mends them
in the can-iage : one of Fame's best friends and his own,
that helps to furnish her with those rumors ihat may advan-
tage himself. Conscience hath no greater adversary ;
THE FLATTERER.
221
for when she is about to play her just part of accusation,
he stops her mouth with good terms, and well-near
strangleth her with shifts. Like that subtil fish, he
turns himself into the color of every stone, for a booty.
In himself, he is nothing but what pleaseth his great-one ;
whose virtues he cannot more extol than imitate his im-
perfections, that he may think his worst graceful. Let
him say it is hot, he wipes his forehead and unbraseth
himself ; if cold, he shivers and calls for a warmer gar-
ment. When he walks with his friend, he swears to
him that no man else is looked at, no man talked of ; and
that whomsoever he vouchsafes to look on and nod to,
is graced enough ; that he knows not his own worth, lest
he should be too happy : and when he tells what others
say in his praise, he interrupts himself modestly, and
dares not speak the rest — so his concealment is more
insinuating than his speech. He hangs upon the lips
which he admireth, as if tli(!y could let fall nothing but
oracles ; and finds occasion to cite some approved
sentence, under the name he honoreth ; and when
aught is nobly spoken, both his hands are Uttle enough
to bless him. Sometimes even in absence, he extolleth
his patron, where he may presume of safe conveyance
to his ears ; and in presence, so whispereth his commen-
dation to a common friend, that it may not be unheard
where he meant it. He hath salves for every sore, to
hide them, not to heal them : complexion for every face.
Sin hath not any more artificial broker or more impudent
bawd. There is no vice that hath not from him his
color, his allurement; and his best service is, either
to further guiltiness, or smother it. If he grant evil
things inexpedient, or crimes errors, he hath yielded
222 CHARACTERISMS OF VICES.
much : either thy estate gives privilege of liberty, or
thy youth ; or if neither, ' What if it be ill ? — yet it is
pleasant !' Honesty to him is nice singularity ; re-
pentance, superstitious melancholy ; gravity, dulness ;
and all virtue, an innocent conceit of the base minded.
In short, he is the moth of liberal men's coats, the ear-
wig of the mighty, the bane of courts, a friend and a
slave to the trencher, and good for nothing but to be a
factor for the devil.
OF THE SLOTHFUL.
He is a religious man, and wears the time in his clois-
ter ; and as the cloak of his doing nothing, pleads con-
templation ; yet is he no whit the leaner for his thoughts,
no whit learneder. He takes no less care how to spend
time, than others how to gain by the expense ; and when
business importunes him, is more troubled to fore-think
what he must do, than another to effect it. Summer is
out of his favor, for nothing but long days that make no
haste to their even. He loves still to have the sun wit-
ness of his rising : and lies long, more for lothness to
dress him than will to sleep ; and after some streaking
and yawning, calls for dinner, unwashed ; which having
digested with a sleep in his chair, he walks forth to the
bench in the market-place, and looks for companions.
Whomsoever he meets, he stays with idle questions and
lingering discourse : — how the days are lengthened ;
how kindly the weather is ; how false the clock ; how
forward the Spring, and ends ever with, ' What shall
we do ?' It pleases him no less to hinder others, than
not to work himself. When all the people are gone
THE SLOTHFUL.
223
from church, he is left sleeping in his scat alone. He
entere bonds, and forfeits them by forgetting the day ;
and asks his neighbor when his own field was fallowed ;
whether the next piece of ground belong not to himself.
His care is either none, or too late. When winter is
come, after some sharp visitations, he looks on his pile
of wood, and asks how much was cropped the last Spring.
Necessity drives him to every action ; and what he can-
not avoid, he will yet defer. Every change troubles him,
aUhough to the better; and his dullness counterfeits
a kind of contentment. When he is warned on a ju-
ry, he had rather pay the mulct than appear. All but
that which nature will not permit, he doth by a deputy,
and counts it troublesome to do nothing ; but lo do any-
thing yet more. He is witty in nothing but framing ex-
cuses to sit still ; which if the occasion yield not, he
coincth with ease. There is no work that is not either
dangerous or thankless, and whereof he foresees not the
inconvenience and gainlessness before he enters ; which
if it be verified in event, his next idleness hath found a
reason — to patronize it. He had rather freeze than fetch
wood, and chooses rather to steal than work, to beg than
take pains to steal ; and in many things, to want than
beg. He is so loth to leave his neighbor's fire, that he
is fain to walk home in the dark ; and if he be not look-
ed to, wears out the night in the chimney-corner ; or if
not that, lies down in his clothes to save two labors.
He eats and prays himself asleep, and dreams of no oth-
er torment but work. This man is a standing pool and
cannot choose but gather corruptioa. He is descried
amongst a thousand neighbors, by a dry and nasty hand
that still savors of the sheet ; a beard uncut, unkembed ;
224 CHARACTEEISMS OF VICES.
an eye and ear yellow with their excretions ; a coat
shaken on, ragged, unbrushed ; by linen and face striv-
ing whether shall excel in uncleanness. For body,
he hath a swollen leg, a dusky and swinish eye, a blown
cheek, a drawling tongue, an heavy foot; and is no-
thing but a colder earth molded with standing water.
To conclude, is a man in nothing but in speech and
shape.
OF TIIE co"\t;tous.
He is a servant to himself, yea, to his servant ; and
doth base homage to that which should be the worst
drudge. A lifeless piece of earth is his master, yea, his
god, which he shrines in his coffer, and to which he sac-
rifices his heart. Every face of his coin is a new image
which he adores with the highest veneration ; yet takes
upon him to be protector of that he worshipeth : which
he fears to keep, and abhors to lose — not daring to trust
either any other god or his own. Like a true chemist,
he turns everything into silver ; — both what he should
eat and what he should wear, — and that he keeps to look
on, not to use. When he returns from his field, he asks,
not without much rage, what became of the loose crust
in his cupboard, and who hath rioted among his leeks.
He never eats good meal but on his neighbor's trencher,
and there he makes amends to his complaining stomach
for his former and future fasts. He bids his neighbors
to dinner, and when they have done, sends in a trencher
for the shot. Once in a year perhaps, he gives himself
leave to feast, and for the time thinks no man more lav-
ish ; wherein he lists not to fetch his dishes from far, nor
THE COVETOUS. 225
will be behoklen to the shambles. His own provision
shall furnish his board with an insensible cost : and when
his guests are parted, talks how much every man devour-,
ed, and how many cups were emptied ; and feeds his
family with the moldy remnants a month after. Khis
servant break but an earthen dish for want of light, he
abates it out of his quarter's wages. He chips his bread
and sends it back to exchange for staler. He lets mo-
ney, and sells time for a price, and will not be impor-
tuned either to prevent or defer his day ; and in the
meantime looks for secret gratuities, besides the main
interest, which he sells and returns into the stock. He
breeds of money to the third generation ; neither hath it
sooner any being, than he sets it to beget more. In all
things he affects secrecy and propriety : he grudgeth his
neighbor the water of his well ; and next to stealing, he
hates borrowing. In his short and unquiet sleeps, he
dreams of thieves, and runs to the door, and names more
men than he hath. The least sheaf, he ever culls out
for tithe ; and to rob God, holds it the best pastime, the
clearest gain. This man cries out above others, of the
prodigality of our times, and tells of the thrift of our
forefathers : — how that great prince thought himself roy-
ally attired when he bestowed thirteen shillings and
four pence on half a suit ; how one wedding gown served
our grandmothers till they exchanged it for a winding-
sheet — and praises plainness, not for less sin but for less
cost. For himself, he is still known by his forefathers'
coat, which he means, with his blessing, to bequeath to
the many descents of his heirs. He neither would
be poor, nor be accounted rich. No man complains so
much of want, to avoid a subsidy ; no man is so impor-
15
226
CHAEACTEEISMS OF VICES.
tunate in begging, so cruel in exaction ; and when he
most complains of want, he fears that which he complains
to have. No way is indirect to wealth, whether of fraud
or violence. Gain is his godliness ; which if conscience
go about to prejudice, and grow troublesome by exclaim-
ing against, he is condemned for a common barrator.
Like another Ahab, he is sick of the next field ; and
thinks he is ill-seated while he dwells by neighbors.
Shortly, his neighbors do not much more hate him, than
he himself. He cares not, for no great advantage, to
lose his friend, pine his body, damn his soul ; and would
despatch himself when corn falls, but that he is loth to
cast away money on a cord.
OF THE VAINGLORIOUS.
All his humor rises up into the froth of ostentation ;
which if it once settle, falls down into a narrow room. If
the excess be in the understanding part, all his wit is in
print ; the press hath left his head empty — ^yea, not only
what he had, but what he could borrow without leave.
If his glory be in his devotion, he gives not an alms, but
on record ; and if he have once done well, God hears of
it often, for upon every unkindness, he is ready to up-
braid Him with merits. Over and above his own dis-
charge, he hath some satisfactions to spare for tl>e com-
mon treasure. He can fulfil the law with ease, and earn
God with superfluity. If he have bestowed but a little
sum, in the glazing, paving, parieting of God's house,
you shall find it in the church window. Or if a more
gallant humor possess him, he wears all his land on his
back ; and walking high, looks over his left shoulder to
k
THE VAINGLORIOUS.
*227
see if the point of his rapier follow him with a grace.
He is proud of another man's horse ; and well-mounted,
thinks every man wrongs him that looks not at him. A
bare head in the street, doth him more good than a meal's
meat. He swears big at an ordinary, and talks of the
court with a sharp accent ; neither vouchsafes to name
any not honorable, nor those without some term of fa-
miliarity ; and likes well to see the hearer look upon him
amazedly, as if he said, ' How happy is this man that is
so great with great ones !' Under pretence of seeking
for a scroll of news, he draws out an handful of letters
endorsed with his own style, to the height ; and half
reading every title, passes over the latter part witi a
murmur, not without signifying what lord sent this, what
great lady the other, and for what suits — the last paper,
as it happens, is his news from his honourable friend in
the French court. In the midst of dinner, his lackey
comes sweating in with a sealed note from his creditor
who now threatens a speedy arrest, and whispers the ill
news in his master's ear ; when he aloud names a Coun-
cillor of State, and professes to know the employment.
The same messenger he calls with an imperious nod,
and after expostulation where he hath left his fellows, in
his ear sends him for some new spur-leathers or stock-
ings by this time footed ; and when he is gone half the
room recalls him, and saith aloud, ' It is no matter ; let the
greater bag alone till I come :' and yet again calling
him closer, whispers so that all the table may hear, that
' If his crimson suit be ready against the day, the rest
need no has c' He picks his teeth when his stomach is
empty, and calls for pheasants at a common inn. You
shall find him prizing the richest jewels and fairest horses
228 * CHARACTERISMS OF VICES.
when his purse yields not money enough for earnest. He
thrusts himself into the press, before some great ladies,
and loves to be seen near the head of a great train. His
talk is, how many mourners he furnished with gowns at
his father's funeral, how many messes, how rich his coat
is and how ancient, how great his alliance, what chal-
lenges he hath made and answered, what exploits he did
at Cales or Newport ; and when he hath commended
others' buildings, furnitures, suits, compares them with his
own. When he hath undertaken to be the broker for
some rich diamond, he wears it : and pulling off his glove
to stroke up his hair, thinks no eye should have any
other oiyect. Entertaining his friend, he chides his cook
for no belter cheer ; and names the dishes he meant, and
wants. To conclude, he is ever on the stage, and acts
still a glorious part abroad, when no man carries a baser
heart, no man is more sordid and careless at home. He
is a Spanish soldier on an Italian theatre, a bladder full
of wind, a skin full of words, a fool's wonder, and a wise
man's fool.
OF THE PRESTJIVIPTUOUS.
Presumption is nothing but hope out of his wits, an
high house upon weak pillars. The presumptuous maa
loves to attempt great things, only because they are hard
and rare. His actions are bold and venturous, and more
full of hazard than use. He hoisteth sail in a tempest,
and sdith never any of his ancestors were drowned. He
goes into an infected house, and says the plague dares not
seize on noble blood. He runs on high battlements,
gallops down steep hills, rides over narrow bridges, walks
THE PRESUMPTUOUS. 229
on weak ice, and never thinks, ' What if I fall ?' but,
' What if I rim over and fall not ?' He is a confident
alchymiot, and braggeth that the womb of his furnace
hath conceived a burden that will do all the world good ;
which yet he desires secretly born, for fear of his own
bondage. In the meantime his glass breaks ; yet he
upon better luting lays wagers of the success, and |)rotn-
iseth wedges beforehand to his friend. He sailh, ' I will
sin, and be sorry, and escape. Either God will not see, or
not be angry, or not punish it, or remit the measure. If I
do well. He is just to reward; if ill. He is merciful to
forgive.' Tiius his praises wrong God no less than his
offence, and hurt himself no less than they wrong God.
Any pattern is enough to encourage him : show him the
way where any foot hath trod ; he dare follow, although
he see no steps returning. What if a thousand have
attempted and miscarried ! If but one have prevailed,
it sufficeth. He suggests to himself false hopes of ' never
too late ' — as if he could command either time or repen-
tance : and dare defer the expectation of mercy, till be-
twixt the bridge and the water. Give him but where to
set his foot, and he will remove the earth. He fore-
knows the mutations of states, the events of war, the
temper of the seasons : — either his old prophecy tells it
him, or his stars. Yea, he is no stranger to the records
of God's secret counsel ; but he turns them over, and
copies them out at pleasure. I know not whether, in all
his enterprises, he show less fear or wisdom. No man
promises himself more, no man more believes himself.
' I will go and sell, and return and purchase, and spend
and leave my sons such estates ;' all which if it succeed,
he thanks himself ; if not, he blames not himself. His
230 CHAKACTEKISMS OP VICES.
purposes are measured, not by his ability, but his will ;
and his actions, by his purposes. Lastly, he is ever
credulous in assent, rash in undertaking, peremptory in
resolving, witless in proceeding, and in his ending, mise-
rable; which is never other than either the laughter of
the wise, or the pity of fools.
OF THE DISTRUSTFUL.
The distrustful man hath his heart in his eyes or in
his hand : nothing is sure to him but what he sees, what
he handles. He is either very simple or very false;
and therefore believes not others, because he knows how
little himself is worthy of belief. In spiritual things, ei-
ther God must leave a pawn with him, or seek some
other creditor. All absent things and unusual, have no
other but a conditional entertainment — they are strange,
if true. If he see two neighbors whisper in his presence,
he bids them speak out ; and charges them to say no
more than they can justify. When he hath committed a
message to his servant, he sends a second after him to
listen how it is delivered. He is his own secretary, and
of his own counsel, for what he hath, for what he purpos-
eth ; and when he tells over his bags, looks thorough the
key-hole to see if he have any hidden witness, and asks
aloud, ' Who is there ?' when no man hears him. He bor-
rows money when he needs not, for fear lest others should
borrow of him. He is ever timorous and cowardly ; and
asks every man's errand at the door, ere he opens. After
his first sleep, he starts up and asks if the furthest gate were
barred; and out of a fearful sweat, calls up his servant
and bolts the door after him ; and then studies whether
THE DISTRUSTFUL.
231
it were better to lie still and believe, or rise and see.
Neither is his heart fuller of fears than his head of strange
projects, and far-fetched constructions : — what means the
state, think you, in such an action, and whither tends this
course ? Learn of me — if you know not — the ways of
deep policies are secret, and full of unknown windings:
that is their act, this will be their issue. — So casting be-
yond the moon, he makes wise and just proceedings sus-
pected. In all his predictions and imaginations, he ever
lights upon the worst ; — not what is most likely will fall
out, but what is most ill. There is nothing that he
takes not with the left hand : no text which his gloss
corrupts not. Words, oaths, parchments, seals, are but
broken reeds ; these shall never deceive him ; he loves
no payments but real. If but one in an age have mis-
carried by a rare casualty, he misdoubts the same event.
If but a tile fallen from an high roof have brained a pas-
senger, or the breaking of a coach-wheel have endan-
gered the burden, he swears he will keep home, or take
him to his horse. He dares not come to church, for
fear of the crowd ; nor spare the Sabbath's labor, for
fear of the want ; nor come near the parliament-house,
because it should have been blown up. What might
have been, affects him as much as what will be. Argue,
vow, protest, swear ; he hears thee, and believes him-
self. He is a skeptic, and dare hardly give credit to his
senses, which he hath often arraigned of false intelligence.
He so lives, as if he thought all the world were thieves,
and were not sure whether himself were one. He is un-
charitable in his censures, unquiet in his fears ; bad
enough always, but in his own opinion much worse than
he is.
232
CHARACTERISMS OF VICES.
OF THE AMBITIOUS.
Ambition is a proud covetousness, a dry thirst of hon-
or, the longing disease of reason, an aspiring and gallant
madness. The ambitious climbs up high and perilous
stairs, and never cares how to come down ; the desire of
rising hath swallowed up his fear of a fall. Having
once cleaved, like a bur, to some great man's coat, he
resolves not to be shaken off with any small indignities ;
and finding his hold thoroughly fast, casts how to insin-
uate yet nearer ; and therefore he is busy and servile in
his endeavors to please, and all his officious respects turn
home to himself. He can be at once a slave to com-
mand, an intelligencer to inform, a parasite to soothe and
flatter, a champion to defend, an executioner to revenge
— anything for an advantage of favor. He hath pro-
jected a plot to rise, and woe be to the friend that stands
in his way. He still haunteth the court, and his unqui-
et spirit haunteth him ; which having fetched him from
the secure peace of his country rest, sets him new and
impossible tasks ; and after many disappointments, en-
courages him to try the same sea in spite of his ship-
wrecks, and promises better success. A small hope
gives him heart against great difficulties, and draws on
new expense, new servility ; persuading him — like fool-
ish boys — to shoot away a second shaft, that he may
find the first. He yieldeth ; and now secure of the is-
sue, applauds himself in that honor which he still affect-
eth, still misseth : and for the last of all trials, will rath-
er bribe for a troublesome preferment, than return void
of a title. But now when he finds himself desperately
THE AMBITIOUS.
233
crossed, and at once spoiled both of advancement and
hope, both of fruition and possibiHty, all his desire is
turned into rage ; his thirst is now only of revenge ; his
tongue sounds of nothing but detraction and slander.
Now the place he sought for, is base ; his rival, unwor-
thy ; his adversary, injurious ; olRcers, corrupt ; court,
infectious ; and how well is he that may be his own man,
his own master ; that may live safely in a mean distance,
at pleasure, free from starving, free from burning. But
if his designs speed well, ere he be warm in that seat, his
mind is possessed of an higher. What he hath, is but a
degree to what he would have. Now he scorneth what
he formerly aspired to : his success doth not give him so
much contentment as provocation ; neither can he be at
rest so long as he hath one, either to overlook, or to match,
or to emulate him. When his country friend comes to
visit him, he carries him up to the awful presence, and now
in his sight crowding nearer to the chair of state, desires to
be looked on, desires to be spoken to, by the greatest; and
studies how to offer an occasion, lest he should seem un-
known, unregarded : and if any gesture of the least grace
fall haply upon him, he looks back upon his friend, lest
he should carelessly let it pass without a note : and what
he wanteth in sense, he supplies in history. His dispo-
sition is never but shamefully unthankful ; for unless he
liave all, he hath nothing. It must be a large draught,
whereof he will not say that those few drops do not slake
but inflame him — so still he thinks himself the worse
for small favors. His wit so contrives the likely plots
of his promotion, as if he would steal it away without
God's knowledge, besides his will ; neither doth he ever
look up and consult in his forecasts with the supreme
234 CHARACTERISMS OF VICES.
Moderator of all things ; — as one that thinks honor is
ruled by fortune, and that heaven meddleth not with the
disposing of these earthly lots, — and therefore it is just
with that wise God to defeat his fairest hopes, and to
bring him to a loss in the hottest of his chase ; and to
cause honor to fly away so much the faster, by how
much it is more eagerly pursued. Finally, he is an im-
portunate suitor, a corrupt client, a violent undertaker,
a smooth factor — but untrusty, a restless master of his
own, a bladder puffed up with the wind of hope and self-
love. He is in the common body as a mole in the earth,
ever unquietly casting; and, in one word, is nothing but
a confused heap of envy, pride, covetousness.
OF THE UXTHRIFT.
He ranges beyond his pale, and lives without compass.
His expense is measured, not by abihty, but will. His
pleasures are immoderate, and not honest. A wanton
eye, a lickerish tongue, a gamesome hand, have im-
poverished him. The vulgar sort call him bountiful,
and applaud him while he spends, and recompense him
with wishes whe n he gives, with pity when he wants.
Neither can it be denied that he raught true liberality,
but over-went it. No man could have lived more lau-
dably, if when he was at the best, he had staid there.
While he is present, none of the wealthier guests may
pay aught to the shot, without much vehemency, with-
out danger of unkindness. Use hath made it unpleas-
ant to him not to spend. He is in all things more am-
bitious of the title of good-fellowship than of wisdom.
When he looks into the wealthy chest of his father, his
I
THE UNTHRIFT.
235
conceit suggests that it cannot be emptied ; and while he
takes out some deal every day, he perceives not any
diminution ; and when the heap is sensibly abated, yet
still flatters himself with enough. One hand cozens the
other, and the belly deceives both. He doth not so
much bestow benefits, as scatter them. True merit doth
not carry them, but smoothness of adulation. His senses
are too much his guides and his purveyors, and appe-
tite is his steward. He is an impotent servant to his lusts,
and knows not to govern either his mind or his purse.
Improvidence is ever the companion of unthriftiness.
This man cannot look beyond the present, and neither
thinks nor cares what shall be ; much less suspects what
may be ; and while he lavishes out his substance in su-
perfluities, thinks he only knows what the world is worth,
and that others over-prize it. He feels poverty before
he sees it, never complains till he be pinched with wants,
never spares till the bottom — when it is too late either
to spend or recover. He is every man's friend, save
his own ; and then wrongs himself most, when he court-
eth himself with most kindness. He vies time with the
slothful, and it is an hard match whether chases away
good hours to worse purpose — the one by doing nothing,
or the other by idle pastime. He hath so dilated himself
with the beams of prosperity, that he lies open to all
dangers, and catmot gather up himself on just warning,
to avoid a mischief. He were good for an almoner, ill
for a steward. Finally, he is the living tomb of his
forefathers, of his posterity : and when he hath swallow-
ed both, is more empty than before he devoured them.
236 CHARACTEBISMS OF VICES.
OF THE ENVIOUS.
He feeds on others' evils, and hath no disease but his
neighbor's welfare. Whatsoever God do for him, he
cannot be happy with company ; and if he were put to
choose whether he would rather have equals in a com-
mon felicity or superiors in misery, he would demur
upon the election. His eye casts out too much, and
never returns home, but to make comparisons with
another's good. He is an ill prizer of foreign commodi-
ty, worse of his own — for that he rates too high ; this
under value. You shall have him ever inquiring into
the estates of his equals and betters ; wherein he is not
more desirous to hear all, than loth to hear anything
over-good : and if just report relate aught better than he
would, he redoubles the question, as being hard to be-
lieve what he likes not ; and hopes yet, if that be aver-
red again to his grief, that there is somewhat concealed
in the relation, which if it were known, would argue the
commended party miserable, and blemish him with se-
cret shame. He is ready to quarrel with God because
the next field is fairer grown, and angerly calculates his
cost, and time, and tillage. Whom he dares not openly
backbite nor wound with a direct censure, he strikes
smoothly with an over-cold praise ; and when he sees
that he must either maliciously oppugn the just praise
of another — which were unsafe — or approve it by assent,
he yieldeth ; but shows withal that his means were such,
both by nature and education, that he could not without
much neglect be less commendable : so iiis happiness
shall be made the color of detraction. When an
i
THE ENVIOUS.
237
wholesome law is propounded, he crosseth it, either by
open or close opposition ; not for any incommodity or
inexpedience, but bfecause it proceeded from any mouth
besides his own : — and it must be a cause rarely plausi-
ble, that will not admit some probable contradiction.
"When his equal should rise to honor, he strives against
it unseen, and rather with much cost suborneth great ad-
versaries ; and when he sees his resistance vain, he can
give an hollow gratulation in presence, but in secret dis-
parages that advancement ; — either the man is unfit for
the place or the place for the man ; or if fit, yet less
gainful or more common than opinion : whereto he adds
that himself might have had the same dignity upon bet-
ter terms, and refused it. He is witty in devising sug-
gestions to bring his rival out of love, into suspicion : —
if he be courteous, he is sedulously popular ; if bountiful,
he binds over his clients to a faction ; if successful in
war, he is dangerous !n peace ; if wealthy, he lays up
for a day ; if powerful, nothing wants but opportunity,
of rebellion. His submission is ambitious hypocrisy;
his religion, politic insinuation — no action is safe from a
jealous construction. When he receives a good report
of him whom he emulates, he saith, ' Fame is partial,
and is wont to blanch mischiefs,' and pleasetli himself with
hope to find it worse ; and if ill-will have dispersed any
more spiteful narration, he lays hold on that, against all
witnesses, and broacheth that rurnor for truest, because
worst : and when he sees him perfectly miserable, he
can at once pity him and rejoice. What himself can-
not do, others shall not : he hath gained well, if he have
hindered the success of what he would have done and
could not. He conceals his best skill, not so as it may
238 CHARACTEEISMS OF VICES.
not be known that he knows it, but so as it may not be
learned ; because he would have the world miss him.
He attained to a sovereign medicfne, by the secret
legacy of a dying empiric ; whereof he will leave no
heir, lest the praise should be divided. Finally, he is
an enemy to God's favors if they fall beside himself, the
best nurse of ill-fame, a man of the worst diet — for he
consumes himself, and delights in pining — a thorn-hedge
covered with nettles, a peevish interpreter of good things,
and no other than a lean and pale carcass quickened
with a fiend.
HEAVEN UPON EARTH:
OR
OF TRUE PEACE AND TRANQUILITY OF MIND.
THE ANALYSIS
OR RESOLUTION OF THIS TREATISE CONCERNING TRAN-
QUILLITY.
Our treatise concerning Tranquillity is partly
I. Refutator V : where tlie precepts of the heathen arc, Recited —
Rejected : — for enumeration insufficient — quality of remedies
too weak.
II. Positive : Wliich teacheth, What it is, and wherein it consists
— How to be attained : viz.
Enemies of Peace subdued ; whether those
On the Left Hand :
Of Sins done — Whose trouble is, 1 . In their Guiltiness. Con-
sidered, How turbulent they are till they be pacified. How
remedied : — Peace is through Reconciliation — Reconcilia-
tion through Remission — Remission by Satisfoction — Sat-
isfaction not by us — By infinite merits of Christ. Wliere
are considered, The person and' merits of Christ by whom
Peace is offered — the receiving of our offered Peace by
faith. 2. In their Solicitation. Remedied by resolute re-
sistance ; where is the subduing and moderation of our af-
fections.
Of Pain Suffered — 1. Crosses. Imaginary: — How redressed.
True : — How prevented and prepared against — By expec-
tation— Exercise. How to be borne. Contentedly, in re-
spect of their cause — Thankfully, in respect of their good
effect — Joyfully, in respect of their issue. 2. Death. Con-
sidered, How fearful — Which way sweetened.
16
242
ANALYSIS.
On the Eight Haud :
Over-joying ; Over-desiring — of Riches— Honor— Pleasure.
These how to be esteemed — As not good in themselves —
As exposing us to evil.
Rdles and Geottnds or Peace set down.
1. Main or Principal : A continual fruition of the presence of
God — To be renewed to us by all holy exercises.
2. Subordinate : In respect of our Actions ; — A resolution to re-
frain from all occasions of the displeasure of God — To
perform all required duties — To do nothing doubtiiigly.
In respect of our Estates ; — To depend wholly on the pro-
vidence of God — To account our ovra estate best.
HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
SECTION I.
Censure of philosophers.
When I bad studiously read over the moral writings
of some wise heathen, especially those of the Stoical pro-
fession, I must confess I found a little envy and pity
striving together within me. I envied nature in them,
to see her so witty in devising such plausible refuges for
doubting and troubled minds : I pitied them, to see that
their careful disquisition of true rest led them in the end
but to mere unquietness. Wherein, methought, they
were as hounds swift of foot but not exquisite in scent,
which in an hasty pursuit, take a wrong way — spending
their mouths and courses in vain. Their praise of guess-
ing wittily they shall not leese ; their hopes, both they
lost and whosoever follows them. If Seneca could have
had grace to his wit, what wonders would he have done
in this kind ! What divine might not have yielded him
the chair, for precepts of tranquillity, without any dis-
paragement ! As he was, this he hath gained : — never
any heathen wrote more divinely, never any philoso-
pher, more probably. Neither would I ever desire bet-
ter master, if to this purpose I needed no other mistress
than nature. But this, in truth, is a task which nature
244
HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
hath never without presumption undertaken, and never
performed without much imperfection — like to those vain
and wandering empirics which in tables and pictures
make great ostentation of cures, never approving their
skill to their credulous patients. And if she could have
truly effected it alone, I know not what employment in
this life she should have left for grace to busy herself
about, nor what privilege it should have been here be-
low to be a Christian, since this that we seek is the no-
blest work of the soul, and in which alone consists the
only heaven of this world. This is the sum of all hu-
man desires ; which when we have attained, then only
we begin to live, and are sure we cannot thenceforth
live miserably. No marvel then if all the heathen have
diligently sought after it, many wrote of it, none attain-
ed it. Not Athens must teach this lesson, but Jeru-
salem.
SECTION n.
What tranquillity is, and wherein it consists.
Yet something grace scorneth not to learn of nature —
as Moses may take good counsel of a Midianite. Nature
hath ever had more skill in the end than in the way to
it ; and whether she have discoursed of the good estate
of the mind — which we call tranquillity — or the best,
which is happiness, hath more happily guessed at the
general definition of them, than of the means to compass
them. She teacheth us therefore without controlment
that the tranquillity of the mind is as of the sea and wea-
ther when no wind stirreth, when the waves do not tu-
SECTION II.
245
multuously rise and fall upon each other, but when the
face both of the heaven and waters is still, fair, and
equable : that it is such an even disposition of the heart
wherein the scales of the mind neither rise up towards
the beam, through their own lightness or the overween-
ing opinion of prosperity, nor are too much depressed
with any load of sorrow ; but hanging equal and unmo-
ved betwixt both, give a man liberty in all occurrences
to enjoy himself. Not that the most temperate mind
can be so the master of his passions, as not sometimes to
over-joy his grief or over-grieve his joy, according to the
contrary occasions of both : for not the evenest weights,
but at their first putting into the balance somewhat sway
both parts thereof — not without some show of inequali-
ty— which yet, after some little motion, settle themselves
in a meet poise. It is enough, that after some sudden ag-
itation it can return to itself and rest itself at last in a re-
solved peace. And this due composedness of mind we re-
quire unto our tranquillity, — not for some short fits of good
mood which soon after end in discontentment, — but with
the condition of perpetuity. For there is no heart
makes so rough weather as not sometimes to admit of a
calm : and — whether for that he knoweth no present
cause of his trouble, or for that he knoweth that cause
of trouble is countervailed with as great an occasion of
private joy, or for that the multitude of evils hath bred
carelessness — the man that is most disordered, finds
some I'espites of quietness. The balances that are most
ill-matched, in their unsteady motions come to an equali-
ty, but stay not at it. The frantic man cannot avoid
the imputation of madness, though he be sober for many
moons, if he rage in one. So then the calm mind must
246
HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
be settled in an habitual rest ; not then firm when there
is nothing to shake it, but then least shaken when it is
most assailed.
SECTION ffl.
Imspfficiency of human precepts. Seneca's rdies. —
Rejected, as insdfficient. Disposition of the work.
Whence easily appears how vainly it hath been sought,
either in such a constant estate of outward things as
should give no distaste to the mind — whiles all earthly
things vary with the weather, and have no stay but in
uncertainty — or in the natural temper of the soul, so or-
dered by human wisdom as that it should not be affected
with any casual events to either part ; since that cannot
ever by natural power be held like to itself, but one while
is cheerful, stirring, and ready to undertake, another while
drowsy, dull, comfortless, prone to rest, weary of itself,
lothing his own purposes, his own resolutions. In
both which since the wisest philosophers have grounded
all the rules of their tranquillity, it is plain that they saw
it afar off — as they did heaven itself, with a desire and ad-
miration— but knew not the way to it : whereupon, alas,
how slight and impotent are the remedies they prescribe
for unquietness ! For what is it that for the inconstancy
and laziness of the mind still displeasing itself in what
it doth, and for that distemper thereof which ariseth from
the fearful, unthriving, and restless desires of it, we
should ever be employing ourselves in some public af-
fairs, choosing our business according to our inclination,
and prosecuting what we have chosen ? — wherewith being
SECTION HI.
247
at last cloyed, we should retire ourselves and wear the
rest of our time in private studies ; that we should make
due comparative trials of our own ability ; nature of our
businesses ; disposition of our chosen friends ? — that in
respect of patrimony, we should be but carelessly affect-
ed, so drawing it in as it may be least for show, most for
use ; removing all pomp ; bridling our hopes ; cutting
off superfluities : for crosses, to consider that custom will
abate and mitigate them ; that the best things are but
chains and burdens to those that have them, to those
that use them ; that the worst things have some mixture
of comfort to those that groan under them ? Or, leav-
ing these lower rudiments that are given to weak and
simple novices, to examine those golden rules of morali-
ty which are commended to the most wise and able prac-
titioners,— what is it to account himself as a tenant at
will ? — to fore-imagine the worst in all casual matters ?
to avoid all idle and impertinent businesses, all pragmat-
ical meddling with affairs of state ? — not to fix ourselves
upon any one estate as to be impatient of a change ? — to
call back the mind from outward things, and draw it
home into itself? — to laugh at and esteem lightly of oth-
ers' misdemeanors ? — not to depend on others' opinions,
but to stand on our own bottoms ? — to carry ourselves in
an honest and simple truth, free from a curious hypocri-
sy, and affectation of seeming other than we are, and yet
as free from a base kind of carelessness ? — to intermed-
dle retiredness with society, so as one may give sweet-
ness to the other, and both to us ? — so slackening the
mind that we may not loosen it, and so bending as we may
not break it ? — to make most of ourselves, cheering up
our spirits with variety of recreations, with satiety of
248 HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
meals, and all other bodily indulgence? — saving that
drunkenness, methinks, can neither beseem a wise phi-
losopher to prescribe, nor a virtuous man to practice.
All these in their kinds please well, profit much, and are
as sovereign for both these as they are unable to effect
that for which they are propounded. [Allowed by Sen-
eca, in his last chapter ' Of Tranquillity.'] Nature teach-
eth thee all these should be done ; she cannot teach thee
to do them — and yet, do all these and no more, let me
never have rest if thou have it ! For neither are here
the greatest enemies of our peace so much as descried
afar off ; nor those that are noted, are hereby so prevent-
ed that upon most diligent practice we can promise our-
selves any security : wherewith who so instructed dare
confidently give challenge to all sinister events, is like to
some skilful fencer who stands upon his usual wards and
plays well ; but if there come a strange fetch of an un-
wonted blow, is put besides the rules of his art and with
much shame overtaken. And for those that are known,
believe me, the mind of man is too weak to bear out it-
self hereby against all onsets. There are light crosses
that will take an easy repulse ; others yet stronger that
shake the bouse-side, but break not in upon us ; others
vehement, which by force make way to the heart, where
they find none breaking open the door of the soul that
denies entrance ; others violent, that lift the mind oflf the
hinges, or rend the bars of it in pieces ; others furious,
that tear up the very foundations from the bottom, leav-
ing no monument behind them but ruin. The wisest
and most resolute moralist that ever was, looked pale
when he should taste of his hemlock ; and by his timo-
rousness made sport to those that envied his speculations.
SECTION IV.
249
The best of the heathen emperors,^ that was honored
with the title of piety, justly magnified that courage of
Christians which made them insult over their tormen-
tors, and by their fearlessness of earthquakes and deaths
argued the truth of their religion. It must be, it can be,
none but a divine power that can uphold the mind
against the rage of main afliictions ; and yet the greatest
crosses ai"e not the greatest enemies to inward peace.
Let us, therefore, look up above ourselves, and from
the rules of an higher art, supply the defects of natural
wisdom ; giving such infallible directions for tranquilHty,
that whosoever shall follow cannot but live sweetly and
with continual delight — applauding himself at home,
when all the world besides him shall be miserable. To
which purpose it shall be requisite, first, to remove all
causes of unquietness ; and then, to set down the grounds
of our happy rest.
SECTION IV.
Enemies of inward peace divided into their ranks.
— The torment of an evil conscience. — The joy and
TEACE OF the GUILTY, BUT DISSEMBLED.
I find on the hand, two universal enemies of tranquil-
lity— conscience of evil done, sense or fear of evil suf-
fered. The former, in one word, we call sins ; the lat-
ter, crosses. The first of these must be quite taken
away, the second duly tempered, ere the heart can be at
' Antoninus Pius.— An Epistle to the Asians, concerning the
persecuted Christians.
250 HEAVEN TIPON EARTH.
rest. For, first, how can that man be at peace, that is
at variance with God and himself ? How should peace
be God's gift, if it could be without him, if it could be
against him? It is the profession of sin, although fair-
spoken at the first closing, to be a perpetual make-bate
betwixt God and man, betwixt a man and himself. And
this enmity, though it do not continually show itself, —
as the mortalest enemies are not always in pitched fields,
one against the other — for that the conscience is not ever
clamorous, but some while is silent, other-whiles with still
murmurings bewrays his mislikes, yet doth evermore
work secret unquietncss to the heart. The guilty man
may have a seeming truce ; a true peace he cannot have.
Look upon the face of the guilty heart, and thou shall
see it pale and ghastly ; the smiles and laughters faint
and heartless ; the speeches doubtful, and full of abrupt
stops and unseasonable turnings ; the purposes and mo-
tions unsteady, and savoring of much distraction, argu-
ing plainly that sin is not so smooth at her first motions,
as turbulent afterwards. Hence are those vain weary-
ings of places and companies together with ourselves,
that the galled soul doth, after the wont of sick patients,
seek refreshing in variety ; and after many tossed and
turned sides, complains of remediless and unabated tor-
ment. Nero, after so much innocent blood, may change
his bed-chamber, but his fiends ever attend him, ever are
within him, and are as parts of himself. Alas, what
avails it to seek outward reliefs, when thou hast thine
executioner within thee ? If thou couldst shift from
thyself, thou mightst have some hope of ease ; now thou
shalt never want furies, so long as thou hast thyself.
Yea, what if thou wouldst run from thyself? Thy soul
SECTION IV.
251
may fly from thy body ; thy conscience will not fly from
thy soul, nor thy sin from thy conscience. Some men,
indeed, in the bitterness of these pangs of sin — like unto
those fondly-impatient fishes that leap out of the pan in-
to the flame — have leaped out of this private hell that is
in themselves, into the common pit ; choosing to adven-
ture upon the future pains that they have feared, rather
than to endure the present horrors they have felt : where-
in, what have they gained, but to that hell which was
within them, a second hell without ? The conscience
leaves not wliere the fiends begin, but both join together
in torture. But there are some firm and obdurate fore-
heads, whose resolution can laugh their sins out of coun-
tenance. There are so large and able gorges, as that
they can swallow and digest bloody murders without
complaint ; who, with the same hands which they have,
since their last meal, imbrued in blood, can freely carve
to themselves large morsels at the next sitting. Be-
lievest thou that such a man's heart laughs with his face ?
Will not he dare to be an hypocrite, that durst be a vil-
lain ? These glow-worms, when a night of sorrow com-
passes them, make a lightsome and fiery show of joy;
when if thou press them, thou findest nothing but a cold
and crude moisture. Knowest thou not that there aire
those which count it no shame to sin, yet count it a shame
to be checked with remorse — especially so as others'
eyes may descry ? — to whom repentance seems base-
mindedness, unworthy of him that professes wisdom and
valor. Such a man can grieve when none sees it, but
himself can laugh when others see it, himself feels not.
Assure thyself that man's heart bleedeth, when his face
counterfeits a smile. He wears out many waking hours,
252 HEAVEN UPON EAKTH.
when thou thinkest he resteth : yea, as his thoughts a£Ford
him not sleep, so his very sleep affords him not rest ; but
while his senses are tied up, his sin is loose, representing
itself to him in the ugliest shape, and frighting him with
horrible and hellish dreams. And if perhaps custom
hath bred a carelessness in him, — as we see that usual
whipping makes the child not care for the rod — yet an
unwonted extremity of the blow shall fetch blood of the
soul, and make the back that is most hardened, sensible
of smart ; and the further the blow is fetched through
intermission of remorse, the harder it must needs alight.
Therefore I may confidently tell the careless sinner, as
that bold tragedian said to his great Pompey, The time
shall come wherein thou shalt fetch deep sighs, and
therefore shalt sorrow desperately, because thou sorrow-
edst not sooner. The fire of the conscience may lie for
a time smothered with a pile of green wood, that it can-
not be discerned, whose moisture when once it hath mas-
tered, it sends up so much greater flame, by how much
it had greater resistance. Hope not then to stop the
mouth of thy conscience from exclaiming, whiles thy sin
continues. That endeavor is both vain and hurtful : —
so I have seen them that have stopped the nostril for
bleeding, in hope to stay the issue ; when the blood, hin-
dered in his former course, hath broken out of the mouth
or found way down into tlie stomach. The conscience
is not pacificable while sin is within to vex it, no more
than angry swelling can cease throbbing and aching
whiles the thorn or the corrupted matter lies rotting un-
derneath. Time, that remedies all other evils of the
mind, increaseth this, which, like to bodily diseases,
SECTION V.
253
proves worse with continuance, and grows upon us with
our age.
SECTION V.
The remedy of an unquiet conscience.
There can be, therefore, no peace without reconcilia-
tion. Thou canst not be friends with thyself till with
God : for thy conscience — which is thy best friend while
thou sinnest not — like an honest servant, takes his Mas-
ter's part against thee when thou hast sinned, and will
not look straight upon thee till thou upon God ; not
daring to be so kind to thee as to be unfaithful to his
Maker. There can be no reconciliation without remis-
sion. God can neither forget the injury of sin, nor dis-
semble hatred. It is for men, and those of hollow hearts,
to make pretences contrary to their affections. Sooth-
ings, and smiles, and embrucements, where we mean not
love, arc from weakness ; — either for that we fear our
insufficiency of present revenge, or hope for a fitter op-
portunity afterwards; or for that we desire to make our
further advantage of him to whom we mean evil. These
courses are not incident into an Almighty power, who
having the command of all vengeance, can smite where
he lists, without all doublings or delays. There can be no
remission without satisfaction : neither dealeth God with
us as we men with some desperate debtors, whom after
long dilations of payments and many days broken, we al-
together let go for disability, or at least dismiss them upon
an easy composition. All sins are debts : all God's
254
HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
debts must be discharged. It is a bold word, but a true
— God should not be just, if any of his debts should pass
unsatisfied. The conceit of the profane vulgar, makes
him a God of all mercies ; and thereupon hopes for par-
don without payment. Fond and ignorant presumption !
— to disjoin mercy and justice in him to whom they are
both essential, to make mercy exceed justice in him in
whom both are infinite. Darest thou hope God can be
so kind to thee as to be unjust to himself? God will be
just. Go thou on to presume and perish. There can
be no satisfaction by any recompense of ours : an infi-
nite justice is offended, an infinite punishment is deser-
ved by every sin, and every man's sins are as near
to infinite as number can make them. Our best en-
deavor is woi-se than finite — imperfect, and faulty. If it
could be perfect, we owe it all in present. What we are
bound to do in present, cannot make amends for what
we have not done in time past ; which while we offer to
God as good payment, we do, with the profane traveler,
think to please him with empty date-shells in lieu of pre-
servation. Whei-e shall we then find a payment of infi-
nite value, but in him which is only and all infinite ? —
the dignity of whose person, being infinite, gave such
worth to his satisfaction, that what he suSered in short
time, was proportionable to what we should have sufiered
beyond all times. He did all, suffered all, paid all ; he
did it for us ; we in him. Where shall I begin to won-
der at thee, O thou divine and eternal Peacemaker,
the Saviour of men, the anointed of God, Mediator be-
tween God and man, in whom there is nothing which
doth not exceed, not only the conceit, but the very won-
der of angels, who saw thee in thy humiUation with si-
SECTION V.
255
lence, and adore thee in thy glory with perpetual praises
and rejoicings ! Thou wast forever of thyself as God,
of the Father as the Son, — the eternal Son of an eter-
nal Father, not later in being, not less in dignity, not
other in substance. Begotten without diminution of
Him that begot thee, while he communicated that wholly
to thee which he retained wholly in himself, because
both were infinite, without inequality of nature, without
division of essence ; when being in this estate, thine in-
finite love and mercy to desperate mankind caused thee,
O Saviour, to empty thyself of thy glory, that thou
mightest put on our shame and misery. Wherefore,
not ceasing to be God as thou wert, thou beganst to be
what thou wert not — Man : to the end that thou mightst
be a perfect Mediator betwixt God and man ; which wert
both in one person, — God, that thou mightst satisfy, man,
that thou mightst suffer : that since man had sinned and
God was offended, thou, which wert God and man,
mightst satisfy God for man. None but thyself, which
art the eternal Word, can express the depth of this mys-
tery— that God should be clothed with flesh, come down
to men, and become man, that man might be exalted
into the highest heavens ; and that our nature might
be taken into the fellowship of the Deity : that he to
whom all powers in heaven bowed and thought it their
honor to be serviceable, should come down to be a ser-
vant to his slaves, a ransom for his enemies ; together
with our nature, taking up our very infirmities, our
shame, our torments, and bearing our sius without sin ;
that thou, whom the heavens were too straight to con-
tain, shouldst lay thyself in an obscure cratch ; thou,
which wert attended of angels, shouldst be derided of
256
HEAVEN UPON EAKTH.
men, rejected of thine own, persecuted by tyrants, tempt-
ed with devils, betrayed of thy servant, crucified among
thieves, and — which was worse than all these — in thine
own apprehension for the time, as forsaken of thy Fa-
ther : that thou, whom our sins had pierced, shouldst for
our sins both sweat drops of blood in the garden and
pour out streams of blood upon the cross ! O the in-
valuable purchase of our peace ! O ransom enough for
more worlds ! Thou which wert in the counsel of thy
Father the Lamb slain from tlie beginning of time,
camest now in fullness of time to be slain by man, for
man — being at once the Sacrifice offered, the priest that
did offer, and the God to whom it was offered. How
graciously didst thou, both proclaim our peace as a Pro-
phet in the time of thy life upon earth, and purchase
it by thy blood as a Priest at thy death, and now con-
firmest and appliest it as a King in heaven ! By thee
only it was procured ; by thee it is proffered. O mer-
cy without example, without measure ! God offers peace
to man, the holy seeks to the unjust, the potter to the clay,
the king to the traitor. We are unworthy that we should
be received to peace, though we desired it. "What are
we then, that we should have peace offered for the re-
ceiving ? An easy condition of so great a benefit ! He
requires us not to earn it, but to accept it of him. What
could he give more ? What could he require less of us ?
SECTION VI.
257
SECTION VL
The receipt of our peace offered ev faith.— A corol-
lary OF THE BENEFIT OF THIS RECEIPT. — TlIE VAIN SHIFTS
OF THE GUILTY.
The purchase therefore, of our peace, was paid at
once ; yet must be severally reckoned to every soul whom
it shall benefit. If Ave have not an hand to take what
Christ's hand doth either hold or offer, what is sufficient
in him cannot be effectual to us. The spiritual hand
whereby we apprehend the sweet offers of our Saviour,
is faith ; which in short is no other than an affiance in
the Mediator. Receive peace and be happy : believe,
and thou hast received. From hence it is that we are in-
teressed in all that either God hath promised, or Christ
hath performed. Hence have we from God both for-
giveness and love, the ground of all either peace or glo-
ry. Hence, of enemies we become more than friends —
sons ; and as sons may both expect and challenge not
only careful provision and safe protection on earth,
but an everlasting patrimony above. This field is so
spacious that it were easy for a man to lose himself in it :
and if I should spend all my pilgrimage in this walk, my
time would sooner end than my way — wherein I would
have measured more paces, were it not that our scope is
not so much to magnify the benefit of our peace, as to
seek how to obtain it.
Behold now, after we have sought heaven and earth,
where only the wearied dove may find an olive of peace !
The apprehending of this all-sufficient satisfaction, makes
it ours ; upon our satisfaction, we have remission ; upon
remission, follows reconciliation ; upon our reconcilia-
17
258
HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
tion, peace. When therefore thy conscience, like a
stem sergeant, shall catch thee by the throat and arrest
thee upon God's debt, let thy only plea be, that thou hast
already paid it. Bring forth that bloody acquittance
sealed to thee from heaven upon thy true faith : straight-
way thou shalt see the fierce and terrible look of thy con-
science changed into- friendly smiles, and that rough and
violent hand that was ready to drag thee to prison, shall
now lovingly embrace thee, and fight for thee against all
the wrongful attempts of any spiritual adversary. 0 hea-
venly peace, and more than peace — friendship — where-
by alone we are leagued with ourselves, and God with
us ; which whoever wants, shall find a sad remembran-
cer in the midst of his dissembled jollity; and after all
vain strifes shall fall into many secret dumps, from which
his guilty heart shall deny to be cheered, though all the
world were his minstrel ! 0 pleasure worthy to be pit-
ied, and laughter worthy of tears, that is without this !
Go then, foolish man, and when thou feelest any check
of thy sin, seek after thy jocundest companions ; deceive
the time and thyself with merry purposes, with busy
games ; feast away thy cares, bury them and thyself in
wine and sleep. After all these frivolous deferrings, it
will return upon thee when thou wakest, perhaps ere thou
wakest, nor will be repelled till it have showed thee thy
bell, nor when it hath showed thee, will yet be repelled.
So the stricken deer, having received a deadly arrow
whose shaft shaken out hath left the head behind it, runs
from one thicket to another, not able to change his pain
with his places, but finding his wounds still the worse
with continuance. Ah fool, thy soul festereth within,
and is affected so much more dangerously by how much
SECTION TII.
259
less it appeareth. Thou mayest while tliyself with vari-
ety, thou canst not ease thee. Sin owes thee a spite,
and will pay it thee ; perhaps when thou art in worst
case to sustain it. This flitting doth but provide for a
further violence at last. I have seen a little stream, of
no noise, which upon his stoppage hath swelled up and
with a loud gushing, hath borne over the heap of turfs
wherewith it was resisted. Thy death-bed shall smart
for these wilful adjournings of repentance ; whereon how
many have we heard raving of their old neglected sins,
and fearfully despairing when they have had most need of
comfort ! In sum, there is no way but this : thy con-
science must have either satisfaction or torment. Dis-
charge thy sin betimes, and be at peace. He never
breaks his sleep for debt, that pays when he takes up.
SECTION VII.
Solicitation of sin remedied. — The ordering of affec-
tions.
Neither can it suffice for peace, to have crossed the old
scroll of our sins, if we prevent not the future — yea, the
present very importunity of tentation breeds unquietness.
Sin, where it hath got an haunt, looketh for more — as
humors that fall towards their old issue — and if it bl not
strongly repelled, doth near as much vex us with solici-
ting, as with yielding. Let others envy their happiness ;
I shall never think their life so much as quiet, whose
doors are continually beaten, and their morning sleep
broken, with early clients ; whose entries are daily
thronged with suitors pressing near for the next audience ;
26y
HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
nuioh less, that through their remiss answers are daily
haunted with traitors or other instruments of villainy,
offering their mischievous service and inciting them to
some pestilent enterprise. Such are tentafions to the
soul : whereof it cannot be rid so long as it holds them
in any hope of entertainment ; and so long they will hope
to prevail, while we give them but a cold and timorous
denial. Suitors are drawn on with an easy repulse ;
counting that as half granted, which is but faintly gain-
sayed. Peremptory answers can only put sin out of heart
for any second attempts. It is ever impudent when it
meets not with a bold heart ; hoping to prevail by wea-
rying us, and wearying us by entreaties. Let all sug-
gestions therefore find thee resolute. So shall thy soul
find itself at rest ; for as the devil, so sin — his natural
brood — flies away with resistance. To which purpose
all our heady and disordered affections — which ai-e the
secret factors of sin and Satan — must be restrained by a
strong and yet temperate command of reason and reli-
gion. The e, if they find the reins loose in their necks —
like to the wild horses of that chaste hunter in the trag-
edy— carry us over hills and rocks, and never leave us
till we be dismembered and they breathless : but, con-
trarily, if they be pulled in with the sudden violence of a
strjy ght hand, they fall to plunging and careering, and nev-
er leave till their saddle be empty, and even then danger-
ously strike at their prostrate rider. If there be any ex-
ercise of Christian wisdom, it is in the managing of these
unruly affections, which are not more necessary in their
best use than pernicious in their misgovernance. Rea-
son hath always been busy, in undertaking this so neces-
sary a moderation : wherein, although she have prevailed
SECTION VII.
261
with some of colder temper, yet those which have been
of more stubborn mettle — like unto grown scholars,
which scorn the ferule that ruled their minority — have
still despised her weak endeavors. Only Christiamity
hath this power, which with our second birth gives- us a
new nature : so that now, if excess of passions be natu-
ral to us as men, the order of them is natural to us as
Christians. Reason bids the angry man say over his
alphabet ere he give his answer ; hoping by this inter-
mission of time to gain the mitigation of his rage. He
was never thoroughly angry, that can endure the recital
of so many idle letters. Christianity gives not rules,
but power, to avoid this short madness. It was a wise
speech that is reported of our best — and last cardinal, I
hope, that tbis island either did or shall see — who, when
a skilful astrologer, upon the calculation of his nativity,
bad foretold him some specialities concerning his future
estate, answered, 'Such perhaps I was born; but since
that time I have been born again, and my second nativ-
ity hath crossed my first.' The power of nature is a
good plea for those that acknowledge notliing above na-
ture. But for a Christian to excuse his intemperateness
by his natural inclination, and to say, 'I am born choler-
ic, sullen, amorous,' is an apology worse than the fault.
Wherefore serves religion, but to subdue or govern na-
ture ? We are so much Christians as we can rule our-
selves; the rest is but form and speculation. Yea, the
very thought of our profession is so powerful, that — like
unto that precious stone — being cast into the sea, it as-
suageth those inward tempests that were raised by the
affections. The unregenerate mind is not capable of
this power ; and therefore, through the continual muti-
262
HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
nies of his passions, cannot but be subject to perpetual
unquietness. There is neither remedy nor hope in this
estate. But the Christian soul, that hath inured itself
to the awe of God and the exercises of true mortifica-
tion, by the only looking up at his holy profession, cu-
reth the burning venom of these fiery serpents that lurk
within him. Hast thou nothing but nature ? Resolve
to look for no peace. God is not .podigal, to cast away
his best blessings on so unworthy subjects. Art thou a
Christian ? Do but remember thou art so ; and then if
thou darest, if thou canst, yield to the excess of passions.
SECTION VIII.
The second main enemy of peace, — Crosses.
Hitherto, the most inward and dangerous enemy of
our peace : which if we have once mastered, the other field
shall be fought and won with less blood. Crosses dis-
quiet us either in their present feehng, or their expecta-
tion : hoth of them, when they meet with weak minds,
so extremely distempering them that the patient, for the
time, is not himself. How many have we known, which
through a lingering disease, wearj'^ of their pain, weary
of their lives, have made their own hands their execu-
tioners ! How many, meeting with an headstrong grief
which they could not manage, have by the violence of it
been carried quite from their wits! How many mil-
lions, what for incurable maladies, what for losses, what
for defamations, what for sad accidents to their children,
rub out their lives in perpetual discontentment — there-
fore living, because they cannot yet die, not for that they
SECTION IX.
263
like to live ! If there could be any human receipt pre-
scribed to avoid evils, it would be purchased at an high
rate ; but both it is impossible that earth should redress
that which is sent from heaven, and if it could be done,
even the want of miseries would prove misei-able ; for
the mind cloyed with a continual felicity, would grow a
burden to itself — lothing that at last which intermission
would have made pleasant. Give a free horse the full
reins, and he will soon tire. Summer is the sweetest
season, by all consents, wherein the earth is both most
rich with increase, and most gorgeous for ornament ; yet
if it were not received with interchanges of cold frosts
and piercing winds, who could live ? Summer would be
no Summer, if Winter did not both lead it in and follow
it. We may not therefore either hope or strive to es-
cape all crosses : some we may. What thou canst, fly
from ; what thou canst not, allay and mitigate. In cross-
es, universally, let this be thy rule : Make thyself none,
escape some, bear the rest, sweeten all.
SECTION IX.
Of crosses that arise fkom conceit
Apprehension gives life to crosses ; and if some be
simply, most are as they are taken. I have seen many,
which when God hath meant them no hurt, have framed
themselves crosses out of imagination, and have found
that insupportable for weight, which in truth never was,
neither had ever any but a fancied being. Others again
laughing out heavy afflictions, for which they were be-
moaned of the beholders. One receives a deadly wound,
264'
HEAVEN UPON EABTH.
and looks not so much as pale at the smart ; another
hears of many losses, and like Zeno after news of his
shipwreck — as altogether passionless — goes to his rest,
not breaking an hour's sleep for that which would break
the heart of some others. Greenham, that saint of ours
— whom it cannot disparage that he was reserved for
our so loose an age — can lie spread quietly upon the
form, looking for the chirurgeon's knife, binding himself
as fast with a resolved patience as others with strongest
cords, abiding his flesh carved and his bowels rifled, and
not stirring more than if he felt not, while others trem-
ble to expect, and shrink to feel, but the pricking of a
vein. There can be no remedy for imaginary crosses
but wisdom, which shall teach us to esteem of all events
as they are — like a true glass representing all things to
our minds in their due proportion — so as crosses may
not seem that are not, nor little and gentle ones seem
great and intolerable. Give thy body hellebore, thy
mind good counsel, thine ear to thy friend, and these fan
tastical evils shall vanish away like themselves.
SECTION X.
Of true and real crosses.
It were idle advice, to bid men avoid evils. Nature
hath by a secret instinct taught brute creatures so much
— whether wit or sagacity : and our self-love, making
the best advantage of reason, will easily make us so wise
and careful. It is more worth our labor, since our life
is so open to calamities, and nature to impatience, to
teach men to bear what evils they cannot avoid, and
SECTION XI.
265
how, by a well-disposetlness of mind, we may correct
the iniquity of all hard events : wherein it is hardly cre-
dible how much good art and precepts of resolution may
avail us. I have seen one man, by the help of a little
engine, lift up that weight alone, which forty helping
hands, by their clear strength, might have endeavored
in vain. We live here in an ocean of troubles, wherein
we can see no firm land — one wave falling upon another,
ere the former have wrought all his spite. Mischiefs
strive for places, as if they feared to lose iheir room if
they hasted not. So many good things as we liave, so
many evils arise from their privation ; besides no fewer
real and positive evils that afflict us. To prescribe and
apply receipts to every particular cross, were to write a
Salmeron-like commentary upon Petrarch's remedies ;
and I doubt whether so the work would be perfect — a
life would be too little to write it, and but enough to
read it.
SECTION XI.
The first remedy of crosses — before they come.
The same medicines cannot help all diseases of the
body ; of the soul, they may. We see fencers give their
scholars the same common rules of position, of warding
and wielding their weapon for offence, for defence,
against all comers. Such universal precepts there are
for crosses. In the first whereof, I would prescribe ex-
pectation, that either killeth or abateth evils. For cross-
es, after the nature of the cockatrice, die if they be fore-
seen ; whether this providence makes us more strong to
266
HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
resist, or by some secret power makes them more unable
to assault us. It is not credible, what a fore-resolved
mind can do, can suffer. Could our English Milo — of
whom Spain yet speaketh since their last peace — have
overthrown that furious beast, made now more violent
through the rage of his baiting, if he had not settled him-
self in his station, and expected ? The frighted multi-
tude ran away from that over-earnest sport, which be-
gun in pleasure, ended in terror. If he had turned his
back with the rest, where had been his safety, where his
glory, and reward ? Now he stood still, expected, over-
came ; by one fact he at once preserved, honored, en-
riched himself. Evils will come never the sooner for
that thou lookest for them ; they will come the easier :
it is a labor well lost if they come not, and well bestow-
ed if they do come. We are sure the worst may come ; why
should we be secure that it will not ? Suddenness finds
weak minds secure, makes them miserable, leaves them
desperate. The best way, therefore, is, to make things
present in conceit before they come, that they may be
half past in their violence when they do come — even as
with wooden wasters we learn to play at the sharp. As
therefore good soldiers exercise themselves long at the
pale, and there use those activities which afterwards they
shall practice upon a true adversary, so must we present
to ourselves imaginary crosses, and manage them in our
mind before God sends them in event. Now I eat,
sleep, digest, all soundly, without complaint. What if a
languishing disease should bereave me of my appetite
and rest, that I should see dainties and lothe them, sur-
feiting of the very smell, of the thought, of the best
dishes ! — that I should count the lingering hours, and
SECTION XI.
267
think Ilezekiah's long day returned, wearying myself
with changing sides, and wishing anything but what I
am ! How could I take this distemper ? Now I have,
if not what I would, yet what I need ; as not abounding
with idle superfluities, so not straitened with penury of
necessary things. What if poverty should rush upon me
as an armed man, spoiling me of all my little that I had,
and send me to the fountain for my best cellar, to the
ground for my bed, for my bread to another's cupboard,
for my clothes to the broker's shop, or my friend's ward-
robe ! How could I brook this want ? I am now at
home, walking in my own grounds, looking on my young
plants the hope of posterity, considering the nature, ad-
vantages, or fears of my soil, enjoying the patrimony of
my fathers. What if, for my religion or the malicious
sentence of some great one, I should be exiled from my
country, wandering amongst those whose habit, lan-
guage, fashion, my ignorance shall make me wonder at ;
where the solitude of places and strangeness of persons
shall make my life uncomfortable ! How could I abide
the smell of foreign smoke ? How should I lake the
contempt and hard usage that waits upon strangers ?
Thy prosperity is idle and ill-spent, if it be not meddled
with such forecasting and wisely-suspicious thoughts —
if it be wholly bestowed in enjoying, no whit in prevent-
ing. Like unto a foolish city, which, notwithstanding a
dangerous situation, spends all her wealth in rich furni-
tures of chambers and state-houses, while they bestow
not one shovel-full of earth on outward bulwarks to
their defence, this is but to make our enemies the hap-
pier, and ourselves the more readily miserable. If thou
wilt not therefore be oppressed with evils. Expect and
268
HEAVEN UPON EABTH.
Exercise. Exercise thyself with conceit of evils ; ex-
pect the evils themselves — yea, exercise thyself in ex-
pectation : so while the mind pleaseth itself in thinking,
' Yet I am not thus,' it prepareth itself against it may be
so. And if some that have been good at the foils have
proved cowardly at the sharp, yet on tbe contrary, who-
ever durst point a single combat in the field, that hath
not been somewhat trained in the fence-school ?
SECTION xn.
The next remedv of crosses, when thev are come — From
their author.
Neither doth it a little blunt the edge of evils to con-
sider that they come from a divine hand, whose al-
mighty power is guided by a most wise providence and
tempered with a fatherly love. Even the savage crea-
tures will be smitten of their keeper and repine not ; if
of a stranger, they tear him in pieces. He strikes me
that made me, that moderates the world : why struggle I
with him? — why with myself? Am I a fool, or a re-
bel? A fool, if I be ignorant whence my crosses
come : a rebel, if I know it and be impatient. My suf-
ferings are from a God, from my God. He hath des-
tined me every dram of sorrow that I feel — ' Thus much
thou shalt abide, and here shall thy miseries be stinted.'
All worldly helps cannot abate them, all powers of hell
cannot add one scruple to their weight that he hath allot-
ted me. I must therefore either blaspheme God in my
heart, detracting from his infinite justice, wisdom, pow-
er, mercy, — which all shall stand inviolable, when mil-
SECTION xrii.
269
lions of such worms as I am, are gone to dust — or else
confess that I ought to be patient. And if I profess I
should be that I will not, I befool myself and bewray
miserable impotency. But as impatience is full of
excuse, — it was thine own rash improvidence or the
spite of thine enemy that impoverished, that defamed
thee : it was the malignity of some unwholesome dish, or
some gross, corrupted air, that hath distempered thee. Ah,
foolish cur, why dost thou bite at the stone, which could
never have hurt thee but from the hand that threw it ?
If I wound thee, what matters it whether with mine own
sword, or thine, or another's ? God strikes some imme-
diately from heaven, with his own arm or with the arm of
angels ; others he buffets with their own hands ; some by
the revenging sword of an enemy ; others with the fist of
his dumb creatures — God strikes in all ; his hand moves
theirs. If thou see it not, blame thy carnal eyes. Why
dost thou fault the instrument, while thou knowest the
agent? Even the dying thief pardons the executioner,
exclaims on his unjust judge, or his malicious accusers.
Either then blame the fif-st mover, or discharge the
means ; which, as they could not have touched thee but as
from him, so from him they have afflicted thee justly —
wrongfully perhaps as in themselves.
SECTION XIII.
TllF. THIRD ANTIDOTE OF CROSSES.
But neither seemeth it enough to be patient in crosses,
if wc be not thankful also. Good things challenge more
than bare contentment. Crosses — unjustly termed evils
270
HEAVEN UPON EABTH.
— as they are sent of him that is all goodness, so they
are sent for good, and his end cannot be frustrate. What
greater good can be to the diseased man, than fit and
proper physic to recure him ? Crosses are the only
medicines of sick minds. Thy sound body carries with-
in it a sick soul. Thou feelest it not perhaps — so much
more art thou sick, and so much more dangerously. Per-
haps thou laborest of some plethora of pride, or of some
dropsy of covetousness, or the staggers of inconstancy,
or some fever of luxury, or consumption of envy, or per-
haps of the lethargy of idleness, or of the phrensy of an-
ger : it is a rare soul that hath not some notable disease
— only crosses are thy remedies. What if they be un-
pleasant ? They are physic : it is enough if they be whole-
some. Not pleasant taste, but the secret virtue com-
mends medicines. If they cure thee, they shall please
thee even in displeasing ; or else thou lovest thy palate
above thy soul. What madness is this ? When thou
complainest of a bodily disea.se, thou sendest to the phy-
sician that he may send thee not savory, but wholesome,
potions. Thou receivest them in spite of thine abhorring
stomach, and withal both thankest and rewardest the
physician. Thy soul is sick. Thy heavenly Physician
sees it, and pities thee ere thou thyself, and unsent to,
sends thee not a plausible, but a sovereign remedy. Thou
loathest the savor, and rather wilt hazard thy life than
offend thy palate : and instead of thanks, repinest at,
revilest the Physician. How comes it that we love
ourselves so little — if at least we count our souls the best
or any part — as that we had rather undergo death than
pain, choosing rather wilful sickness than an harsh reme-
dy ? Surely we men are mere fools in the estimation of
SECTION XIV.
271
our own good : like children, our choice is led altogether
by show, no whit by substance. We cry after every well-
seeming toy, and put from us solid proffers of good things.
The wise Arbitrator of all things sees our folly and cor-
rects it, withholding our idle desires, and foi-cing upon
us the sound good we refuse. It is second folly in us,
if we thank him not. The foolish babe cries for his fa-
ther's bright knife or gilded pills. The wiser father
knows that they can but hurt him, and therefore with-
holds them after all his tears. The child thinks he is
used but unkindly. Every wise man, and himself at
more years, can say it was but childish folly in desiring
it, in complaining that he missed it. The loss of wealth,
friends, health, is sometimes gain to us. Thy body, thy
estate, is worse — thy soul is better : why complainest
thou?
SECTION XIV.
TlIK FOURTH AND I. V ST PART, FrOM THEIR ISStlF.
Nay, it shall not be enough, methinks, if only we be
but contented and thankful, if not also cheerful in afflic-
tions : if that, as we feel their pain, so we look to their
end — although, indeed, this is not more requisite than
rarely found, as being proper only to the good heart.
Every bird can sing in a clear heaven, in a temperate
Spring ; that one, as most familiar so is most commend-
ed, that sings merry notes in the middest of a shower or
the dead of winter. Every epicure can enlarge his
272
HEAVEN UPON EAKTH.
heart to mirth in the midst of his cups and daUiance ;
only the three children can sing in the furnace, Paul
and Silas in the stocks, martyrs at the stake. It is
from heaven that this joy comes, so contrary to all earth-
ly occasions, bred in the faithful heart through a serious
and feeling respect to the issue of what he feels ; the qui-
et and untroubled fruit of his righteousness — glory, the
crown after his fight ; after his minute of pain, eternity
of joy. He never looked over the threshold of heaven,
that cannot more rejoice that he shall be glorious, than
mourn in present that he is miserable.
SECTION XV.
Of the IMPOBTUNITy AND TERROR OF DEATH.
Yea, this consideration is so powerful that it alone is
able to make a part against the fear or sense of the last
and greatest of all terribles — Death itself — which in the
conscience of his own dreadfulness, justly laughs at all the
vain human precepts of tranquillity, appalling the most re-
solute, find vexing the most cheerful minds. Neither pro-
fane Lucretius, with all his epicurean rules of confidence,
nor drunken Anacreon, with all his wanton odes, can shift
off the importunate and violent horror of this adversai-y.
Seest thou the Chaldean tyrant beset with the sacred
bowls of Jerusalem, the late spoils of God's temple,
and in contempt of their Owner, carousing healths to his
queens, concubines, peers, singing amidst his cups trium-
phant carols of praise to his molten and carved gods ?
Wouldst thou ever suspect that this high courage could
be abated, or that this sumptuous^and presumptuous ban-
SECTION XV.
273
quet, after so royal and jocund continuance, should
have any other conclusion but pleasure ? Stay but one
hour longer, and thou shall see that face that now shines
with a ruddy gloss — according to the color of his liquor —
look pale and ghastly, stained with the colors of fear and
death ; and that proud hand, which now lifts up her massy
goblets in defiance of God, tremble like a leaf in a storm ;
and those strong knees which never stooped to the bur-
den of their laden body, now not able to bear up them-
selves, but loosened with a sudden palsy of fear, one
knocking against the other : and all this for that death
writes him a letter of summons to appear that night be-
fore him ; and accordingly ere the next sun, sent two.
eunuchs for his honorable conveyance into another
world. Where now are those delicate morsels, those
deep draughts, those merry ditties, wherewith the pal-
ate and ear so pleased themselves ? What is now be-
come of all those cheerful looks, loose laughters, stately
port, revels, triumphs of the feasting court ? Why doth
none of his gallant nobles revive the fainted courage of
their lord with a new cup, or with some stirring jest
shake him out of this unseasonable melancholy ? O
death, how imperious art thou to carnal minds ! — aggra-
vating their misery not only by expectation of future
pain, but by the remembiance of the wonted causes of
their joy ; and not sutiering them to see aught but
what may torment them. Even that monster of Cesars
that had been so well acquainted with blood and never
had found better sport than in cutting of throats,
when now it came to his own turn, how effeminate, how
desperately cowardous did he show himself — to the won-
18
274
HEAVEK UPON EARTH.
der of all readers, that he which was ever so valiant
in killing, should be so womanishly heartless in dying !
SECTION XVI.
The grounds or the fear of death.
There are, that fear not so much to be dead as to die ;
the very act of dissolution frighting Ihem with a tor-
menting expectation of a short but intolerable painful-
ness. Which let, if tlie wisdom of God had not inter-
posed to timorous nature, there would have been many
more Lucretias, Cleopatras, Ahithophels ; and good laws
should have found little opportunity of execution, through
the wilful funerals of malefactors. For the soul that comes
into the body without any, at least sensible, pleasure, de-
parts not from it without an extremity of pain ; which va-
rying according to the manner and means of separation,
yet in all violent deaths especially, retaineth a violence not
to be avoided, hard to be endured. And if diseases which
are destined towards death as their end, be so painful,
what must the end and perfection of diseases be ? — since
as diseases are the maladies of the body, so death is the
malady of diseases. There are, that fear not so much
to die as to be dead. If the pang be bitter, yet it is but
short. The comfortless state of the dead strikes some
that could well resolve for the act of their passage. Not
the worst of the heathen emperors made that moanful
ditty on his death-bed, wherein he bewrayeth to all me-
mory much feeling pity of his soul, for her doubtful and
impotent condition after her parture. How doth Pla-
SECTION XVt.
275
to's worldling bewail the misery of the grave, besides all
respect of pain ! — ' Woe is me, that I shall lie alone rot-
ting in the silent earth amongst the crawling worms, not
seeing aught above, not seen.'' Very not-being is suf-
ficiently abhorred of nature, if death had no more to
make it fearful. But those that have lived under light
enough to show them the gates of hell after their pas-
sage thorough the gates of death, and have learned that
death is not only horrible for our not-being here, but
for being infinitely, eternally miserable in a future world,
nor so much for the dissolution of life as the beginning
of torment, — those cannot, without the certain hope of
their immunity, but cai-nally fear to die and hellishly
fear to be dead. For if it be such pain to die, what is
it to be ever dying ? And if the straining or luxation
of one joint can so afflict us, what shall the racking of
the whole body, and the torturing of the soul, whose an-
imation alone makes the body to feel and complain of
smart ? And if men have devised such exquisite tor-
ments, what can spirits, more subtil, more malicious ?
And if our momentary suflPerings seem long, how long
shall that be that is eternal ? And if the sorrows indif-
ferently incident to God's dear ones upon earth be so ex-
treme as sometimes to drive them within sight of despair-
ing, what shall those be that are reserved only for those
that hate him, and that he hateth ? None but those who
have heard the desperate complaints of some guilty
Spyra, or whose souls have been a little scorched with
these flames, can enough conceive of the horror of this
estate — it being the policy of our common enemy to
' 'ilfioi TTOTt Mlaoiiat, K. T. X.
276 HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
conceal it so long that we may see and feel it at once,
lest we should fear it before it be too late to be avoided.
SECTION xvn.
Remedv of the last and greatest breach of peace,
arising from death.
Now when this great adversary, like a proud giant,
comes stalking out in his fearful shape and insults over
our frail mortality, daring the world to match him with
an equal champion, whiles a whole host of worldlings
show him their backs for fear, the true Christian — arm-
ed only with confidence and resolution of his future hap-
piness— dares boldly encounter him, and can wound him
in the forehead, the wonted seat of terror, and trampling
upon him can cut off his head with his own sword, and
victoriously returning, can sing in triumph, ' O death,
where is thy sting ?' An happy victory ! We die and
are not foiled ; yea, we are conquerors in dying : we
could not overcome death if we died not. That dissolu-
tion is well bestowed, that parts the soul from the body
that it may unite both to God. All our life here — as
that heavenly doctor^ well terms it — is but a vital death.
How advantageous is that death that determines this
false and dying life, and begins a true one above all the
titles of happiness ! The Epicure or Sadducee dare not
die, for fear of not being. The guilty and loose world-
ling dares not die, for fear of being miserable. The dis-
trustful and doubting semi-Christian dares not die, be-
' Augustine.
SECTION XVII.
277
cause he knows not whether he shall be, or be miserable,
or not be at all. The resolved Christian dares and
would die, because he knows he shall be happy ; and
looking merrily towards heaven, the place of his rest, caa
unfeignedly say, ' I desire to be dissolved : I see thee,
my home, I see thee — a sweet and glorious home after a
weary pilgrimage — I see thee ; and now after many lin-
gering hopes I aspire to thee. How oft have I looked up
at thee with admiration and ravishment of soul, and by
the goodly beams that I have seen, guessed at the glory
that is above them ! How oft have 1 scorned these dead
and unpleasant pleasures of earth, in comparison of thine !
I come now, ray joys, I come to possess you : I come
through pain and death ; yea, if hell itself were in the
way betwixt you and me, I would pass through hell it-
self to enjoy you !' And, in truth, if that heathen Cle-
ombrotus' — a follower of the ancient academy — but up-
on only reading his master Plato's discourses of the im-
mortality of the soul, could cast down himself headlong
from an high rock and wilfully break his neck, that he
might be possessed of that immortality which he bcHeved
to follow upon death, how contented should they be to
die, that know they shall be more than immortal — glori-
ous ! He went not in an hate of the flesh, as the Patrician
heretics^of old, but in a blind love to his soul, out of bare
opinion ; we, upon an holy love grounded upon assured
knowledge : he, upon an opinion of future life ; we on
knowledge of future glory : he went unsent for ; we, call-
ed for by our Maker. Why should his courage exceed
ours, since our ground, our estate, so far exceeds his ?
' Tull. Tuscul — Callimach. Epigram.
* August. — de Hnsres.
278
HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
Even this age, within the reach of our memory, bred
that peremptory Italian, which, in imitation of old Ro-
man courage — lest in that degenerated nation there should
be no step left of the qualities of their ancestors — enter-
ing upon his torment for killing a tyrant, cheered him-
self with this confidence,! ' My death is sharp, my fame
shall be everlasting.' — The voice of a Eoman, not of a
Christian. My fame shall be eternal : — an idle comfort.
My fame shall live — not my soul live to see it. What
shall it avail thee to be talked of, while thou art not ?
Then fame only is precious, when a man lives to en-
joy it. The fame that survives the soul, is bootless.
Yet even this hope cheered him against the violence of
his death. What should it do us, that not our fame but
our life, our glory after death, cannot die ? He that
hath Stephen's eyes to look into heaven, cannot but have
the tongue of the saints, ' Come Lord : how long ?' That
man, seeing the glory of the end, cannot but contemn the
hardness of the way. But who wants those eyes, if he
say and swears that he fears not death, beheve him not ;
if he protest this tranquillity, and yet fear death, believe
him not ; beheve him not, if he say he is not miserable.
SECTION XVffl.
The second rank of the enemies of peace. — The first
enemy on the right hand.
These are enemies on the left hand. There want
not some on the right, which with less profession of hos-
" Mors acerba, Fania pcrpelua.
SECTION XVIII.
279
tility, hurt no less. Not so easily perceived because
they distemper the mind, not without some kind of plea-
sure. Surfeit kills more than famine. These are the
over-desiring and over-joying of these earthly things.
All immoderations are enemies, as to health, so to peace.
He that desires, wants as much as he that hath nothing.i
The drunken man is as thirsty as the sweating traveler.
Hence are the studies, cares, fears, jealousies, hopes,
griefs, envies, wishes, platforms of achieving, alterations
of purposes and a thousand like ; whereof each one is
enough to make the life troublesome. One is sick of
his neighbor's field, whose misshapen angles disfigure
his, and hinder his lordship of entireness — what he hath
is not regarded, for the want of what he cannot have.
Another feeds on crusts, to purchase what he must leave
perhaps, to a fool, or — which is not much better — to a
prodigal heir. Another, in the extremity of covetous
folly, chooses to die an unpitied death, hanging himself
for the fall of the market ; while the commons laugh at
the loss and in their speeches epitaph upon him as on
that pope — ' He lived as a wolf, and died as a dog.' One
cares not what attendance he dances at all hours, on
whose stairs he sits, what vices he soothes, what deform-
ities he imitates, what servile offices he doth, in an hope
to rise. Another stomachs the covered head and stiff
knee of his inferior ; angry that other men think him not
so good as he thinks himself. Another eats his own
heart with envy at the richer furniture and better estate
or more honor of his neighbor ; thinking his own not
good, because another hath better. Another vexeth
Hippocr. Aphoris.
280
II EAT EN T7PON EARTH.
■himself with a word of disgrace passed from the mouth
•of an enemy, which he neither can digest nor cast up ;
•resolving, because another will be his enemy, to be his
own. These humors are as manifold as there are men
that seem prosperous. For the avoiding of all which ri-
diculous, and yet spiteful inconveniences, the mind must
be settled in a persuasion of the worthlessness of these
outward things. Let it know that these riches have
made many prouder, none better : that as never man
was, so never wise man thought himself, better for en-
joying them. Would that wise philosopher' have cast
his gold into the sea, if he had not known he should
live more happily without it? If he knew not the use
of riches, he was no wise man ; if lie knew not the best
way to quietness, he was no philosopher : now even by
the voice of tiieir oracle, he was confessed to be both —
yet cast away his gold that he might be happy. Would
that wise prophet have prayed as well against riches as
poverty ? Would so many great men — whereof our lit-
tle island hath yielded nine crowned kings, while it was
held of old by the Saxons — ^after they had continued
their life in the throne, have ended it in the cell, and
changed their sceptre for a book, if they could have
found as much felicity in the highest estate, as security
in the lowest ? I hear Peter and John, the eldest and
dearest apostles, say, ' Gold and silver have 1 none :' I
hear the devil say, ' All these will I give thee, and they
are mine to give.' Whether shall I desire to be in the
state of these saints, or that devil ? He was therefore a
better husband than a philosopher, that first termed riches
Sociales.
SECTION XIX.
281
'goods ;' and he mended the title well, that, adding a fit
epithet, called them ' goods of fortune ' — false goods as-
cribed to a false patron. There is no fortune, to give
or guide riches ; there is no true goodness in liches to be
guided. His meaning then was, as I can interpret it, to
teach us in this title, that it is a chance if ever riches
were good to any. In sum, who would account those as
riches, or those riches as goods, which hurt the owner,
disquiet others ; which the worst have, which the best
have not ; which those that have not, want not ; which
those want that have them ; which are lost in a night,
and a man is not worse when he hath lost them ? It is
true of them, that we say of fire and water, they are
good servants, ill masters. Make them thy slaves, they
shall be goods indeed — in use, if not in nature — good to
thyself, good to others by thee. But if they be thy
masters, thou hast condemned thyself to thine own gal-
leys. If a servant rule, he proves a tyrant. What mad-
ness is this ? — thou hast made thyself at once a slave
and a fool. What if thy chains be of gold, or if, with
Ileliogabalus, thou hast made thee silken halters ! — thy
servitude may be glorious : it is no less miserable.
SECTION XIX.
Thk skconi) enkmy on the right hand,— honor.
Honor perhaps is yet better — such is the confused
opinion of those that know little — but a distinct and cu-
rious head shall find an hard task, to define in what point
the goodness thereof consisteth. Is it in high descent of
blood ? I would think so if nature were tied by any law
282
HEAVEN TJPON EAKTH.
to produce children like qualified to their parents. But
although in the brute creatures she be ever thus regular,
that ye shall never find a young pigeon hatched in an ea-
gle's nest ; neither can I think that true — or if true, it
was monstrous — that Nicippus his sheep should yean a
lion, yet in the best creature, which hath his form and
her attending quahties from above, with a likeness of
face and features, is commonly found an unlikeness of
disposition : only the earthly part follows the seed — wis-
dom, valor, virtue, are of another beginning. Shall I
bow to a molten calf, because it was made of golden ear-
rings? Shall I condemn all honor of the first head,
though upon never so noble deserving, because it can
show nothing before itself but a white shield ? If Cae-
sar or Agathocles be a potter's son, shall I contemn him ?
Or if wise Bion be the son of an infamous courtezan,
shall the censorious lawyer rase him out of the catalogue
with 'Partus sequitur ventrem?'' Lastly, shall lac-
count that good, which is incident to the worst ? Either,
therefore, greatness must show some charter wherein it
is privileged with succession of virtue, or else the good-
ness of honor cannot consist in blood. Is it then in the
admiration and high opinion that others have conceived
of thee, which draws all dutiful respect and humble ofii-
ces from them to thee ? O fickle good, that is ever in
the keeping of others ! — especially of the unstable vul-
gar, that beast of many heads ; whose divided tongues,
as they never agree with each other, so seldom, when-
ever, agree long with themselves. Do we not see the
superstitious Lystrians, tloat erewhile would needs make
' Olympia. Diog. Laert
SECTION XIX.
283
Paul a god against his will, and in devout zeal drew
crowned bulls to the altars of their new Jupiter and
Mercury — violence can scarce hold them from sacrific-
ing to him — now not many hours after gather up stones
against him ; having in their conceits, turned him from
a god into a malefactor, and are ready to kill him, in-
stead of killing a sacrifice to him ? Such is the multitude ;
and such the steadfastness of their honor. There then
only is true honor, where blood and virtue meet
together : the greatness whereof is from blood, the
goodness from virtue. Rejoice, ye great men, that
your blood is ennobled with the virtues and deserts
of your ancestors ! This only is yours : this only chal-
lengeth all unfeigned respect of your inferiors. Count
it praiseworthy, not that you have, but that you deserve
honor. Blood may be tainted : the opinion of the vul-
gar cannot be constant : only virtue is ever like itself,
and only wins reverence, even of those that hate it.
Without which, greatness is as a beacon of vice, to draw
men's eyes the more to behold it ; and those that see it,
dare lothe it, though they dare not censure it. So while
the knee bendeth, the mind abhorreth ; and telleth the
body it honors an unworthy subject — ^vithin itself se-
cretly comparing that vicious great man, on whom his
submiss courtesy is cast away, to some goodly fair-bound
Seneca's tragedies, that is curiously gilded without,
which if a man open, he shall find Thyestes the tomb
of his own children, or QSdipus the husband of his own
mother, or some such monstrous part, which he at once
reads and hates.
284 HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
SECTION XX.
The second remedy of over-joved prosperitv.
Let him think that not only these outward things are
not in themselves good, but that they expose their own-
ers to misery. For besides that God usually punishes
our over-loving them, with their loss — because he thinks
them unworthy rivals to himself, who challengeth all
height of love as his only right ; so that the way to lose
is to love much — tlie largeness moreover either of affec-
tion or estate makes an open way to ruin. While a man
walks on plain ground, he falls not ; or if he fall, he doth
but measure his length on the ground, and rise again
without harm ; but he that climbeth high, is in danger
of falling, and if he fall, of killing. All the sails hoisted,
give vantage to a tempest ; which, through the mariners'
foresight giving timely room thereto, by their fall deliver
the vessel from the danger of that gust whose rage now
passelh over with only beating her with waves for anger
that he was prevented. So the larger our estate is, the
fairer mark hath mischief given to hit ; and, which is
worse, that which makes us so easy to hit, makes our
wound more deep and grievous. If poor Codrus his
house burn, he stands by and warms him with the flame
because he knows it is but the loss of an outside, which,
by gathering some few sticks, straw, and clay, may with
little labor and no cost, be repaired. But when the ma-
ny lofts of the rich man do one give fire to another, he
cries out one while of his counting-house, another while
of his wardrobe, then of some noted chest, and straight
SECTION XXI.
285
of some rich cabinet : and lamenting both the frame and
the furnicure, is therefore impatient, because he had
something.
SECTION XXI.
The vanity of pi.easuuf, — the third enemy on the right
HAND.
But if there be any sorceress upon earth, it is Pleas-
ure ; wliich so encli;uiteth the minds of men, and work-
eth the dislurbance of our [.eace with such secret delight,
that foolisii men think this want of tranquillity, happi-
ness. Slie turneth men into swine with such sweet
charms that they would not change their brutish nature
for their former reason. I( is a gooil unquietness, say
they, that contenteth ; it is a goo.l enemy that protiteth.
Is it any wonder that men should be sottish, when their
i-eason is mastered with sensuality ? Tiiou fool ! thy
pleasm-e contents thee — how much, how long ? If she
liave not more befriended thee than ever she did any
earlidy favorile, yea, if she have not given thee more
than she lialh liiTsi-lf, ihv best delight hath had some
mixtm-e of di^contenlmmt. For cither some circum-
stance crossc'.h thy dc-ire, or the inward di>lasle of thy
conscience, checking thine appetite. p(M-mils thee not any
entire fruilinn of thy joy. Even llie sweetest of all flow-
ers lialli 111- iIhuii-: anil who can di-termine whether
tlie scent he more deleetahle, or the pricks more irksome ?
It is enoiigli for lieaven to have absolute pleasures ;
which if they could be foinid hero below, certainly that
286 HEAVEN UPON EAEfH.
heaven which is now not enough desired, would then be
feared. God will have our pleasures here, according to
the fashion of ourselves, compounded ; so as the best
delights may still savor of their earth. See how that
great king, which never had any match for wisdom,
scarce ever any superior for wealth, traversed over all
this inferior world with diligent inquiry and observation ;
and all to find out that goodness of the children of men
which they enjoy under the sun ; abridging himself of
nothing that either his eyes or his heart could suggest to
him — as what is it, that he could not either know or
purchase ? — And now coming home to himself, after the
disquisition of all natural and human things, complains
that, Behold, all is not only vanity but vexation ! Go
then, thou wise scholar of experience, and make a more
accurate search for that which he sought and missed.
Perhaps somewhere, betwixt the tallest cedar in Leba-
non and shrubby hyssop upon the wall, pleasure shrouded
herself that she could not be descried of him — whether
through ignorance or negligence. Thine insight may
be more piercing, thy means more commodious, thy
success happier. If it were possible for any man to en-
tertain such hopes, his vain experience could not make
him a greater fool : it could but teach him what he is,
and knoweth not. And yet, so imperfect as our pleas-
ures are, they have their satiety ; and as their continu-
ance is not good, so their conclusion is worse : — look to
the end, and see how sudden, how bitter it is. Their
only courtesy is, to salute us with a farewell, and such
a one as makes their salutation uncomfortable. This
Delilah shows and speaks fan- : but in the end, she will
bereave thee of thy strength, of thy sight, yea, of thyself.
SECTION XXII.
287
These gnats fly about thine ears and make thee music
awhile ; but evermore they sting ere they part. Sor-
row and repentance is the best end of pleasure ; pain is
yet worse, but the worst is despair. If thou miss of the
first of these, one of the latter shall find thee — perhaps
both. How much better is it for thee to want a little
honey, than to be swollen up with a venomous sting 1
Thus, then, the mind resolved that these earthly
things — Honor, Wealth, Pleasures — are casual, unsta-
ble, deceitful, imperfect, dangerous, must learn to use
them without trust, and to want them without grief;
thinking still, if I have them, I have some benefit, with a
great charge : if I have them not, with little respect of
others, I have much security and ease in myself: which
once obtained, we cannot fare amiss in either estate ;
and without which, we cannot but miscarry iu both.
SECTION XXII.
Positive rut.ks of our peace.
All the enemies of our inward peace are thus descried
and discomfited. Which doue, we have enough to pre-
serve us from misery ; but — since we moreover seek how
to live well and ha[)[iily — there yet remain those posi-
tive rules whereby our tranquillity may be both had, con-
tinued, and confirmed. Wherein I fear not lest I should
seem over-divine, in casting the anchor of quietness so
deep as heaven, the only seat of constancy, whiles it can
find no hold at all upon earth. All earthly things are
full of variableness ; and therefore, having no stay in
288
HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
themselves, can give none to us. He that will have and
hold right, tranquiUity, must find in himself a .sweet frui-
tion of God, and a feeling apprehension of his presence ;
that when he finds manifold occasions of vexation in
these earthly things, he, overlooking them all and hav-
ing recourse to his Comforter, may find in him such
matter of contentment, that he may pass over all these
petty grievances with contempt; which whosoever
wants, may be secure, cannot be quiet. The mind of
man cannot want some refuge, and — as we say of the
elephant — cannot rest, unless it have something to lean
upon. The covetous man, whose heaven is his chest,
when he hears himself rated and cursed for oppression,
comes home, and seeing his bags safe, applauds him-
self against all censurers. The glutton, when he loseth
friends or good name, yet joyeth in his well-furnished
table and the laughter of his wine — more pleasing him-
self in one dish, than he can be grieved with all (he
world's miscarriage. The needy scholar, whose wealth
lies all in his brain, cheers himself against iniquity of
times, with the conceit of his knowledge. These start-
ing-holes the mind cannot want when it is hard driven.
Now when, as hke to some chased Sisera, it shrouds it-
self under the harbor of these Jaels, although they give
it house-room and milk for a time, yet at last either they
entertain it with a nail in the temples, or — being guilty
to their own impotency — send it out of themselves for
safety and peace. For if the cross light in that which
it made his refuge — as, if the covetous man be crossed in
his riches — what earthly thing can stay him from a des-
perate phrensy ? Or if the cross fall in a degi-ee above
the height of his stay — as if the rich man be sick or dy-
SECTION XXII.
289
ing : wherein all wealth is cithei* contemned, or remem-
bered with anguish — how do all his comforts, like ver-
min from an house on fire, run away from him and
leave him over to his ruin ! — whiles the soul that hath
placed his refuge above is sure that the ground of his com-
fort cannot be matched with an earthly sorrow, cannot
be made vairable by the change of any event, but is infi-
nitely above all casualties, and without all uncertainties.
What state is there, wherein this heavenly stay shall not
afford me not only peace, but joy ? Am I in prison, or
in the hell of prisons, in some dark, low, and desolate
dungeon ? Lo, there Algerius,' that sweet martyr, finds
more light than above, and pities the darkness of our
liberty ! We have but a sun to enlighten our world,
which every cloud dimmeth and hideth from our eyes :
but the ' Father of Hghts' — in respect of whom all the
bright stars of heaven are but as the snuff of a dim can-
dle— shines into his pit, and the presence of his glorious
angels makes that an heaven to him, which the world
purposed as an hell of discomfort. What walls can keep
out that infinite Spirit that fills all things ? What dark-
ness can be where the God of this sun dwelleth ?2
What sorrow, where he comforteth ? Am I wandering
in banishment ? — can I go whither God is not ? What
sea can divide betwixt him and me ? Then would I fear
exile, if I could be driven away as well from God as my
country. Now he is as much in all earths, his title is
alike to all places, and mine in him : his sun shines to
me, his sea or earth bears me up, his presence cheereth
me, whithersoever I go. He cannot be said to flit, that
' Pompon. Alger. " Fox, Martyr.
19
290
HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
never changeth his Lost. He alone is a thousand com-
panions ; he alone is a world of friends. That man
never knew what it was to be famihar with God, that
complains of the want of home, of friends, of compan-
ions, while God is with him. Am I contemned of the
world ? It is enough for me that I am honored of God
— of both, I cannot. The world would love me more,
if I were less friends with God. It cannot hate me so
much as God hates it. What care I to be hated of them
whom God hateth ? He is unworthy of God's favor,
that cannot think it happiness enough without the world's.
How easy is it for such a man, whiles the world dis-
graces him, at once to scorn and pity it that it cannot
think nothing more contemptible than itself. I am im-
poverished with losses. — That was never thoroughly
good, that may be lost. My riches will not leese me —
yea, though I forego all, to my skin, yet have I not lost
any part of my wealth. For if he be rich that hath
something, how rich is he that hath the Maker and Own-
er of all things ! I am weak and diseased in body. —
He cannot miscarry, that hath his Maker for his phy-
sician. Yet my soul, the better part, is sound ; for that
cannot be weak, whose strength God is. How many are
sick in that, and complain not ! I can be content to be
let blood in the arm or foot, for the curing of the head
or heart. The health of the principal part is more joy
to me than it is trouble to be distempered in the inferior.
Let me know that God favors me : then I have liberty
in prison, home in banishment, honor in contempt, in
losses wealth, health in infirmity, life in death, and in all
these — happiness. And surely if our perfect fruition of
God be our complete heaven, it must needs be that our
SECTION XXII.
291
inchoate conversing with him is our heaven imperfectly,
and the entrance into the other ; which, methinks, dif-
fers from this, not in the kind of it, but in the degree.
For the continuation of which happy society — sith
strangeness loseth acquaintance and breedeth neglect —
on our part must be a daily renewing of heavenly famili-
arity by seeking him up, even with the contempt of all
inferior distraction ; by talking with him in our secret
invocations ; by hearing his conference with us ; and by
mutual entertainment of each other, in the sweet dis-
courses of our daily meditations. He is a sullen and
unsociable friend, that wants words. God shall take no
pleasure in us, if we be silent. The heart that is full of
love, cannot but have a busy tongue. All our talk with
God is either suits or thanks. In them, the Christian
heart pours out itself to his Maker; and would not
change this privilege for a world. All his annoyances,
all his wants, all his dislikes, are poured into the bosom
of his invisible friend, who likes us still so much more
as we ask more, as we complain more. 0 the easy and
happy recourse that the poor soul hath to the high throne
of heaven ! We stay not for the holding out of a golden
sceptre to warn our admission ; before which our pres-
ence should be presumption and death. No hour is un-
seasonable, no person too base, no words too homely, no
fact too hard, no importunity too great. We speak fa-
miliarly ; we are heard, answered, comforted. Another
while, God interchangeably speaks unto us, by the secret
voice of his Spirit, or by the audible sound of his word ;
we hear, adore, answer him ; by both which, the mind
so communicates itself to God, and hath God so plenti-
fully communicated unto it, that hereby it grows to such
292
HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
an habit of heavenliness, as that now it wants nothing,
but dissolution, of full glory.
SECTION xxin.
The subordinate rules of tranquillity : — first, for ac-
tions.
Out of this main ground once settled in the heart, like
as so many rivers from one common sea, flow those sub-
ordinate resolutions which we require as necessary to
our peace — whether in respect of our actions or our es-
tate. For our actions, there must be a secret vow pass-
ed in the soul, both of constant refraining from whatso-
ever may offend that Majesty we rest upon ; and, above
this, of true and canonical obedience to God, without all
care of difficulty, and in spite of all contradictions of na-
ture. Not out of the confidence of our own power — im-
potent men, who are we that we should either vow or
perform ! — but, as he said, Give what thou bidst, and
bid what thou wilt. Hence the courage of Moses durst
venture his hand to take up the crawling and hissing
serpent. Hence Peter durst walk upon the pavement of
the waves. Hence that heroical spirit of Luther — a
man made of metal fit for so great a work — durst re-
solve and profess to enter into that forewarned city,
though there had been as many devils in their streets as
tiles on their houses. Both these vows as we once sol-
emnly made by others, so, for our peace, we must renew
in ourselves. Thus the experienced mind both know-
ing that it hath met with a good friend, and, withal, what
SECTION XXIII.
293
the price of a friend is, cannot but be careful to retain
him, and wary of displeasing ; and therefore to cut off all
dangers of variance, voluntarily takes a double oath of
allegiance of itself to God ; which neither benefit shall
induce us to break, if we might gain a world, nor fear
urge us thereto, though we must lose ourselves. The
wavering heart, that finds continual combats in itself be-
twixt pleasure and conscience, so equally matched that
neither gets the day, is not yet capable of peace, and
whether ever overcometh, is troubled both with resist-
ance and victory. Barren Rebecca found more ease than
when her twins struggled in her womb. If Jacob had been
there alone, she had not complained of that painful con-
tention. One while, pleasure holds the fort, and con-
science assaults it ; which when it hath entered at last
by strong hand, after many batteries of judgments de-
nounced, ere long pleasure either corrupts the watch, or
by son\e cunning stratagem finds way to recover her
first hold. So one part is ever attemping and ever re-
sisting. Betwixt both, the heart cannot have peace, be-
cause it resolves not : for while the soul is held in sus-
pense, it cannot enjoy the pleasure it useth, because it is
half taken up with fear. Only a strong and resolute re-
pulse of pleasure is truly pleasant ; for therein the con-
science, filling us with heavenly delight, maketh sweet
triumphs in itself, as being now the lord of his own do-
minions, and knowing what to trust to. No man knows
the pleasure of this thought — I have done well — but he
that hath felt it ; and he that hath felt it, contemns all
pleasure to it. It is a false slander raised on Christiani-
ty, that it maketh men dumpish and melancholic : for
therefore are we heavy, because we are not enough
294
HEAVEN UPON EAETH.
Christians. We have religion enough to mislike plea-
sures, not enough to overcome them. But if we be
once conquerors over ourselves and have devoted our-
selves wholly to God, there can be nothing but heaven-
ly mirth in the soul. Lo here, ye philosophers, the true
music of heaven, which the good heart continually hear-
eth, and answers it in the just measures of joy I Oth-
ers may talk of mirth, as a thing they have heard of, or
vainly fancied : only the Christian feels it, and in com-
parison thereof, scorneth the idle, ribaldish, and scurri-
lous mirth of the profane.
SECTION XXIV.
The second rule for our actions.
And this resolution which we call for, must not only
exclude manifestly evil actions, but also doubting and
suspension of mind in actions suspected and questiona-
ble ; wherein the judgment must ever give confident de-
termination one way. For this tranquillity consisteth in
a steadiness of the mind ; and how can that vessel which
is beaten upon by contrary waves and winds, and totter-
eth to either part, be said to keep a steady course ? Re-
solution is the only mother of security. For instance,
I see that usury, which was wont to be condemned for
no better than a legal theft, hath now obtained with ma-
ny the reputation of an honest trade ; and is both used
by many, and by some defended. It is pity that a bad
practice should find any learned or rehgious patron. The
sum of my patrimony lieth dead by me, sealed up in the
SECTION XXIV.
295
bag of my father : my thriftier friends advise me to this
easy and sure improvement. Their counsel and my
gain prevail. My yearly sums come in, with no cost
but of time, wax, parchment : my estate likes it well —
better than my conscience ; which tells me still he doubts
my trade is too easy to be honest. Yet I continue my
illiberal course, not without some scruple and contradic-
tion ; so as my fear of offence hinders the joy of my pro-
fit, and the pleasure of my gain heartens me against the
fear of injustice. — I would be rich with ease, and yet I
would not be uncharitable, I would not be unjust. All
the while, I live in unquiet doubts and distraction : oth-
ers are not so much entangled in my bonds, as I in my
own. At last, that I may be both just and quiet, I con-
clude to refer this case wholly to the sentence of my in-
ward judge, the conscience : the advocates, gain and jus-
tice, plead on either part at this bar, with doubtful suc-
cess. Gain informs the judge of a new and nice dis-
tinction, of toothless and biting interest, and brings pre-
cedents of particular cases of usury so far from any
breach of charity or justice, that both parts therein con-
fess themselves advantaged. Justice pleads ever the
most toothless usury to have sharp gums, and finds in
the most harmless and profitable practice of it, an insen-
sible wrong to the common body, besides the infinite
wrecks of private estates. The weak judge suspends in
such probable allegations, and demurreth, as being over-
come of both and of neither part ; and leaves me yet no
whit more quiet, no whit less uncertain. I suspend my
practice accordingly ; being sure it is good not to do
what I am not sure is good to be done : and now gain
solicits me as much as justice did before. Betwixt both,
296
HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
I live troublesoraely : nor ever shall do other, till in a
resolute detestation, I have whipped this evil merchant
out of the temple of my heart. This rigor is my peace.
Before, I could not be well, either full or fasting. Un-
certainty is much pain, even in a more tolerable action.
Neither is it, I think, easy to determine whether it be
worse to do a lawful act with doubting, or an evil with
resolution : since that which in itself is good, is made
evil to me, by my doubt ; and what is in nature evil, is
in this one point not evil to me, that I do it upon a ver-
dict of a conscience. So now my judgment offends in
not following the truth ; I offend not in that I follow my
judgment: wherein if the most wise God had left us to
rove only according to the aim of our own conjectures, it
should have been less faulty to be skeptics in our actions,
and either not to judge at all or to judge amiss. But
now that he hath given us a perfect rule of eternal equi-
ty and truth, whereby to direct the sentences of our
judgment, that uncertainty which alloweth no peace to
us, will afford us no excuse before the tribunal of hea-
ven : wherefore then only is the heart quiet, when our
actions are grounded upon judgment ; and our judgment
upon truth.
SECTION XXV.
Rules for estate. — First, bei.iance ox the providence
OF Gou.
For his estate, the quiet mind must first roll itself upon
the providence of the Highest. For whosoever so casts
SECTION XXV.
297
himself upon these outward things, that in their prosper-
ous estate he rejoiceth, and, contrarily, is cast down in
their miscarriage, I know not whether he shall find more
uncertainty of rest or more certainty of unquietness ;
since he must needs be like a light unbalanced vessel,
that rises and falls with every wave, and depends only
on the mercy of wind and water. But who relies on the
inevitable decree and all-seeing providence of God —
which can neither be crossed with second thoughts, nor
with events unlooked for — lays a sure ground of tran-
quillity. Let the world toss how it list, and vary itself,
as it ever doth, in storms and calms ; his rest is pitched
aloft, above the sphere of changeable mortality. To be-
gin, is harder than to prosecute. What counsel had
God in the first molding of thee in the womb of thy mo-
ther? What aid shall he have in repairing thee from
the womb of the earth ? And if he could make and shall
restore thee, without thee, why shall he not much more,
without thy endeavor, dispose of thee ? Is God wise
enough to guide the heavens, and to produce all crea-
tures in their kinds and seasons, and shall he not be able
to order thee alone ? Thou sayest, I have friends, and
— which is ray best friend — I have wealth to make both
them and me, and wit to put both to best use. O the
broken reeds of human confidence ! Who ever trusted on
friends that could trust to himself? Who ever was so
wise, as not sometimes to be a fool in his own conceit —
ofttimes in the conceit of others ? Who was ever more
discontent than the wealthy? Friends maybe false;
wealth cannot but be deceitful; wit hath made many
fools. Trust thou to that, which if thou wouldst, can-
not fail thee. Not that thou desirest, shall come to pass ;
298 HEAVEN UPON EAKTH.
but that which God hath decreed. Neither thy fears,
nor thy hopes, nor vows, shall either foreslow or alter it.
The unexperienced passenger, when he sees the vessel
go amiss or too far, lays fast hold on the contrarj' part
or on the mast, for remedy. The pilot laughs at his fol-
ly ; knowing that, whatever he labors, the bark will go
which way the wind and his stern directeth it. Thy goods
are embarked : now thou wishest a direct north wind to
drive thee to the straits, and then a west, to run in ; and
now, when thou hast emptied and laded again, thou call-
est as earnestly for the south and south-east, to return,
and lowerest if all these answer thee not : as if heaven
and earth had nothing else to do, but to wait upon thy
pleasure, and served only to be commanded service by
thee. Another, that hath contrary occasion, asks for
winds quite opposite to thine. He that sits in heaven,
neither fits thy fancy nor his ; but bids his winds spet
sometimes in thy face, sometimes to favor thee with a
side-blast, sometimes to be boisterous, other-whiles to be
silent, — at His own pleasure. "Whether the mariner
sing or curse, it shall go whither it is sent. Strive, or
lie still, thy destiny shall run on ; and what must be
shall be. Not that we should hence exclude benefit of
means — which are always necessarily included in this
wise pre-ordination of all things — but perplexity of
cares, and wrestling with Providence. 0, the idle and
ill-spent cares of curious men, that consult with stars,
and spirits for their destinies, under color of prevention !
If it be not thy destiny, why wouldst thou know it ;
what needst thou resist it ? If it be thy destiny, why
wouldst thou know that thou canst not prevent ? That
which God hath decreed, is ab-eady done in heaven, and
SECTION XXVI.
299
must be done on earth. This kind of expectation doth
but hasten slow evils, and prolong them in their continu-
ance— hasten them, not in their event, but in our con-
ceit. Shortly, then, if thou swimmest against the stream
of this providence, thou canst not escape drowning ; ev-
ery wave turns thee over, like a porpoise before a tem-
pest : but if thou swimmest with the stream, do but cast
thine arms abroad, thou passest with safety and with
ease. It both bears thee up, and carries thee on to the
haven, whither God hath determined thine arrival, in
peace.
SECTION XXVI.
The second kui.e for estate. — A persdasion of the
GOODNESS AND FITNESS OF IT FOB US.
Next to this, the mind of the unquiet man must be so
wrought by these former resolutions, that it be thorough-
ly persuaded the estate wherein he is, is best of all ; if
not in itself, yet to him — not out of pride, but out of
contentment — which whosoever viranteth cannot but be
continually vexed with envy, and racked with ambition ;
yea, if it were possible to be in heaven without this, he
could not be happy; for it is as impossible for the mind
at once lo long after and enjoy, as for a man to feed and
sleep at once. And this is the more to be striven for,
because we are all naturally prone to afflict ourselves
with our own frowardness ; ingratefully contemning all
we have, for what we would have. Even the best of
the patriarchs could say, ' O Lord, what wilt thou give
me, since I go childless ?' The bondman desires now
300 HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
nothing but liberty — that alone would make him hap-
py. Once free, forgetting his former thought, he wishes
some wealth to make use of his freedom ; and says, It
were as good to be straitened in place as in ability.
Once rich, he longeth after nobility, thinking it no praise
to be a wealthy peasant. Once noble, he begins to deem
it a base matter to be subject : nothing can now con-
tent him, but a crown. Then it is a small matter to
rule, so long as he hath but little dominions, and greater
neighbors. He would therefore be an universal mon-
arch. Whither then ? Surely, it vexeth him as much
that the earth is so small a globe, so little a mole-hill,
and that there are no more worlds to conquer. And
now that he hath attained the highest dignity amongst
men, he would needs be a god ; conceits his immortali-
ty, erects temples to his own name, commands his dead
statues to be adored, and, not thus contented, is angry
that he cannot command heaven and control nature. O
vain fools, whither doth our restless ambition climb?
What shall at length be the period of our mshes? I
could not blame these desires, if contentment consisted
in having much ; but now that he only hath much that
hath contentment, and that it is as easily obtained in a
low estate, I can account of these thoughts no better
than proudly foolish. Thou art poor : what difference
is there betwixt a greater man and thee, save that he
doth his businesses by others, thou doest them thyself!
He hath caters, cooks, bailiffs, stewards, secretaries, and
all other officers for his several services : thou providest,
dressest, gatherest, receivest, expendest, vvritest, for thy-
self. His patrimony is large ; thine earnings small. If
Briareus feed fifty bellies with his hundred hands, what
SECTION XXVI.
301
is he the better than he that with two hands feedeth
one? He is served in silver; thou in vessel of the
same color, of lesser price — as good for use, though not
for value. His dishes are more dainty ; thine, as well
relished to thee, and no less wholesome. He eats ol-
ives ; thou, garlic. He misHkes not more the smell of
thy sauce, than thou dost the taste of his. Thou want-
est somewhat that he hath : he wisheth something which
thou hast, and regardest not. Thou couldst be content
to have the rich man's purse, but his gout thou wouldst
not have : he would have thy health, but not thy fare.
If we might pick out of all men's estates that which is
laudable, omitting the inconveniences, we would make
ourselves complete : but if we must take all together, we
should perhaps little advantage ourselves with the change.
For the most wise God hath so proportioned out every
man's condition, that he hath some just cause of sorrow
inseparably mixed with other contentments, and hath
allotted to no man living, an absolute happiness, without
some grievances ; nor to any man such an exquisite mise-
ry, as that he findeth not somewhat wherein to solace
himself — the weight whereof varies, according to our es-
timation of them. One hath much wealth, and no child
to inherit it; he envies at the poor man's fruitfulness,
which hath many heirs and no lands ; and could be con-
tent, with all his abundance, to purchase a successor of
his own loins. Another hath many children, little main-
tenance. He commendcth the careless quietness of the
barren ; and thinks fewer mouths and more meat, would
do better. The laboring man hath the blessing of a
strong body, fit to digest any fare, to endure any labor :
yet he wisheth himself weaker, on condition he might be
302
HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
wealthier. The man of nice education hath a feeble
stomach, and, rasping since his last meal, doubts whether
he should eat of his best dish or nothing. This man re-
pines at nothing more than to see his hungry ploughman
feed on a crust ; and vvisheth to change estates, on
condition that he might change bodies with him. Say
that God should give thee thy wish : what wouldst
thou desire? Let me — thou sayest — be wise, healthful,
rich, honorable, strong, learned, beautiful, immortal.
I know thou lovest thyself so well, that thou canst wish
all these and more. But say that God hath so shared
out these gifts, by a most wise and just distribution, that
thou canst have but some of these, perhaps but one ;
which wouldst thou single out for thyself? Anything,
beside what thou hast. If learned, thou wouldst be
strong ; if strong, honorable ; if honorable, long-lived.
Some of these thou art already. Thou fool, cannot God
choose better for thee, than thou for thyself? In other
matches, thou trustest the choice of a skilfuler chapman.
When thou seest a goodly horse in the fair, though his
shape please thine eye well, yet thou darest not buy him if
a cunning horse-master shall tell thee he is faulty ; and
art willing to take a plainer and sounder, on his recom-
mendation, against thy fancy. How much more should
we, in this case, allow His choice that cannot deceive us,
that cannot be deceived ! But thou knowest that other,
thou desirest, to be better than what thou hast ; — better
perhaps for him that hath it ; not better for thee. Lib-
erty is sweet and profitable to those that can use it : but
fetters are better for the frantic man. Wine is good nour-
ishment for the healthful, — poison to the aguish. It is
good for a sound body to sleep in a whole skin : but he
SECTION XXVI.
303
that complains of swelling sores, cannot sleep till it be
broken. Hemlock to the goat, and spiders to the mon-
key, turn to good sustenance ; which to other creatures
are accounted deadly. As in diets, so in estimation of
good and evil, of greater and lesser good, there is much
variety. All palates commend not one dish ; and what
one commends for most delicate, another rejects for un-
savory: and if thou know what dish is most pleasant to
thee, thy physician knows best which is wholesome.
Thou wouldst follow thine appetite too much, and — as
the Frencli have in their proverb — wouldst dig thy own
grave with thy teeth : thy wise Physician oversees and
over-rules thee. He sees if thou wert more esteemed,
thou wouldst be proud ; if more strong, licentious ; if
richer, covetous ; if heathfuler, more secure ; — but thou
thinkest not thus hardly of thyself. Fond man, what
knowest thou future things ! Believe thou Him that
only knows what would be, what will be. Thou wouldest
willingly go to heaven ; what better guide canst thou
have than him that dwells there? If he lead thee
thorough deep sloughs and braky thickets, know that he
knows this the nearer way, though more cumbersome.
Can there be in him any want of wisdom, not to foresee
the best? Can there be any want of power, not to ef-
fect the best ? Any want of love, not to give thee what
he knows is best ? — How canst thou, then, fail of the
best, since what his power can do, and what his wisdom
sees should be done, his love hath done, because all are
infinite. He willeth not things because they are good,
but they are good because he wills them. Yea, if
aught had been better, this had not been. God willeth
304
HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
what he cloth ; and if thy will accord not with his, wheth-
er wilt thou condemn of imperfection ?
SECTION xxvn.
The coNCLLSio.f of the whole.
I have chalked out the way of Peace : what remain-
eth, but that we walk along in it ? I have conducted
my reader to the mine, yea, to the mint of happiness ;
and showed him those glorious heaps which may eter-
nally enrich him. If now he shall go away with his
hands and skirt empty, how is he but worthy of a mis-
erable want ? Who shall pity us, while we have no
mercy on ourselves ? Wilful distress hath neither rem-
edy nor compassion. And, to speak freely, 1 have oft
wondered at this painful folly of us men, who in the
open view of our peace — as if we were condemned to a
necessary and fatal unquietness — live upon our own
rack ; finding no more joy than if we were under no
other hands but our executioner's. One droopcth un-
der a feigned evil ; another augments a small sorrow
through impatience ; another draws upon himself an un-
certain evil tlirough fear ; one seeks true contentment,
but not enough ; another hath just cause of joy, and
perceives it not. One is vexed for that his grounds of
joy are matched with equal grievances; another cannot
complain of any present occasion of sorrow, yet lives sul-
lenly because he finds not any present cause of comfort.
One is haunted with his sin ; another distracted with
his passion — amongst all which, he is a miracle of all
men that lives not some way discontented. So we live
SECTION XXVII.
305
not while we do live ; only for that we want either wis-
dom or will, to husband our lives to our own best advan-
tage. 0 the inequality of our cares ! Let riches or
honor be in question, we sue to them, we seek for them
with importunity, with servile ambition : our pains need
no solicitor ; yea, there is no way wrong that leads to
this end — we abhor the patience to stay till they inquire
for us. And if ever — as it rarely happens — our desert
and worthiness wins us the favor of this proffer, we
meet it with both hands, not daring with our modest de-
nials to whet the instancy, and double the entreaties, of
so welcome suitors. Yet, lo here, the only true and pre-
cious riches, the highest advancement of the soul, peace
and happiness, seeks for us, sues to us for acceptation :
our answers are coy and overly, such as we give to those
clients that look to gain by our favors. If our want
were through the scarcity of good, we might yet hope for
pity, to ease us ; but now that it is through negligence,
and that we perish with our hands in our bosom, we are
rather worthy of stripes for the wrong we do ourselves,
than of pity for wliat we suffer. That we may and
will not, in opportunity of hurting others, is noble and
Christian : but in our own benefit, sluggish, and savor-
ing of the worst kind of unthriftiness.
Sayest thou, then, this peace is good to have, but
hard to get ? It were a shameful neglect, that hath no
pretence. Is difficulty sufficient excuse to hinder thee
from the pursuit of riches, of preferment, of learning, of
bodily pleasures? Art thou content to sit shrugging in
a base cottage, ragged, famished ; because house, clothes,
and food will neither be had without money, nor money
without labor, nor labor without trouble and painful-
20
306 HEAVEN UPON EAKTH.
ness ? Who is so merciful, as not to say that a whip
is the best alms for so lazy and wilful need? Peace
should not be good, if it were not hard. Gro, and by
this excuse, shut thyself out of heaven at thy death, and
live miserably till thy death, because the good of both
worlds is hard to compass. There is nothing but misery
on earth and hell below, that thou canst come to with-
out labor : and if we can be content to cast away such
immoderate and unseasonable pains upon these earthly
trifles, as to wear our bodies with violence, and to en-
croach upon the night for time to get them, what mad-
ness shall it seem in us not to afford a less labor to that
which is infinitely better, and which only gives worth
and goodness to the other ! Wherefore, if we have not
vowed enmity with ourselves, if we be not in love with
misery and vexation, if we be not obstinately careless
of our own good, let us shake off this unthrifty, danger-
ous, and desperate negligence, and quicken these dull
hearts to a lively and effectual search of what only can
yield them sweet and abiding contentment : — which once
attained, how shall we insult over evils and bid them do
their worst ! How shall we, under this calm and quiet
day, laugh at the rough weather, and unsteady motions
of the world ! How shall heaven and earth smile upon
us, and we on them — commanding the one, aspiring to
the other ? How pleasant shall our life be, while nei-
ther joys nor sorrows can distemper it with excess ; yea,
while the matter of joy that is within us, turns all the
most sad occurrences into pleasure ! How dear and
welcome shall our death be, that shall but lead us from
one heaven to another, from peace to glory ! Gro
now, ye vain and idle worldlings, and please yourselves
SECTION XXVII.
307
in the large extent of your rich manors, or in the hom-
age of those whom baseness of mind hath made slaves to
your greatness, or in the price and fashions of your full
wardrobe, or in the wanton varieties of your delicate
gardens, or in your coffers full of red and white earth ;
or if there be any other earthly thing, more alluring,
more precious, enjoy it, possess it, and let it possess
you. Let me have only my Peace ; and let me never
want it till I envy you !
1^
EPISTLES.
CONTENTS.
Epistle 1. To Mr. Matlheic Milward.
A Discourse of the pleasure of study and contemplation, with
the varieties of scholar-like employments ; not without in-
citation of others thereunto, and a censure of their neglect.
Epistle II. To Mr. Samuel Hall.
A Discourse of the great charge of the ministerial function ;
together with particular directions for due preparation there-
unto, and carriage therein.
Epistle III. To Mr. William Knight.
Encouraging him to persist in the holy calling of the Min-
istry: which upon conceit of his insufficiency, and wantof
atfection, he seemed inclining to forsake and change.
Epistle IV. To Lady Mary Denny.
The Description of a Christian, and his differences from the
worldling.
Epistle V. To Mr. Edward Mlcynt.
A Direction how to conceive of God, in our devotions and
meditations.
Epistle VI. To all Readers.
Rules of good advice for our Christian and civil carriage.
EPISTLES.
EPISTLE I.
To Mr. Matthew Milward.
A Discourse of the pleasure of study and contemplation, with
the varieties of scholar-like employments ; not without inci-
tation of others thereunto, and a censure of their neglect.
I can wonder at nothing more than how a man can be
idle ; but of all other, a scholar, — in so many improve-
ments of reason, in such sweetness of knowledge, in
such variety of studies, in such importunity of thoughts.
Other artisans do but practice : we still learn. Others
run still in the same gyre, to weariness, to satiety : our
choice is infinite. Other labors require recreations : our
very labor recreates our sports. We can never want,
either somewhat to do, or somewhat that we would do.
How numberless are those volumes which men have
written, of Arts, of Tongues ! How endless is that vol-
ume which God hath written of the world — wherein
every creature is a letter, every day a new page ! Who
can be weary of either of these ? To find wit in poetry ;
in philosophy, profoundness ; in mathematics, acuteness ;
in history, wonder of events ; in oratory, sweet elo-
quence ; in divinity, supernatural light and holy devotion
— as so many rich metals in their proper mines — whom
312
EPI8TLE I.
would it not ravish with delight ? After all these, let
us but open our eyes, we cannot look beside a lesson in
this universal book of our Maker, worth our study, worth
taking out. What creature hath not his miracle ? What
event doth not challenge his observation ? And if, wea-
ry of foreign employment, we list to look home into our-
selves, there we find a more private world of thoughts,
which set us on work anew, more busily, not less profi-
tably : now our silence is vocal, our solitariness popular,
and we are shut up to do good unto many. And if
once we be cloyed with our own company, the door of
conference is open. Here interchange of discourse, be-
sides pleasure, benefits us ; and he is a weak compan-
ion, from whom we return not wiser. I could envy, if
I could believe, that anachoret, who, secluded from the
world and pent up in his voluntary prison-walls,
denied that he thought the day long, whiles yet he
wanted learning to vary his thoughts. Not to be cloy-
ed with the same conceit, is difficult above human
strength ; but to a man so furnished with all sorts of
knowledge that, according to his dispositions, he can
change his studies. I should wonder that ever the sun
should seem to pace slowly. How many busy tongues
chase away good hours in pleasant chat, and complain
of the haste of night! What ingenuous mind can be
sooner weary of talking with learned authors — the most
harmless and sweetest of companions ? What an heaven
lives a scholar in, that at once, in one close room, can
daily converse with all the glorious martyrs and fathers .'
— that can single out at pleasure, either sententious Ter-
tullian, or grave Cyprian, or resolute Jerome, or flowing
Chrysostom, or divine Ambrose, or devout Bernard, or
EPISTLE I.
313
— who alone is all these — heavenly Augustine, and talk
with them, and hear theii" wise and holy counsels, verdicts,
resolutions : yea, to rise higher, with courtly Isaiah, with
learned Paul, with all their fellow-prophets, apostles : yet
more,jike another Moses, with God himself, in them both !
Let the world contemn us. While we have these delights,
we cannot envy tlicm, we cannot wish ourselves other
than we are. Besides, the way to all other content-
ments is troublesome ; the only recompense is in the
end. To delve in the mines, to scorch in the fire, for
the getting, for the fining of gold, is a slavish toil : the
comfort is in the wedge — to the owner, not the laborers :
where our very search of knowledge is delightsome.
Study itself is our life ; from which we would not be
barred for a world. How much sweeter, then, is the
fruit of study, the conscience of knowledge I In compa-
rison whereof, the soul that hath once tasted it, easily
contemns all human comforts. Go now, ye worldlings, and
insult over our paleness, our neediness, our neglect. Ye
could not be so jocund, if you were not ignorant : if you
did not want knowledge, you could not over-look him
that hath it. For me, I am so far from emulating you,
that I profess I had as lief be a brute beast, as an igno-
rant rich man. How is it, then, that those gallants
which have privilege of blood and birth, and better edu-
cation, do so scornfully turn off these most manly, rea-
sonable, noble exercises of scholarship ? An hawk
becomes their fist better than a book ; no dog but is a
better companion ; anything or nothing, rather than what
we ought. O minds brutishly sensual ! Do they think
that God made them for disport? — who, even in his par-
adise, would not allow pleasure without work. And if
314
EPISTLE II.
for business, either of body or mind. Those of the
body are commonly servile, like itself. The mind, there-
fore, the mind only, that honorable and divine part, is
fittest to be employed of those which would reach to the
highest perfection of men, and would be more than the
most. And what work is there of the mind, but the
trade of a scholar — study ? Let me therefore fasten this
problem on our school-gates, and challenge all comers in
the defence of it, that 'No scholar cannot be truly noble.'
And if I make it not good, let me never be admitted
further than to the subject of our question. Thus we
do well to congratulate to ourselves our own happiness.
If others will come to us, it shall be our comfort, but
more theirs : if not, it is enough that we can joy in our-
selves, and in Him in whom we are that we are.
EPISTLE n.
To my BroOier, Mr. Samuel Hall.
A Discourse of the great charge of the ministerial function;
together with particular directions for due preparation there-
unto, and carriage therein.
It is a great and holy purpose, dear brother, that you
have entertained, of serving God in his church ; for what
higher or more worthy employment can there be, than
to do these divine duties to such a Master and such a
mother ? — wherein yet I should little rejoice, if any ne-
cessity had cast you upon this refuge : for I hate and
grieve to think that any desperate mind should make
Divinity but a shift, and dishonor this mistress by being
EPISTLE II.
315
forsaken of the world. This hath been the drift of your
education : to this you were born and dedicated in a di-
rect course. I do willingly encourage you, but not with-
out many cautions. Enter not into so great a service
without much foresight. When your hand is at the
plow, it is too late to look back. Bethink yourself seri-
ously of the weight of this charge ; and let your holy de-
sire be allayed with some trembling. It is a foolish
rashness of young heads, when they are in God's chair,
to wonder how they came thither, and to forget the aw-
fulness of that place, in the confidence of their own
strength ; which is ever so much less, as it is more es-
teemed. I commend not the wayward excuses of Mo-
ses, nor the peremptory unwillingness of Ammonius and
friar Thomas, who maimed themselves that they might
be wilfully uncapable. Betwixt both these, there is an
humble modesty and religious fearfulness, easily to be
noted in those whom the church honors with the name
of her Fathers, worthy your imitation : wherein, yet, you
shall need no precedents, if you well consider what worth
of parts, what strictness of carriage, what weight of offi-
ces, God expects in this vocation. Know, first, that in
this place there will be more holiness required of you
than in the ordinary station of a Christian : for whereas
before you were but as a common line, now God sets
you for a copy of sanctification unto others, wherein ev-
ery fault is both notable and dangerous. Here is look-
ed for, a settled acquaintance with God, and experience
both of the proceedings of grace and of the offers and
repulses of tentations ; which in vain we shall hope to
manage in other hearts, if we have not found in our own.
To speak by aim or rote, of repentance, of contrition, of
316
EPISTLE II.
the degrees of regeneration and faith, is both harsh and
seldom when not unprofitable. We trust those physi-
cians best, which have tried the virtue of their drugs, es-
teeming not of those which have only borrowed of their
books. Here will be expected a free and absolute gov-
ernment of affections, that you can so steer your own
vessel, as not to be transported with fury, with self-love,
with immoderation of pleasures, of cares, of desires, with
excess of passions : in all which, so must you demean
yourself, as one that thinks he is no man of the world,
but of God ; as one too good, by his double caUing, for
that which is either the felicity or impotency of beasts.
Here must be continual and inward exercise of mortifi-
cation and severe Christianity, whereby the heart is held
in due awe, and the weak flames of the spirit quickened,
the ashes of our dulness blown off — a practice necessary
in him whose devotion must set many hearts on fire.
Here must be wisdom and inoffensiveness of carriage, as
of one that goes ever under monitors, and that knows other
men's indifferences are his evils. No man had such
need to keep a strict mean. Setting aside contempt,
even in observation, behold we are made a gazing-stock
to the world, to angels, to men. The very sail of your
estate must be moderated ; which if it bear too high, as
seldom, it incurs the censure of profusion and epicu-
rism ; if too low, of a base and unseeming earthliness.
Your hand may not be too close for others' need, nor
too open for your own ; your conversation may not be
rough and sullen, nor over-familiar and fawning — where-
of the one breeds a conceit of pride and strangeness, the
other contempt — not loosely merry, not cynically unso-
ciable; not contentious in small injuries, in great, not
EPISTLE II.
317
hurtfuUy patient to the church ; your attire — for whith-
er do not censures reach ? — not youthfully wanton, nor
in these years affectedly ancient, but grave and comely,
like the mind, like the behavior of the wearer ; your
gesture, like your habit, neither savoring of giddy light-
ness, nor overly insolence, nor wantonness, nor dull neg-
lect of yourself, but such as may beseem a mortified
mind, full of worthy spirits ; your speech, like your ges-
ture, not scurrilous, not detracting, not idle, not boasting,
not rotten, not peremptory, but honest, mild, fruitful, sa-
vory, and such as may both argue and work grace ; your
deliberations mature, your resolutions well-grounded, your
devices sage and holy. Wherein let me advise you to
walk ever in the beaten road of the church, not to run
out into single paradoxes. And if you meet at any time
with private conceits that seem more probable, suspect
them and yourself ; and if they can win you to assent,
yet smother them in your breast, and do not dare to vent
them out, either by your hand or tongue, to trouble the
common peace. It is a miserable praise, to be a witty
disturber. Neither will it serve you to be thus good
alone; but if God shall give you the honor of this estate the
world will look you should be the grave guide of a well-
ordered family : for this is proper to us, that the vices of
our charge reflest upon us, the sins of others are our re-
proach. If another man's children miscai-ry, the parent
is pitied ; if a minister's, censured ; yea, not our servant
is faulty, without our blemish. In all these occasions
— a misery incident to us alone — our grief is our shame.
To descend nearer unto the sacred affairs of this
heavenly trade : in a minister, God's church is ac-
counted both his house to dwell in, and his field to
318
EPISTLE II.
work in ; wherein — upon the penalty of a curse — he
faithfully, wisely, diligently, devoutly, deals with God
for his people; with his people, for and from God.
Whether he instruct, he must do it with evidence of
the spii'it; or whether he reprove, with courage and
zeal ; or whether he exort, with meekness and yet with
power; or whether he confute, with demonstration of
truth, not with rage and personal maliciousness, not with
a wilful heat of contradiction ; or whether he admonish,
with long-suffering and love, without prejudice and par-
tiality ; in a word, all these he so doth, as he that de-
sires nothing but to honor God and save men. His wis-
dom must discern betwixt his sheep and wolves ; in his
sheep, betwixt the wholesome and unsound ; in the un-
sound, betwixt the weak and tainted ; in the tainted, be-
twixt the natures, qualities, degrees, of the disease and
infection : and to all these he must know to administer a
word in season. He hath antidotes for all tentations,
counsels for all doubts, evictions for all errors, for all lan-
guishings, encouragements. No occasion, from any alter-
ed estate of the soul, may find him unfurnished. He
must ascend to God's altar with much awe, with sincere
and cheerful devotion ; so taking, celebrating, distribut-
ing, his Saviour, as thinking himself at table in heaven
with the blessed angels. In the meantime, as he wants
not a thankful regard to the Master of the feast, so not
care of the guests. The greatness of an offender may
not make him sacrilegiously partial, nor the obscurity
negligent.
I have said little of any of our duties ; and of some,
nothing : yet enough, I think, to make you — if not tim-
orous— careful. Neither would I have you, hereupon.
EPISTLE III.
319
to hide yourself from this calling, but to prepare your-
self for it. These times call for them that are faithful ;
and if they may spare some learning, conscience they
cannot. Go on happily. It argues a mind Christianly
noble, to be encouraged with the need of his labors, with
the difficulties.
EPISTLE III.
To Mr. William KnigM.
Encouraging him to persist in the holy calling of the ministry ;
which upon conceit of his insufficiency, and want of affection,
he seemed inclining to forsake and ciiange.
I am not more glad to hear from you, than sorry to
hear of your discontentment : whereof, as the cause is
from yourself, so must the remedy. We scholars are
the aptest of all others to make ourselves miserable : —
you might be your own best counsellor, were you but in-
different to yourself. If I could but cure your prejudice,
your thoughts would heal you : and, indeed, the same
hand that wounded you were fittest for this service. I
need not tell you that your calling is honorable : if you
did not think so, you had not complained. It is your
unworthiness that troubles you. Let me boldly tell you,
I know you in this case better than yourself. You are
never the more unsufficient because you think so. If
we will be rigorous, Paul's question riV lYMvoi will
appose us all : but according to the gracious indulgence
of Him that calls things which are not as if they were,
' ' Who is sufficient for these things V — 2 Cor. 2: 16 — Ed.
^20
EPISTLE III.
we are that we are ; yea, that we ought ; and must be
thankful for our anything. There are none more fear-
ful than the able, none more bold than the unworthy.
How many have you seen and heard, of weaker graces
— your own heart shall be the judge — which have sat with-
out paleness or trembling in that holy chair, and spoken
as if the words had been their own ; satisfying them-
selves if not the hearers ! And do you, whose gifts ma-
ny have envied, stand quaking upon the lowest stair ?
Hath God given you that unusual variety of tongues,
skill of arts, a style worth emulation, and — which is
worth all — a faithful and honest heart; and do you now
shrink back and say, Send by him by whom thou shouldst
send. Give God but what you have : he expects no
more. This is enough to honor him and crown you.
Take heed, while you complain of want, lest pride
shroud itself under the skirts of modesty. How many
are thankful for less ! You have more than the most ;
yet this contents you not; it is nothing unless you
may equal the best, if not exceed : yea, I fear how
this may satisfy you, unless you may think your-
self such as you would be. What is this, but to grudge
at the bestower of graces ? I tell you without flattery,
God hath great gains by fewer talents ; set your heart
to employ these, and your advantage shall be more than
your Master's. Neither do now repent you of the un-
advisedness of your entrance. God called you to it up-
on an eternal deliberation ; and meant to make use of
your suddenness as a means to fetch you into his work,
whom more leisure would have found refractory. — Full
little did the one Saul think of a kingdom, when he went
to seek his father's strays in the land of Shalisha ; or the
321
other Saul of an apostleship, when he went with his
commission to Damascus : God thought of both, and ef-
fected what they meant not. Thus hath he done to
you. Acknowledge this hand and follow it. He found
and gave both faculty and opportunity to enter : find
you but a will to proceed, I dare promise you abun-
dance of comfort. How many of the ancients, after a
forcible ordination, became not profitable only, but fa-
mous in the church ! But, as if you sought shifts to
discourage yourself, when you see you cannot maintain
this hold of insuSiciency, you fly to alienation of affec-
tion ; in the truth whereof, none can control you but
your own heart : in the justice of it, we both may and
must. This plea is rot for Christians ; we must affect
what we ought, in spite of ourselves. Wherefore serves
religion, if not to make us lords of our own affections ?
If we must be ruled by our slaves, what good should we
do ? Can you more dislike your station, than we all
naturally distaste goodness ? Shall we neglect the pur-
suit of virtue, because it pleases not ; or rather displease
and neglect ourselves, till it may please us ? Let me
not ask whether your affections be estranged, but where-
fore ? Divinity is a mistress worthy your service : all
other arts are but drudges to her alone. Fools may
contemn her, who cannot judge of true intellectual beau-
ty ; but if they had our eyes, they could not but be rav-
ished with admiration. You have learned, I hope, to
contemn th;-ir contempt, and to pity injurious ignorance.
She hath chosen you as a worthy client, yea, a favorite;
and hath lionored you with her commands and her ac-
ceptations— who but you would plead strangeness of af-
fection ? How many thousands sue to her, and cannot be
21
322
EPISTLE III.
looked upon ! You are happy in her favors, and yet
complain : yea, so far as that you have not stuck to
think of a change. No word could have fallen from
you more unwelcome. This is Satan's policy, to make
us out of love with our callings, that our labors may be
unprofitable, and our standings, tedious. He knows that
all changes are fruitless, and that whiles we aiFect to be
other, we must needs be weary of what we are : that
there is no success in any endeavor, without pleasure ;
that there can be no pleasure where the mind longs af-
ter alterations. If you espy not this craft of the com-
mon enemy, you are not acquainted with yourself. Un-
der what form soever it come, repel it, and abhor the
first motion of it, as you love your peace, as you hope
for your reward. It is the misery of the most men that
they cannot see when they are happy ; and whiles they
see but the outside of others' conditions, prefer that
which their experience teaches them afterwards to con-
demn, not without loss and tears. Far be this unsta-
bleness from you, which have been so long taught of
God ! All vocations have their inconveniences ; which
if they cannot be avoided, must be digested. The more
difiiculties, the greater glory. Stand fast, therefore, and
resolve that this calling is the best, both in itself and
for you : and know that it cannot stand with your Chris-
tian courage, to run away from these incident evils, but
to encounter them. Your hand is at the plough : if you
meet with some tough clods that will not easily yield to
the share, lay on more strength rather : seek not reme-
dy in your feet, by flight, but in your hands, by a con-
stant endeavor. Away with this weak timorousness
and wrongful humility ! Be cheerful and courageous in
323
this great work of God — the end shall be glorious, your-
self happy, and many in you !
EPISTLE IV.
To Lady Mary Denny,
The Description of a Christian and his differences from the
worldling.
MADAM :
It is true that worldly eyes can see no difference be-
twixt a Christian and another man : the outside of both
is made of one clay and cast in one mould, both are in-
spired with one common breath. Outward events dis-
tinguish them not : those, God never made for eviden-
ces of love or hatred. So the senses can perceive no
difference betwixt the reasonable soul and that which in-
forms the beast ; yet the soul knows there is much more
than betwixt their bodies. The same holds in this.
Faith sees more inward difference than the eye sees out-
ward resemblance. This point is not more high than
material : which, that it may appear, let me show what
it is to be a Christian. You that have felt it can second
me with your experience, and supply the defects of my
discourse. He is the living temple of the living God,
where the Deity is both resident and worshipped. The
highest thing in a man is his own spirit ; but in a Chris-
tian, the spirit of God, which is the God of spirits. No
gi-ace is wanting in him ; and those which there are,
want not stirring up. Both his heart and his hands are
clean. All his outward purity flows from within : nei-
324
EPISTLE IV.
ther doth he frame his soul to counterfeit good actions :
but out of his holy disposition, commands and produces
them in the sight of God. Let us begin with his begin-
ning, and fetch the Christian out of his nature, as an-
other Abraham from his Chaldea, whiles the worldling
lives and dies in nature, out of God. The true convert,
therefore, after his wild and secure courses, puts him-
self— through the motions of God's spirit — to school un-
to the law : there he learns what he should have done,
what he could not do, what he hath done, what he hath
deserved. These lessons cost him many a stripe and
many a tear, and not more grief than terror : for this
sharp master makes him feel what sin is, and what hell
is, and in regard of both, what himself is. When he
hath well smarted under the whip of this severe usher,
and is made vile enough in himself, then is he led up
into the higher school of Christ, and there taught the
comfortable lessons of grace. There he learns what be-
longs to a Saviour, what one he is, what he hath done,
and for whom, how he became ours, we his : and
now finding himself in a true state of danger, of humili-
ty, of need, of desire, of fitness for Christ, he brings
home to himself all that he learns, and what he knows,
he applies. His former tutor he feared ; this, he loveth :
that showed him his wounds, yea, made them ; this
binds and heals them : that killed him ; this shows him
life, and leads him to it. Now at once he hates him-
self, defies Satan, trusts to Christ, makes account both
of pardon and glory. This is his most precious faith,
whereby he appropriates, yea, engrosses Christ Jesus to
himself ; whence he is justified from his sins, purified
from his corruptions, established in his resolutions, com-
EPISTLE IV.
325
forted in his doubts, defended against temptations, over-
comes all his enemies. Which virtue, as it is most em-
ployed and most opposed, so carries the most care from
the Christian heart, that it be sound, lively, growing.
Sound: — not rotten, not hollow, not presumptuous:
sound in the act; not a superficial conceit, but a true,
deep, and sensible apprehension — an apprehension, not
of the brain but of tlie heart, and of the heart not ap-
proving or assenting, but trusting and reposing. Sound
in the object — none but Christ. He knows that no
friendship in heaven can do him good without this.
The angels cannot, God will not — ' Ye believe in the
Father, believe also in me.' Lively : — for it cannot
give life, unless it have life : the faith that is not fruit-
ful is dead. The fruits of faith are good works ; wheth-
er inward, within the roof of the heart, as love, awe, sor-
row, piety, zeal, joy and the rest ; or outward, towards
Grod or our brethren : obedience and service to the one ;
to the other, relief and beneficence. These he bears in
his time — sometimes all, but always some. Growing : —
true faith cannot stand still ; but as it is fruitful in works,
so it increaseth in degrees ; from a little seed it proves a
large plant, reaching from earth to heaven, and from
one heaven to another — every shower and every sun
adds something to it.
Neither is this grace ever solitary, but always attend-
ed royally : for he that believes what a Saviour he liathV
cannot but love him ; and he that loves him, cannot but
hate whatsoever may displease him ; cannot but rejoice
in him, and hope to enjoy him, and desire to enjoy his
hope, and contemn all those vanities which he once de-
sired and enjoyed. His mind now scorneth to grovel
326
EPISTLE IV.
upon earth, but soareth up to the things above, where
Christ sits at the right hand of God — and after it hath
seen what is done in heaven, looks strangely upon all
worldly things. He dare trust his faith above his reason
and sense, and hath learned to wean his appetite from
craving much. He stands in awe of his own conscience
and dare no more offend it, than not displease himself.
He fears not his enemies, yet neglects them not — equal-
ly avoiding security and timorousness. He sees him
that is invisible, and walks with him awfully, familiarly.
He knows what he is born to, and therefore digests the
miseries of his wardship with patience : he finds more
comfort in his afflictions, than any worldling in pleas-
ures. And as he hath these graces to comfort him with-
in, so hath he the angels to attend him without : spirits
better than his own, more powerful, more glorious.
These bear him in their arms, wake by his bed, keep
his soul while he hath it, and receive it when it leaves
him. There are some present differences ; the greatest
are future, which could not be so great if themselves
were not witnesses — ^no less than betwixt heaven and
hell, torment and glory, an incorruptible crown and fire
unquenchable. "Whether infidels beUeve these things or
no, we know them : so shall they, but too late. "What
remains, but that we applaud ourselves in this happiness,
and walk on cheerily in this heavenly profession, ac-
knowledging that God could not do more for us, and
that we cannot do enough for him ? Let others boast —
as your ladyship might, with others — of ancient and no-
ble houses, large patrimonies or dowries, honorable com-
mands ; others, of famous names, high and envied hon-
ors, or the favors of the greatest ; others, of valor or
E PISTLE T.
beauty ; or some perhaps of eminent learning and wit-
it shall be our pride that we are Christians.
EPISTLE V.
To Mr. Edward Alleyne.
A direction how to conceive of God in our devotions and medi-
tations.
You have chosen and judged well. How to conceive
of the Deity in our prayers, in our meditations, is both
the deepest point of all Christianity, and the most neces-
sary : so deep, that if we wade into it, we may easily
drown, never find the bottom : so necessary, that with-
out it, ourselves, our services, are profane, irreligious.
We are all born idolaters, naturally prone to fashion
God to some form of our own, whether of an human
body or of an admirable light, or if our mind have any
other more likely and pleasing image. First, then, away
with all these wicked thoughts, these gross devotions ;
and, with Jacob, bury all your strange gods under the
oak of Shechem, ere you offer to set up God's altar at
Bethel; and without all mental representations, conceive
of your God purely, simplj-, spiritually ; as of an abso-
lute Being, without form, without matter, without com-
position— yea, an infinite, without all limit of thoughts.
Let your heart adore a spiritual majesty which it cannot
comprehend, yet knows to be, and — as it were — lose it-
self in his infiniteness. Think of him as not to be
thought of; as one whose wisdom is his justice, whose
justice is his power, whose power is his mercy ; and
328
EPISTLE V.
whose wisdom, justice, power, mercy, is himself; as
without quality, good ; great without quantity ; ever-
lasting without time ; present everywhere without place;
containing all things without extent : and when your
thoughts are come to the highest, stay there, and be con-
tent to wonder in silence — and if you cannot reach to
conceive of him as he is, yet take heed you conceive not
of him as he is not. Neither will it suffice your Chris-
tian mind to have this awful and confused apprehension
of the Deity, without a more special and inward conceit
of three in this one ; three persons in this one essence,
not divided, but distinguished ; and not more mingled
than divided. There is nothing wherein the want of
words can wrong and grieve us, but in this. Here
alone, as we can adore and not conceive, so we can con-
ceive and not utter ; yea, utter ourselves and not be
conceived. Yet, as we may, think here of one sub-
stance in three subsistences ; one essence in three rela-
tions; one Jehovah, begetting, begotten, proceeding;
Father, Sou, Spirit ; yet so as the Son is no other thing
from the Father, but another person ; or the Spirit from
the Son. Let your thoughts here walk warily, the path
is narrow : the conceit either of three substances, or but
one subsistence, is damnable. Let me lead you yet
higher and further in this intricate way towards the
throne of gi-ace. All this will not avail you, if you take
not your Mediator with you : if you apprehend not a
true manhood gloriously united to the Godhead, without
change of either nature, without mixture of both ; whose
presence, whose merits, must give pitssage, acceptance,
vigor, to your prayers.
Here must be therefore, as you see, thoughts holily
EPISTLE V.
329
mixed : of a Godhead and humanity ; one person in two
natures ; of the same Deity in diverse persons and one
nature — wherein, if ever, heavenly wisdom must bestir
itself in directing us, so to sever these apprehensions,
that none be neglected ; so to conjoin them, that they be
not confounded. O the depth of Divine mysteries, more
than can be wondered at ! O the necessity of this high
knowledge, which who attains not, may babble, but pray-
eth not ! Still you doubt, and ask if you may not di-
I'ect your prayers to one person of three. Why not ?
Safely and with comfort. What need we fear, while we
have our Saviour for our pattern ? — ' O, my Father, if
possible, let this cup pass !' And Paul everywhere
both in thanks and requests, but with due care of wor-
shipping all in one. Exclude the other while you fix
your heart upon one, your prayer is sin ; — retain all and
mention one, you offend not. None of them doth aught
for us without all. It is a true rule of Divines — All
their external works are common : to solicit one, there-
fore, and not all, were injurious. And if you stay your
thoughts upon the sacred humanity of Christ, with inse-
parable adoration of the Godhead united, and thence
climb up to the holy conceit of that blessed and dreadful
Trinity, I dare not censure, 1 dare not but commend
your divine method. Thus should Christians ascend
from earth to heaven, from one heaven to another.
If I have given your devotions any light, it is well ;
the least glimpse of this knowledge is worth all the full
gleams of human and earthly skill. But I mistake, if
your own heart, wrought upon with serious meditations,
under that Spirit of illumination, will not prove your best
master. After this weak direction, study to conceive
330
EPISTLE VI.
aright, that you may pray aright ; and pray that you
may conceive ; and meditate, that you may do both : —
and the God of heaven direct you, enable you, that you
may do all !
EPISTLE VI.
To all Readers.
Rules of good advice for our Christian and civil carriage.
I grant, brevity — where it is neither obscure nor de-
fective— is very pleasing even to the daintiest judgments.
No marvel, therefore, if most men desire much good
counsel in a narrow room ; as some affect to have great
personages drawn in little tablets, or as we see worlds of
countries described in the compass of small maps. Nei-
ther do I unwillingly yield to follow them ; for both the
powers of good advice are the stronger when they are
thus united, and brevity makes counsel more portable
for memory and readier for use.
Take these therefore for more ; which as I would
fain practice, so am I willing to commend. Let us be-
gin with him who is the first and last. Inform yourself
aright concerning God ; without whom in vain do we
know all things. Be acquainted with that Saviour of
yours, which paid so much for you on earth, and now
sues for you in heaven ; without whom, we have nothing
to do with God, nor he with us. Adore him in your
thoughts, trust him with yourself. Renew your sight of
him every day, and his of you. Overlook these earthly
things ; and when you do at any time cast your eyes upon
EPISTLE Vr.
331
heaven, think, ' There dwells my Saviour, there I shall be.*
Call yourself to often reckonings ; cast up your debts,
payments, graces, wants, expenses, employments. Yield
not to think your set devotions troublesome. Take not
easy denials from yourself ; yea, give peremptory denials
to yourself. He can never be good, that flatters him-
self: hold nature to her allowance, and let your will
stand at courtesy : happy is that man which hath ob-
tained to be the master of his own heart. Think all
God's outward favors and provisions the best for you ;
your own abilities and actions, the meanest. Suffer not
your mind to be either a drudge or a wanton : exercise
it ever, but over-lay it noS. In all your businesses, look
through the world at God : whatsoever is your level, let
him be your scope. Every day, take a view of your
last ; and think, ' Either it is this or may be.' Offer not
yourself either to honor or labor ; let them both seek
you : care you only to be worthy, and you cannot hide
you from God. So frame yourself to the time and com-
pany, that you may neither serve it, nor sullenly neglect
it ; and yield so far as you may neither betray good-
ness nor countenance evil. Let your words be few and
digested : it is a shame for the tongue to cry the heart
mercy; much more to cast itself upon the uncertain par-
don of others' ears. There are but two things which a
Christian is charged to buy and not to sell — Time and
Truth — ^both so precious that we must pui'chase them at
any rate. So use your friends, as those which should
be perpetual, may be changeable : while you are within
yourself, there is no danger ; but thoughts once uttered,
must stand to hazard. Do not heai- from yourself, what
you would be loth to hear from others. In all good
332
EPISTLE VI.
things, give your eye and ear the full scope, for they let
into the mind : restrain the tongue, for it is a spender.
Few men have repented them of silence. In all seri-
ous matters; take counsel of days, and nights, and
friends, and let leisure ripen your purposes ; neither
hope to gain aught by suddenness. The first thoughts
may be confident, the second are wiser. Serve hones-
ty ever, though without apparent wages : she will pay
sure, if slow. As in apparel, so in actions, know not
what is good, but what becomes you — how many war-
rantable acts have misshapen the authors! Excuse
not your own ill, aggravate not others' : and if you love
peace, avoid censures, comparisons, contradictions.
Out of good men choose acquaintance ; of acquaintance,
friends; of friends, familiars: after probation, admit
them ; and after admittance, change them not — age com-
mendeth friendship. Do not always your best: it is
neither wise nor safe, for a man ever to stand upon the
top of his strength. If you would be above the expec-
tation of others, be ever below yourself Expend after
your purse, not after your mind. Take not where you
may deny, except upon conscience of desert, or hope to
requite. Either frequent suits or complaints are wea-
risome to any friend : rather smother your griefs and
wants as you may, than be either querulous or importu-
nate. Let not your face behe your heart, nor always
tell tales out of it : he is fit to live amongst friends or
enemies, that can be ingenuously close. Give freely :
sell thriftily. Change seldom your place ; never your
state : either amend inconveniences or swallow them,
rather than you should run from yourself to avoid them.
In all your reckonings for the world, cast up some
EPISTLE VI.
333
crosses that appear not; either those will come, or may.
Let your suspicions be charitable, your trust fearful,
your censures sure. Give way to the anger of the
great : the thunder and cannon will abide no fence. As
in throngs we are afraid of loss, so while the world
comes upon you, look well to your soul : there is more
danger in good than in evil.
I fear the number of these my rules, for precepts are
wont, as nails, to drive out one another. But these I
intended to scatter amongst many, and I was loth that
any guest should complain of a niggardly hand. — Dainty
dishes are wont to be sparingly served out ; homely
ones supply in their bigness, what they want in their
worth.
END.
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