was monstrous, that Nicippus's sheep should yean a lion: yet, in the best creature, which hath his form and her attending qualities from above, with a likeness of face and features, is commonly found an unlikeness of disposition: only the earthly part follows the seed: wisdom, valour, virtue, are of another beginning. Shall I bow to a molten calf, because it was made of golden ear-rings? Shall I condemn all honour of the first head, though upon never so noble deserving, because it can shew nothing before itself, but a white shield? If Cæsar or Agathocles, be a potter's son, shall I contemn him? Or if wise Bion be the son of an infamous courtesan, shall the censorious lawyer raze him out of the catalogue, with partus sequitur ventrem? Lastly, shall I account that good, which is incident to the worst? Either, therefore, greatness must shew some charter, wherein it is privileged with succession of virtue; or else the goodness of honour 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 offices from them, to thee? O fickle good, that is ever in the keeping of others! especially of the unstable vulgar, that beast of many heads: whose divided tongues, as they never agree with each other; so seldom (whenever) agree long with themselves. Do we not see the superstitious Lystrians, that ere-while would needs make 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 sacrificing 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, instead of killing a sacrifice to him. Such is the multitude; and such the steadiness of their honour.

There, then, only is true honour, 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 challengeth all unfeigned respect o your inferiors. Count it praise-worthy, not that you have, but that you deserve honour. Blood may be tainted: the opinion of the vulgar 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 loath it, though they dare not censure it. So, while the knee bendeth, the mind abhorreth; and telleth the body, it honours an unworthy subject: within itself, secretly, 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 Oedipus the husband of his own mother; or some such monstrous part, which he, at once, reads and hates.

SECT. XX.

The second remedy of overjoyed prosperity; That it exposes

to evil.

LET him think, that not only these outward things are not in themselves good, but that they expose their owners 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; the largeness moreover either of affection 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 passeth 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's 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 labour and no cost, be repaired: but, when the many lofts of the rich man do one give fire to another, he cries out one while of his counting-honse; another while, of his wardrobe: then, of some noted chest; and, straight, of some rich cabinet: and, lamenting both the frame and the furniture, is therefore impatient, because he had something.

SECT. XXI.

The vanity of Pleasure; the third enemy on the right hand. BUT, if there be any sorceress upon earth, it is Pleasure: which so enchanteth the minds of men, and worketh the disturbance of our peace, with such secret delight, that foolish men think this want of Tranquillity, Happiness. She turneth men into swine, with such sweet charms, that they would not change their brutish nature, for their former reason. "It is a good unquietness," say they, "that contenteth: it is a good enemy, that profiteth.' Is it any wonder, that men should be

sottish, when their reason is mastered with sensuality? Thou fool, thy pleasure contents thee: how much? how long? If she have not more befriended thee, than ever she did any earthly favourite; yea, if she have not given thee more, than she hath herself; thy best delight hath had some mixture of discontentment: for, .either some circumstance crosseth thy desire, or the inward distaste of thy conscience (checking thine appetite) permits thee not any entire fruition of thy joy. Even the sweetest of all flowers hath his thorns: and who can determine, whether the scent be more delectable, or the pricks more irksome? It is enough for heaven to have absolute pleasures which if they could be found here below, certainly that 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 savour 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 enquiry 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 Lebanon and the 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 entertain 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 pleasures are, they have their satiety and as their continuance is not good, so their conclusion is worse: look to their 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 Dalila shews and speaks fair; but, in the end, she will bereave thee of thy strength, of thy sight, yea of thyself. These gnats fly about thine ears, and make thee music awhile; but evermore they sting, ere they part. Sorrow, 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!

Thus then the mind resolved, that these earthly things, Honours, Wealth, Pleasures, are casual, unstable, 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 in both.

SECT. XXII.

Positive rules of our peace.-The fruition of God in holy exercises.

ALL the enemies of our inward peace are thus described and discomfited. Which done, we have enough to preserve us from misery: but, since we moreover seek how to live well and happily, there yet remain those Positive Rules, whereby our Tranquillity may be both had, continued, 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; while it can find no hold at all upon earth. All earthly things are full of variableness; and therefore, having no stay in themselves, can give none to us. He, that will have and hold right Tranquillity, must find in himself a sweet fruition of God, and feeling apprehension of his presence; that, when he finds manifold occasions of vexation in these earthly things, he, overlooking them all and having 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 but 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 oppressions, comes home; and, seeing his bags safe, applauds himself against all censures. The Glutton, when he loseth friends or good name, yet joyeth in his well furnished table, and the laughter of his wine; more pleasing himself in one dish, than he can be grieved with all the 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 starting holes the mind cannot want, when it is hard driven.

Now, when as, like to some chased Sisera, it shrouds itself under the harbour of these Jaels; although they give it houseroom 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 desperate phrensy? Or, if the cross fall in a degree above the height of his stay; as, if the rich man be sick or dying; wherein, all wealth is either contemned, or remembered with anguish; how do all his comforts, like vermin from a house on fire, run away from him, and leave him over to his ruin! while the soul, that hath placed his refuge above, is sure that the ground of his comfort cannot be matched with an earthly sorrow, cannot be made variable by the change of any event; but is infinitely 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 Lights, in respect of whom all the bright stars. of heaven are but as the snuff of a dim candle, shines into his pit; and the presence of his glorious angels make that a heaven to him, which the world purposed as a hell of discomfort. What walls can keep out that Infinite Spirit, that fills all things? What darkness can be, where the God of this sun dwelleth? 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 never changeth his host. He alone is a thousand companions: he alone is a world of friends. That man never knew what it was to be familiar with God, that complains of the want of home, of friends, of companions, while God is with him.

Am I Contemned of the world? It is enough for me, that I am honoured 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 favour, that cannot think it happiness enough without the world's. How easy is it for such a man, while the world disgraces him, at