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Title: Colloquies of Erasmus, Volume I.
Author: Erasmus, Desiderius, 1469-1536
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Colloquies of Erasmus, Volume I." ***

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The Colloquies of Erasmus.


_Edited, with Notes, by the Rev. E. Johnson, M.A._


LONDON: 1878.



_Prefatory Note_
_Admonitory Note_
_To the Divines of_ Louvain
_Copy of_ Bailey's _Title_
Bailey's _Preface_
_Life of_ Erasmus
_Courtesy in Saluting_
_Family Discourse_
_Of Rash Vows_
_Of Benefice-Hunters_
_Of a Soldier's Life_
_The Commands of a Master_
_The School-master's Admonitions_
_Of Various Plays_
_The Child's Piety_
_The Art of Hunting_
_Scholastic Studies_
_The Profane Feast_
_The Religious Treat_
_The Apotheosis of_ Capnio
_A Lover and Maiden_
_The Virgin Averse to Matrimony_
_The Penitent Virgin_
_The Uneasy Wife_
_The Soldier and Carthusian_
Philetymus _and_ Pseudocheus
_The Shipwreck_
_Young Man and Harlot_
_The Poetical Feast_
_An Enquiry concerning Faith_
_The Old Mens Dialogue_
_The Franciscans,_ [Greek: Ptôchoplousioi], _or Rich Beggars_
_The Abbot and Learned Woman_
_The Epithalamium of Petrus Ægidius_
_The Exorcism or Apparition_
_The Alchymist_
_The Horse-Cheat_
_The Beggars' Dialogue_
_The Fabulous Feast_
_The Lying-in Woman_

Prefatory Note.

The present English version of Erasmus' _Colloquies_ is a reprint of the
translation of N. Bailey, the compiler of a well-known Dictionary. In
his Preface Bailey says, "I have labour'd to give such a Translation as
might in the general, be capable of being compar'd with the Original,
endeavouring to avoid running into a paraphrase: but keeping as close to
the original as I could, without Latinizing and deviating from the
English Idiom, and so depriving the English reader of that pleasure that
Erasmus so plentifully entertains his reader with in Latin."

This is a modest and fair account of Bailey's work. The chief
peculiarity of his version is its reproduction of the idiomatic and
proverbial Latinisms, and generally of the classical phrases and
allusions in which Erasmus abounds, in corresponding or analogous
English forms. Bailey had acquired, perhaps from his lexicographical
studies, a great command of homely and colloquial English; the words and
phrases by which he frequently _represents_ rather than construes
Erasmus' text have perhaps in many instances not less piquancy than the
original. Thus his translation, as a piece of racy English, has a
certain independent value of its own, and may be read with interest even
by those who are familiar with the original.

In preparing this volume for the press, Bailey's text has been carefully
revised, and clerical errors have been corrected, but the liberty has
not been taken of altering his language, even to the extent of removing
the coarsenesses of expression which disfigure the book and in which he
exaggerates the plain speaking of the original. Literary feeling is
jealous, no doubt justly, on general grounds, of expurgations.

Further, throughout the greater part of the work, the translation has
been closely compared with the Latin original. Occasional inaccuracies
on Bailey's part have been pointed out in the Appendix of Notes at the
end of the volume. The literal sense of the original, sometimes its
language, has in many of these notes been given, with the view of
increasing the interest of perusal to the general reader. The remainder
of the notes are, like the contents of the volume, of a miscellaneous
character: philological, antiquarian, historical. They do not, of
course, profess to supply an exhaustive commentary; but are designed to
afford elucidations and illustrations of the text that may be
intelligible and instructive to the English reader, and possibly to some
extent to the scholar.

The Colloquies of Erasmus form a rich quarry of intellectual material,
from which each student will extract that which he regards to be of
peculiar value. The linguist, the antiquary, the observer of life and
manners, the historian, the moralist, the theologian may all find
themselves attracted to these pages. It is hoped that there are many who
at the present time will welcome the republication, in English, of a
book which not only produced so great a sensation in Europe on its
appearance, but may be said to have had something to do with the making
of history.

It is unnecessary to do more than refer to the fact that the Editor
undertook his task under certain inconveniences, and limitations as to
space and time, which have prevented him from satisfying his own idea of
what the book should be. He trusts it will not be found wanting in
accuracy, however falling short of completeness.

The Latin text used has been that of P. Scriver's edition, printed by
the Elzevirs. 1643. A translation of Erasmus' dedication to young Froben
has been added; also of several pieces from the _Coronis Apologetica_,
not given by Bailey, which contain matters of interest bearing upon the
history or contents of the book.





_A Boy of Excellent Promise: Greeting._

The Book dedicated to you has surpassed my expectation, my dearest
Erasmius: it will be your part to take care that _you_ do not disappoint
my expectation. Our studious youth are so in love with the book, seize
upon it so eagerly, handle it so constantly, that your father has had
repeatedly to print it, and I to enrich it with new additions. You might
say it too was an [Greek: herasmion], the delight of the Muses, who
foster sacred things. It will be the more your endeavour that you also
may be what you are called, that is, that you may be, by learning and
probity of manners, "most endeared" to all good men. It were deep cause
for shame, if, while this book has rendered so many both better Latin
scholars and better men, you should so act that the same use and profit
should not return to yourself, which by your means has come to all. And
since there are so many young fellows, who thank you for the sake of the
Colloquies, would it not be justly thought absurd, if through your fault
the fact should seem that you could not thank me on the same account?
The little book has increased to the fair size of a volume. You must
also endeavour, in proportion as your age increases, to improve in sound
learning and integrity of manners. No ordinary hopes are placed upon
you: it is indispensable that you should answer to them; it would be
glorious for you to surpass them; disappoint them you surely cannot
without the greatest disgrace. Nor do I say this, because your course
thus far gives me occasion for regret, but by way of spurring the
runner, that you may run more nimbly; especially since you have arrived
at an age, than which none happier occurs in the course of life for
imbibing the seeds of letters and of piety. Act then in such a way, that
these Colloquies may be truly called yours.

The Lord Jesus keep the present season of your life pure from all
pollutions, and ever lead you on to better things! Farewell.

BASIL, _August 1st._, 1524.


_A Book of Colloquies had appeared, the material of which was collected
partly from domestic talks, partly from my papers; but with a mixture of
certain trivialities, not only without sense, but also in bad
Latin,--perfect solecisms. This trash was received with wonderful
applause; for in these matters too Fortune has her sport. I was
compelled therefore to lay hands on these trumperies. At length, having
applied somewhat greater care, I added considerable matter, so that the
book might be of fair size, and in fact might appear worthy even of the
honour of being dedicated to John Erasmius, son of Froben, a boy then
six years old, but of extraordinary natural ability. This was done in
the year 1522. But the nature of this work is such, that it receives
addition as often as it is revised. Accordingly I frequently made an
addition for the sake of the studious, and of John Froben; but so
tempered the subject-matters, that besides the pleasure of reading, and
their use in polishing the style, they might also contain that which
would conduce to the formation of character. Even while the book I have
referred to contained nothing but mere rubbish, it was read with
wonderful favour by all. But when it had gained a richer utility, it
could not escape [Greek: tôn sykophantôn dêgmata]. A certain divine of
Louvain, frightfully blear of eye, but still more of mind, saw in it
four heretical passages. There was also another incident connected with
this work worth relating. It was lately printed at Paris with certain
passages corrected, that is to say, corrupted, which appeared to attack
monks, vows, pilgrimages, indulgences, and other things of that kind
which, if held in great esteem among the people, would be a source of
more plentiful profit to gentlemen of that order. But he did this so
stupidly, so clumsily, that you would swear he had been some street
buffoon: although the author of so silly a piece is said to be a certain
divine of the Dominican order, by nation a Saxon. Of what avail is it to
add his name and surname, which he himself does not desire to have
suppressed? A monster like him knows not what shame is; he would rather
look for praise from his villany. This rogue added a new Preface in my
name, in which he represented three men sweating at the instruction of
one boy: Capito, who taught him Hebrew, Beatus Greek, and me, Latin. He
represents me as inferior to each of the others alike in learning and in
piety; intimating that there is in the Colloquies a sprinkling of
certain matters which savour of Luther's dogmas. And here I know that
some will chuckle, when they read that Capito is favoured by such a
hater of Luther with the designation of an excellent and most
accomplished man. These and many things of the like kind he represents
me as saying, taking the pattern of his effrontery from a letter of
Jerome, who complains that his rivals had circulated a forged letter
under his name amongst a synod of bishops in Africa; in which he was
made to confess that, deceived by certain Jews, he had falsely
translated the Old Testament from the Hebrew. And they would have
succeeded in persuading the bishops that the letter was Jerome's, had
they been able in any tolerable degree, to imitate Jerome's style.
Although Jerome speaks of this deed as one of extreme and incurable
roguery, our Phormio takes peculiar delight in this, which is more
rascally than any notorious book. But his malicious will was wanting in
power to carry out what he had intended. He could not come up to
Erasmus' style, unpolished though it be: for he thus closes his flowery
preface:_ Thus age has admonished, piety has bidden me, while life is
still spared in my burdensome age, to cleanse my writings, lest those
who follow my mournful funeral should transcribe my departed soul!

_Such being the man's style throughout, he has nevertheless not shrunk
from interweaving his flowers with my crowns; either pleasing himself in
a most senseless manner, or having a very ill opinion of the judgment of
divines. For these things were composed for their benefit, all of whom
he supposes to be such blockheads that they will not instantly detect
the patch-work he has so awkwardly sewn together. So abjectly does he
everywhere flatter France, Paris, the theologians, the Sorbonne, the
Colleges, no beggar could be more cringing. Accordingly, if anything
uncomplimentary seems to be said against the French, he transfers it to
the British; or against Paris, he turns it off to London. He added some
odious sayings as if coming from me, with the view of stirring up hatred
against me amongst those by whom he is grieved to know me beloved. It is
needless to dwell upon the matter. Throughout he curtails, makes
additions, alterations after his fashion, like a sow smeared with mud,
rolling herself in a strange garden, bespattering, disturbing, rooting
up everything. Meanwhile, he does not perceive that the points made by
me are quite lost. For example, when to one who says_, 'From a Dutchman
you are turned into a Gaul,'[A] _the answer is made_, 'What? was I a
Capon then, when I went hence?': _he alters_ 'From a Dutchman you are
turned into a Briton. What? was I a Saxon, then, when I went hence?'
_Again, when the same speaker had said_, 'Your garb shows that you are
changed from a Batavian into a Gaul,' _he puts_ 'Briton' _for_ 'Gaul';
_and when the speaker had replied_, 'I had rather that metamorphosis,
than into a Hen,' _alluding to_ 'Cock:' _he changed_ 'Hen' _into_
'Bohemian.' _Presently, when there is a joke_, 'that he pronounces Latin
in French style,' _he changes_ 'French' _into_ 'British,' _and yet
allows the following to stand_, 'Then you will never make good verses,
because you have lost your quantities'; _and this does not apply to the
British. Again, when my text reads_, 'What has happened to the Gauls'
_(cocks)_ 'that they should wage war with the Eagle?' _he thus spoils
the joke_, 'What has happened to the pards, that they should go to war
with the lilies? _as if lilies were in the habit of going forth to war.
Occasionally he does not perceive that what follows his alterations does
not hang together with them. As in the very passage I had written_, 'Is
Paris free from the plague?' _he alters_, 'Is London free[B] from the
plague?' _Again, in another place, where one says_, 'Why are we afraid
to cut up this capon?' _he changes_ 'capon' _into_ 'hare'; _yet makes no
alteration in what follows_, 'Do you prefer wing or leg?' _Forsooth,
although he so kindly favours the Dominican interest that he desired to
sit among the famous Commissaries: nevertheless he bears with equal mind
a cruel attack on Scotus. For he made no change in what one says in my
text_, 'I would sooner let the whole of Scotus perish than the books of
one Cicero.' _But as these things are full of folly, so very many of the
contents bear an equal malice joined to folly. A speaker in my text
rallies his comrade, who, although of abandoned life, nevertheless puts
faith in indulgentiary bulls. My Corrector makes the former confess that
he, along with his master Luther, was of opinion that the Pope's
indulgences were of no value; presently he represents the same speaker
as recanting and professing penitence for his error. And these he wants
to appear my corrections. O wondrous Atlases of faith! This is just as
if one should feign, by means of morsels dipped in blood, a wound in the
human body, and presently, by removing what he had supplied, should cure
the wound. In my text a boy says_, 'that the confession which is made to
God is the best;' _he made a correction, asserting_ 'that the confession
which is made to the priest is the best.' _Thus did he take care for
imperilled confession. I have referred to this one matter for the sake
of example, although he frequently indulges in tricks of this kind. And
these answer to the palinode (recantation) which he promises in my name
in his forged preface. As if it were any man's business to sing a
palinode for another's error; or as if anything that is said in that
work of mine under any character whatever, were my own opinion. For it
does not at all trouble me, that he represents a man not yet sixty, as
burdened with old age. Formerly, it was a capital offence to publish
anything under another man's name; now, to scatter rascalities of this
kind amongst the public, under the pretended name of the very man who is
slandered, is the sport of divines. For he wishes to appear a divine
when his matter cries out that he does not grasp a straw of theological
science. I have no doubt but that yonder thief imposed with his lies
upon his starved printer; for I do not think there is a man so mad as to
be willing knowingly to print such ignorant trash. I ceased to wonder at
the incorrigible effrontery of the fellow, after I learnt that he was a
chick who once upon a time fell out of a nest at Berne, entirely [Greek:
hek kakistou korakost kakiston hôon]. This I am astonished at, if the
report is true: that there are among the Parisian divines those who
pride themselves on having at length secured a man who by the
thunderbolt of his eloquence is to break asunder the whole party of
Luther and restore the church to its pristine tranquility. For he wrote
also against Luther as I hear. And then the divines complain that they
are slandered by me, who aid their studies in so many night-watches;
while they themselves willingly embrace monsters of this description,
who bring more dishonour to the order of divines and even of monks,
than any foe, however foul-mouthed, can do. He who has audacity for such
an act as this, will not hesitate to employ fire or poison. And these
things are printed at Paris, where it is unlawful to print even the
Gospel, unless approved by the opinion of the faculty.

This last work of the Colloquies, with the addition of an appendix, is
issued in the month of September, 1524._

[Footnote A: Gallus: meaning also a Cock.]

[Footnote B: _Immunis_ instead of _immune_ agreeing with Londinum.]

       *       *       *       *       *

_From a letter of Erasmus dated 5th Oct. 1532, we gather some further
particulars about the obnoxious person above referred to. His name was
Lambert Campester. Subsequently to his exploit at Paris in printing a
garbled edition of the Colloquies, he "fled to Leyden; and pretending to
be a great friend of Erasmus, found a patron, from whom having soon
stolen 300 crowns, fled, was taken in his flight amongst some girls, and
would have been nailed to a cross, had not his sacred Dominican cowl
saved him. He, I say, many other offences and crimes having been proved
against him, is at length in a certain town of Germany, called, I think,
Zorst, in the Duchy of Juliers,--his cowl thrown aside, teaching the
Gospel, that is, mere sedition. The Duke begged them to turn the fellow
out. They answered that they could not do without their preacher. And
this sort of plague spreads from day to day."_


_His dearly beloved brethren in the Lord, greeting._

A matter has been brought to my knowledge, not only by rumour, but by
the letters of trustworthy friends, expressly stating in what words, in
what place, a calumny was directed against me in our midst, through the
agency of a well-known person, who is ever true to himself; whose very
character and former doings lead one to assume as ascertained fact what
in another would have been but probable. Accordingly, I thought I ought
to make no concealment of the matter; especially from you, whose part it
was to restrain the unbridled impudence of the fellow, if not for my
sake, at all events for that of your Order.

He boasts and vociferates that in the book of Colloquies there are four
passages more than heretical: concerning the _Eating of meats_ and
_Fasting_, concerning _Indulgences_, and concerning _Vows_, Although
such be his bold and impudent assertion, whoever reads the book in its
entirety will find the facts to be otherwise. If, however, leisure be
wanting for the reading of trifles of this description, I will briefly
lay the matter open. But before I approach it, I think well to make
three prefatory remarks.

First, in this matter contempt of the Emperor's edict[C] cannot be laid
to my charge. For I understand it was published May 6th, 1522, whereas
this book was printed long before: and that at Basle, where no Imperial
edict had up to the time been made known, whether publicly or privately.

[Footnote C: Edict of the Emperor Charles V.: 1523.]

Secondly, although in that book I do not teach dogmas of Faith, but
formulae for speaking Latin; yet there are matters intermixed by the
way, which conduce to good manners. Now if, when a theme has been
previously written down in German or French, a master should teach his
boys to render the sense in Latin thus: _Utinam nihil edant praeter
allia, qui nobis hos dies pisculentos invexerunt_. ("Would they might
eat naught but garlic, who imposed these fish-days upon us.") Or this:
_Utinam inedia pereant, qui liberos homines adigunt ac jejunandi
necessitatem_. ("Would they might starve to death, who force the
necessity of fasting on free men.") Or this: _Digni sunt ut fumo pereant
qui nobis Dispensationum ad Indulgentiarum fumos tam care vendunt_.
("They deserve to be stifled to death who sell us the smokes (pretences)
of dispensations and indulgences at so dear a rate.") Or this: _Utinam
vere castrentur, qui nolentes arcent à matrimonio_. ("Would they might
indeed be made eunuchs of, who keep people from marrying, against their
will")--I ask, whether he should be forced to defend himself, for having
taught how to turn a sentence, though of bad meaning, into good Latin
words? I think there is no one so unjust, as to deem this just.

Thirdly, I had in the first instance to take care what sort of person it
should be to whom I ascribe the speech in the dialogue. For I do not
there represent a divine preaching, but good fellows having a gossip
together. Now if any one is so unfair as to refuse to concede me the
quality of the person represented, he ought, by the same reasoning, to
lay it to my charge, that there one Augustine (I think) disparages the
Stoics' principle of the _honestum_, and prefers the sect of the
Epicureans, who placed the highest good in pleasure. He may also bring
it against me, that in that passage a soldier, amongst many things which
he speaks about in true soldier-fashion, says that he will look for a
priest to confess to, who shall have as little of good as possible about
him. The same objector would, I imagine, bring it up against me, were I
to ascribe to Arius in a dialogue a discourse at variance with the
Church. If such charges against me would be absurd, why in other matters
should not regard be had to the quality of the person speaking? Unless
perchance, were I to represent a Turk speaking, they should decide to
lay at my door whatever he might say.

With this preface, I will make a few general remarks on the passages
criticised by the person to whom I refer. In the first passage, a boy of
sixteen years says that he confesses only sins that are unquestionably
capital, or gravely suspected; while the Lutherans teach, as I
understand, that it is not necessary to confess all capital offences.
Thus the very facts show, that this boy's speech is in great
disagreement with the dogma which you condemn. Presently, the same boy
being asked, whether it be sufficient to confess to Christ himself,
answers that it will satisfy his mind, if the fathers of the Church were
of the same opinion. From this my critic argues, not with dialectic art,
but with rascally cunning, that I suggest that this _Confession_ which
we now practise was not instituted by Christ, but by the leaders of the
Church. Such an inference might appear sound, were not Christ one of the
Primates of the Church, since according to Peter's saying He is Chief
Shepherd, and according to the word of the Gospel, Good Shepherd.
Therefore he who speaks of princes of the Church, does not exclude
Christ, but includes Him along with the Apostles, and the successors of
the Apostles, in the same manner as he who names the principal members
of the body does not exclude the head. But if any one shall deem this
reply to savour of artifice: well now, let us grant that the boy was
thinking of pure men, heads of the Church: is it then not enough for the
boy that he follows in the matter of confession their authority, even
although he is not assured whether the Popes could ordain this on their
own authority, or handed it down to us from the ordinance of Christ? For
he has a mind to obey, in whatever way they have handed it down. I am
not even myself fully convinced as yet, that the Church defined the
present practice of Confession to be of Christ's ordinance. For there
are very many arguments, to me in fact insoluble, which persuade to the
contrary. Nevertheless, I entirely submit this feeling of my own to the
judgment of the Church. Gladly will I follow it, so soon as on my watch,
for certainty I shall have heard its clear voice. Nay, had Leo's Bull
given the fullest expression of this doctrine, and any one should either
be ignorant of it, or should have forgotten it, it would meanwhile
suffice (I imagine) to obey in this matter the authority of the Church,
with a disposition of obedience, should the point be established. Nor in
truth can it be rightly inferred, _This Confession is of human
ordinance, therefore Christ is not its Author_. The Apostles laid down
the discipline of the Church, without doubt from Christ's ordinances:
they ordained Baptism, they ordained Bishops, &c., but by the authority
of Christ. And yet it cannot be denied, that many particulars of this
Confession depend on the appointment of the Pontiffs, viz., that we
confess once a year, at Easter, to this or that priest; that any priest
absolves us from any trespasses whatever. Hence I judge it to be clear
how manifest is the calumny in what relates to _Confession_.

Further, no mention is there made of _fasting_, to which the Gospel and
the Apostolic epistles exhort us, but _concerning the choice of foods_,
which Christ openly sets at naught in the Gospel, and the Pauline
epistles not seldom condemn; especially that which is Jewish and
superstitious. Some one will say, this is to accuse the Roman Pontiff
who teaches that which the Apostle condemns. What the Gospel teaches,
is perfectly plain. The Pontiff himself must declare with what intention
he commands what the Gospel does not require. Yet no one there
says--what I know not whether Luther teaches--that the constitutions of
the Pontiffs do not render us liable to guilt, unless there has been
contempt besides. In fact, he who speaks in that passage grants that the
Pope may appoint an observance; he simply enquires, whether this were
the intention of the Pope, to bind all equally to abstinence from meats,
so that one who should partake would be liable to hell-fire, even
although no perverse contempt should be committed. And he who says this
in the Colloquies, adds that he hates fishes not otherwise than he does
a serpent. Now, there are some so affected that fish is poison to them,
just as there are found those who in like manner shrink from wine. If
one who is thus affected with regard to fishes, should be forbidden to
feed on flesh and milk-food, will he not be hardly treated? Is it
possible that any man can desire him to be exposed to the pains of hell,
if for the necessity of his body he should live on flesh? If any
constitution of Popes and Bishops involves liability to the punishment
of hell, the condition of Christians is hard indeed. If some impose the
liability, others not; no one will better declare his intention than the
Pope himself. And it would conduce to the peace of consciences to have
it declared. What if some Pope should decree that priests should go
girt; would it be probable that he declared this with the intention that
if one because of renal suffering should lay aside the girdle, he should
be liable to hell? I think not. St. Gregory laid down, That if any one
had had intercourse with his wife by night, he should abstain the next
day from entering church: in this case, supposing that a man, concealing
the fact of intercourse having taken place, should have gone to church
for no other reason than that he might hear the preaching of the Gospel,
would he be liable to hell? I do not think the holiest man could be so
harsh. If a man with a sick wife should live on meat, because otherwise
she could not be provoked to eat, and her health required food, surely
the Pope would not on that account determine him to be liable to hell!
This matter is simply made a subject of enquiry in the passage referred
to, and no positive statement is made. And certainly before the Imperial
Edict, men were at liberty to enquire concerning these matters.

In point of fact, neither in that place nor elsewhere do I absolutely
condemn the _Indulgences_ of the Popes, although hitherto more than
sufficient indulgence has been shown them. It is simply that a speaker
ridicules his comrade, who, although in other respects the most
frivolous of triflers (for so he is depicted), yet believed that by the
protection of a Bull he would get safely to heaven. So far from thinking
this to be heretical, I should imagine there was no holier duty than to
warn the people not to put their trust in Bulls, unless they study to
change their life and correct their evil desires.

But _Vows_ are ridiculed in that passage. Yes, they are ridiculed, and
those (of whom there is a vast multitude) are admonished, who, leaving
wife and children at home, under a vow made in their cups, run off along
with a few pot-companions to Rome, Compostella, or Jerusalem. But, as
manners now are, I think it a holier work to dissuade men altogether
from such Vows than to urge to the making of them.

These, forsooth, are the execrable heresies which yonder Lynceus
descries in the Puerile Colloquy. I wonder why he does not also give my
Catunculus and the Publian mimes[D] a dusting. Who does not perceive
that these attacks proceed from some private grudge? Yet in nothing have
I done him an injury, except that I have favoured good literature, which
he hates more than sin; and knows not why. Meantime he boasts that he
too has a weapon, by which he may take his revenge. If a man at a feast
calls him Choroebus or a drunkard, he in his turn will in the pulpit cry
heretic, or forger, or schismatic upon him. I believe, if the cook were
to set burnt meat on the dinner-table, he would next day bawl out in the
course of his sermon that she was suspected of heresy. Nor is he
ashamed, nor does he retreat, though so often caught, by the very facts,
in manifest falsehood.

[Footnote D: Publius Syrus (B.C. 45), a writer of _mimes_, or familiar
prose dramas. A collection of apophthegms from his works is said to have
been used as a school-book in Jerome's days.]

In the first place what a foolish, what a mad blather he made against my
revised New Testament! Next, what could be more like madness than that
remark which he threw out against J. Faber and myself, when the very
facts bespoke that he did not understand what agreement there was
between me and Faber, or what was the subject of controversy! What more
shameless than his fixing a charge of forgery and heresy in the course
of a public address on me, because I rendered according to the Greek:
Omnes quidem non resurgemus, sed omnes immutabimur ("We shall not all
rise again, but we shall all be changed.") What more like a raging
madman, then his warning the people at Mechlin, in a public address, to
beware of the heresy of Luther and Erasmus! Why should I now recall the
ravings that he belches out rather than utters in the midst of his high
feasting as often as his zeal for the house of the Lord is inflamed from
his cups? He lately said in Holland, that I was set down for a forger
among the divines of Louvain. (One who was present and heard it wrote to
me.) When asked, Why? Because, says he, he so often corrects the New
Testament! What a dolt of a tongue! Jerome so often corrected the
Psalter: is he therefore a forger? In short if he is a forger, who
either rashly or from ignorance translates anything otherwise than it
should be, he was a forger, whose translation we use at the present day
in the Church. But what good does this sort of behavior do him? All men
laugh at him as a Morychus,[E] shun him as a crackbrain,--get out of
his way as a peevish fellow you can do nothing with. Nor can they think
ill of him, of whom he says such spiteful things. And though he
displeases all, himself alone he cannot displease.

[Footnote E: Lit.: One stained or smeared: an epithet of Bacchus
(Dionysos) in Sicily, "smeared with wine-lees." ([Greek: moryssô].)]

This doubtless he holds to be an Imperial edict, that he with raging
insolence of tongue should rave at whomsoever he pleases. Thus does this
wise and weighty man support the interests of the orthodox faith. This
is not a zeal of God, to hurt the harmless; but it is a rage of the
devil. The Jewish zeal of Phinehas was once extolled, but not that it
might pass as a pattern with Christians. And yet Phinehas openly slew
impious persons. To your colleague whatever he hates is Lutheran and
heretical. In the same way, I suppose, he will call small-beer, flat
wine, and tasteless broth, Lutheran. And the Greek tongue, which is his
_unique_ aversion,--I suppose for this reason, that the Apostles
dignified it with so great an honour as to write in no other,--will be
called Lutheran. Poetic art, for he hates this too, being fonder of the
_potatic_, will be Lutheran.

He complains that his authority is lessened by our means, and that he is
made a laughing-stock in my writings. The fact is, he offers himself as
an object of ridicule to all men of education and sense; and this
without end. I _repel slander_. But if learned and good men think ill of
_a man_ who directs a slander at one who has not deserved it, which is
it fair to consider the accountable person, he who rightly repels what
he ought not to acknowledge, or he who injuriously sets it afoot? If a
man were to be laughed at for saying that asses in Brabant have wings,
would he not himself make the laughing-matter? He cries out that _the
whole of Luther is in my books_, that on all sides they swarm with
heretical errors. But when those who read my writings find nothing of
the kind, even if ignorant of dialectics, they readily infer the true
conclusion. He has authority from the Emperor. Let him therefore conduct
himself in the spirit of the Emperor, who would rather that wrong-doers
should be cured than punished, and certainly does not desire that the
harmless should be injured. He has entrusted this function to a man he
did not know; when he shall have ascertained the fellow's character, he
will doubtless recall what he has entrusted. It is not the disposition
of the mildest of Emperors, nor of the most upright of Popes, that those
who spend their night-watches in studying how to adorn and assist the
State, should be exposed to the spite of such men; even although there
were some human infirmity in the case. So far are they from desiring to
estrange good and honest men, and force them to take a different side.

These matters are more your concern than mine. For this man's manners
invite much discredit upon your order, while the mass of the people
judge of you all by this one sample. Unjustly so, I admit; but so the
world wags. And the harshness of your brother estranges no small number
from the study of divinity. I know that the man is utterly disliked by
you, with the exception of two or three boon companions, and one old
hand, who abuses the man's folly in the interests of his own lusts. But
all would definitely understand that you disapprove of him, if, since he
cannot be restrained, you were to expel him from your table. I well know
such a step will be very difficult to take. For men of his stamp are
reluctantly torn away from the smell of stated, sumptuous, and free
repasts. Nevertheless this concerns the honour of your Order, towards
which I have good reason to be well-disposed. Farewell.

Supposed to have been written in 1531.


#Familiar Colloquies#


_#Desiderius Erasmus#_,



Concerning Men, Manners, and Things, translated into _English_.

       *       *       *       *       *


       *       *       *       *       *

  Unlike in Method, with conceal'd Design,
  Did crafty _Horace_ his low Numbers join;
  And, with a sly insinuating Grace,
  Laugh'd at his Friend, and look'd him in the Face:
  Would raise a Blush, when secret Vice he found;
  And tickled, while he gently prob'd the Wound:
  With seeming Innocence the Crowd beguil'd;
  But made the desperate Passes, when he smil'd.

_Persius Sat. I. Dryden_.

       *       *       *       *       *




_There are two Things I would take some Notice of: The first relates to
my Author, and the second to myself, or the Reasons why I have attempted
this Translation of him. And in speaking of the first, I presume I shall
save myself much of what might be said as to the second. Tho'_ Erasmus
_is so well known, especially to those versed in the_ Latin _Tongue,
that there seems to be but little Occasion to say any Thing in his
Commendation; yet since I have taken upon me to make him an_
English-man, _give me Leave to say, that in my Opinion, he as well
deserves this Naturalization, as any modern Foreigner whose Works are
in_ Latin, _as well for the Usefulness of the Matter of his Colloquies,
as the Pleasantness of Style, and Elegancy of the_ Latin.

_They are under an egregious Mistake, who think there is nothing to be
found in them, but Things that savour of Puerility, written indeed
ingeniously, and in elegant_ Latin. _For this Book contains, besides
those, Things of a far greater Concern; and indeed, there is scarce any
Thing wanting in them, fit to be taught to a_ Christian _Youth design'd
for liberal Studies.

The Principles of Faith are not only plainly and clearly laid down, but
establish'd upon their own firm and genuine Basis. The Rules of Piety,
Justice, Charity, Purity, Meekness, Brotherly Concord, the Subjection
due to Superiors, are so treated of, that, in a Word, scarce any Thing
is omitted that belongs to a Man, a Subject, or a Christian.

Neither are those Things omitted, which respect a Medium of Life, by
which every one may chuse out safely what Ratio of Life he has most Mind
to, and by which he may be taught, not only Civility and Courtesy, but
also may know how to behave himself in the World, so as to gain himself
the good Will of many, and, a good Name among all, and may be able to
discern the Follies and Childishnesses of Fools, and the Frauds and
Villanies of Knaves, so as to guard against 'em all.

And neither are there wanting Sketches, and that ample ones too, of
Poetical Story, or Pagan Theology, universal History, sacred and
profane, Poetry, Criticism, Logick, Natural and Moral Philosophy,
Oeconomics and Politics; to which are added, a good Number of Proverbs
and Apothegms used by the most celebrated of the Antients.

But there is one Thing in an especial Manner, that should recommend this
Book to all_ Protestants _in general, and cause them to recommend it to
be read by their Children, that there is no Book fitter for them to
read, which does in so delightful and instructing a Manner utterly
overthrow almost all the Popish Opinions and Superstitions, and erect in
their Stead, a Superstructure of Opinions that are purely Protestant.

And notwithstanding whatsoever_ Erasmus _hath said in his Apology
concerning the Utility of his Colloquies, that he could say with
Modesty, according to his wonted Dexterity, to temper, and alleviate the
Bitterness of the Wormwood that he gave the_ Papists _to drink in the
Colloquies, it is past a Question, that he lays down a great many Things
agreeable to the_ Protestant _Hypothesis, so that (if you except
Transubstantiation) he reprehends, explodes and derides almost all the_
Popish _Opinions, Superstitions and Customs.

Therefore if this golden Book be read with Attention, I doubt not but it
will plainly appear, that the Scripture was in all Things preferr'd by
the Author before them all; and that he accounted that alone truly
infallible, and of irrefragable Authority, and did not account the
Councils, Popes or Bishops so.

And as to the praying to Saints, it was his Opinion, the christian World
would be well enough without it, and that he abhor'd that common Custom
of asking unworthy Things of them, and flying to them for Refuge more
than to the Father and Christ.

That he look'd upon all external Things of very small Account, of
whatsoever Species they were: Either the Choice of Meats, Processions,
Stations, and innumerable other Ordinances and Ceremonies, and that they
were in themselves unprofitable, although he, for the sake of Peace and
Order, did conform himself to all harmless Things that publick Authority
had appointed. Not judging those Persons, who out of a Scrupulousness
of Conscience thought otherwise, but wishing that those in Authority
would use their Power with more Mildness.

And that he esteem'd, as Trifles and Frauds, the Community of good
Works, of all Men whatsoever, or in any Society whatsoever; that he
abhor'd the Sale of Pardons for Sins, and derided the Treasury of
Indulgences, from whence it is a plain Inference, that he believ'd
nothing of Purgatory.

And that he more than doubted, whether auricular Confession was
instituted by Christ or the Apostles; and he plainly condemns
Absolution, and laugh'd at the giving it in an unknown Tongue. From
whence we may fairly infer, that he was against having the Liturgy
(which ought to be read to Edification) in an unknown Tongue. But he
either thought it not safe, or not convenient, or at least not
absolutely necessary to speak his Mind plainly as to that Matter.

Likewise, he particularly laugh'd at all the Species of popular and
monastical Piety; such as Prayers repeated over and over, without the
Mind, but recited by a certain Number with their_ Rosaries, _and_
Ave-Maria's, _by which, God being neglected, they expected to obtain all
Things, though none were particularly nam'd: Their_ tricenary, _and_
anniversary Masses, _nay, and all those for the Dead: The dying and
being buried in a_ Franciscan's _and_ Dominican's _Garment or Cowl, and
all the Trumpery belonging to it; and did, in a manner condemn all Sorts
of Monastical Life and Order, as practis'd among the Papists.

He shews it likewise to have been his Opinion, as to the Reliques of_
Christ, _and he and she Saints, that he judg'd the Worship of them a
vain and foolish Thing, and believ'd no Virtue to be in any of them,
nay, that the most, if not all of them, were false and counterfeit.

And to crown the Whole, he did not spare that beloved Principle and
Custom of the Papists, so zealously practis'd by them upon Protestants,
viz. the Persecution and Burning of Hereticks.

And now, of how much Use and Advantage such Things, and from such a
Person as_ Erasmus, _may be, and how much they may conduce to the
extirpating those Seeds of Popery, that may have been unhappily sown, or
may be subtilly instill'd into the Minds of uncautious Persons, under
the specious Shew of Sanctity, will, I presume, easily appear. Tho' the
Things before-mention'd may be Reason sufficient for the turning these
Colloquies of_ Erasmus _into_ English, _that so useful a Treatise may
not be a Book seal'd, either to Persons not at all, or not enough
acquainted with the_ Latin _tongue, as to read them with Edification;
yet I did it from another Motive,_ i.e. _the Benefit of such as having
been initiated, desire a more familiar Acquaintance with the_ Latin
_Tongue (as to the Speaking Part especially, to which_ Erasmus's
_Colloquies are excellently adapted) that by comparing this Version with
the Original, they may be thereby assisted, to more perfectly
understand, and familiarize themselves with those Beauties of the_ Latin
_Language, in which_ Erasmus _in these Colloquies abounds.

And for that End, I have labour'd to give such a Translation of them, as
might in the general, be capable of being compar'd with the Original,
endeavouring to avoid running into a Paraphrase: But keeping as close to
the Original as I could, without Latinizing and deviating from the_
English _Idiom, and so depriving the_ English _Reader of that Pleasure,
that_ Erasmus _so plentifully entertains his Reader with in_ Latin.

_It is true, Sir_ Roger l'Estrange _and Mr._ Tho. Brown, _have formerly
done some select Colloquies, and Mr._ H.M. _many years since has
translated the whole; but the former being rather Paraphrases than
Translations, are not so capable of affording the Assistance
before-mention'd; and as to the latter, besides that his Version is
grown very scarce, the Style is not only antient, but too flat for so
pleasant and facetious an Author as_ Erasmus _is_.

_I do not pretend to have come up in my_ English, _to that Life and
Beauty of_ Erasmus _in Latin, which as it is often inimitable in the_
English _Language, so it is also a Task fit to be undertaken by none but
an_ English Erasmus _himself_, i.e. _one that had the same Felicity of
Expression that he had; but I hope it will appear that I have kept my
Author still in my Eye, tho' I have followed him_ passibus haud æquis,
_and could seldom come up to him. I shall not detain you any longer; but
subscribe my self, yours to serve you_,

_Jan. 25th_, N. BAILEY. 1724-5.

_The_ LIFE _of_ ERASMUS.

_DESIDERIUS Erasmus_, surnamed _Roterodamus_, was born at _Roterdam_, a
Town of _Holland_, on the Vigil of _Simon and Jude_, or _October_ the
20th or 28th, 1465, according to his Epitaph at _Basil_; or according to
the Account of his life, _Erasmo Auctore, circa annum, &c._ about the
Year 1467, which agrees with the Inscription of his Statue at
_Roterdam_, which being the Place of his Nativity, may be suppos'd to be
the most authentick. His Mother's Name was _Margaret_, the Daughter of
one _Peter_, a Physician of _Sevenbergen_. His Father's Name was
_Gerard_, who carried on a private Correspondence with her, upon Promise
of Marriage; and as it should seem from the Life which has _Erasmus's_
Name before it, was actually contracted to her, which seems plainly to
be insinuated by these Words; _Sunt qui intercessisse verba ferunt_:
However, it is not to be denied that _Erasmus_ was born out of Wedlock,
and on that Account, Father _Theophilus Ragnaud_, has this pleasant
Passage concerning him: _If one may be allow'd to droll upon a Man, that
droll'd upon all the World_, Erasmus, _tho' he was not the Son of a
King, yet he was the Son of a crown'd Head_, meaning a Priest. But in
this he appears to have been mistaken, in that his Father was not in
Orders when he begat him. His Father _Gerard_ was the Son of one
_Elias_, by his Mother _Catherine_, who both liv'd to a very advanc'd
Age; _Catherine_ living to the Age of 95. _Gerard_ had nine Brethren by
the same Father and Mother, without one Sister coming between them; he
himself was the youngest of the ten, and liv'd to see two of his
Brothers at _Dort_ in _Holland_, near 90 Years of Age each. All his
Brothers were married but himself; and according to the Superstition of
those Times, the old People had a mind to consecrate him to God, being a
tenth Child, and his Brothers lik'd the Motion well enough, because by
that Means they thought they should have a sure Friend, where they might
eat and drink, and be merry upon Occasion. They being all very pressing
upon him to turn Ecclesiastick, (which was a Course of Life that he had
no Inclination to,) _Gerard_ finding himself beset on all Sides, and by
their universal Consent excluded from Matrimony, resolving not to be
prevail'd upon by any Importunities, as desperate Persons do, fled from
them, and left a Letter for his Parents and Brothers upon the Road,
acquainting them with the Reason of his Elopement, bidding them an
eternal Farewell, telling them he would never see them more. He
prosecuted his Journey to _Rome_, leaving _Margaret_, his Spouse that
was to be, big with Child of _Erasmus. Gerard_ being arriv'd at _Rome_,
betook himself to get his Living by his Pen, (by transcribing Books)
being an excellent Penman; and there being at that Time a great deal of
that Sort of Business to do (for as the Life that is said to be _Erasmo
Auctore_ has it, _tum nondum ars typographorum erat_, i.e. _The Art of
Printing was not then found out_; which was a Mistake, for it had been
found out twenty-four Years before, in the Year 1442. But perhaps the
Meaning may be, tho' it was found out, it was not then commonly used) he
got Money plentifully, and for some Time, as young Fellows us'd to do,
liv'd at large; but afterwards apply'd himself in good Earnest to his
Studies, made a considerable Progress in the _Latin_ and _Greek_
Tongues, which was very much facilitated by his Employment of
transcribing Authors, which could not but strongly impress them on his
Memory; and he had also another great Advantage, in that a great many
learned Men then flourish'd at _Rome_ and he heard particularly one
_Guarinus_. But to return to _Erasmus_, his Mother _Margaret_ being
delivered of him, he was after his Father called _Gerard_, which in the
_German_ Tongue, signifies _Amiable_; and as it was the Custom among
learned Men in those Times, (who affected to give their Names either in
_Latin_ or _Greek_,) it was turn'd into _Desiderius_ (_Didier_) in
_Latin_, and into _Erasmus_ [Greek: Herasmios] in _Greek_, which has the
same Signification. He was at first brought up by his Grandmother, till
_Gerard's_ Parents coming to the Knowledge that he was at _Rome_, wrote
to him, sending him Word, that the young Gentlewoman whom he courted for
a Wife was dead; which he giving Credit to, in a melancholy Fit, took
Orders, being made a Presbyter, and apply'd his Mind seriously to the
Study of Religion. But upon his Return into his own Country, he found
that they had impos'd upon him. Having taken Orders, it was too late to
think of Marriage; he therefore quitted all further Pretensions to her,
nor would she after this, be induced to marry. _Gerard_ took Care to
have his Son _Erasmus_ liberally educated, and put him to School when he
was scarce four Years old. (They have in _Holland_, an ill-grounded
Tradition; that _Erasmus_, when he was young, was a dull Boy, and slow
at Learning; but Monsieur _Bayle_ has sufficiently refuted that Error,
tho' were it true, it were no more Dishonour to him, than it was to
_Thomas Aquinas, Suarez_, and others.) He was a Chorister at _Utrecht_,
till he was nine Years old, and afterwards was sent to _Daventer_, his
Mother also going thither to take Care of him. That School was but
barbarous, the most that was minded, was _Matins_, Even-Song, &c. till
_Alexander Hegius_ of _Westphalia_, and _Zinthius_, began to introduce
something of better Literature. (This _Alexander Hegius_, was an
intimate Friend to the learned _Rodolphus Agricola_, who was the first
that brought the _Greek_ Tongue over the Mountains of _Germany_, and was
newly returned out of _Italy_, having learned the _Greek_ Tongue of
him.) _Erasmus_ took his first Taste of solid Learning from some of his
Playfellows, who being older than himself, were under the Instruction of
_Zinthius_: And afterwards he sometimes heard _Hegius_; but that was
only upon holy Days, on which he read publickly, and so rose to be in
the third Class, and made a very good Proficiency: He is said to have
had so happy a Memory, as to be able to repeat all _Terence_ and
_Horace_ by Heart. The Plague at that Time raging violently at
_Daventer_, carry'd off his Mother, when _Erasmus_ was about thirteen
Years of Age; which Contagion increasing more and more every Day, having
swept away the whole Family where he boarded, he returned Home. His
Father _Gerard_ hearing of the Death of his Wife, was so concern'd at
it, that he grew melancholy upon it, fell sick, and died soon after,
neither of them being much above forty Years of Age. He assign'd to his
Son _Erasmus_ three Guardians, whom he esteem'd as trusty Friends, the
Principal of whom was _Peter Winkel_, the Schoolmaster of _Goude_. The
Substance that he left for his Education, had been sufficient for that
Purpose, if his Guardians had discharg'd their Trust faithfully. By them
he was remov'd to _Boisleduc_, tho' he was at that Time fit to have gone
to the University. But the Trustees were against sending him to the
University, because they had design'd him for a Monastick Life. Here he
liv'd (or, as he himself says, rather lost three Years) in a
_Franciscan_ Convent, where one _Rombold_ taught Humanity, who was
exceedingly taken with the pregnant Parts of the Youth, and began to
sollicit him to take the Habit upon him, and become one of their Order.
_Erasmus_ excused himself, alledging the Rawness and Unexperiencedness
of his Age. The Plague spreading in these Parts, and after he had
struggled a whole Year with an Ague, he went Home to his Guardians,
having by this Time furnished himself with an indifferent good Style, by
daily reading the best Authors. One of his Guardians was carried off by
the Plague; the other two not having manag'd his Fortune with the
greatest Care, began to contrive how they might fix him in some
Monastery. _Erasmus_ still languishing under this Indisposition, tho' he
had no Aversion to the Severities of a pious Life, yet he had an
Aversion for a Monastery, and therefore desired Time to consider of the
Matter. In the mean Time his Guardians employ'd Persons to sollicit him,
by fair Speeches, and the Menaces of what he must expect, if he did not
comply, to bring him over. In this Interim they found out a Place for
him in _Sion_, a College of Canons Regulars near _Delft_, which was the
principal House belonging to that Chapter. When the Day came that
_Erasmus_ was to give his final Answer, he fairly told them, he neither
knew what the World was, nor what a Monastery was, nor yet, what himself
was, and that he thought it more advisable for him to pass a few Years
more at School, till he came to know himself better. _Peter Winkel_
perceiving that he was unmoveable in this Resolution, fell into a Rage,
telling him, he had taken a great deal of Pains to a fine Purpose
indeed, who had by earnest Sollicitations, provided a good Preferment
for an obstinate Boy, that did not understand his own Interest: And
having given him some hard Words, told him, that from that Time he threw
up his Guardianship, and now he might look to himself. _Erasmus_
presently reply'd, that he took him at his first Word; that he was now
of that Age, that he thought himself capable of taking Care of himself.
When his Guardian saw that threatening would not do any Thing with him,
he set his Brother Guardian, who was his Tutor, to see what he could do
with him: Thus was _Erasmus_ surrounded by them and their Agents on all
Hands. He had also a Companion that was treacherous to him, and his old
Companion his Ague stuck close to him; but all these would not make a
monastick Life go down with him; till at last, by meer Accident, he
went to pay a Visit at a Monastery of the same Order at _Emaus_ or
_Steyn_ near _Goude_, where he found one _Cornelius_, who had been his
Chamber-fellow at _Daventer_. He had not yet taken the Habit, but had
travelled to _Italy_, and came back without making any great
Improvements in Learning. This _Cornelius_, with all the Eloquence he
was Master of, was continually setting out the Advantages of a religious
Life, the Conveniency of noble Libraries, Retirement from the Hurry of
the World, and heavenly Company, and the like. Some intic'd him on one
Hand, others urg'd him on the other, his Ague stuck close to him, so
that at last he was induc'd to pitch upon this Convent. And after his
Admission he was fed up with great Promises to engage him to take upon
him the holy Cloth. Altho' he was but young, he soon perceived how
vastly short all Things there fell of answering his Expectations;
however, he set the whole Brotherhood to applying their Minds to Study.
Before he professed himself he would have quitted the Monastery; but his
own Modesty, the ill Usage he was treated with, and the Necessities of
his Circumstances, overcame him, so that he did profess himself. Not
long after this, by the means of _Gulielmus Hermannus_ of _Buda_, his
intimate Associate, he had the Honour to be known to _Henry a Bergis_
Bishop of _Cambray_, who was then in Hopes of obtaining a Cardinal's
Hat, which he had obtained, had not Money been wanting: In order to
sollicit this Affair for him, he had Occasion for one that was Master of
the _Latin_ Tongue; therefore being recommended by the Bishop of
_Utrecht_, he was sent for by him; he had also the Recommendation of the
_Prior_, and General, and was entertained in the Bishop's Family, but
still wore the Habit of his Order: But the Bishop, disappointed in his
Hope of wearing the Cardinal's Hat, _Erasmus_ finding his Patron fickle
and wavering in his Affections, prevail'd with him to send him to
_Paris_, to prosecute his Studies there. He did so, and promised him a
yearly Allowance, but it was never paid him, according to the Custom of
great Men. He was admitted of _Montague_ College there, but by Reason of
ill Diet and a damp Chamber, he contracted an Indisposition of Body,
upon which he return'd to the Bishop, who entertain'd him again
courteously and honourably: Having recover'd his Health, he return'd
into _Holland_, with a Design to settle there; but being again invited,
he went back to _Paris_. But having no Patron to support him, he rather
made a Shift to live (to use his own Expression) than to study there;
and undertook the Tuition of an _English_ Gentleman's two Sons. And the
Plague returning there periodically for many Years, he was obliged every
Year to return into his own Country. At length it raging all the Year
long, he retir'd to _Louvain_.

After this he visited _England_, going along with a young Gentleman, to
whom he was Tutor, who, as he says himself, was rather his Friend than
his Patron. In _England_ he was received with universal Respect; and, as
he tells us himself in his Life, he won the Affections of all good Men
in our Island. During his Residence here, he was intimately acquainted
with _Sir Thomas More_, _William Warham_, Archbishop of _Canterbury_,
_John Colet_, Dean of St. _Pauls_, the Founder of St. _Paul's School_, a
Man remarkable for the Regularity of his Life, great Learning and
Magnificence; with _Hugh Latimer_ Bishop of _Winchester_, _Linacre_,
_Grocinus_, and many other honourable and learned Persons, and passed
some Years at _Cambridge_, and is said to have taught there; but whether
this was after his first or second Time of visiting _England_, I do not
determine: However, not meeting with the Preferment he expected, he went
away hence to make a Journey to _Italy_, in the Company of the Sons of
_Baptista Boetius_, a _Genoese_, Royal Professor of Physick in
_England_; which Country, at that Time, could boast of a Set of learned
Men, not much inferior to the _Augustan_ Age: But as he was going to
_France_, it was his ill Fortune, at _Dover_, to be stripp'd of all he
had; this he seems to hint at in his _Colloquy_, intitled, the
_Religious Pilgrimage_: But yet he was so far from revenging the Injury,
by reflecting upon the Nation, that he immediately published a Book in
Praise of the King and Country; which Piece of Generosity gained him no
small Respect in _England_. And it appears by several of his Epistles,
that he honoured _England_ next to the Place of his Nativity.

It appears by _Epist. 10. Lib. 16_. that when he was in _England_
Learning flourished very much here, in that he writes, _Apud Anglos
triumphant bonæ Literæ recta Studia_; and in _Epist. 12. Lib. 16_. he
makes no Scruple to equal it to _Italy_ itself; and _Epist. 26. Lib. 6._
commends the _English_ Nobility for their great Application to all
useful Learning, and entertaining themselves at Table with learned
Discourses, when the Table-Talk of Churchmen was nothing but Ribaldry
and Profaneness. In _Epist_. 10. _Lib_. 5, which he addresses to
_Andrelinus_, he invites him to come into _England_, recommending it as
worth his While, were it upon no other Account, than to see the charming
Beauties with which this Island abounded; and in a very pleasant Manner
describes to him the Complaisance and innocent Freedom of the _English_
Ladies, telling him, that when he came into a Gentleman's House he was
allowed to salute the Ladies, and also to do the same at taking Leave:
And tho' he seems to talk very feelingly on the Subject, yet makes no
Reflections upon the Virtue of _English_ Women. But to return to him; as
to his Voyage to _Italy_, he prosecuted his Journey to _Turin_, and took
the Degree of Doctor of Divinity in that University; he dwelt a whole
year in _Bolognia_, and there obtain'd a Dispensation from Pope _Julian_
to put off his Canon's Habit, but upon Condition not to put off the
Habit of Priest; and after that went to _Venice_, where was the
Printing-House of the famous _Manutius Aldus_, and there he published
his Book of _Adagies_, and staying some Time there, wrote several
Treatises, and had the Conversation of many eminent and learned Men.
From thence he went to _Padua_, where at that Time _Alexander_ the Son
of _James_ King of _Scotland_, and Bishop of St. _Andrews_ in
_Scotland_, studied, who chose _Erasmus_ for his Tutor in Rhetorick, and
went to _Seana_, and thence to _Rome_, where his great Merits had made
his Presence expected long before. At _Rome_ he gained the Friendship
and Esteem of the most considerable Persons in the City, was offered the
Dignity of a Penitentiary, if he would have remained there: But he
returned back to the Archbishop, and not long after went with him again
to _Italy_, and travelling farther into the Country, went to _Cuma_, and
visited the Cave of _Sybilla_. After the Death of the Archbishop he
began to think of returning to his own Country, and coming over the
_Rhetian Alps_, went to _Argentorat_, and thence by the Way of the
_Rhine_ into _Holland_, having in his Way visited his Friends at
_Antwerp_ and _Louvain_; but _Henry_ VIII. coming to the Crown of
England, his Friends here, with many Invitations and great Promises,
prevailed upon him to come over to _England_ again, where it was his
Purpose to have settled for the remaining Part of his Life, had he found
Things according to the Expectation they had given him: But how it came
about is uncertain, whether _Erasmus_ was wanting in making his Court
aright to Cardinal _Wolsey_, who at that Time manag'd all Things at his
Pleasure; or, whether it were that the Cardinal look'd with a jealous
Eye upon him, because of his intimate Friendship with _William Warham_,
Archbishop of _Canterbury_, who had taken him into his Favour, between
whom and _Wolsey_ there was continual Clashing, (the Cardinal after he
had been made the Pope's Legate, pretending a Power in the
Archbishoprick of _Canterbury_.) On this Disappointment he left
_England_, and went to _Flanders_; Archbishop _Warham_ had indeed shewed
his Esteem for him, in giving him the Living of _Aldington_. In short,
_Erasmus_ takes Notice of the Friendship between himself and _Warham_ in
the _Colloquy_ called, _The Religious Pilgrimage_.

As to his Familiarity with Sir _Thomas More_, there are several Stories
related, and especially one concerning the Disputes that had been
between them about _Transubstantiation_, or the _real Presence_ of
Christ in the consecrated Wafer, of which Sir _Thomas_ was a strenuous
Maintainer, and _Erasmus_ an Opponent; of which, when _Erasmus_ saw he
was too strongly byassed to be convinced by Arguments, he at last made
use of the following facetious Retortion on him. It seems in their
Disputes concerning the real Presence of Christ in the Sacrament, which
were in _Latin_, Sir _Thomas_ had frequently used this Expression, and
laid the Stress of his Proof upon the Force of Believing, _Crede quod
edis et edis_, _i.e._ Believe you eat [Christ] and you do eat him;
therefore _Erasmus_ answers him, _Crede quod habes et habes, Believe
that you have_ [_your Horse_] _and you have him_. It seems, at
_Erasmus's_ going away, Sir _Thomas_ had lent him his Horse to carry him
to the Sea-side or _Dover_; but he either carried him with him over Sea
to _Holland_, or sent him not back to Sir _Thomas_, at least for some
Time; upon which Sir _Thomas_ writing to _Erasmus_ about his Horse,
_Erasmus_ is said to have written back to him as follows.

      _Ut mihi scripsisti de corpore Christi,
        Crede quod edis et edis.
      Sic tibi rescribo de tuo Palfrido;
        Crede quod habes et habes_.

Being arriv'd at _Flanders_ by the Interest of _Sylvagius_ Chancellor
to _Charles of Austria_, afterwards Emperor of _Germany_, known by the
name of _Charles_ V: he was made one of his Counsellors.

In the mean Time _Johannes Frobenius_, a famous Printer, having printed
many of his Works at _Basil_ in _Switzerland_, and being much taken with
the Elegancy of his Printing, and the Neatness of his Edition, he went
thither, pretending that he undertook that Journey for the Performance
of some Vow he had made; he was kindly entertain'd by him, and publish'd
several Books there, and dedicated this his Book of Colloquies to
_Frobenius's_ Son, and resided till the Mass had been put down there by
the Reformers. When he left that Place, he retir'd to _Friburg_ in
_Alsace_. Before his going to _Friburg_, he visited the low Countries to
settle certain Affairs there. And was at _Cologn_ at the Time that the
Assembly was at _Worms_, which being dissolv'd, he went again to
_Basil_, either, as some say, for the Recovery of his Health, or, as
others, for the publishing of several Books. He receiv'd the Bounty and
Munificence of several Kings, Princes, and Popes, and was honourably
entertain'd by many of the chief Cities which he pass'd through. And by
his Procurement, a College of three Languages was instituted at
_Louvain_, at the Charge of _Hieronimus Buslidius_, Governour of _Aria_,
out of certain Monies he at his Death bequeath'd to the use of studious
and learned Men. An Account of which coming to the Ears of _Francis_
King of _France_, he invited him by Letters to _Paris_, in order, by his
Advice to erect the like College there. But certain Affairs happening,
his Journey thither was hindred. He went to _Friburg_ in _Alsace_, where
he bought him an House, and liv'd seven Years in great Esteem and
Reputation, both with the chief Magistrates and Citizens of the Place,
and all Persons of any Note in the University. But his Distemper, which
was the Gout, coming rudely upon him, he, thinking the Change of Air
would afford him Relief, sold his House, and went again to _Basil_, to
the House of _Frobenius_; but he had not been there above nine Months
before his Gout violently assaulted him, and his strength having
gradually decay'd, he was seized with a Dysentery, under which having
laboured for a Month, it at last overcame him, and he died at the House
of _Jerome Frobenius_, the son of _John_ the famous Printer, the 12th
of _July_ 1536, about Midnight, being about seventy Years of Age: After
his last retreat to _Basil_, he went seldom abroad; and for some of the
last Months stirred not out of his Chamber. He retained a sound Mind,
even to the last Moments of his Life; and, as a certain Author saith,
bid Farewell to the World, and passed into the State of another Life,
after the Manner of a Protestant, without the Papistical Ceremonies of
Rosaries, Crosses, Confession, Absolution, or receiving the
transubstantiated Wafer, and in one Word, not desiring to have any of
the _Romish_ Superstitions administered, but according to the true Tenor
of the Gospel, taking Sanctuary in nothing but the Mercies of God in
Christ. And finding himself near Death, he gave many Testimonies of
Piety and Christian Hope in God's Mercy, and oftentimes cry'd out in the
_German_ Language, _Liever Godt_, _i.e._ dear God; often repeating, O
Jesus have Mercy on me! O Lord, deliver me! Lord, put an End to my
Misery! Lord, have Mercy upon me.

In his last Will, he made the celebrated Lawyer _Bonifacius Amerbachius_
his Executor, bequeathing the greatest Part of his Substance to
charitable Uses; as for the Maintenance of such as were poor and
disabled through Age or Sickness; for the Marrying of poor young
Virgins, to keep them from Temptations to Unchastity; for the
maintaining hopeful Students in the University, and such like charitable
Uses. In the overseeing of his Will, he join'd with _Amerbachius_, two
others, _Jerome Frobenius_, and _Nicholas Episcopius_, who were his
intimate Friends, and whom a certain Author says, had then espoused the
Reformation began by _Luther_ and other Reformers. The city of _Basil_
still pays _Erasmus_ the Respect which is due to the Memory of so
eminent a Person; they not only call'd one of the Colleges there after
his Name, but shew the House where he died to Strangers, with as much
Veneration as the People of _Roterdam_ do the House where he was born.

I shall not here pretend to give a Catalogue of all _Erasmus's_ genuine
Pieces, which they shew at _Basil_: As to his Colloquies and _Moria
Encomium_, they have seen more Editions than any other of his Works; and
_Moreri_ says, that a Bookseller at _Paris_, who thoroughly understood
his Trade, sold twenty four thousand of them at one Impression, by
getting it whisper'd to his Customers, that the Book was prohibited, and
would suddenly be call'd in.

He was buried at _Basil_, in the Cathedral Church, on the left Side near
the Choir, in a Marble Tomb; on the fore Side of which was this


    _Viro_ omnibus modis maximo;

    Cujus incomparabilem in omni disciplinarum genere eruditionem,
    pari conjunctam prudentia,

    _Posteri_ et admirabuntur et prædicabunt


    Et nuncupati supremæ suæ voluntatis _vindices_

    _Patrono optimo_,

    non _Memoriæ_, quam immortalem sibi Editis Lucubrationibus
    comparavit, iis, tantisper dum orbis Terrarum stabit, superfuturo,
    ac eruditis ubique gentium colloquuturo: sed _Corporis
    Mortalis_, quo reconditum sit ergo, hoc saxum posuere.

    Mortuus est IV. Eidus Julias jam septuagenarius, Anno à
    Christo nato, M.D. XXXVI.

Upon the upper Part of the Tomb is a quadrangular Base, upon which
stands the Effigies of the Deity of _Terminus_, which _Erasmus_ chose
for the Impress of his Seal, and on the Front of that Base is this

    DES. ERASMUM ROTERODAMUM _Amici_ sub hoc saxo condebant,

    IV, eid. Julias M.D. XXXVI.

In the Year 1549, a wooden Statue, in Honour of so great a Man, was
erected in the Market-place at _Roterdam_; and in the Year 1557, a Stone
one was erected in the Stead of it; but this having been defaced by the
_Spaniards_ in the Year 1572, as soon as the Country had recovered its
Liberty it was restored again. But in the Year 1622, instead of it, a
very compleat one of Brass eight Foot high with the Pedestal, was
erected, which is now standing on the Bridge at _Roterdam_, and likely
long to remain there, on the Foot of which is the following Inscription.


     Scientiarum atque Literature politioris _vindici et
     instauratori_: _Viro_ sæculi sui _Primario_, _civi_
     omnium præstantissimo, ac nominis immortalitatem scriptis
     æviternis jure _consecuto_, S.P.Q. ROTERODAMUS.

     Ne quod tantis apud se suosque posteros _virtutibus_
     præmium deesset, _Statuam_ hanc ex sere publico erigendam

On the right Side are these Verses of _Nicholas Heinsius_.

      _Barbariæ talem se debellator_ Erasmus,
        _Maxima laus Batavi nominis, ore tulit.
      Reddidit, en, fatis, Ars obluctata sinistris,
        De tanto spolium nacta quod urna viro est.
      Ingenii cæleste jubar, majusque caduco
        Tempore qui reddat, solus_ Erasmus _erit_.

On the left Side, and behind, there is an Inscription in the _Dutch_
Language, much to the Purport of the first Inscription. On the House
where _Erasmus_ was born, formerly was this Inscription.

      _Hæc est parva Domus, magnus quâ natus_ Erasmus.

The same House being rebuilt and enlarged, has the following

      _Ædibus his ortus Mundum decoravit_ Erasmus,
        _Artibus ingenuis, Religione, Fide_.

As for his Stature, he was neither very low nor very tall, his Body well
set, proportioned and handsome, neither fat nor lean, but of a nice and
tender Constitution, and easily put out of Order with the least
Deviation from his ordinary Way of Living; he had from his Childhood so
great an Aversion to eating of Fish, that he never attempted it without
the Danger of his Life, and therefore obtain'd a Dispensation from the
Pope from eating Fish in _Lent_, as appears by the Story of _Eras_, (as
he stiles himself) in the Colloquy call'd _Ichthyophagia_. He was of a
fair and pale Complexion, had a high Forehead, his Hair, in his younger
Years, inclining to yellow, his Nose pretty long, a little thick at the
End, his Mouth something large, but not ill made, his Eyes grey but
lively, his Countenance chearful and pleasant, his Voice small, but
musical, his Speech distinct and plain, pleasant and jocose, his Gaite
handsome and grave; he had a, most happy Memory and acute Wit, he was
very constant to his Friend, and exceeding liberal to those that were
under Necessity, especially to studious and hopeful Youths, and to such
as were destitute in their Journey: In his Conversation he was very
pleasant and affable, free from peevish and morose Humours, but very
witty and satyrical. It is related, that when _Erasmus_ was told, that
_Luther_ had married and gotten the famous _Catharine Bora_ with Child,
he should in a jesting Manner say, that, if according to the popular
Tradition, _Antichrist_ was to be begotten between a Monk and a Nun, the
World was in a fair Way now to have a Litter of Antichrists.

I shall conclude with the Character given of _Erasmus_ by Mr. _Thomas
Brown_, who comparing him with _Lucian_, says, That whereas _Erasmus_
had translated Part of his Dialogues into _Latin_, he had made _Lucian_
the Pattern of his Colloquies, and had copied his Graces with that
Success, that it is difficult to say which of the two was the Original.

That both of them had an equal Aversion to austere, sullen, designing
Knaves, of what Complexion, Magnitude, or Party soever. That both of
them were Men of Wit and Satyr, but that _Erasmus_, according to the
Genius of his Country, had more of the Humourist in him than _Lucian_,
and in all Parts of Learning was infinitely his Superior. That _Lucian_
liv'd in an Age, when Fiction and Fable had usurp'd the Name of
Religion, and Morality was debauch'd by a Set of sowr Scoundrels, Men of
Beard and Grimace, but scandalously lewd and ignorant, who yet had the
Impudence to preach up Virtue, and stile themselves Philosophers,
perpetually clashing with one another about the Precedence of their
several Founders, the Merits of their different Sects, and if it is
possible, about Trifles of less Importance; yet all agreeing in a
different Way, to dupe and amuse the poor People by the fantastick
Singularity of their Habits, the unintelligible Jargon of their Schools,
and their Pretentions to a severe and mortified Life. This motly Herd of
Jugglers _Lucian_ in a great Measure help'd to chase out of the World,
by exposing them in their proper Colours.

But in a few Generations after him, a new Generation sprung up in the
World, well known by the Name of Monks and Friars, differing from the
former in Religion, Garb, and a few other Circumstances, but in the
main, the same individual Imposters; the same everlasting
Cobweb-Spinners as to their nonsensical Controversies, the same
abandon'd Rakehells as to their Morals; but as for the mysterious Arts
of heaping up Wealth, and picking the Peoples Pockets, as much superior
to their Predecessors the _Pagan_ Philosophers, as an overgrown
Favourite that cheats a whole Kingdom, is to a common Malefactor.

These were the sanctified Cheats, whose Follies and Vices _Erasmus_ has
so effectually lash'd, that some Countries have entirely turn'd these
Drones out of their Cells, and in other Places where they are still
kept, they are grown contemptible to the highest Degree, and oblig'd to
be always upon their Guard.


_Familiar Colloquies_





       *       *       *       *       *


     _This Colloquy teaches Courtesy and Civility in Saluting,
     who, when, and by what Title we ought to Salute_.

_At the First Meeting_.

A Certain Person teaches, and not without Reason, that we should Salute
freely. For a courteous and kind Salutation oftentimes engages
Friendship, and reconciles Persons at Variance, and does undoubtedly
nourish and increase a mutual Benevolence. There are indeed some Persons
that are such Churls, and of so clownish a Disposition, that if you
salute them, they will scarcely salute you again. But this Vice is in
some Persons rather the Effect of their Education, than their natural

It is a Piece of Civility to salute those that come in your Way; either
such as come to us, or those that we go to speak with. And in like
Manner such as are about any Sort of Work, either at Supper, or that
yawn, or hiccop, or sneeze, or cough. But it is the Part of a Man that
is civil even to an Extreme, to salute one that belches, or breaks Wind
backward. But he is uncivilly civil that salutes one that is making
Water, or easing Nature.

God save you Father, God save you little Mother, God save you Brother,
God save you my worthy Master, God save you heartily Uncle, God save you
sweet Cousin.

It is courteous to make Use of a Title of Relation or Affinity, unless
when it carries something of a Reflection along with it, then indeed it
is better not to use such Titles, tho' proper; but rather some that are
more engaging, as when we call a Mother in Law, Mother; a Son in Law,
Son; a Father in Law, Father; a Sister's Husband, Brother; a Brother's
Wife, Sister: And the same we should do in Titles, either of Age or
Office. For it will be more acceptable to salute an antient Man by the
Name of Father, or venerable Sir, than by the Sirname of Age; altho' in
antient Times they used to make use of [Greek: hô geron], as an
honourable Title. God save you Lieutenant, God save you Captain; but not
God save you Hosier or Shoe-maker. God save you Youth, or young Man. Old
Men salute young Men that are Strangers to them by the Name of Sons, and
young Men again salute them by the Name of Fathers or Sirs.

_A more affectionate Salutation between Lovers_.

God save you my little _Cornelia_, my Life, my Light, my Delight, my
Sweet-heart, my Honey, my only Pleasure, my little Heart, my Hope, my
Comfort, my Glory.

_Either for the Sake of Honour or otherwise_.

_Sal._ O Master, God bless ye.

_Ans._ Oh! Good Sir, I wish you the same.

_Sal._ God bless you most accomplish'd, and most famous Sir. God bless
you again and again thou Glory of Learning. God save you heartily my
very good Friend. God save you my _Mæcenas_.

_Ans._ God save you my Singular Patron, God save you most approv'd Sir.
God save you, the only Ornament of this Age. God bless you, the Delight
of _Germany_.

_Sal._ God bless you all together. God bless you all alike.

_Ans._ God bless you my brave Boys.

_Sal._ God save you merry Companion. God bless you Destroyer of Wine.

_Ans._ God bless you Glutton, and unmerciful Devourer of Cakes.

_Sal._ God bless you heartily President of all Virtue.

_Ans._ God bless you in like Manner, Pattern of universal Honesty.

_Sal._ God save you little old Woman of Fifteen Years of Age.

_Ans._ God save you Girl, eighty Years old.

_Sal._ Much good may it do you with your bald Pate.

_Ans._ And much good may it do you with your slit Nose. As you salute,
so you shall be saluted again. If you say that which is ill, you shall
hear that which is worse.

_Sal._ God save you again and again.

_Ans._ God save you for ever and ever.

_Sal._ God save you more than a thousand Times.

_Ans._ In truth I had rather be well once for all.

_Sal._ God bless you as much as you can desire.

_Ans._ And you as much as you deserve.

_Sal._ I wish you well.

_Ans._ But what if I won't be so? In truth I had rather be sick, than to
enjoy the Health that you want.

God bless your Holiness, Your Greatness, Your Highness, Your Majesty,
Your Beatitude, Your High Mightiness, are Salutations rather us'd by the
Vulgar, than approv'd by the Learned.

_In the Third Person_.

_Sapidus_ wishes Health to his _Erasmus_.

_Sapidus_ salutes his _Beatus_, wishing him much Health.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Another Form_.

_Sal._ God bless you _Crito_, I wish you well good Sir.

_Ans._ And I wish you better. Peace be to thee Brother, is indeed a
Christian Salutation, borrow'd from the _Jews_: but yet not to be
rejected. And of the like Kind is, A happy Life to you.

_Sal._ Hail Master.

_Ans._ In truth I had rather have than crave.

_Sal._ [Greek: Chaire].

_Ans._ Remember you are at _Basil_, and not _Athens_.

_Sal._ How do you then dare to speak _Latin_ when you are not at _Rome_?

       *       *       *       *       *

_Forms of well Wishing_.

And to wish well is a Sort of Salutation.

_To a Woman with Child_.

God send you a good Delivery, and that you may make your Husband Father
of a fine Child. May the Virgin Mother make you a happy Mother. I wish
that this swell'd Belly may asswage happily. Heaven grant that this
Burthen you carry, whatsoever it is, may have as easy an out-coming as
it had an in-going. God give you a good Time.

_To Guests_.

Happy be this Feast. Much good may it do all the Company. I wish all
Happiness to you all. God give you a happy Banquet.

_To one that sneezes._

May it be lucky and happy to you. God keep you. May it be for your
Health. God bless it to you.

_To one that is about to begin any Business._

May it prove happy and prosperous for the Publick Good. May that you are
going about be an universal Good. God prosper what you are about. God
bless your Labours. God bless your Endeavours. I pray that by God's
Assistance you may happily finish what you have begun. May Christ in
Heaven prosper what is under your Hand. May what you have begun end
happily. May what you are set about end happily. You are about a good
Work, I wish you a good End of it, and that propitious Heaven may favour
your pious Undertakings. Christ give Prosperity to your Enterprise. May
what you have undertaken prosper. I heartily beg of Almighty God that
this Design may be as successful as it is honourable. May the Affair so
happily begun, more happily end. I wish you a good Journey to _Italy_,
and a better Return. I wish you a happy Voyage, and a more happy Return.
I pray God that, this Journey being happily perform'd, we may in a short
Time have the Opportunity of congratulating you upon your happy Return.
May it be your good Fortune to make a good Voyage thither and back
again. May your Journey be pleasant, but your Return more pleasant. I
wish this Journey may succeed according to your Heart's Desire. I wish
this Journey may be as pleasant to you, as the want of your good Company
in the mean Time will be troublesome to us. May you set Sail with
promising Presages. I wish this Journey may succeed according to both
our Wishes. I wish this Bargain may be for the Good and Advantage of us
both. I wish this may be a happy Match to us all. The blessed Jesus God
keep thee. Kind Heaven return you safe. God keep thee who art one Half
of my Life. I wish you a safe Return. I wish that this New-Year may
begin happily, go on more happily, and end most happily to you, and
that you may have many of them, and every Year happier than other.

_Ans._ And I again wish you many happy Ages, that you mayn't wish well
to me _gratis_.

_Sal._ I wish you a glorious Day to Day. May this Sun-rising be a happy
one to you.

_Ans._ I wish you the same. May this be a happy and a prosperous Morning
to both of us.

_Sal._ Father, I wish you a good Night. I wish you good Repose to Night.
May you sleep sweetly. God give you good Rest. May you sleep without
dreaming. God send you may either sleep sweetly or dream pleasantly. A
good Night to you.

_Ans._ Since you always love to be on the getting Hand, I wish you a
thousand Happinesses to one you wish to me.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Farewell at parting._

Fare ye all well. Farewell. Take care of your Health. Take a great Care
of your Health. I bid you good by, Time calls me away, fare ye well. I
wish you as well as may be. Farewell mightily, or if you had rather have
it so, lustily. Fare you well as you are worthy. Fare you as well as you
deserve. Farewell for these two Days. If you send me away, farewell till
to-morrow. Would you have any Thing with me? Have you any Thing else to
say to me?

_Ans._ Nothing but to wish you well.

_Sal._ Take Care to preserve your Health. Take Care of your Health. Look
well to your Health. See that at the next Meeting we see you merry and
hearty. I charge you make much of your self. See that you have a sound
Mind in a healthful Body. Take Care you be universally well both in Body
and Mind.

_Ans._ I'll promise you I will do my Endeavour. Fare you well also; and
I again wish you prosperous Health.

_Of saluting by another._

Remember my hearty Love to _Frobenius_. Be sure to remember my Love to
little _Erasmus_. Remember me to _Gertrude's_ Mother with all imaginable
Respect; tell them I wish 'em all well. Remember me to my old
Companions. Remember me to my Friends. Give my Love to my Wife. Remember
me to your Brother in your Letter. Remember my Love to my Kinsman. Have
you any Service to command by me to your Friends?

_Ans._ Tell them I wish them all heartily well.

_Sal._ Have you any Recommendations to send by me to your Friends?

_Ans._ Much Health to them all, but especially to my Father.

_Sal._ Are there any Persons to whom you would command me any Service?

_Ans._ To all that ask how I do. The Health you have brought from my
Friends to me, carry back again with much Interest. Carry my hearty
Service to all them that have sent their Service to me. Pray do so much
as be my Representative in saluting my Friends. I would have written to
my Son in Law, but you will serve me instead of a Letter to him.

_Sal._ Soho, soho, whither are you going so fast?

_Ans._ Strait to _Louvain_.

_Sal._ Stay a little, I have something to send by you.

_Ans._ But it is inconvenient for a Footman to carry a Fardel? What is

_Sal._ That you recommend me to _Goclenius, Rutgerus, John Campensis_,
and all the Society of Trilinguists.

_Ans._ If you put nothing into my Snapsack but Healths, I shall carry
them with Ease.

_Sal._ And that you may not do that for nothing, I pray that Health may
be your Companion both going and coming back.

_How we ought to congratulate one that is return'd from a Journey._

We are glad you are come well Home. It is a Pleasure that you are come
Home safe. It is a Pleasure to us that you are come well Home. We
congratulate your happy Return. We give God Thanks that you are come
safe Home to us. The more uneasy we were at the Want of you, the more
glad we are to see you again. We congratulate you and ourselves too that
you are come Home to us alive and well. Your Return is the more pleasant
by how much it was less expected.

_Ans._ I am glad too that as I am well myself I find you so. I am very
glad to find you in good Health. I should not have thought myself well
come Home if I had not found you well; but now I think myself safe, in
that I see you safe and in good Health.

       *       *       *       *       *

_A Form of asking Questions at the first meeting._


     _This Colloquy teaches Forms of enquiring at the first
     meeting. Whence come you? What News bring you? How do you
     do? &c._


_George._ Out of what Hen-Coop or Cave came you?

_Liv._ Why do you ask me such a Question?

_Ge._ Because you have been so poorly fed; you are so thin a Body may
see thro' you, and as dry as a Kecks. Whence came you from?

_Liv._ From Montacute College.

_Ge._ Then sure you are come loaden with Letters for us.

_Liv._ Not so, but with Lice I am.

_Ge._ Well then you had Company enough.

_Liv._ In truth it is not safe for a Traveller now a Days to go without

_Ge._ I know well enough a Louse is a Scholar's Companion. Well but do
you bring any News from _Paris_?

_Liv._ Ay, I do, and that in the first Place that I know you won't
believe. At _Paris_ a _Bete_ is wise, and an _Oak_ preaches.

_Ge._ What's that you tell me?

_Liv._ That which you hear.

_Ge._ What is it I hear?

_Liv._ That which I tell you.

_Ge._ O monstrous! Sure Mushrooms and Stones must be the Hearers where
there are such Preachers.

_Liv._ Well, but it is even so as I tell you, nor do I speak only by
hear say, but what I know to be true.

_Ge._ Sure Men must needs be very wise there where _Betes_ and _Oaks_
are so.

_Liv._ You are in the right on't.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Of enquiring concerning Health._

_Ge._ Are you well?

_Liv._ Look in my Face.

_Ge._ Why do you not rather bid me cast your Water? Do you take me for a
Doctor? I don't ask you if you are in Health, for your Face bespeaks you
so to be; but I ask you how you like your own Condition?

_Liv._ I am very well in my Body, but sick in my Mind.

_Ge._ He's not well indeed that is sick in that Part.

_Liv._ This is my Case, I'm well in my Body, but sick in my Pocket.

_Ge._ Your Mother will easily cure that Distemper. How have you done for
this long Time?

_Liv._ Sometimes better, and sometimes worse, as human Affairs commonly

_Ge._ Are you very well in health? Are your Affairs in a good
Condition? Are your Circumstances as you would have them? Have you
always had your Health well?

_Liv._ Very well, I thank God. By God's Goodness I have always had my
Health very well. I have always been very well hitherto. I have been in
very good, favourable, secure, happy, prosperous, successful, perfect
Health, like a Prince, like a Champion, fit for any Thing.

_Ge._ God send you may always enjoy the same. I am glad to hear it. You
give me a Pleasure in saying so. It is very pleasant to me to hear that.
I am glad at my Heart to hear this from you. This is no bad News to me.
I am exceeding glad to hear you say so. I wish you may be so always. I
wish you may enjoy the same Health as long as you live. In
congratulating you, I joy myself, Thanks to Heaven for it.

_Li._ Indeed I am very well if you are so.

_Ge._ Well, but have you met with no Trouble all this while?

_Li._ None but the Want of your good Company.

_Ge._ Well, but how do you do though?

_Li._ Well enough, finely, bravely, very well as may be, very well
indeed, happily, commodiously, no Way amiss. I enjoy rather what Health
I wish, than what I deserved, Princely, Herculean, Champion-like.

_Ge._ I was expecting when you would say Bull-like too.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Of being Ill._

_Ge._ Are you in good Health?

_Li._ I wish I were. Not altogether so well as I would be. Indeed I am
so, so. Pretty well. I am as well as I can be, since I can't be so well
as I would be. As I use to be. So as it pleases God. Truly not very
well. Never worse in all my Life. As I am wont to be. I am as they use
to be who have to do with the Doctor.

_Ge._ How do you do?

_Li._ Not as I would do.

_Ge._ Why truly not well, ill, very ill, in an unhappy, unprosperous,
unfavourable, bad, adverse, unlucky, feeble, dubious, indifferent, State
of Health, not at all as I would, a tolerable, such as I would not wish
even to my Enemies.

_Ge._ You tell me a melancholy Story. Heavens forbid it. God forbid. No
more of that I pray. I wish what you say were not true. But you must be
of good Chear, you must pluck up a good Heart. A good Heart is a good
Help in bad Circumstances. You must bear up your Mind with the Hope of
better Fortune. What Distemper is it? What Sort of Disease is it? What
Distemper is it that afflicts you? What Distemper are you troubled with?

_Li._ I can't tell, and in that my Condition is the more dangerous.

_Ge._ That's true, for when the Disease is known, it is half cured. Have
you had the Advice of any Doctor?

_Li._ Ay, of a great many.

_Ge._ What do they say to your Case?

_Li._ What the Lawyers of _Demiphon_ (in the Play) said to him. One says
one Thing, another he says another, and the third he'll consider of it.
But they all agree in this, that I am in a sad Condition.

_Ge._ How long have you been taken with this Illness? How long have you
been ill of this Distemper? How long has this Illness seiz'd you?

_Li._ About twenty Days more or less, almost a Month. It's now near
three Months. It seems an Age to me since I was first taken ill.

_Ge._ But I think you ought to take care that the Distemper don't grow
upon you.

_Li._ It has grown too much upon me already.

_Ge._ Is it a Dropsy?

_Li._ They say it is not.

_Ge._ Is it a Dissentery?

_Li._ I think not.

_Ge._ Is it a Fever?

_Li._ I believe it is a Kind of Fever; but a new one, as ever and anon
new ones spring up that were unknown before.

_Ge._ There were more old ones than enough before.

_Li._ Thus it pleases Nature to deal with us, which is a little too

_Ge._ How often does the Fit come?

_Li._ How often do you say? Every Day, nay every Hour indeed.

_Ge._ O wonderful! It is a sad Affliction. How did you get this
Distemper? How do you think you came by it?

_Li._ By Reason of Want.

_Ge._ Why you don't use to be so superstitious as to starve yourself
with Fasting.

_Li._ It is not Bigotry but Penury.

_Ge._ What do you mean by Penury?

_Li._ I mean I could get no Victuals, I believe it came by a Cold. I
fancy I got the Distemper by eating rotten Eggs. By drinking too much
Water in my Wine. This Crudity in my Stomach came by eating green

_Ge._ But consider whether you han't contracted this Distemper by long
and late Studying, by hard Drinking, or immoderate use of Venery? Why
don't you send for a Doctor?

_Li._ I am afraid he should do me more Harm than good. I am afraid he
should poison me instead of curing me.

_Ge._ You ought to chuse one that you can confide in.

_Li._ If I must dye, I had rather dye once for all, than to be tormented
with so many Slops.

_Ge._ Well then, be your own Doctor. If you can't trust to a Doctor,
pray God be your Physician. There have been some that have recover'd
their Health, by putting on a Dominican or a Franciscan Fryars Cowl.

_Li._ And perhaps it had been the same Thing, if they had put on a
Whore-master's Cloak. These things have no Effect upon those that have
no Faith in 'em.

_Ge._ Why then, believe that you may recover. Some have been cur'd by
making Vows to a Saint.

_Li._ But I have no Dealings with Saints.

_Ge._ Then pray to Christ that you may have Faith, and that he would be
pleased to bestow the Blessing of Health upon you.

_Li._ I can't tell whether it would be a Blessing or no.

_Ge._ Why, is it not a Blessing to be freed from a Distemper?

_Li._ Sometimes it is better to dye. I ask nothing of him, but only that
he'd give me what would be best for me.

_Ge._ Take something to purge you.

_Li._ I am laxative enough already.

_Ge._ Take something to make you go to Stool. You must take a Purge.

_Li._ I ought to take something that is binding rather, for I am too

       *       *       *       *       *

_Of enquiring of a Person upon his Return_.


     _Of interrogating a Person returning from a Journey,
     concerning War, private Affairs, a Disappointment, great
     Promises, a Wife Lying-in, Dangers, Losses_, &c.

_George._ Have you had a good and prosperous Journey?

_Li._ Pretty good; but that there is such Robbing every where.

_Ge._ This is the Effect of War.

_Li._ It is so, but it is a wicked one.

_Ge._ Did you come on Foot or on Horse-back?

_Li._ Part of the Way a Foot, Part in a Coach, Part on Horse-back, and
Part by Sea.

_Ge._ How go Matters in _France?_

_Li._ All's in Confusion, there's nothing but War talk'd of. What
Mischiefs they may bring upon their Enemies I know not; but this I'm
sure of, the _French_ themselves are afflicted with unexpressible

_Ge._ Whence come all these tumultuary Wars?

_Li._ Whence should they come but from the Ambition of Monarchs?

_Ge._ But it would be more their Prudence to appease these Storms of
human Affairs.

_Li._ Appease 'em! Ay, so they do, as the South Wind does the Sea. They
fancy themselves to be Gods, and that the World was made for their

_Ge._ Nay, rather a Prince was made for the Good of the Commonwealth,
and not the Commonwealth for the Sake of the Prince.

_Li._ Nay, there are Clergymen too, who blow up the Coals, and sound an
Alarm to these Tumults.

_Ge._ I'd have them set in the Front of the Battel.

_Li._ Ay, ay, but they take Care to keep out of Harm's Way.

_Ge._ But let us leave these publick Affairs to Providence. How go your
own Matters?

_Li._ Very well, happily, indifferently well, tolerably.

_Ge._ How goes it with your own Business? As you would have it?

_Li._ Nay, better than I could have wish'd for, better than I deserve,
beyond what I could have hop'd for.

_Ge._ Are all Things according to your Mind? Is all well? Has every
Thing succeeded?

_Li._ It can't be worse. It is impossible it should be worse than it is.

_Ge._ What then, han't you got what you sought for? Han't you caught the
Game you hunted?

_Li._ Hunt! Ay, I did hunt indeed, but with very ill Success.

_Ge._ But is there no Hope then?

_Li._ Hope enough, but nothing else.

_Ge._ Did the Bishop give you no Hopes?

_Li._ Yes, whole Cart Loads, and whole Ship Loads of Hope; but nothing

_Ge._ Has he sent you nothing yet?

_Li._ He promis'd me largely, but he has never sent me a Farthing.

_Ge._ Then you must live in Hopes.

_Li._ Ay, but that won't fill the Belly; they that feed upon Hope may be
said to hang, but not to live.

_Ge._ But however then, you were the lighter for travelling, not having
your Pockets loaded.

_Li._ I confess that, nay, and safer too; for an empty Pocket is the
best Defence in the World against Thieves; but for all that, I had
rather have the Burthen and the Danger too.

_Ge._ You was not robb'd of any Thing by the Way, I hope?

_Li._ Robb'd! What can you rob a Man of that has nothing? There was more
Reason for other Folks to be afraid of me, than I of them, having never
a Penny in my Pocket. I might sing and be starved all the Way I went.
Have you anything more to say?

_Ge._ Where are you going now?

_Li._ Strait Home, to see how all do there, whom I han't seen this long

_Ge._ I wish you may find all well at Home.

_Li._ I pray God I may. Has any Thing new happen'd at our House since I
went away?

_Ge._ Nothing but only you'll find your Family bigger than it was; for
your _Catulla_ has brought you a little _Catulus_ since you have been
gone. Your Hen has laid you an Egg.

_Li._ That's good News, I like your News, and I'll promise to give you a
Gospel for it.

_Ge._ What Gospel? The Gospel according to St. _Matthew_?

_Li._ No, but according to _Homer_. Here take it.

_Ge._ Keep your Gospel to yourself, I have Stones enough at Home.

_Li._ Don't slight my Present, it is the Eagle's Stone; It is good for
Women with Child; it is good to bring on their Labour.

_Ge._ Say you so? Then it is a very acceptable Present to me, and I'll
endeavour to make you Amends.

_Li._ The Amends is made already by your kind Acceptance.

_Ge._ Nay, nothing in the World could come more seasonably, for my
Wife's Belly is up to her Mouth almost.

_Li._ Then I'll make this Bargain with you; that if she has a Boy, you
will let me be the Godfather.

_Ge._ Well I'll promise you that, and that you shall name it too.

_Li._ I wish it may be for both our Good.

_Ge._ Nay, for all our Good.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Ma._ You are come back fatter than you used to be: You are returned

_Cy._ But in Truth I had rather it had been wiser, or more learned.

_Ma._ You had no Beard when you went away; but you have brought a little
one back with you. You are grown somewhat oldish since you went away.
What makes you look so pale, so lean, so wrinkled?

_Cy._ As is my Fortune, so is the Habit of my Body.

_Ma._ Has it been but bad then?

_Cy._ She never is otherwise to me, but never worse in my Life than now.

_Ma._ I am sorry for that. I am sorry for your Misfortune. But pray,
what is this Mischance?

_Cy._ I have lost all my Money.

_Ma._ What in the Sea?

_Cy._ No, on Shore, before I went abroad.

_Ma._ Where?

_Cy._ Upon the _English_ Coast.

_Ma._ It is well you scap'd with your Life; it is better to lose your
Money, than that; the loss of ones good Name, is worse than the Loss of

_Cy._ My Life and Reputation are safe; but my Money is lost.

_Ma._ The Loss of Life never can be repair'd; the Loss of Reputation
very hardly; but the Loss of Money may easily be made up one Way or
another. But how came it about?

_Cy._ I can't tell, unless it was my Destiny. So it pleas'd God. As the
Devil would have it.

_Ma._ Now you see that Learning and Virtue are the safest Riches; for as
they can't be taken from a Man, so neither are they burthensome to him
that carries them.

_Cy._ Indeed you Philosophize very well; but in the mean Time I'm in

       *       *       *       *       *


_Cl._ I am glad to see you well come Home _Balbus_.

_Ba._ And I to see you alive _Claudius_.

_Cl._ You are welcome Home into your own Country again.

_Ba._ You should rather congratulate me as a Fugitive from _France_.

_Cl._ Why so?

_Ba._ Because they are all up in Arms there.

_Cl._ But what have Scholars to do with Arms?

_Ba._ But there they don't spare even Scholars.

_Cl._ It is well you're got off safe.

_Ba._ But I did not get off without Danger neither.

_Cl._ You are come back quite another Man than you went away.

_Ba._ How so?

_Cl._ Why, of a _Dutch_ Man, you are become a _French_ Man.

_Ba._ Why, was I a Capon when I went away?

_Cl._ Your Dress shows that you're turn'd from a _Dutch_ Man into a
_French_ Man.

_Ba._ I had rather suffer this Metamorphosis, than be turn'd into a Hen.
But as a Cowl does not make a Monk, so neither does a Garment a _French_

_Cl._ Have you learn'd to speak _French?_

_Ba._ Indifferently well.

_Cl._ How did you learn it?

_Ba._ Of Teachers that were no dumb ones I assure you.

_Cl._ From whom.

_Ba._ Of little Women, more full of Tongue, than Turtle Doves.

_Cl._ It is easy to learn to speak in such a School. Do you pronounce
the _French_ well?

_Ba._ Yes, that I do, and I pronounce _Latin_ after the _French_ Mode.

_Cl._ Then you will never write good Verses.

_Ba._ Why so?

_Cl._ Because you'll make false Quantities.

_Ba._ The Quality is enough for me.

_Cl._ Is _Paris_ clear of the Plague?

_Ba._ Not quite, but it is not continual, sometimes it abates, and anon
it returns again; sometimes it slackens, and then rages again.

_Cl._ Is not War itself Plague enough?

_Ba._ It is so, unless God thought otherwise.

_Cl._ Sure Bread must be very dear there.

_Ba._ There is a great Scarcity of it. There is a great Want of every
Thing but wicked Soldiers. Good Men are wonderful cheap there.

_Cl._ What is in the Mind of the _French_ to go to War with the

_Ba._ They have a Mind to imitate the Beetle, that won't give Place to
the Eagle. Every one thinks himself an _Hercules_ in War.

_Cl._ I won't detain you any longer, at some other Time we'll divert
ourselves more largely, when we can both spare Time. At present I have a
little Business that calls me to another Place.



     _This Colloquy presents us with the Sayings and Jokes of
     intimate Acquaintance, and the Repartees and Behaviour of
     familiar Friends one with another. 1. Of walking abroad,
     and calling Companions. 2. Of seldom visiting, of asking
     concerning a Wife, Daughter, Sons. 3. Concerning Leisure,
     the tingling of the Ear, the Description of a homely
     Maid. Invitation to a Wedding. 4. Of Studying too hard,


_Peter_, Soho, soho, Boy! does no Body come to the Door?

_Mi._ I think this Fellow will beat the Door down. Sure he must needs be
some intimate Acquaintance or other. O old Friend _Peter_, what hast

_Pe._ Myself.

_Mi._ In Truth then you have brought that which is not much worth.

_Pe._ But I'm sure I cost my Father a great deal.

_Mi._ I believe so, more than you can be sold for again.

_Pe._ But is _Jodocus_ at Home?

_Mi._ I can't tell, but I'll go see.

_Pe._ Go in first, and ask him if he pleases to be at Home now.

_Mi._ Go yourself, and be your own Errand Boy.

_Pe._ Soho! _Jodocus_, are you at Home?

_Jo._ No, I am not.

_Pe._ Oh! You impudent Fellow I don't I hear you speak?

_Jo._ Nay, you are more impudent, for I took your Maid's Word for it
lately, that you were not at Home, and you won't believe me myself.

_Pe._ You're in the Right on't, you've serv'd me in my own Kind.

_Jo._ As I sleep not for every Body, so I am not at Home to every Body,
but for Time to come shall always be at Home to you.

_Pe._ Methinks you live the Life of a Snail.

_Jo._ Why so?

_Pe._ Because you keep always at Home and never stir abroad, just like a
lame Cobler always in his Stall. You sit at Home till your Breech grows
to your Seat.

_Jo._ At Home I have something to do, but I have no Business abroad, and
if I had, the Weather we have had for several Days past, would have kept
me from going abroad.

_Pe._ But now it is fair, and would tempt a Body to walk out; see how
charming pleasant it is.

_Jo._ If you have a Mind to walk I won't be against it.

_Pe._ In Truth, I think we ought to take the Opportunity of this fine

_Jo._ But we ought to get a merry Companion or two, to go along with us.

_Pe._ So we will; but tell me who you'd have then.

_Jo._ What if we should get Hugh?

_Pe._ There is no great Difference between _Hugo_ and _Nugo._

_Jo._ Come on then, I like it mighty well.

_Pe._ What if we should call _Alardus?_

_Jo._ He's no dumb Man I'll assure you, what he wants in Hearing he'll
make up in Talking.

_Pe._ If you will, we'll get _Nævius_ along with us too.

_Jo._ If we have but him, we shall never want merry Stories. I like the
Company mainly, the next Thing is to pitch upon a pleasant Place.

_Pe._ I'll show you a Place where you shall neither want the Shade of a
Grove, nor the pleasant Verdure of Meadows, nor the purling Streams of
Fountains, you'll say it is a Place worthy of the Muses themselves.

_Jo._ You promise nobly.

_Pe._ You are too intent upon your Books; you sit too close to your
Books; you make yourself lean with immoderate Study.

_Jo._ I had rather grow lean with Study than with Love.

_Pe._ We don't live to study, but we therefore study that we may live

_Jo._ Indeed I could live and dye in my Study.

_Pe._ I approve well enough of studying hard, but not to study myself to

_Pe._ Has this Walk pleas'd you?

_Jo._ It has been a charming pleasant one.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Gi._ Where is our Leonard a going?

_Le._ I was coming to you.

_Gi._ That you do but seldom.

_Le._ Why so?

_Gi._ Because you han't been to see me this twelve Months.

_Le._ I had rather err on that Hand to be wanted, than to be tiresome.

_Gi._ I am never tired with the Company of a good Friend: Nay, the
oftner you come the more welcome you are.

_Le._ But by the Way, how goes Matters at your House.

_Gi._ Why truly not many Things as I would have them.

_Le._ I don't wonder at that, but is your Wife brought to Bed yet?

_Gi._ Ay, a great While ago, and had two at a Birth too.

_Le._ How, two at once!

_Gi._ 'Tis as I tell you, and more than that she's with Child again.

_Le._ That's the Way to increase your Family.

_Gi._ Ay, but I wish Fortune would increase my Money as much as my Wife
does my Family.

_Le._ Have you disposed of your Daughter yet?

_Gi._ No, not yet.

_Le._ I would have you consider if it be not hazardous to keep such a
great Maid as she at Home, you should look out for a Husband for her.

_Gi._ There's no Need of that, for she has Sweet-hearts enough already.

_Le._ But why then don't you single out one for her, him that you like
the best of them?

_Gi._ They are all so good that I can't tell which to chuse: But my
Daughter won't hear of marrying.

_Le._ How say you! If I am not mistaken, she has been marriageable for
some Time. She has been fit for a Husband a great While, ripe for
Wedlock, ready for a Husband this great While.

_Gi._ Why not, she is above seventeen, she's above two and twenty, she's
in her nineteenth Year, she's above eighteen Years old.

_Le._ But why is she averse to Marriage?

_Gi._ She says she has a Mind to be married to Christ.

_Le._ In Truth he has a great many Brides. But is she married to an evil
Genius that lives chastly with a Husband?

_Gi._ I don't think so.

_Le._ How came that Whimsey into her Head?

_Gi._ I can't tell, but there's no persuading her out of it by all that
can be said to her.

_Le._ You should take Care that there be no Tricksters that inveagle or
draw her away.

_Gi._ I know these Kidnappers well enough, and I drive this Kind of
Cattel as far from my House as I can.

_Le._ But what do you intend to do then? Do you intend to let her have
her Humour?

_Gi._ No, I'll prevent it if possible; I'll try every Method to alter
her Mind; but if she persists in it, I'll not force her against her
Will, lest I should be found to fight against God, or rather to fight
against the Monks.

_Le._ Indeed you speak very religiously; but take Care to try her
Constancy throughly, lest she should afterwards repent it, when it is
too late.

_Gi._ I'll do my utmost Endeavours.

_Le._ What Employment do your Sons follow?

_Gi._ The eldest has been married this good While, and will be a Father
in a little Time; I have sent the youngest away to _Paris_, for he did
nothing but play while he was here.

_Le._ Why did you send him thither?

_Gi._ That he might come back a greater Fool than he went.

_Le._ Don't talk so.

_Gi._ The middlemost has lately enter'd into holy Orders.

_Le._ I wish 'em all well.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Mo._ How is it? What are you doing Dromo?

_Dr._ I'm sitting still.

_Mo._ I see that; but how do Matters go with you?

_Dr._ As they use to do with unfortunate Persons.

_Mo._ God forbid that that should be your Case. But what are you doing?

_Dr._ I am idling, as you see; doing just nothing at all.

_Mo._ It is better to be idle than doing of nothing; it may be I
interrupt you, being employ'd in some Matters of Consequence?

_Dr._ No, really, entirely at Leisure; I just began to be tir'd of being
alone, and was wishing for a merry Companion.

_Mo._ It may be I hinder, interrupt, disturb you, being about some

_Dr._ No, you divert me, being tired with being idle.

_Mo._ Pray pardon me if I have interrupted you unseasonably.

_Dr._ Nay, you came very seasonably; you are come in the Nick of Time; I
was just now wishing for you; I am extreme glad of your Company.

_Mo._ It may be you are about some serious Business, that I would by no
means interrupt or hinder?

_Dr._ Nay, rather it is according to the old Proverb, _Talk of the Devil
and he'll appear_; for we were just now speaking of you.

_Mo._ In short, I believe you were, for my Ear tingled mightily as I
came along.

_Dr._ Which Ear was it?

_Mo._ My left, from which I guess there was no Good said of me.

_Dr._ Nay, I'll assure you there was nothing but Good said.

_Mo._ Then the old Proverb is not true. But what good News have you?

_Dr._ They say you are become a Huntsman.

_Mo._ Nay, more than that, I have gotten the Game now in my Nets that I
have been hunting after.

_Dr._ What Game is it?

_Mo._ A pretty Girl, that I am to marry in a Day or two; and I intreat
you to honour me with your good Company at my Wedding.

_Dr._ Pray, who is your Bride?

_Mo. Alice_, the Daughter of _Chremes_.

_Dr._ You are a rare Fellow to chuse a Beauty for one! Can you fancy
that Black-a-top, Snub-nos'd, Sparrow-mouth'd, Paunch-belly'd Creature.

_Mo._ Prithee hold thy Tongue, I marry her to please myself, and not
you. Pray, is it not enough that I like her? The less she pleases you,
the more she'll please me.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Sy._ I wish you much Happiness.

_Ge._ And I wish you double what you wish me.

_Sy._ What are you doing?

_Ge._ I am talking.

_Sy._ What! By yourself?

_Ge._ As you see.

_Sy._ It may be you are talking to yourself, and then you ought to see
to it that you talk to an honest Man.

_Ge._ Nay, I am conversing with a very facetious Companion.

_Sy._ With whom?

_Ge._ With _Apuleius_.

_Sy._ That I think you are always doing, but the Muses love
Intermission; you study continually.

_Ge._ I am never tired with Study.

_Sy._ It may be so, but yet you ought to set Bounds; though Study ought
not to be omitted, yet it ought sometimes to be intermitted; Studies are
not to be quite thrown aside, yet they ought for a While to be laid
aside; there is nothing pleasant that wants Variety; the seldomer
Pleasures are made use of the pleasanter they are. You do nothing else
but study. You are always studying. You are continually at your Books.
You read incessantly. You study Night and Day. You never are but a
studying. You are continually at your Study. You are always intent upon
your Books. You know no End of, nor set no Bound to Study. You give
yourself no Rest from your Studies. You allow yourself no Intermission
in, nor ever give over studying.

_Ge._ Very well! This is like you. You banter me as you use to do. You
make a Game of me. You joke upon me. You satyrize me. You treat me with
a Sneer. I see how you jeer me well enough. You only jest with me. I am
your Laughing-stock. I am laugh'd at by you. You make yourself merry
with me. You make a meer Game and Sport of me. Why don't you put me on
Asses Ears too? My Books, that are all over dusty and mouldy, shew how
hard a Studier I am.

_Sy._ Let me die if I don't speak my Mind. Let me perish if I don't
speak as I think. Let me not live if I dissemble. I speak what I think.
I speak the Truth. I speak seriously. I speak from my Heart. I speak
nothing but what I think.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Why don't you come to see me_?

_Ge._ What's the Matter you ha'n't come to see me all this While? What's
the Matter you visit me so seldom? What has happen'd to you that you
never have come at me for so long Time? Why are you so seldom a Visitor?
What is the Meaning that you never come near one for so long Time? What
has hinder'd you that you have come to see me no oftner? What has
prevented you that you have never let me have the Opportunity of seeing
you for this long Time?

       *       *       *       *       *

_I could not by Reason of Business._

_Sy._ I had not Leisure. I would have come, but I could not for my
Business. Business would not permit me hitherto to come to see you.
These Floods of Business that I have been plung'd in would not permit me
to pay my Respects to you. I have been so busy I could not come. I have
been harass'd with so many vexatious Matters that I could not get an
Opportunity. I have been so taken up with a troublesome Business that I
could never have so much Command of myself. You must impute it to my
Business, and not to me. It was not for Want of Will, but Opportunity. I
could not get Time till now. I have had no Time till now. I never have
had any Leisure till this Time. I have been so ill I could not come. I
could not come, the Weather has been so bad.

_Ge._ Indeed I accept of your Excuse, but upon this Condition, that you
don't make use of it often. If Sickness has been the Occasion of your
Absence, your Excuse is juster than I wish it had been; I'll excuse you
upon this Condition, that you make Amends for your Omission by Kindness,
if you make up your past Neglect by your future frequent Visits.

_Sy._ You don't esteem these common Formalities. Our Friendship is more
firm than to need to be supported by such vulgar Ceremonies. He visits
often enough that loves constantly.

_Ge._ A Mischief take those Incumbrances that have depriv'd us of your
Company. I can't tell what to wish for bad enough to those Affairs that
have envy'd us the Company of so good a Friend. A Mischief take that
Fever that hath tormented us so long with the Want of you. I wish that
Fever may perish, so thou thyself wert but safe.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Of Commanding and Promising._


_Ja._ I pray you take a special Care of this Matter. I earnestly intreat
you to take Care of this Affair. If you have any Respect for me, pray
manage this Affair diligently. Pray be very careful in this Affair. Pray
take a great Deal of Care about this Business for my Sake. If you are
indeed the Man I always took you to be, let me see in this Concern what
Esteem you have for me.

_Sa._ Say no more, I'll dispatch this Affair for you, and that very
shortly too. I can't indeed warrant you what the Event shall be, but
this I promise you, that neither Fidelity nor Industry shall be wanting
in me. I will take more Care of it than if it were mine own Affair; tho'
indeed that which is my Friend's I account as my own. I will so manage
the Affair, that whatever is wanting, Care and Diligence shall not be
wanting. Take you no Care about the Matter, I'll do it for you. Do you
be easy, I'll take the Management of it upon myself. I am glad to have
an Opportunity put into my Hand of shewing you my Respect. I do not
promise you in Words, but I will in Reality perform whatsoever is to be
expected from a real Friend, and one that heartily wishes you well. I
won't bring you into a Fool's Paradise. I'll do that which shall give
you Occasion to say you trusted the Affair to a Friend.

       *       *       *       *       *


_Sa._ The Matter succeeded better than I could have expected. Fortune
has favour'd both our Wishes. If Fortune had been your Wife she could
not have been more observant to you. Your Affair went on bravely with
Wind and Tide. Fortune has out-done our very Wishes. You must needs be a
Favourite of Fortune, to whom all Things fall out just as you would have
them. I have obtain'd more than I could presume to wish for. This
Journey has been perform'd from Beginning to End with all the fortunate
Circumstances imaginable. The whole Affair has fallen out according to
our Wish. This Chance fell out happily for us. I think we have been
lucky to Admiration, that what has been so imprudently enterpriz'd, has
so happily succeeded.

       *       *       *       *       *

_A giving one Thanks._

_Ja._ Indeed I thank you, and shall thank you heartily as long as I live
for that good Service you have done me. I can scarce give you the Thanks
you deserve, and shall never be able to make you Amends. I see how much
I am oblig'd to you for your Kindness to me. Indeed I don't wonder at
it, for it is no new Thing, and in that I am the more oblig'd to you. My
_Sapidus_ I do, and it is my Duty to love you heartily for your Kindness
to me. In as much as in this Affair you have not acted the Part of a
Courtier, I do, and always shall thank you. I respect you, and thank
you, that you made my Affair your Care. You have oblig'd me very much by
that Kindness of yours. It is a great Obligation upon me that you have
manag'd my Concern with Fidelity. Of all your Kindnesses, which are
indeed a great many, you have shew'd me none has oblig'd me more than
this. I cannot possibly make you a Return according to your Merit Too
much Ceremony between you and I is unnecessary, but that which is in my
Power I'll do. I'll be thankful as long as I live. I confess myself
highly oblig'd to you for your good Service. For this Kindness I owe you
more than I am able to pay. By this good Office you have attach'd me to
you so firmly, that I can never be able to disengage myself. You have
laid me under so many and great Obligations, that I shall never be able
to get out of your Debt. No Slave was ever so engag'd in Duty to his
Master as you have engag'd me by this Office. You have by this good Turn
brought me more into your Debt than ever I shall be able to pay. I am
oblig'd to you upon many Accounts, but upon none more than upon this.
Thanks are due for common Kindness, but this is beyond the Power of
Thanks to retaliate.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Answer._

_Sa._ Forbear these Compliments, the Friendship between you and I is
greater than that we should thank one another for any Service done. I
have not bestow'd this Kindness upon you, but only made a Return of it
to you. I think the Amends is sufficiently made, if my most sedulous
Endeavours are acceptable to you. There is no Reason you should thank me
for repaying this small Kindness, for those uncommon Kindnesses I have
so often receiv'd from you. Indeed I merit no Praise, but should have
been the most ungrateful Man in the World if I had been wanting to my
Friend. Whatsoever I have, and whatsoever I can do, you may call as
much your own as any Thing that you have the best Title to. I look upon
it as a Favour that you take my Service kindly. You pay so great an
Acknowledgment to me for so small a Kindness, as tho' I did not owe you
much greater. He serves himself that serves his Friend. He that serves a
Friend does not give away his Service, but puts it out to Interest. If
you approve of my Service, pray make frequent Use of it; then I shall
think my Service is acceptable, if as often as you have Occasion for it
you would not request but command it.



     _This Colloquy treats chiefly of three Things, 1. Of the
     superstitious Pilgrimages of some Persons to_ Jerusalem,
     _and other holy Places, under Pretence of Devotion. 2.
     That Vows are not to be made rashly over a Pot of Ale:
     but that Time, Expence and Pains ought to be employ d
     otherwise, in such Matters as have a real Tendency to
     promote trite Piety. 3. Of the Insignificancy and
     Absurdity of Popish Indulgencies_.


_ARNOLDUS._ O! _Cornelius_, well met heartily, you have been lost this
hundred Years.

_Co._ What my old Companion _Arnoldus_, the Man I long'd to see most of
any Man in the World! God save you.

_Ar._ We all gave thee over for lost. But prithee where hast been
rambling all this While?

_Co._ In t'other World.

_Ar._ Why truly a Body would think so by thy slovenly Dress, lean
Carcase, and ghastly Phyz.

_Co._ Well, but I am just come from _Jerusalem_, not from the _Stygian_

_Ar._ What Wind blew thee thither?

_Co._ What Wind blows a great many other Folks thither?

_Ar._ Why Folly, or else I am mistaken.

_Co._ However, I am not the only Fool in the World.

_Ar._ What did you hunt after there?

_Co._ Why Misery.

_Ar._ You might have found that nearer Home. But did you meet with any
Thing worth seeing there?

_Co._ Why truly, to speak ingenuously, little or nothing. They shew us
some certain Monuments of Antiquity, which I look upon to be most of 'em
Counterfeits, and meer Contrivances to bubble the Simple and Credulous.
I don't think they know precisely the Place that _Jerusalem_ anciently
stood in.

_Ar._ What did you see then?

_Co._ A great deal of Barbarity every where.

_Ar._ But I hope you are come back more holy than you went.

_Co._ No indeed, rather ten Times worse.

_Ar._ Well, but then you are richer?

_Co._ Nay, rather poorer than _Job_.

_Ar._ But don't you repent you have taken so long a Journey to so little

_Co._ No, nor I am not asham'd neither, I have so many Companions of my
Folly to keep me in Countenance; and as for Repentance, it's too late

_Ar._ What! do you get no Good then by so dangerous a Voyage?

_Co._ Yes, a great Deal.

_Ar._ What is it?

_Co._ Why, I shall live more pleasantly for it for Time to come.

_Ar._ What, because you'll have the Pleasure of telling old Stories when
the Danger is over?

_Co._ That is something indeed, but that is not all.

_Ar._ Is there any other Advantage in it besides that?

_Co._ Yes, there is.

_Ar._ What is it? Pray tell me.

_Co._ Why, I can divert myself and Company, as oft as I have a Mind to
it, in romancing upon my Adventures over a Pot of Ale, or a good Dinner.

_Ar._ Why, truly that is something, as you say.

_Co._ And besides, I shall take as much Pleasure myself when I hear
others romancing about Things they never heard nor saw; nay, and that
they do with that Assurance, that when they are telling the most
ridiculous and impossible Things in Nature, they persuade themselves
they are speaking Truth all the While.

_Ar._ This is a wonderful Pleasure. Well then, you have not lost all
your Cost and Labour, as the Saying is.

_Co._ Nay, I think this is something better still than what they do,
who, for the sake of little Advance-money, list themselves for Soldiers
in the Army, which is the Nursery of all Impiety.

_Ar._ But it is an ungentleman-like Thing to take Delight in telling

_Co._ But it is a little more like a Gentleman than either to delight
others, or be delighted in slandering other Persons, or lavishing away a
Man's Time or Substance in Gaming.

_Ar._ Indeed I must be of your Mind in that.

_Co._ But then there is another Advantage.

_Ar._ What is that?

_Co._ If there shall be any Friend that I love very well, who shall
happen to be tainted with this Phrensy, I will advise him to stay at
Home; as your Mariners that have been cast away, advise them that are
going to Sea, to steer clear of the Place where they miscarried.

_Ar._ I wish you had been my Moniter in Time.

_Co._ What Man! Have you been infected with this Disease too?

_Ar._ Yes, I have been at _Rome_ and _Compostella_.

_Co._ Good God! how I am pleas'd that you have been as great a Fool as
I! What _Pallas_ put that into your Head?

_Ar._ No _Pallas_, but _Moria_ rather, especially when I left at Home a
handsome young Wife, several Children, and a Family, who had nothing in
the World to depend upon for a Maintenance but my daily Labour.

_Co._ Sure it must be some important Reason that drew you away from all
these engaging Relations. Prithee tell me what it was.

_Ar._ I am asham'd to tell it.

_Co._ You need not be asham'd to tell me, who, you know, have been sick
of the same Distemper.

_Ar._ There was a Knot of Neighbours of us drinking together, and when
the Wine began to work in our Noddles, one said he had a Mind to make a
Visit to St. _James_, and another to St. _Peter_; presently there was
one or two that promis'd to go with them, till at last it was concluded
upon to go all together; and I, that I might not seem a disagreeable
Companion, rather than break good Company, promised to go too. The next
Question was, whether we should go to _Rome_ or _Compostella_? Upon the
Debate it was determin'd that we should all, God willing, set out the
next Day for both Places.

_Co._ A grave Decree, fitter to be writ in Wine than engrav'd in Brass.

_Ar._ Presently a Bumper was put about to our good Journey, which when
every Man had taken off in his Turn, the Vote passed into an Act, and
became inviolable.

_Co._ A new Religion! But did you all come safe back?

_Ar._ All but three, one dy'd by the Way, and gave us in Charge to give
his humble Service to _Peter_ and _James_; another dy'd at _Rome_, who
bad us remember him to his Wife and Children; and the third we left at
_Florence_ dangerously ill, and I believe he is in Heaven before now.

_Co._ Was he so good a Man then?

_Ar._ The veriest Droll in Nature.

_Co._ Why do you think he is in Heaven then?

_Ar._ Because he had a whole Satchel full of large Indulgencies.

_Co._ I understand you, but it is a long Way to Heaven, and a very
dangerous one too, as I am told, by reason of the little Thieves that
infest the middle Region of the Air.

_Ar._ That's true, but he was well fortify'd with Bulls.

_Co._ What Language were they written in?

_Ar._ In _Latin_.

_Co._ And will they secure him?

_Ar._ Yes, unless he should happen upon some Spirit that does not
understand _Latin_, in that Case he must go back to _Rome_, and get a
new Passport.

_Co._ Do they sell Bulls there to dead Men too?

_Ar._ Yes.

_Co._ But by the Way, let me advise you to have a Care what you say, for
now there are a great many Spies abroad.

_Ar._ I don't speak slightingly of Indulgencies themselves, but I laugh
at the Folly of my fuddling Companion, who tho' he was the greatest
Trifler that ever was born, yet chose rather to venture the whole Stress
of his Salvation upon a Skin of Parchment than upon the Amendment of his
Life. But when shall we have that merry Bout you spoke of just now?

_Co._ When Opportunity offers we'll set a Time for a small Collation,
and invite some of our Comrades, there we will tell Lies, who can lye
fastest, and divert one another with Lies till we have our Bellies full.

_Ar._ Come on, a Match.



     _In this Colloquy those Persons are reprehended that run
     to and again to_ Rome _hunting after Benefices, and that
     oftentimes with the Hazard of the Corruption of their
     Morals, and the Loss of their Money. The Clergy are
     admonished to divert themselves with reading of good
     Books, rather than with a Concubine. Jocular Discourse
     concerning a long Nose_.


_PAM._ Either my Sight fails me, or this is my old Pot-Companion

_Co._ No, no, your Eyes don't deceive you at all, you see a Companion
that is yours heartily. Nobody ever thought to have seen you again, you
have been gone so many Years, and no Body knew what was become of you.
But whence come you from? Prithee tell me.

_Pa._ From the _Antipodes_.

_Co._ Nay, but I believe you are come from the fortunate Islands.

_Pa._ I am glad you know your old Companion, I was afraid I should come
home as _Ulysses_ did.

_Co._ Why pray? After what Manner did he come Home?

_Pa._ His own Wife did not know him; only his Dog, being grown very old,
acknowledg'd his Master, by wagging his Tail.

_Co._ How many Years was he from Home?

_Pa._ Twenty.

_Co._ You have been absent more than twenty Years, and yet I knew your
Face again. But who tells that Story of _Ulysses_?

_Pa._ _Homer._

_Co._ He? They say he's the Father of all fabulous Stories. It may be
his Wife had gotten herself a Gallant in the mean time, and therefore
did not know her own _Ulysses_.

_Pa._ No, nothing of that, she was one of the chastest Women in the
World. But _Pallas_ had made _Ulysses_ look old, that he might not be

_Co._ How came he to be known at last?

_Pa._ By a little Wart that he had upon one of his Toes. His Nurse, who
was now a very old Woman, took Notice of that as she was washing his

_Co._ A curious old Hagg. Well then, do you admire that I know you that
have so remarkable a Nose.

_Pa._ I am not at all sorry for this Nose.

_Co._ No, nor have you any Occasion to be sorry for having a Thing that
is fit for so many Uses.

_Pa._ For what Uses?

_Co._ First of all, it will serve instead of an Extinguisher, to put out

_Pa._ Go on.

_Co._ Again, if you want to draw any Thing out of a deep Pit, it will
serve instead of an Elephant's Trunk.

_Pa._ O wonderful.

_Co._ If your Hands be employ'd, it will serve instead of a Pin.

_Pa._ Is it good for any Thing else?

_Co._ If you have no Bellows, it will serve to blow the Fire.

_Pa._ This is very pretty; have you any more of it?

_Co._ If the Light offends you when you are writing, it will serve for
an Umbrella.

_Pa._ Ha, ha, ha! Have you any Thing more to say?

_Co._ In a Sea-fight it will serve for a Grappling-hook.

_Pa._ What will it serve for in a Land-fight?

_Co._ Instead of a Shield.

_Pa._ And what else?

_Co._ It will serve for a Wedge to cleave Wood withal.

_Pa._ Well said.

_Co._ If you act the Part of a Herald, it will be for a Trumpet; if you
sound an Alarm, a Horn; if you dig, a Spade; if you reap, a Sickle; if
you go to Sea, an Anchor; in the Kitchen it will serve for a Flesh-hook;
and in Fishing a Fish-hook.

_Pa._ I am a happy Fellow indeed, I did not know I carry'd about me a
Piece of Houshold Stuff that would serve for so many Uses.

_Co._ But in the mean Time, in what Corner of the Earth have you hid
yourself all this While?

_Pa._ In _Rome_.

_Co._ But is it possible that in so publick a Place no Body should know
you were alive?

_Pa._ Good Men are no where in the World so much _incognito_ as there,
so that in the brightest Day you shall scarce see one in a throng'd

_Co._ Well, but then you're come home loaden with Benefices.

_Pa._ Indeed I hunted after them diligently, but I had no Success; for
the Way of Fishing there is according to the Proverb, with a golden

_Co._ That's a foolish Way of Fishing.

_Pa._ No Matter for that, some Folks find it a very good Way.

_Co._ Are they not the greatest Fools in Nature that change Gold for

_Pa._ But don't you know that there are Veins of Gold in holy Lead?

_Co._ What then! Are you come back nothing but a _Pamphagus_?

_Pa._ No.

_Co._ What then, pray?

_Pa._ A ravenous Wolf.

_Co._ But they make a better Voyage of it, that return laden with
Budgets full of Benefices. Why had you rather have a Benefice than a

_Pa._ Because I love to live at Ease. I love to live a pleasant Life.

_Co._ But in my Opinion they live the most pleasant Life that have at
Home a pretty Girl, that they may embrace as often as they have a Mind
to it.

_Pa._ And you may add this to it, sometimes when they have no Mind to
it. I love a continual Pleasure; he that marries a Wife is happy for a
Month, but he that gets a fat Benefice lives merrily all his Life.

_Co._ But Solitude is so melancholy a Life, that _Adam_, in _Paradise_
could not have liv'd happily unless God had given him an _Eve_.

_Pa._ He'll ne'er need to want an _Eve_ that has gotten a good Benefice.

_Co._ But that Pleasure can't really be call'd Pleasure that carries an
ill Name and bad Conscience with it.

_Pa._ You say true, and therefore I design to divert the Tediousness of
Solitude by a Conversation with Books.

_Co._ They are the pleasantest Companions in the World. But do you
intend to return to your Fishing again?

_Pa._ Yes, I would, if I could get a fresh Bait.

_Co._ Would you have a golden one or a silver one?

_Pa._ Either of them.

_Co._ Be of good Cheer, your Father will supply you.

_Pa._ He'll part with nothing; and especially he'll not trust me again,
when he comes to understand I have spent what I had to no Purpose.

_Co._ That's the Chance of the Dice.

_Pa._ But he don't like those Dice.

_Co._ If he shall absolutely deny you, I'll shew you where you may have
as much as you please.

_Pa._ You tell me good News indeed, come shew it me, my Heart leaps for

_Co._ It is here hard by.

_Pa._ Why, have you gotten a Treasure?

_Co._ If I had, I would have it for myself, not for you.

_Pa._ If I could but get together 100 Ducats I should be in Hopes again.

_Co._ I'll shew you where you may have 100,000.

_Pa._ Prithee put me out of my Pain then, and do not teaze me to Death.
Tell me where I may have it.

_Co._ From the _Asse Budæi_, there you may find a great many Ten
Thousands, whether you'd have it Gold or Silver.

_Pa._ Go and be hang'd with your Banter, I'll pay you what I owe you out
of that Bank.

_Co._ Ay, so you shall, but it shall be what I lend you out of it.

_Pa._ I know your waggish Tricks well enough.

_Co._ I'm not to be compar'd to you for that.

_Pa._ Nay, you are the veriest Wag in Nature, you are nothing but
Waggery; you make a Jest of a serious Matter. In this Affair it is far
easier Matter to teaze me than it is to please me. The Matter is of too
great a Consequence to be made a Jest on. If you were in my Case you
would not be so gamesome; you make a mere Game of me; you game and
banter me. You joke upon me in a Thing that is not a joking Matter.

_Co._ I don't jeer you, I speak what I think. Indeed I do not laugh, I
speak my Mind. I speak seriously. I speak from my Heart. I speak
sincerely. I speak the Truth.

_Pa._ So may your Cap stand always upon your Head, as you speak
sincerely. But do I stand loitering here, and make no haste Home to see
how all Things go there?

_Co._ You'll find a great many Things new.

_Pa._ I believe I shall; but I wish I may find all Things as I would
have them.

_Co._ We may all wish so if we will, but never any Body found it so yet.

_Pa._ Our Rambles will do us both this Good, that we shall like Home the
better for Time to come.

_Co._ I can't tell that, for I have seen some that have play'd the same
Game over and over again; if once this Infection seizes a Person he
seldom gets rid of it.



     _The wicked Life of Soldiers is here reprehended, and
     shewn to be very miserable: That War is Confusion, and a
     Sink of all manner of Vices, in as much as in it there is
     no Distinction made betwixt Things sacred and profane.
     The Hope of Plunder allures many to become Soldiers. The
     Impieties of a Military Life are here laid open, by this
     Confession of a Soldier, that Youth may be put out of
     Conceit of going into the Army._


_Hanno._ How comes it about that you that went away a _Mercury_, come
back a _Vulcan_?

_Thr._ What do you talk to me of your _Mercuries_ and your _Vulcans_

_Ha._ Because you seem'd to be ready to fly when you went away, but
you're come limping Home.

_Thr._ I'm come back like a Soldier then.

_Ha._ You a Soldier, that would out-run a Stag if an Enemy were at your

_Thr._ The Hope of Booty made me valiant.

_Ha._ Well, have you brought Home a good Deal of Plunder then?

_Thr._ Empty Pockets.

_Ha._ Then you were the lighter for travelling.

_Thr._ But I was heavy loaden with Sin.

_Ha._ That's heavy Luggage indeed, if the Prophet says right, who calls
Sin Lead.

_Thr._ I have seen and had a Hand in more Villanies this Campaign than
in the whole Course of my Life before.

_Ha._ How do you like a Soldier's Life?

_Thr._ There is no Course of Life in the. World more wicked or more

_Ha._ What then must be in the Minds of those People, that for the Sake
of a little Money, and some out of Curiosity, make as much Haste to a
Battel as to a Banquet?

_Thr._ In Truth, I can think no other but they are possess'd; for if the
Devil were not in them they would never anticipate their Fate.

_Ha._ So one would think, for if you'd put 'em upon any honest Business,
they'll scarce stir a Foot in it for any Money. But tell me, how went
the Battel? Who got the better on't?

_Thr._ There was such a Hallooing, Hurly-burly, Noise of Guns, Trumpets
and Drums, Neighing of Horses, and Shouting of Men, that I was so far
from knowing what others were a doing, that I scarcely knew where I was

_Ha._ How comes it about then that others, after a Fight is over, do
paint you out every Circumstance so to the Life, and tell you what such
an Officer said, and what t'other did, as tho' they had been nothing but
Lookers on all the Time, and had been every where at the same Time?

_Thr._ It is my Opinion that they lye confoundedly. I can tell you what
was done in my own Tent, but as to what was done in the Battel, I know
nothing at all of that.

_Ha._ Don't you know how you came to be lame neither?

_Thr._ Scarce that upon my Honour, but I suppose my Knee was hurt by a
Stone, or a Horse-heel, or so.

_Ha._ Well, but I can tell you.

_Thr._ You tell me? Why, has any Body told you?

_Ha._ No, but I guess.

_Thr._ Tell me then.

_Ha._ When you were running away in a Fright, you fell down and hit it
against a Stone.

_Thr._ Let me die if you han't hit the Nail on the Head.

_Ha._ Go, get you Home, and tell your Wife of your Exploits.

_Thr._ She'll read me a Juniper-Lecture for coming Home in such a

_Ha._ But what Restitution will you make for what you have stolen?

_Thr._ That's made already.

_Ha._ To whom?

_Thr._ Why, to Whores, Sutlers, and Gamesters.

_Ha._ That's like a Soldier for all the World, it's but just that what's
got over the Devil's Back should be spent under his Belly.

_Ha._ But I hope you have kept your Fingers all this While from

_Thr._ There's nothing sacred in Hostility, there we neither spare
private Houses nor Churches.

_Ha._ How will you make Satisfaction?

_Thr._ They say there is no Satisfaction to be made for what is done in
War, for all Things are lawful there.

_Ha._ You mean by the Law of Arms, I suppose?

_Thr._ You are right.

_Ha._ But that Law is the highest Injustice. It was not the Love of your
Country, but the Love of Booty that made you a Soldier.

_Thr._ I confess so, and I believe very few go into the Army with any
better Design.

_Ha._ It is indeed some Excuse to be mad with the greater Part of

_Thr._ I have heard a Parson say in his Pulpit that War was lawful.

_Ha._ Pulpits indeed are the Oracles of Truth. But War may be lawful for
a Prince, and yet not so for you.

_Thr._ I have heard that every Man must live by his Trade.

_Ha._ A very honourable Trade indeed to burn Houses, rob Churches,
ravish Nuns, plunder the Poor, and murder the Innocent!

_Thr._ Butchers are hired to kill Beasts; and why is our Trade found
Fault with who are hired to kill Men?

_Ha._ But was you never thoughtful what should become of your Soul if
you happen'd to be kill'd in the Battel?

_Thr._ Not very much; I was very well satisfied in my Mind, having once
for all commended myself to St. _Barbara_.

_Ha._ And did she take you under her Protection?

_Thr._ I fancied so, for methought she gave me a little Nod.

_Ha._ What Time was it? In the Morning?

_Thr._ No, no, 'twas after Supper.

_Ha._ And by that Time I suppose the Trees seem'd to walk too?

_Thr._ How this Man guesses every Thing! But St. _Christopher_ was the
Saint I most depended on, whose Picture I had always in my Eye.

_Ha._ What in your Tent?

_Thr._ We had drawn him with Charcoal upon our Sail-cloth.

_Thr._ Then to be sure that _Christopher_ the Collier was a sure Card to
trust to? But without jesting, I don't see how you can expect to be
forgiven all these Villanies, unless you go to _Rome_.

_Thr._ Yes, I can, I know a shorter Way than that.

_Ha._ What Way is that?

_Thr._ I'll go to the _Dominicans_, and there I can do my Business with
the Commissaries for a Trifle.

_Ha._ What, for Sacrilege?

_Thr._ Ay, if I had robb'd Christ himself, and cut off his Head
afterwards, they have Pardons would reach it, and Commissions large
enough to compound for it.

_Ha._ That is well indeed, if God should ratify your Composition.

_Thr._ Nay, I am rather afraid the Devil should not ratify it; God is of
a forgiving Nature.

_Ha._ What Priest will you get you?

_Thr._ One that I know has but little Modesty or Honesty.

_Ha._ Like to like. And when that's over, you'll go strait away to the
Communion, like a good Christian, will you not?

_Thr._ Why should I not? For after I have once discharg'd the Jakes of
my Sins into his Cowl, and unburden'd myself of my Luggage, let him look
to it that absolv'd me.

_Ha._ But how can you be sure that he does absolve you?

_Thr._ I know that well enough.

_Ha._ How do you know it?

_Thr._ Because he lays his Hand upon my Head and mutters over something,
I don't know what.

_Ha._ What if he should give you all your Sins again when he lays his
Hand upon your Head, and these should be the Words he mutters to
himself? _I absolve thee from all thy good Deeds, of which I find few or
none in thee; I restore thee to thy wonted Manners, and leave thee just
as I found thee_.

_Thr._ Let him look to what he says, it is enough for me that I believe
I am absolv'd.

_Ha._ But you run a great Hazard by that Belief, for perhaps that will
not be Satisfaction to God, to whom thou art indebted.

_Thr._ Who a Mischief put you in my Way to disturb my Conscience, which
was very quiet before?

_Ha._ Nay, I think it is a very happy Encounter to meet a Friend that
gives good Advice.

_Thr._ I can't tell how good it is, but I am sure it is not very



     _This Colloquy treats of the Commands of a Master, and
     the Business of a Servant, 1. The Master calls up his
     sleepy Servant, commands him to set the House to rights;
     the Servant answers again, that he speaks not a Word
     about Dinner, &c. 2. Of sending him on various Errands.
     3. Concerning Riding_.

1. _Of calling up the Sleeper._


_RA._ Soho, soho, Rascal, I am hoarse a bawling to you, and you lye
snoring still, you'll sleep for ever I think in my Conscience; either
get up presently or I'll rouze you with a good Cudgel. When will you
have slept out your Yesterday's Debauch? Are you not asham'd, you sleepy
Sot, to lye a-bed till this time of Day? Good Servants rise as soon as
it is Day, and take Care to get every Thing in order before their Master
rises. How loth this Drone is to leave his warm Nest! he is a whole Hour
a scratching, and stretching, and yawning.

_Sy._ It is scarce Day yet.

_Ra._ I believe not to you; it is Midnight yet to your Eyes.

_Sy._ What do you want me to do?

_Ra._ Make the Fire burn, brush my Cap and Cloke, clean my Shoes and
Galloshoes, take my Stockings and turn them inside out, and brush them
well, first within, and then without, burn a little Perfume to sweeten
the Air, light a Candle, give me a clean Shirt, air it well before a
clear Fire.

_Sy._ It shall be done Sir.

_Ra._ But make Haste then, all this ought to have been done before now.

_Sy._ I do make Haste Sir.

_Ra._ I see what Haste you make, you are never the forwarder, you go a
Snail's Gallop.

_Sy._ Sir, I cannot do two Things at once.

_Ra._ You Scoundrel, do you speak Sentences too? Take away the
Chamber-Pot, lay the Bed-Clothes to Rights, draw back the Curtains,
sweep the House, sweep the Chamber-floor, fetch me some Water to wash my
Hands. What are you a sliving about you Drone? You are a Year a lighting
a Candle.

_Sy._ I can't find a Spark of Fire.

_Ra._ Is it so you rak'd it up last Night?

_Sy._ I have no Bellows.

_Ra._ How the Knave thwarts me, as if he that has you can want Bellows.

_Sy._ What an imperious Master have I gotten! Ten of the nimblest
Fellows in the World are scarce sufficient to perform his Orders.

_Ra._ What's that you say you slow-Back?

_Sy._ Nothing at all, Sir.

_Ra._ No, Sirrah, did I not hear you mutter?

_Sy._ I was saying my Prayers.

_Ra._ Ay, I believe so, but it was the Lord's-Prayer backwards then.
Pray, what was that you were chattering about Imperiousness?

_Sy._ I was wishing you might be an Emperor.

_Ra._ And I wish you may be made a Man of a Stump of a Tree. Wait upon
me to Church, and then run Home and make the Bed, and put every Thing in
its Place; let the House be set to Rights from Top to Bottom, rub the
Chamber-Pot, put these foul Things out of Sight, perhaps I may have
some Gentry come to pay me a Visit; if I find any Thing out of Order
I'll thresh you soundly.

_Sy._ I know your good Humour well enough in that Matter.

_Ra._ Then it behoves you to look about you, if you are wise.

_Sy._ But all this while here is not one Word about Dinner.

_Ra._ Out you Villain, one may see what your Mind runs on. I don't dine
at Home, therefore come to me a little before Ten a-Clock, that you may
wait upon me where I am to go to Dinner.

_Sy._ You have taken Care of yourself, but there is not a Bit of Bread
for me to put into my Head.

_Ra._ If you have nothing to eat, you have something to hunger after.

_Sy._ But Fasting won't fill the Belly.

_Ra._ There is Bread for you.

_Sy._ There is so, but it is as black as my Hat, and as coarse as the
Bran itself.

_Ra._ You dainty chap'd Fellow, you ought to be fed with Hay, if you had
such Commons as you deserve. What, I warrant you, Mr. Ass, you must be
fed with Plumb Cakes, must you? If you can't eat dry Bread, take a Leek
to eat with it, or an Onion, if you like that better.

       *       *       *       *       *

_2. Of sending about various Businesses._

_Ra._ You must go to Market.

_Sy._ What, so far?

_Ra._ It is not a Stone's Throw off, but it seems two Miles to such an
idle Fellow as you; but however, I'll save you as much Labour as I can,
you shall dispatch several Businesses in one Errand; count 'em upon your
Fingers, that mayn't forget any of 'em: First of all step to the
Salesman, and bring my water'd Camblet Doublet if it be done; then go
and enquire for _Cornelius_ the Waggoner, he's commonly at the Sign of
the _Roe-buck_, he uses that House, ask him if he has any Letters for
me, and what Day he sets out on his Journey; then go to the Woollen
Draper, and tell him from me, not to be uneasy, that I have not sent him
the Money at the Time appointed, for he shall have it in a very little

_Sy._ When? To morrow come never?

_Ra._ Do you grin you Pimp? Yes, before the first of _March_: And as you
come back, turn on the Left-hand, and go to the Bookseller, and enquire
of him, if there be any new Books come out of _Germany_, learn what they
are, and the Price of them; then desire _Goclenius_, to do me the Honour
to come to Supper with me, tell him I must sup by myself if he don't.

_Sy._ What do you invite Guests too? You han't Victuals enough in the
House to give a Mouse a Meal.

_Ra._ And when you have done all these, go to the Market, and buy a
Shoulder of Mutton, and get it nicely roasted: Do you hear this?

_Sy._ I hear more than I like to hear.

_Ra._ But take you Care you remember 'em all.

_Sy._ I shall scarce be able to remember half of 'em.

_Ra._ What do you stand loytering here, you idle Knave? You might have
been back before now.

_Sy._ What one Person in the World can do all these? Truly I must wait
upon him out, and attend upon him home; I'm his Swabber, his
Chamberlain, his Footman, his Clerk, his Butler, his Book-keeper, his
Brawl, his Errand-boy, and last of all he does not think I have Business
enough upon my Hands, unless I am his Cook too.

       *       *       *       *       *

_3. Concerning Riding._

_Ra._ Bring me my Boots, I am to ride out.

_Sy._ Here they are, Sir.

_Ra._ You have look'd after them bravely, they are all over mouldy with
lying by; I believe they han't been clean'd nor greased this twelve
Months Day; they are so dry, they chap again; wipe them with a wet
Cloth, and liquor them well before the Fire, and chafe them till they
grow soft.

_Sy._ It shall be done, Sir.

_Ra._ Where are my Spurs?

_Sy._ Here they are.

_Ra._ Ay, here they are indeed, but all eaten up with Rust. Where is my
Bridle and Saddle?

_Sy._ They are just by.

_Ra._ See that nothing is wanting or broken, or ready to break, that
nothing may be a Hinderance to us, when we are upon our Journey. Run to
the Sadlers, and get him to mend that Rein: When you come back, look
upon the Horses Feet, and Shoes, and see if there be any Nails wanting,
or loose. How lean and rough these Horses are! How often do you rub 'em
down, or kemb them in a Year?

_Sy._ I'm sure I do it every Day?

_Ra._ That may be seen, I believe they have not had a bit of Victuals
for three Days together.

_Sy._ Indeed they have, Sir.

_Ra._ You say so, but the Horses would tell me another Tale, if they
could but speak: Though indeed their Leanness speaks loud enough.

_Sy._ Indeed I take all the Care in the World of 'em.

_Ra._ How comes it about then, that they don't look as well as you do?

_Sy._ Because I don't eat Hay.

_Ra._ You have this to do still; make ready my Portmanteau quickly.

_Sy._ It shall be done.



     _The School-master's Instructions teach a Boy Modesty,
     Civility, and Manners becoming his Age, in what Posture
     he ought to stand while he talks to his Superiors;
     concerning Habit, Discourse, and Behaviour at Table and
     in School._

_The School-master and Boy._

_Sch._ You seem not to have been bred at Court, but in a Cow-stall; you
behave yourself so clownishly. A Gentleman ought to behave himself like
a Gentleman. As often or whenever any one that is your Superior speaks
to you, stand strait, pull off your Hat, and look neither doggedly,
surlily, saucily, malapertly, nor unsettledly, but with a staid, modest,
pleasant Air in your Countenance, and a bashful Look fix'd upon the
Person who speaks to you; your Feet set close one by t'other; your Hands
without Action: Don't stand titter, totter, first standing upon one
Foot, and then upon another, nor playing with your Fingers, biting your
Lip, scratching your Head, or picking your Ears: Let your Cloaths be put
on tight and neat, that your whole Dress, Air, Motion and Habit, may
bespeak a modest and bashful Temper.

_Bo._ What if I shall try, Sir?

_Ma._ Do so.

_Bo._ Is this right?

_Ma._ Not quite.

_Bo._ Must I do so?

_Ma._ That's pretty well.

_Bo._ Must I stand so?

_Ma._ Ay, that's very well, remember that Posture; don't be a Prittle
prattle, nor Prate apace, nor be a minding any Thing but what is said to
you. If you are to make an Answer, do it in few Words, and to the
Purpose, every now and then prefacing with some Title of Respect, and
sometimes use a Title of Honour, and now and then make a Bow, especially
when you have done speaking: Nor do you go away without asking Leave, or
being bid to go: Now come let me see how you can practise this. How long
have you been from Home?

_Bo._ Almost six Months.

_Ma._ You should have said, Sir.

_Bo._ Almost six Months, Sir.

_Ma._ Don't you long to see your Mother?

_Bo._ Yes, sometimes.

_Ma._ Have you a Mind to go to see her?

_Bo._ Yes, with your Leave, Sir.

_Ma._ Now you should have made a Bow; that's very well, remember to do
so; when you speak, don't speak fast, stammer, or speak in your Throat,
but use yourself to pronounce your Words distinctly and clearly. If you
pass by any ancient Person, a Magistrate, a Minister, or Doctor, or any
Person of Figure, be sure to pull off your Hat, and make your Reverence:
Do the same when you pass by any sacred Place, or the Image of the
Cross. When you are at a Feast, behave yourself chearfully, but always
so as to remember what becomes your Age: Serve yourself last; and if any
nice Bit be offer'd you, refuse it modestly; but if they press it upon
you, take it, and thank the Person, and cutting off a Bit of it, offer
the rest either to him that gave it you, or to him that sits next to
you. If any Body drinks to you merrily, thank him, and drink moderately.
If you don't care to drink, however, kiss the Cup. Look pleasantly upon
him that speaks to you; and be sure not to speak till you are spoken to.
If any Thing that is obscene be said, don't laugh at it, but keep your
Countenance, as though you did not understand it; don't reflect on any
Body, nor take place of any Body, nor boast of any Thing of your own,
nor undervalue any Thing of another Bodies. Be courteous to your
Companions that are your Inferiors; traduce no Body; don't be a Blab
with your Tongue, and by this Means you'll get a good Character, and
gain Friends without Envy. If the Entertainment shall be long, desire to
be excus'd, bid much good may it do the Guests, and withdraw from Table:
See that you remember these Things.

_Bo._ I'll do my Endeavour, Sir. Is there any Thing else you'd have me

_Ma._ Now go to your Books.

_Bo._ Yes, Sir.



     _The Boys sending_ Cocles _their Messenger to their
     Master, get Leave to go to Play; who shews that moderate
     Recreations are very necessary both for Mind and Body.
     The Master admonishes them that they keep together at
     Play, &c. 1. Of playing at Stool-ball: Of chusing
     Partners. 2. Of playing at Bowls, the Orders of the
     Bowling-Green. 3. Of playing at striking a Ball through
     an Iron Ring. 4. Of Dancing, that they should not dance
     presently after Dinner: Of playing at Leap-frog: Of
     Running: Of Swimming._


_Nic._ I have had a great Mind a good While, and this fine Weather is a
great Invitation to go to Play.

_Jer._ These indeed invite you, but the Master don't.

_Nic._ We must get some Spokesman that may extort a Holiday from him.

_Jer._ You did very well to say extort, for you may sooner wrest
_Hercules's_ Club out of his Hands than get a Play-day from him; but
Time was when Nobody lov'd Play better than he did.

_Nic._ That is true, but he has forgot a great While ago since he was a
Boy himself; he is as ready and free at whipping as any Body, but as
sparing and backward at this as any Body in the World.

_Jer._ We must pick out a Messenger that is not very bashful that won't
be presently dashed out of Countenance by his surly Words.

_Nic._ Let who will go for me, I had rather go without Play than ask
him for it.

_Jer._ There is Nobody fitter for this Business than _Cocles._

_Nic._ Nobody in the World, he has a good bold Face of his own, and
Tongue enough; and besides, he knows his Humour too.

_Jer._ Go, _Cocles_, you will highly oblige us all.

_Coc._ Well, I'll try; but if I do not succeed, do not lay the Fault on
your Spokesman.

_Jer._ You promise well for it, I am out in my Opinion if you don't get
Leave. Go on Intreater, and return an Obtainer.

_Coc._ I'll go, may _Mercury_ send me good Luck of my Errand. God save
you, Sir.

_Ma._ What does this idle Pack want?

_Coc._ Your Servant, Reverend Master.

_Ma._ This is a treacherous Civility! I am well enough already. Tell me
what 'tis you came for.

_Coc._ Your whole School beg a Play-day.

_Ma._ You do nothing else but play, even without Leave.

_Coc._ Your Wisdom knows that moderate Play quickens the Wit, as you
have taught us out of _Quintilian_.

_Ma._ Very well, how well you can remember what's to your purpose? They
that labour hard, had need of some Relaxation: But you that study idly,
and play laboriously, had more need of a Curb, than a Snaffle.

_Coc._ If any Thing has been wanting in Times past, we'll labour to make
it up by future Diligence.

_Ma._ O rare Makers up! who will be Sureties for the performing this

_Coc._ I'll venture my Head upon it.

_Ma._ Nay, rather venture your Tail. I know there is but little
Dependance upon your Word; but however, I'll try this Time what Credit
may be given to you; if you deceive me now, you shall never obtain any
Thing from me again. Let 'em play; but let them keep together in the
Field, don't let them go a tippling or worse Exercises, and see they
come Home betimes, before Sun set.

_Coc._ We will, Sir, I have gotten Leave, but with much a do.

_Jer._ O brave Lad! we all love you dearly.

_Coc._ But we must be sure not to transgress our Orders, for if we do,
it will be all laid upon my Back; I have engaged for ye all, and if ye
do, I'll never be your Spokesman again.

_Jer._ We'll take Care: But what Play do you like best?

_Coc._ We'll talk of that when we come into the Fields.

       *       *       *       *       *

I. _Of playing at Ball._


_Nic._ No Play is better to exercise all Parts of the Body than
Stool-ball; but that's fitter for Winter than Summer.

_Jer._ There is no Time of the Year with us, but what's fit to play in.

_Nic._ We shall sweat less, if we play at Tennis.

_Jer._ Let's let Nets alone to Fishermen; it's prettier to catch it in
our Hands.

_Nic._ Well, come on, I don't much Matter; but how much shall we play

_Nic._ But I had rather spare my Corps than my Money.

_Jer._ And I value my Corps more than my Money: We must play for
something, or we shall never play our best.

_Nic._ You say true.

_Jer._ Which Hand soever shall get the first three Games, shall pay the
sixth Part of a Groat to the other; but upon Condition that what's won
shall be spent among all the Company alike.

_Nic._ Well, I like the Proposal; come done, let's chuse Hands; but we
are all so equally match'd, that it's no great Matter who and who's

_Jer._ You play a great Deal better than I.

_Nic._ But for all that, you have the better Luck.

_Jer._ Has Fortune anything to do at this Play?

_Nic._ She has to do everywhere.

_Jer._ Well, come let's toss up. O Boys, very well indeed. I have got
the Partners I would have.

_Nic._ And we like our Partners very well.

_Jer._ Come on, now for't, he that will win, must look to his Game. Let
every one stand to his Place bravely. Do you stand behind me ready to
catch the Ball, if it goes beyond me; do you mind there, and beat it
back when it comes from our Adversaries.

_Nic._ I'll warrant ye, I'll hit it if it comes near me.

_Jer._ Go on and prosper, throw up the Ball upon the House. He that
throws and do's not speak first shall lose his Cast.

_Nic._ Well, take it then.

_Jer._ Do you toss it; if you throw it beyond the Bounds, or short, or
over the House, it shall go for nothing, and we won't be cheated: And
truly you throw nastily. As you toss it, I'll give it you again; I'll
give you _a Rowland for an Oliver_; but it is better to play fairly and

_Nic._ It is best at Diversion, to beat by fair Play.

_Jer._ It is so, and in War too; these Arts have each their respective
Laws: There are some Arts that are very unfair ones.

_Nic._ I believe so too, and more than seven too. Mark the Bounds with a
Shell, or Brick-bat, or with your Hat if you will.

_Jer._ I'd rather do it with yours.

_Nic._ Take the Ball again.

_Jer._ Throw it; score it up.

_Nic._ We have two good wide Goals.

_Jer._ Pretty wide, but they are not out of Reach.

_Nic._ They may be reach'd if no Body hinders it.

_Jer._ O brave, I have gone beyond the first Goal. We are fifteen. Play
stoutly, we had got this too, if you had stood in your Place. Well, now
we are equal.

_Nic._ But you shan't be so long. Well, we are thirty; we are forty

_Jer._ What, Sesterces?

_Nic._ No.

_Jer._ What then?

_Nic._ Numbers.

_Jer._ What signifies Numbers, if you have nothing to pay?

_Nic._ We have gotten this Game.

_Jer._ You are a little too hasty; _you reckon your Chickens before they
are hatch'd_. I have seen those lose the Game that have had so many for
Love. War and Play is a meer Lottery. We have got thirty, now we are
equal again.

_Nic._ This is the Game Stroke. O brave! we have got the better of you.

_Jer._ Well, but you shan't have it long; did I not say so? We are
equally fortunate.

_Nic._ Fortune inclines first to one side, and then to t'other, as if
she could not tell which to give the Victory to. Fortune, be but on our
Side, and we'll help thee to a Husband. O rare! She has answer'd her
Desire, we have got this Game, set it up, that we mayn't forget.

_Jer._ It is almost Night, and we have play'd enough, we had better
leave off, too much of one Thing is good for nothing, let us reckon our

_Nic._ We have won three Groats, and you have won two; then there is one
to be spent. But who must pay for the Balls?

_Jer._ All alike, every one his Part. For there is so little won, we
can't take any Thing from that.

       *       *       *       *       *


_ADOLPHUS, BERNARDUS_, the Arbitrators.

_Adol._ You have been often bragging what a mighty Gamester you were at
Bowls. Come now, I have a Mind to try what a one you are.

_Ber._ I'll answer you, if you have a Mind to that Sport. Now you'll
find according to the Proverb; _You have met with your Match._

_Adol._ Well, and you shall find I am a Match for you too.

_Ber._ Shall we play single Hands or double Hands?

_Adol._ I had rather play single, that another may not come in with me
for a Share of the Victory.

_Ber._ And I had rather have it so too, that the Victory may be entirely
my own.

_Adol._ They shall look on, and be Judges.

_Ber._ I take you up; But what shall he that beats get, or he that is
beaten lose?

_Adol._ What if he that beats shall have a Piece of his Ear cut off.

_Ber._ Nay, rather let one of his Stones be cut out. It is a mean Thing
to play for Money; you are a _Frenchman_, and I a _German_, we'll both
play for the Honour of his Country.

_Adol._ If I shall beat you, you shall cry out thrice, let _France_
flourish; If I shall be beat (which I hope I shan't) I'll in the same
Words celebrate your _Germany_.

_Ber._ Well, a Match. Now for good Luck; since two great Nations are at
Stake in this Game, let the Bowls be both alike.

_Adol._ Do you see that Stone that lies by the Port there.

_Ber._ Yes I do.

_Adol._ That shall be the Jack.

_Ber._ Very well, let it be so; but I say let the Bowls be alike.

_Adol._ They are as like as two Peas. Take which you please, it's all
one to me.

_Ber._ Bowl away.

_Adol._ Hey-day, you whirl your Bowl as if your Arm was a Sling.

_Ber._ You have bit your Lip, and whirled your Bowl long enough: Come
bowl away. A strong Bowl indeed, but I am best.

_Adol._ If it had not been for that mischievous Bit of a Brick-bat
there, that lay in my Way, I had beat you off.

_Ber._ Stand fair.

_Adol._ I won't cheat: I intend to beat you, by Art, and not to cheat
ye, since we contend for the Prize of Honour: Rub, rub.

_Ber._ A great Cast in Troth.

_Adol._ Nay, don't laugh before you've won. We are equal yet.

_Ber._ This is who shall: He that first hits the Jack is up. I have beat
you, sing.

_Adol._ Stay, you should have said how many you'd make up, for my Hand
is not come in yet.

_Ber._ Judgment, Gentlemen.

_Arbitr._ 3.

_Adol._ Very well.

_Ber._ Well, what do you say now? Are you beat or no?

_Adol._ You have had better Luck than I, but yet I won't vail to you, as
to Strength and Art; I'll stand to what the Company says.

_Arb._ The _German_ has beat, and the Victory is the more glorious, that
he has beat so good a Gamester.

_Ber._ Now Cock, crow.

_Adol._ I am hoarse.

_Ber._ That's no new Thing to Cocks; but if you can't crow like an old
Cock, crow like a Cockeril.

_Adol._ Let _Germany_ flourish thrice.

_Ber._ You ought to have said so thrice. I am a-dry; let us drink
somewhere, I'll make an end of the Song there.

_Adol._ I won't stand upon that, if the Company likes it.

_Arb._ That will be the best, the Cock will crow clearer when his Throat
is gargled.

       *       *       *       *       *

_3. The Play of striking a Ball through an Iron Ring.


Gas._ Come, let's begin, _Marcolphus_ shall come in, in the Losers

_Er._ But what shall we play for?

_Gas._ He that is beat shall make and repeat _extempore_ a Distich, in
Praise of him that beat him.

_Er._ With all my Heart.

_Gas._ Shall we toss up who shall go first?

_Er._ Do you go first if you will, I had rather go last.

_Gas._ You have the better of me, because you know the Ground.

_Er._ You're upon your own Ground.

_Gas._ Indeed I am better acquainted with the Ground, than I am with my
Books; but that's but a small Commendation.

_Er._ You that are so good a Gamester ought to give me Odds.

_Gas._ Nay, you should rather give me Odds; but there's no great Honour
in getting a Victory, when Odds is taken: He only can properly be said
to get the Game, that gets it by his own Art; we are as well match'd as
can be.

_Er._ Yours is a better Ball than mine.

_Gas._ And yours is beyond me.

_Er._ Play fair, without cheating and cozening.

_Gas._ You shall say you have had to do with a fair Gamester.

_Er._ But I would first know the Orders of the Bowling-alley.

_Gas._ We make 4 up; whoever bowls beyond this Line it goes for nothing;
if you can go beyond those other Bounds, do it fairly and welcome:
Whoever hits a Bowl out of his Place loses his Cast.

_Er._ I understand these Things.

_Gas._ I have shut you out.

_Er._ But I'll give you a Remove.

_Gas._ If you do that I'll give you the Game.

_Er._ Will you upon your Word?

_Gas._ Yes, upon my Word: You have no other Way for it but to bank your
Bowl so as to make it rebound on mine.

_Er._ I'll try: Well, what say you now Friend? Are not you beaten away?
(Have I not struck you away?)

_Gas._ I am, I confess it; I wish you were but as wise as you are lucky;
you can scarce do so once in a hundred Times.

_Er._ I'll lay you, if you will, that I do it once in three Times. But
come pay me what I have won.

_Gas._ What's that?

_Er._ Why, a Distich.

_Gas._ Well, I'll pay it now.

_Er._ And an extempore one too. Why do you bite your Nails?

_Gas._ I have it.

_Er._ Recite it out.

_Gas._ As loud as you will.

      _Young Standers-by, dap ye the Conqueror brave,
      Who me has beat, is the more learned Knave_.

Han't you a Distich now?

_Er._ I have, and I'll give you as good as you bring.

       *       *       *       *       *

4. _Leaping._


_Vi._ Have you a Mind to jump with me?

_Lau._ That Play is not good presently after Dinner.

_Vi._ Why so?

_Lau._ Because that a Fulness of Belly makes the Body heavy.

_Vi._ Not very much to those that live upon Scholars Commons, for these
oftentimes are ready for a Supper before they have done Dinner.

_Lau._ What Sort of leaping is it that you like best?

_Vi._ Let us first begin with that which is the plainest, as that of
Grasshoppers; or Leap-frog, if you like that better, both Feet at once,
and close to one another; and when we have play'd enough at this, then
we'll try other Sorts.

_Lau._ I'll play at any Sort, where there is no Danger of breaking ones
Legs; I have no Mind to make Work for the Surgeon.

_Vi._ What if we should play at hopping?

_Lau._ That the Ghosts play, I am not for that.

_Vi._ It's the cleverest Way to leap with a Pole.

_Lau._ Running is a more noble Exercise; for _Æneas_ in _Virgil_
proposed this Exercise.

_Vi._ Very true, and he also propos'd the righting with Whirly-bats too,
and I don't like that Sport.

_Lau._ Mark the Course, let this be the Starting-place, and yonder Oak
the Goal.

_Vi._ I wish _Æneas_ was here, that he might propose what should be the
Conqueror's Prize.

_Lau._ Glory is a Reward sufficient for Victory.

_Vi._ You should rather give a Reward to him that is beat, to comfort

_Lau._ Then let the Victor's Reward be to go into the Town crowned with
a Bur.

_Vi._ Well, 'tis done, provided you'll go before playing upon a Pipe.

_Lau._ It is very hot.

_Vi._ That is not strange when it is Midsummer.

_Lau._ Swimming is better.

_Vi._ I don't love to live like a Frog, I am a Land Animal, not an
amphibious one.

_Lau._ But in old Time this was look'd upon to be one of the most noble

_Vi._ Nay, and a very useful one too.

_Lau._ For What?

_Vi._ If Men are forc'd to fly in Battel, they are in the best Condition
that can run and swim best.

_Lau._ The Art you speak of is not to be set light by; it is as
Praise-worthy sometimes to run away nimbly as it is to fight stoutly.

_Vi._ I can't swim at all, and it is dangerous to converse with an
unaccustomed Element.

_Lau._ You ought to learn then, for no Body was born an Artist.

_Vi._ But I have heard of a great many of these Artists that have swum
in, but never swam out again.

_Lau._ First try with Corks.

_Vi._ I can't trust more to a Cork than to my Feet; if you have a Mind
to swim, I had rather be a Spectator than an Actor.



     _This Discourse furnishes a childish Mind with pious
     Instructions of Religion, in what it consists. What is to
     be done in the Morning in Bed, at getting up, at Home, at
     School, before Meat, after Meat, before going to Sleep.
     Of beginning the Day, of praying, of behaving themselves
     studiously at School, Thriftiness of Time: Age flies.
     What is to be done after Supper. How we ought to sleep.
     Of Behaviour at holy Worship. All Things to be applied to
     ourselves. The Meditation of a pious Soul at Church. What
     Preachers are chiefly to be heard. Fasting is prejudicial
     to Children. Confession is to be made to Christ. The
     Society of wicked Persons is to be avoided. Of the
     prudent chusing a Way of Living. Holy Orders and
     Matrimony are not to be entred into before the Age of
     Twenty-two. What Poets are fit to be read, and how._


_ERASMUS._ Whence came you from? Out of some Alehouse?

_Ga._ No, indeed.

_Er._ What from a Bowling Green?

_Ga._ No, nor from thence neither.

_Er._ What from the Tavern then?

_Ga._ No.

_Er._ Well, since I can't guess, tell me.

_Ga._ From St. _Mary's_ Church.

_Er._ What Business had you there?

_Ga._ I saluted some Persons.

_Er._ Who?

_Ga._ Christ, and some of the Saints.

_Er._ You have more Religion than is common to one of your Age.

_Ga._ Religion is becoming to every Age.

_Er._ If I had a Mind to be religious, I'd become a Monk.

_Ga._ And so would I too, if a Monk's Hood carried in it as much Piety
as it does Warmth.

_Er._ There is an old Saying, a young Saint and an old Devil.

_Ga._ But I believe that old Saying came from old Satan: I can hardly
think an old Man to be truly religious, that has not been so in his
young Days. Nothing is learn'd to greater Advantage, than what we learn
in our youngest Years.

_Er._ What is that which is call'd Religion?

_Ga._ It is the pure Worship of God, and Observation of his

_Er._ What are they?

_Ga._ It is too long to relate all; but I'll tell you in short, it
consists in four Things.

_Er._ What are they?

_Ga._ In the first Place, that we have a true and pious Apprehension of
God himself, and the Holy Scriptures; and that we not only stand in Awe
of him as a Lord, but that we love him with all our Heart, as a most
beneficent Father. 2. That we take the greatest Care to keep ourselves
blameless; that is, that we do no Injury to any one. 3. That we exercise
Charity, _i.e._ to deserve well of all Persons (as much as in us lyes).
4. That we practise Patience, _i.e._ to bear patiently Injuries that are
offered us, when we can't prevent them, not revenging them, nor
requiting Evil for Evil.

_Er._ You hold forth finely; but do you practise what you teach?

_Ga._ I endeavour it manfully.

_Er._ How can you do it like a Man, when you are but a Boy?

_Ga._ I meditate according to my Ability, and call myself to an Account
every Day; and correct myself for what I have done amiss: That was
unhandsomely done this saucily said, this was uncautiously acted; in
that it were better to have held my Peace, that was neglected.

_Er._ When do you come to this Reckoning?

_Ga._ Most commonly at Night; or at any Time that I am most at Leisure.

_Er._ But tell me, in what Studies do you spend the Day?

_Ga._ I will hide nothing from so intimate a Companion: In the Morning,
as soon as I am awake, (and that is commonly about six a Clock, or
sometimes at five) I sign myself with my Finger in the Forehead and
Breast with the Sign of the Cross.

_Er._ What then?

_Ga._ I begin the Day in the Name of the Father, Son, and holy Spirit.

_Er._ Indeed that is very piously done.

_Ga._ By and by I put up a short Ejaculation to Christ.

_Er._ What dost thou say to him?

_Ga._ I give him Thanks that he has been pleased to bless me that Night;
and I pray him that he would in like Manner prosper me the whole of that
Day, so as may be for his Glory, and my Soul's Good; and that he who is
the true Light that never sets, the eternal Sun, that enlivens,
nourishes and exhilarates all Things, would vouchsafe to enlighten my
Soul, that I mayn't fall into Sin; but by his Guidance, may attain
everlasting Life.

_Er._ A very good Beginning of the Day indeed.

_Ga._ And then having bid my Parents good Morrow, to whom next to God, I
owe the greatest Reverence, when it is Time I go to School; but so that
I may pass by some Church, if I can conveniently.

_Er._ What do you do there?

_Ga._ I salute Jesus again in three Words, and all the Saints, either
Men or Women; but the Virgin _Mary_ by Name, and especially that I
account most peculiarly my own.

_Er._ Indeed you seem to have read that Sentence of _Cato, Saluta
libenter_, to good Purpose; was it not enough to have saluted Christ in
the Morning, without saluting him again presently? Are you not afraid
lest you should be troublesome by your over Officiousness?

_Ga._ Christ loves to be often called upon.

_Er._ But it seems to be ridiculous to speak to one you don't see.

_Ga._ No more do I see that Part of me that speaks to him.

_Er._ What Part is that?

_Ga._ My Mind.

_Er._ But it seems to be Labour lost, to salute one that does not salute
you again.

_Ga._ He frequently salutes again by his secret Inspiration; and he
answers sufficiently that gives what is ask'd of him.

_Er._ What is it you ask of him? For I perceive your Salutations are
petitionary, like those of Beggars.

_Ga._ Indeed you are very right; for I pray that he, who, when he was a
Boy of about twelve Years of Age, sitting in the Temple, taught the
Doctors themselves, and to whom the heavenly Father, by a Voice from
Heaven, gave Authority to teach Mankind, saying, _This is my beloved
Son, in whom I am well pleased, hear ye him_; and who is the eternal
Wisdom of the most high Father, would vouchsafe to enlighten my
Understanding, to receive wholesome Learning, that I may use it to his

_Er._ Who are those Saints that you call peculiarly yours?

_Ga._ Of the Apostles, St. _Paul_; of the Martyrs, St. _Cyprian_; of the
Doctors, St. _Jerome_; of the Virgins, St. _Agnes_.

_Er._ How came these to be yours, more than the rest. Was it by Choice
or by Chance?

_Ga._ They fell to me by Lot.

_Er._ But you only salute them I suppose; do you beg any Thing of them?

_Ga._ I pray, that by their Suffrages they would recommend me to
Christ, and procure that by his Assistance it may in Time come to pass
that I be made one of their Company.

_Er._ Indeed what you ask for is no ordinary Thing: But what do you do

_Ga._ I go to School, and do what is to be done there with my utmost
Endeavour; I so implore Christ's Assistance, as if my Study without it
would signify nothing; and I study as if he offered no Help but to him
that labours industriously; and I do my utmost not to deserve to be
beaten, nor to offend my Master either in Word or Deed, nor any of my

_Er._ You are a good Boy to mind these Things.

_Ga._ When School is done I make haste Home, and if I can I take a
Church in my Way, and in three Words, I salute Jesus again; and I pay my
Respects to my Parents; and if I have any Time, I repeat, either by
myself, or with one of my School-fellows, what was dictated in School.

_Er._ Indeed you are a very good Husband of Time.

_Ga._ No wonder I am of that, which is the most precious Thing in the
World, and when past is irrecoverable.

_Er._ And _Hesiod_ teaches, that good Husbandry ought to be in the
Middle, it is too soon in the Beginning, and too late in the End.

_Ga._ _Hesiod_ spoke right enough concerning Wine, but of Time no good
Husbandry is unseasonable. If you let a Hogshead of Wine alone it won't
empty itself; but Time is always a flying, sleeping or waking.

_Er._ I confess so, but what do you do after that?

_Ga._ When my Parents sit down to Dinner I say Grace, and then wait at
Table till I am bid to take my own Dinner; and having returned Thanks,
if I have any Time left I divert myself with my Companions with some
lawful Recreation till the Time comes to go to School again.

_Er._ Do you salute Jesus again?

_Ga._ Yes, if I have an Opportunity; but if it so happen that I have not
an Opportunity, or it be not seasonable, as I pass by the Church I
salute him mentally; and then I do what is to be done at School with all
my Might; and when I go Home again I do what I did before Dinner: After
Supper I divert myself with some pleasant Stories; and afterwards
bidding my Parents and the Family good Night, I go to Bed betimes, and
there kneeling down by the Bedside, as I have said, I say over those
Things I have been learning that Day at School; if I have committed any
great Fault, I implore Christ's Clemency, that he would pardon me, and I
promise Amendment: and if I have committed no Fault, I thank him for his
Goodness in preserving me from all Vice, and then I recommend myself to
him with all my Soul, that he would preserve me from the Attempts of my
evil Genius and filthy Dreams. When this is done, and I am got into Bed,
I cross my Forehead and Breast, and compose myself to Rest.

_Er._ In what Posture do you compose yourself?

_Ga._ I don't lye upon my Face or my Back, but first leaning upon my
Right-Side, I fold my Arms a-cross, so that they may defend my Breast,
as it were with the Figure of a Cross, with my Right-hand upon my Left
Shoulder, and my Left upon my Right, and so I sleep sweetly, either till
I awake of myself, or am called up.

_Er._ You are a little Saint that can do thus.

_Ga._ You are a little Fool for saying so.

_Er._ I praise your Method, and I would I could practise it.

_Ga._ Give your Mind to it and you will do it, for when once you have
accustom'd yourself to it for a few Months, these Things will be
pleasant, and become natural.

_Er._ But I want to hear concerning divine Service.

_Ga._ I don't neglect that, especially upon holy Days.

_Er._ How do you manage yourself on holy Days?

_Ga._ In the first place I examine myself if my Mind be Polluted by any
Stain of Sin.

_Er._ And if you find it is, what do you do then? Do you refrain from
the Altar?

_Ga._ Not by my bodily Presence, but I withdraw myself, as to my Mind,
and standing as it were afar off, as tho' not daring to lift up my Eyes
to God the Father, whom I have offended, I strike upon my Breast, crying
out with the Publican in the Gospel, _Lord, be merciful to me a Sinner_.
And then if I know I have offended any Man, I take Care to make him
Satisfaction if I can presently; but if I cannot do that, I resolve in
my Mind to reconcile my Neighbour as soon as possible. If any Body has
offended me, I forbear Revenge, and endeavour to bring it about, that he
that has offended me may be made sensible of his Fault, and be sorry for
it; but if there be no Hope of that, I leave all Vengeance to God.

_Er._ That's a hard Task.

_Ga._ Is it hard to forgive a small Offence to your Brother, whose
mutual Forgiveness thou wilt stand in frequent need of, when Christ has
at once forgiven us all our Offences, and is every Day forgiving us?
Nay, this seems to me not to be Liberality to our Neighbour, but putting
to Interest to God; just as tho' one Fellow-Servant should agree with
another to forgive him three Groats, that his Lord might forgive him ten

_Er._ You indeed argue very rationally, if what you say be true.

_Ga._ Can you desire any Thing truer than the Gospel?

_Er._ That is unreasonable; but there are some who can't believe
themselves to be Christians unless they hear Mass (as they call it)
every Day.

_Ga._ Indeed I don't condemn the Practise in those that have Time
enough, and spend whole Days in profane Exercises; but I only disapprove
of those who superstitiously fancy that that Day must needs be
unfortunate to them that they have not begun with the Mass; and
presently after divine Service is over they go either to Trading,
Gaming, or the Court, where whatsoever succeeds, though done justly or
unjustly, they attribute to the Mass.

_Er._ Are there any Persons that are so absurd?

_Ga._ The greatest part of Mankind.

_Er._ But return to divine Service.

_Ga._ If I can, I get to stand so close by the Holy Altar, that I can
hear what the Priest reads, especially the Epistle and the Gospel; from
these I endeavour to pick something, which I fix in my Mind, and this I
ruminate upon for some Time.

_Er._ Don't you pray at all in the mean Time?

_Ga._ I do pray, but rather mentally than vocally. From the Things the
Priest reads I take occasion of Prayer.

_Er._ Explain that a little more, I don't well take in what you mean.

_Ga._ I'll tell you; suppose this Epistle was read, _Purge out the old
Leaven, that ye may be a new Lump, as ye are unleavened_. On occasion of
these Words I thus address myself to Christ, "I wish I were the
unleavened Bread, pure from all Leaven of Malice; but do thou, O Lord
Jesus, who alone art pure, and free from all Malice, grant that I may
every Day more and more purge out the old Leaven." Again, if the Gospel
chance to be read concerning the Sower sowing his Seed, I thus pray with
my self, "Happy is he that deserves to be that good Ground, and I pray
that of barren Ground, he of his great Goodness would make me good
Ground, without whose Blessing nothing at all is good." These for
Example Sake, for it would be tedious to mention every Thing. But if I
happen to meet with a dumb Priest, (such as there are many in _Germany_)
or that I can't get near the Altar, I commonly get a little Book that
has the Gospel of that Day and Epistle, and this I either say out aloud,
or run it over with my Eye.

_Er._ I understand; but with what Contemplations chiefly dost thou pass
away the Time?

_Ga._ I give Thanks to Jesus Christ for his unspeakable Love, in
condescending to redeem Mankind by his Death; I pray that he would not
suffer his most holy Blood to be shed in vain for me, but that with his
Body he would always feed my Soul, and that with his Blood he would
quicken my Spirit, that growing by little and little in the Increase of
Graces, I may be made a fit Member of his mystical Body, which is the
Church; nor may ever fall from that holy Covenant that he made with his
elect Disciples at the last Supper, when he distributed the Bread, and
gave the Cup; and through these, with all who are engraffed into his
Society by Baptism. And if I find my Thoughts to wander, I read some
Psalms, or some pious Matter, that may keep my Mind from wandring.

_Er._ Have you any particular Psalms for this Purpose?

_Ga._ I have; but I have not so tyed myself up to them, but that I can
omit them, if any Meditation comes into my Mind that is more refreshing,
than the Recitation of those Psalms.

_Er._ What do you do as to Fasting?

_Ga._ I have nothing to do with Fasting, for so _Jerome_ has taught me;
that Health is not to be impair'd by fasting, until the Body is arrived
at its full Strength. I am not quite 17 Years old; but yet if I find
Occasion, I dine and sup sparingly, that I may be more lively for
Spiritual Exercises on holy Days.

_Er._ Since I have begun, I will go through with my Enquiries. How do
you find yourself affected towards Sermons?

_Ga._ Very well, I go to them as devoutly as if I was a going to a holy
Assembly; and yet I pick and chuse whom to hear, for there are some, one
had better not hear than hear; and if such an one happens to preach, or
if it happen that no Body preaches, I pass this Time in reading the
Scriptures, I read the Gospel or Epistle with _Chrysostom's_ or
_Jerome's_ Interpretation, or any other pious and learned Interpreter
that I meet with.

_Er._ But Word of Mouth is more affecting.

_Ga._ I confess it is. I had rather hear if I can but meet with a
tolerable Preacher; but I don't seem to be wholly destitute of a Sermon
if I hear _Chrysostom_ or _Jerome_ speaking by their Writings.

_Er._ I am of your Mind; but how do you stand affected as to

_Ga._ Very well; for I confess daily.

_Er._ Every Day?

_Ga._ Yes.

_Er._ Then you ought to keep a Priest to yourself.

_Ga._ But I confess to him who only truly remits Sins, to whom all the
Power is given.

_Er._ To whom?

_Ga._ To Christ.

_Er._ And do you think that's sufficient?

_Ga._ It would be enough for me, if it were enough for the Rulers of the
Church, and receiv'd Custom.

_Er._ Who do you call the Rulers of the Church?

_Ga._ The Popes, Bishops and Apostles.

_Er._ And do you put Christ into this Number?

_Ga._ He is without Controversy the chief Head of e'm all.

_Er._ And was he the Author of this Confession in use?

_Ga._ He is indeed the Author of all good; but whether he appointed
Confession as it is now us'd in the Church, I leave to be disputed by
Divines. The Authority of my Betters is enough for me that am but a Lad
and a private Person. This is certainly the principal Confession; nor is
it an easy Matter to confess to Christ; no Body confesses to him, but he
that is angry with his Sin. If I have committed any great Offence, I lay
it open, and bewail it to him, and implore his Mercy; I cry out, weep
and lament, nor do I give over before I feel the Love of Sin throughly
purged from the Bottom of my Heart, and some Tranquility and
Chearfulness of Mind follow upon it, which is an Argument of the Sin
being pardoned. And when the Time requires to go to the holy Communion
of the Body and Blood of Christ; then I make Confession to a Priest too,
but in few Words, and nothing but what I am well satisfy'd are Faults,
or such that carry in them a very great Suspicion that they are such;
neither do I always take it to be a capital or enormous Crime, every
Thing that is done contrary to human Constitutions, unless a wicked
Contemptuousness shall go along with it: Nay, I scarce believe any Crime
to be Capital, that has not Malice join'd with it, that is, a perverse

_Er._ I commend you, that you are so religious, and yet not
superstitious: Here I think the old Proverb takes place: _Nec omnia, nec
passim, nec quibuslibet_, That a Person should neither speak all, nor
every where, nor to all Persons.

_Ga._ I chuse me a Priest, that I can trust with the Secrets of my

_Er._ That's wisely done: For there are a great many, as is found by
Experience, do blab out what in Confessions is discovered to them. And
there are some vile impudent Fellows that enquire of the Person
confessing, those Things, that it were better if they were conceal'd;
and there are some unlearned and foolish Fellows, who for the Sake of
filthy Gain, lend their Ear, but apply not their Mind, who can't
distinguish between a Fault and a good Deed, nor can neither teach,
comfort nor advise. These Things I have heard from many, and in Part
have experienced my self.

_Ga._ And I too much; therefore I chuse me one that is learn'd, grave,
of approv'd Integrity, and one that keeps his Tongue within his Teeth.

_Er._ Truly you are happy that can make a Judgment of Things so early.

_Ga._ But above all, I take Care of doing any Thing that I can't safely
trust a Priest with.

_Er._ That's the best Thing in the World, if you can but do so.

_Ga._ Indeed it is hard to us of ourselves, but by the Help of Christ it
is easy; the greatest Matter is, that there be a Will to it. I often
renew my Resolution, especially upon Sundays: And besides that, I
endeavour as much as I can to keep out of evil Company, and associate
myself with good Company, by whose Conversation I may be better'd.

_Er._ Indeed you manage yourself rightly: For _evil Conversations
corrupt good Manners_.

_Ga._ I shun Idleness as the Plague.

_Er._ You are very right, for Idleness is the Root of all Evil; but as
the World goes now, he must live by himself that would keep out of bad

_Ga._ What you say is very true, for as the _Greek_ wise Men said the
bad are the greatest Number. But I chuse the best out of a few, and
sometimes a good Companion makes his Companion better. I avoid those
Diversions that incite to Naughtiness, and use those that are innocent.
I behave myself courteous to all; but familiarly with none but those
that are good. If I happen at any Time to fall into bad Company, I
either correct them by a soft Admonition, or wink at and bear with them,
if I can do them no good; but I be sure to get out of their Company as
soon as I can.

_Er._ Had you never an itching Mind to become a Monk?

_Ga._ Never; but I have been often solicited to it by some, that call
you into a Monastery, as into a Port from a Shipwreck.

_Er._ Say you so? Were they in Hopes of a Prey?

_Ga._ They set upon both me and my Parents with a great many crafty
Persuasions; but I have taken a Resolution not to give my Mind either to
Matrimony or Priesthood, nor to be a Monk, nor to any Kind of Life out
of which I can't extricate myself, before I know myself very well.

_Er._ When will that be?

_Ga._ Perhaps never. But before the 28th Year of ones Age, nothing
should be resolved on.

_Er._ Why so?

_Ga._ Because I hear every where, so many Priests, Monks and married Men
lamenting that they hurried themselves rashly into Servitude.

_Er._ You are very cautious not to be catch'd.

_Ga._ In the mean Time I take a special Care of three Things.

_Er._ What are they?

_Ga._ First of all to make a good Progress in Morality, and if I can't
do that, I am resolv'd to maintain an unspotted Innocence and good
Name; and last of all I furnish myself with Languages and Sciences that
will be of Use in any Kind of Life.

_Er._ But do you neglect the Poets?

_Ga._ Not wholly, but I read generally the chastest of them, and if I
meet with any Thing that is not modest, I pass that by, as _Ulysses_
passed by the _Sirens_, stopping his Ears.

_Er._ To what Kind of Study do you chiefly addict your self? To Physic,
the Common or Civil Law, or to Divinity? For Languages, the Sciences and
Philosophy are all conducive to any Profession whatsoever.

_Ga._ I have not yet thoroughly betaken myself to any one particularly,
but I take a Taste of all, that I be not wholly ignorant of any; and the
rather, that having tasted of all I may the better chuse that I am
fittest for. Medicine is a certain Portion in whatsoever Land a Man is;
the Law is the Way to Preferment: But I like Divinity the best, saving
that the Manners of some of the Professors of it, and the bitter
Contentions that are among them, displease me.

_Er._ He won't be very apt to fall that goes so warily along. Many in
these Days are frighted from Divinity, because they are afraid they
should not be found in the Catholick Faith, because they see no
Principle of Religion, but what is called in Question.

_Ga._ I believe firmly what I read in the holy Scriptures, and the
Creed, called the Apostles, and I don't trouble my Head any farther: I
leave the rest to be disputed and defined by the Clergy, if they please;
and if any Thing is in common Use with Christians that is not repugnant
to the holy Scriptures, I observe it for this Reason, that I may not
offend other People.

_Er._ What _Thales_ taught you that Philosophy?

_Ga._ When I was a Boy and very young, I happen'd to live in the House
with that honestest of Men, _John Colet_, do you know him?

_Er._ Know him, ay, as well as I do you.

_Ga._ He instructed me when I was young in these Precepts.

_Er._ You won't envy me, I hope, if I endeavour to imitate you?

_Ga._ Nay, by that Means you will be much dearer to me. For you know,
Familiarity and good Will, are closer ty'd by Similitude of Manners.

_Er._ True, but not among Candidates for the same Office, when they are
both sick of the same Disease.

_Ga._ No, nor between two Sweet-hearts of the same Mistress, when they
are both sick of the same Love.

_Er._ But without jesting, I'll try to imitate that Course of Life.

_Ga._ I wish you as good Success as may be.

_Er._ It may be I shall overtake thee.

_Ga._ I wish you might get before me; but in the mean Time I won't stay
for you; but I will every Day endeavour to out-go myself, and do you
endeavour to out-go me if you can.



     _This Colloquy presents you with the Art of Hunting;
     Fishing, of bringing Earth-Worms out of the Ground, of
     sticking Frogs._


_Pa. Every one to his Mind._ I love Hunting.

_Th._ And so do I too, but where are the Dogs? The hunting Poles? And
the hunting Nets?

_Pa._ Farewell Boars, Bears, Bucks, and Foxes, we'll lay Snares for

_Vi._ But I'll set Gins for Locusts and Crickets.

_La._ But I'll catch Frogs.

_Ba._ I'll hunt Butterflies.

_La._ 'Tis difficult to follow flying Creatures.

_Ba._ It is difficult, but 'tis fine Sport; unless you think it finer
Sport to hunt after Earth-Worms, Snails or Cockles, because they have no

_La._ Indeed I had rather go a Fishing; I have a neat Hook.

_Ba._ But where will you get Baits?

_La._ There are Earth-Worms enough every where to be had.

_Ba._ So there is, if they would but creep out of the Ground to you.

_La._ But I'll make a great many thousand jump out presently.

_Ba._ How? By Witch-Craft?

_La._ You shall see the Art. Fill this Bucket with Water, break these
green Peels of Walnuts to Pieces and put into it: Wet the Ground with
the Water. Now mind a little, do you see them coming out?

_Ba._ I see a Miracle. I believe the armed Men started out of the Earth
after this Manner from the Serpents Teeth that were sown: But a great
many Fish are of too fine and delicate a Palate to be catch'd by such a
vulgar Bait.

_La._ I know a certain Sort of an Insect that I us'd to catch such with.

_Ba._ See if you can impose upon the Fishes so, I'll make work with the

_La._ How, with a Net?

_Ba._ No, with a Bow.

_La._ That's a new Way of Fishing!

_Ba._ But 'tis a pleasant one; you'll say so, when you see it.

_Vi._ What if we two should play at holding up our Fingers?

_Ba._ That's an idle, clownish Play indeed, fitter for them that are
sitting in a Chimney Corner, than those that are ranging in the Field.

_Vi._ What if we should play at Cob-Nut?

_Pa._ Let us let Nuts alone for little Chits, we are great Boys.

_Vi._ And yet we are but Boys for all that.

_Pa._ But they that are fit to play at Cob-Nut, are fit to ride upon a

_Vi._ Well then, do you say what we shall play at; and I'll play at what
you will.

_Pa._ And I'll be conformable.



     _This Colloquy treats of scholastic Studies, and School
     Plays, I. The Boys going into the School. The striking of
     a Clock. A whipping Master. Of saying a Lesson. Fear
     hurts the Memory. 2. Of Writing, the Paper sinks. Of
     making a Pen. Of a hard Nip. A soft Nip. Of writing
     quick, well._


_Sy._ What makes you run so, _John?_

_Jo._ What makes a Hare run before the Dogs, as they use to say?

_Sy._ What Proverb is this?

_Jo._ Because unless I am there in Time, before the Bill is called over,
I am sure to be whipp'd.

_Sy._ You need not be afraid of that, it is but a little past five: Look
upon the Clock, the Hand is not come to the half Hour Point yet.

_Jo._ Ay, but I can scarce trust to Clocks, they go wrong sometimes.

_Sy._ But trust me then, I heard the Clock strike.

_Jo._ What did that strike?

_Sy._ Five.

_Jo._ But there is something else that I am more afraid of than that, I
must say by Heart a good long Lesson for Yesterday, and I am afraid I
can't say it.

_Sy._ I am in the same Case with you; for I myself have hardly got mine
as it should be.

_Jo._ And you know the Master's Severity. Every Fault is a Capital one
with him: He has no more Mercy of our Breeches, than if they were made
of a Bull's Hide.

_Sy._ But he won't be in the School.

_Jo._ Who has he appointed in his Place?

_Sy. Cornelius._

_Jo._ That squint-ey'd Fellow! Wo to our Back-Sides, he's a greater
Whip-Master than _Busby_ himself.

_Sy._ You say very true, and for that Reason I have often wish'd he had
a Palsy in his Arm.

_Jo._ It is not pious to wish ill to ones Master: it is our Business
rather to take Care not to fall under the Tyrant's Hands.

_Sy._ Let us say one to another, one repeating and the other looking in
the Book.

_Jo._ That's well thought on.

_Sy._ Come, be of good Heart; for Fear spoils the Memory.

_Jo._ I could easily lay aside Fear, if I were out of Danger; but who
can be at Ease in his Mind, that is in so much Danger.

_Sy._ I confess so; but we are not in Danger of our Heads, but of our

       *       *       *       *       *

2. _Of Writing._


_Co._ You write finely, but your Paper sinks. Your Paper is damp, and
the Ink sinks through it.

_An._ Pray make me a Pen of this.

_Co._ I have not a Pen-knife.

_An._ Here is one for you.

_Co._ Out on't, how blunt it is!

_An._ Take the Hoan.

_Co._ Do you love to write with a hard-nip'd Pen, or a soft?

_An._ Make it fit for your own Hand.

_Co._ I use to write with a soft Nip.

_An._ Pray write me out the Alphabet.

_Co._ Greek or Latin?

_An._ Write me the Latin first; I'll try to imitate it.

_Co._ Give me some Paper then.

_An._ Take some.

_Co._ But my Ink is too thin, by often pouring in of Water.

_An._ But my Cotton is quite dry.

_Co._ Squeeze it, or else piss in it.

_An._ I had rather get some Body to give me some.

_Co._ It is better to have of one's own, than to borrow.

_An._ What's a Scholar without Pen and Ink?

_Co._ The same that a Soldier is without Shield or Sword.

_An._ I wish my Fingers were so nimble, I can't write as fast as another

_Co._ Let it be your first chief Care to write well, and your next to
write quick: No more Haste than good Speed.

_An._ Very well; say to the Master when he dictates, no more Haste than
good Speed.

       *       *       *       *       *

_A Form of giving Thanks.


_Pe._ You have oblig'd me, in that you have written to me sometimes. I
thank you for writing to me often. I love you, that you have not thought
much to send me now and then a Letter. I give you Thanks that you have
visited me with frequent Letters. I thank you for loading of me with
Packets of Letters. I thank you heartily that you have now and then
provoked me with Letters. You have oblig'd me very much that you have
honour'd me with your Letters. I am much beholden to you for your most
obliging Letters to me. I take it as a great Favour, that you have not
thought much to write to me.

_The Answer._

_Ch._ Indeed I ought to beg Pardon for my Presumption, who dar'd presume
to trouble a Man of so much Business, and so much Learning with my
unlearned Letters. I acknowledge your usual Humanity, who have taken my
Boldness in good Part. I was afraid my Letters had given you some
Offence, that you sent me no Answer. There is no Reason that you should
thank me, it is more than enough for me, if you have taken my Industry
in good Part.

       *       *       *       *       *

_A Form of asking after News._

_Pe._ Is there no News come from our Country? Have you had any News from
our Countrymen? What News? Do you bring any News? Is there any News come
to Town? Is there any News abroad from our Country?

_The Answer._

_Ch._ There is much News; but nothing of Truth. News enough indeed; but
nothing certain. A great deal of News; but nothing to be depended upon.
Not a little News; but not much Truth. There is no News come. I have had
no News at all. Something of News; but nothing certain. There are a
great many Reports come to Town; but they are all doubtful. There is a
great deal of Talk; but nothing true, nothing certain. If Lies please, I
have brought you a whole Cart-Load of them. I bring you whole Bushels of
Tales. I bring you as many Lies as a good Ship will carry.

_Pe._ Then unlade yourself as fast as you can, for fear you should sink,
being so over-freighted.

_Ch._ I have nothing but what's the Chat of Barbers Shops, Coaches and

_Han't you received any Letters. The Form_.

_Pe._ Have you had no Letters? Have you had any Letters out of your own
Country? Have no Letters been brought to you? Have you receiv'd any
Letters? Have you had any Letters? Have you receiv'd any Letters from
your Friends? Are there no Letters come from _France_?

_The Answer._

_Ch._ I have received no Letters. I han't had so much as a Letter. I
han't had the least Bit of a Letter. No Body has sent me any Letter.
There is not the least Word come from any Body. I have received no more
Letters for this long Time, than what you see in my Eye. Indeed I had
rather have Money than Letters. I had rather receive Money than Letters.
I don't matter Letters, so the Money does but come. I had rather be
paid, than be written to.

       *       *       *       *       *

_I believe so. The Form._

_Pe._ I easily believe you. That is not hard to be believ'd. It is a
very easy Thing to believe that. Who would not believe you in that? He
will be very incredulous, that won't believe you in that Matter. In
Truth I do believe you. You will easily make me believe that. I can
believe you without swearing. What you say is very likely. But for all
that, Letters bring some Comfort. I had rather have either of them, than

       *       *       *       *       *

_Of Profit. A Form._

_Ch._ What signifies Letters without Money? What signifies empty
Letters? What do empty Letters avail? What good do they do, what do they
profit, advantage? To whom are Letters grateful or acceptable without
Money? What Advantage do empty Letters bring? What are idle Letters good
for? What do they do? What use are they of? What are they good for? What
do they bring with them of Moment? What Use are empty Letters of?

_The Answer._

_Pe._ They are useful, fit, proper, to wipe your Breech with. They are
good to wipe your Backside with. If you don't know the Use of them, they
are good to wipe your Arse with. To wipe your Breech with. To wipe your
Backside with. They are good to cleanse that Part of the Body that often
fouls itself. They are good to wrap Mackrel in. Good to make up Grocery
Ware in.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Of wishing well._

1. _To a Man whose Wife is with Child._

_Pe._ What? are our little Friends well? How does your Wife do?

_Ch._ Very well, I left her with her Mother, and with Child.

_Pe._ I wish it may be well for you, and her too: To you, because you're
shortly to be a Father, and she a Mother. God be with you. I pray and
desire that it may be prosperous and happy to you both. I pray, I beg of
God that she, having a safe Delivery, may bear a Child worthy of you
both; and may make you a Father of a fine Child. I commend you that you
have shewed yourself to be a Man. I am glad you have prov'd yourself to
be a Man. You have shew'd yourself to be a Gallus, but not _Cybele_'s.
Now you may go, I believe you are a Man.

_Ch._ You joke upon me, as you are used to do. Well, go on, you may say
what you please to me.

       *       *       *       *       *

2. _To one coming Home into his own Country._

_Ch._ I hear, you have lately been in your own Country.

_Pe._ I have so, I had been out of it a pretty While. I could not bear
to be out of it long. I could not bear to be out of my Parents Sight any
longer. I thought it long till I enjoy'd my Friends Company.

_Ch._ You have acted very piously. You are very good Humour'd, to think
of those Matters. We have all a strange Affection for the Country that
hath bred us, and brought us forth.

_As_ Ovid _says_:

      _Nescio quâ natale solum dulcedine cunctos
      Ducit, et immemores non sinit esse sui._

Pray tell me how did you find all Things there.

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Things new. The Form._

_Pe._ Nothing but what was new. All Things changed, all Things become
new. See how soon Time changes all human Affairs. Methought I came into
another World. I had scarce been absent ten Years, and yet I admired at
every Thing, as much as _Epimenides_ the Prince of Sleepers, when he
first wak'd out of his Sleep.

_Ch._ What Story is that? What Fable is that?

_Pe._ I'll tell you if you are at Leisure.

_Ch._ There is nothing more pleasant.

_Pe._ Then order me a Chair and a Cushion.

_Ch._ That's very well thought on, for you will tell Lyes the better,
sitting at Ease.

_Pe._ Historians tell us a Story, of one _Epimenides_ a Man of _Crete_,
who taking a Walk alone by himself without the City, being caught in a
hasty Shower of Rain, went for Shelter into a Cave, and there fell
asleep, and slept on for seven and forty Years together.

_I don't believe it. The Form._

_Ch._ What a Story you tell? 'Tis incredible. What you say is not very
likely. You tell me a Fiction. I don't think 'tis true. You tell me a
monstrous Story. Are you not asham'd to be guilty of so wicked a Lye?
This is a Fable fit to be put among _Lucian's_ Legends.

_Pe._ Nay, I tell you what is related by Authors of Credit, unless you
think _Aulus Gellius_ is not an Author of approv'd Credit.

_Ch._ Nay, whatsoever he has written are Oracles to me.

_Pe._ Do you think that a Divine dream'd so many Years? For it is
storied that he was a Divine.

_Ch._ I am with Child to hear.

_The Answer._

_Pe._ What is it more than what _Scotus_ and the School-men did
afterwards? But _Epimenides_, he came off pretty well, he came to
himself again at last; but a great many Divines never wake out of their

_Ch._ Well go on, you do like a Poet; But go on with your Lye.

_Pe._ _Epimenides_ waking out of his Sleep, goes out of his Cave, and
looks about him, and sees all Things chang'd, the Woods, the Banks, the
Rivers, the Trees, the Fields; and, in short, there was nothing but was
new: He goes to the City, and enquires; he stays there a little While,
but knows no Body, nor did any Body know him: the Men were dress'd after
another Fashion, than what they were before; they had not the same
Countenances; their Speech was alter'd, and their Manners quite
different: Nor do I wonder it was so with _Epimenides_, after so many
Years, when it was almost so with me, when I had been absent but a few

_Ch._ But how do your Father and Mother do? Are they living?

_Pe._ They are both alive and well; but pretty much worn out with old
Age, Diseases, and lastly, with the Calamities of War.

_Ch._ This is the Comedy of human Life. This is the inevitable Law of

       *       *       *       *       *

_Words, Names of Affinity._

_Pe._ Will you sup at Home to Day?

_Ch._ I am to sup abroad: I must go out to Supper.

_Pe._ With whom?

_Ch._ With my Father in Law; with my Son in Law; at my Daughter's in
Law; with my Kinsman. They are call'd, _Affines_, Kinsmen, who are
ally'd not by Blood, but Marriage.

_Pe._ What are the usual Names of Affinity?

_Ch._ A Husband and Wife are noted Names. _Socer_, Is my Wife's Father.
_Gener_, My Daughter's Husband. _Socrus_, My Wife's Mother. _Nurus_, My
Son's Wife. _Levir_, A Husband's Brother. _Levir_ is call'd by the Wife,
as _Helen_ calls _Hector_, _Levir_, because she was married to _Paris_.
_Fratria_, My Brother's Wife. _Glos_, A Husband's Sister. _Vitricus_, My
Mother's Husband. _Noverca_, My Father's Wife. _Privignus_, The Son of
my Wife or Husband. _Privigna_, The Daughter of either of them.
_Rivalis_, He that loves the same Woman another does. _Pellex_, She that
loves the same Man another does; as _Thraso_ is the Rival of
_Phroedria_, and _Europa_ the _Pellex_ of _Juno_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Of inviting to a Feast._

_Dine with me to Morrow._

_Pe._ I give you Thanks, I commend you, I invite you to Supper against
to Morrow, I entreat your Company at Supper to Morrow. I desire you'd
come to Dinner with me to Morrow. I would have your Company at Dinner
to Morrow.

_I fear I can't come._

_Ch._ I fear I can't. I am afraid I can't. I will come if I can; but I
am afraid I can't.


_Pe._ Why can't you? How so? Why so? Wherefore? For what Reason? For
what Cause? What hinders you that you can't.

_I must stay at Home._

_Ch._ Indeed I must be at Home at that Time. I must needs be at Home at
Night. I must not be abroad at that Time. I shall not have an
Opportunity to go out any where to Morrow. I must not be absent at
Dinner. I expect some Guests myself upon that Day. Some Friends have
made an Appointment to sup at our House that Night. I have some Guests
to entertain that Night, or else I would come with all my Heart. Unless
it were so, I would not be unwilling to come. If it were not so, I
should not want much entreating. I would make no Excuse if I could come.
If I could come, I would not be ask'd twice. If I could by any Means
come, I would come with a very little, or without any Invitation at all.
If I could, I would obey your Command very readily. It is in vain to ask
one that is not at his own Disposal: And there would be no need to ask
me if I could come: But at present, though I had never so much Mind, I
can't; and it would be altogether unnecessary to ask one that is

_Pe._ Then pray let me have your Company the next Day after: However, I
must needs have your Company at Supper the next Day after to Morrow. You
must not deny me your Company four Days hence. You must make no Excuse
as to coming next Thursday.

_I can't promise._

_Ch._ I can't promise. I cannot positively promise you. I can't
certainly promise you. I will come when it shall be most convenient for
us both.

_You ought to set the Day._

_Pe._ I would have you appoint a Day when you will come to sup with me.
You must assign a Day. You must set the Day. I desire a certain Day may
be prefix'd, prescrib'd, appointed, set; but set a certain Day. I would
have you tell me the Day.

_I would not have you know before Hand._

_Ch._ Indeed I don't use to set a Day for my Friends. I am used to set a
Day for those I'm at Law with. I would not have you know before Hand.
I'll take you at unawares. I'll come unexpectedly. I will catch you when
you don't think on me. I shall take you when you don't think on me. I'll
come unlooked for. I'll come upon you before you are aware. I'll come an
uninvited and unexpected Guest.

_I would know before Hand._

_Pe._ I would know two Days before Hand. Give me Notice two Days before
you come. Make me acquainted two Days before.

_Ch._ If you will have me, I'll make a _Sybaritical_ Appointment, that
you may have Time enough to provide afore Hand.

_Pe._ What Appointment is that?

_Ch._ The _Sybarites_ invited their Guests against the next Year, that
they might both have Time to be prepar'd.

_Pe._ Away with the _Sybarites_, and their troublesome Entertainments: I
invite an old Chrony, and not a Courtier.

_You desire to your own Detriment._

_Ch._ Indeed 'tis to your Detriment. Indeed 'tis to your own Harm. To
your own Loss. You wish for it. You pray for that to your own

_Pe._ Why so? Wherefore.

_Ch._ I'll come provided. I'll come prepar'd. I'll set upon you
accoutred. I'll come furnish'd with a sharp Stomach; do you take Care
that you have enough to satisfy a Vulture. I'll prepare my Belly and
whet my Teeth; do you look to it, to get enough to satisfy a Wolf.

_Pe._ Come and welcome, I dare you to it. Come on, if you can do any
Thing, do it to your utmost, with all your Might.

_Ch._ I'll come, but I won't come alone.

_Pe._ You shall be the more welcome for that; but who will you bring
with you?

_Ch._ My _Umbra_.

_Pe._ You can't do otherwise if you come in the Day Time.

_Ch._ Ay, but I'll bring one _Umbra_ or two that have got Teeth, that
you shan't have invited me for nothing.

_Pe._ Well, do as you will, so you don't bring any Ghosts along with
you. But if you please explain what is the Meaning of the Word _Umbra_.

_Ch._ Among the Learned they are call'd _Umbræ_, who being uninvited,
bear another Person, that is invited, Company to a Feast.

_Pe._ Well, bring such Ghosts along with you as many as you will.

       *       *       *       *       *

_I promise upon this Condition._

_Ch._ Well, I will come, but upon this Condition, that you shall come to
Supper with me the next Day. I will do it upon this Condition that you
shall be my Guest afterwards. Upon that Condition I promise to come to
Supper, that you again shall be my Guest. I promise I will, but upon
these Terms, that you in the like Manner shall be my Guest the next Day.
I promise I will, I give you my Word I will, upon this Consideration,
that you dine with me the next Day.

_Pe._ Come on, let it be done, let it be so. It shall be as you would
have it. If you command me, I'll do it. I know the _French_ Ambition,
You won't sup with me, but you'll make me Amends for it. And so by this
Means Feasts use to go round. From hence it comes to pass, that it is a
long Time before we have done feasting one with another. By this
Interchangeableness Feasts become reciprocal without End.

_Ch._ It is the pleasantest Way of Living in the World, if no more
Provision be made, but what is used to be made daily. But, I detain you,
it may be, when you are going some whither.

_Pe._ Nay, I believe, I do you. But we'll talk more largely and more
freely to Morrow. But we'll divert ourselves to Morrow more plentifully.
In the mean Time take Care of your Health. In the mean Time take Care to
keep yourself in good Health. Farewell till then.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Whither are you going? The Form._

_Ch._ Where are you a going now? Whither are you going so fast? Where
are you a going in such great Haste. Whither go you? What's your Way?

       *       *       *       *       *

_I go Home. The Form._

_Pe._ I go Home. I return Home. I go to see what they are a doing at
Home. I go to call a Doctor. I am going into the Country. I made an
Appointment just at this Time to go to speak with a certain great Man. I
made an Appointment to meet a great Man at this Time.

_Ch._ Whom?

_Pe._ Talkative _Curio_.

_Ch._ I wish you _Mercury_'s Assistance.

_Pe._ What need of _Mercury_'s Assistance?

_Ch._ Because you have to do with a Man of Words.

_Pe._ Then it were more proper to wish the Assistance of the Goddess

_Ch._ Why so?

_Pe._ Because you'll have more Occasion for patient Ears, than a
strenuous Tongue. And the Ear is dedicated to the Goddess _Memoria_.

_Ch._ Whither are you going? Whither will you go?

_Pe._ This Way, to the left Hand. This Way, that Way, through the

_Ch._ Then I'll bear you Company as far as the next Turning.

_Pe._ I won't let you go about. You shan't put yourself to so much
Trouble on my Account. Save that Trouble till it shall be of Use, it is
altogether unnecessary at this Time. Don't go out of your Way upon my

_Ch._ I reckon I save my Time while I enjoy the Company of so good a
Friend. I have nothing else to do, and I am not so lazy, if my Company
won't be troublesome.

_Pe._ No Body is a more pleasant Companion. But I won't suffer you to go
on my left Hand. I won't let you walk on my left Hand. Here I bid God be
with you. I shall not bear you Company any longer. You shan't go further
with me.

       *       *       *       *       *

_A Form of Recommending._

_Ch._ Recommend me kindly to _Curio_. Recommend me as kindly as may be
to talkative _Curio_. Take Care to recommend me heartily to _Curio_. I
desire you have me recommended to him. I recommend myself to him by you.
I recommend myself to you again and again. I recommend myself to your
Favour with all the Earnestness possible. Leave _recommendo_ instead of
_commendo_ to _Barbarians_. See that you don't be sparing of your
Speech with one that is full of Tongue. See that you be not of few Words
with him that is a Man of many Words.

       *       *       *       *       *

_A Form of Obsequiousness._

_Pe._ Would you have me obey you? Would you have me be obedient? Shall I
obey you? Then you command me to imitate you. Since you would have it
so, I'll do it with all my Heart. Don't hinder me any longer; don't let
us hinder one another.

_Ch._ But before you go, I intreat you not to think much to teach me how
I must use these Sentences, _in morâ, in causâ, in culpâ_; you use to be
studious of Elegancy. Wherefore come on, I entreat you teach me; explain
it to me, I love you dearly.

       *       *       *       *       *

_In Culpâ, In Causâ, In Morâ._

_Pe._ I must do as you would have me. The Fault is not in me. It is not
in thee. The Delay is in thee. Thou art the Cause, is indeed
grammatically spoken; these are more elegant.

_In Culpâ._

I am not in the Fault. The Fault is not mine. I am without Fault. Your
Idleness has been the Cause, that you have made no Proficiency, not your
Master nor your Father. You are all in Fault. You are both in Fault. You
are both to be blam'd. Ye are both to be accus'd. You have gotten this
Distemper by your own ill Management. In like Manner they are said to be
_in vitio_, to whom the Fault is to be imputed; and _in crimine_, they
who are to be blam'd; and _in damno_, who are Losers. This sort of
Phrase is not to be inverted commonly; _Damnum in illo est. Vitium in
illo est._

       *       *       *       *       *

_In Causâ._

Sickness has been the Occasion that I have not written to you. My
Affairs have been the Cause that I have written to you so seldom, and
not Neglect. What was the Cause? What Cause was there? I was not the
Cause. The Post-Man was in the Fault that you have had no Letters from
me. Love and not Study is the Cause of your being so lean. This is the

_In Morâ._

I won't hinder you. What has hinder'd you? You have hindred us. You are
always a Hindrance. What hindred you? Who has hindred you? You have what
you ask'd for. It is your Duty to remember it. You have the Reward of
your Respect. Farewell, my _Christian_.

_Ch._ And fare you well till to Morrow, my _Peter_.

       *       *       *       *       *

_At Meeting._


_Ch._ God save you heartily, sweet _Austin_.

_Au._ I wish the same to you, most kind _Christian_. Good Morrow to you.
I wish you a good Day; but how do you do?

_Ch._ Very well as Things go, and I wish you what you wish for.

_Au._ I love you deservedly. I love thee. Thou deservest to be lov'd
heartily. Thou speakest kindly. Thou art courteous. I give thee Thanks.

       *       *       *       *       *

_I am angry with thee. The Form._

_Ch._ But I am something angry with you. But I am a little angry with
you. But I am a little provok'd at you. I have something to be angry
with you for.

       *       *       *       *       *

_For what Cause. The Form._

_Au._ I pray what is it? Why so? But why, I beseech you? What Crime have
I committed? What have I done? _Promereor bona_, I deserve Good;
_Commereor mala_, I deserve Ill, or Punishment: The one is used in a
good Sense, and the other in an ill. _Demeremur eum_, is said of him
that we have attach'd to us by Kindness.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Because you don't Regard me._

_Ch._ Because you take no Care of me. Because you don't regard me.
Because you come to see us so seldom. Because you wholly neglect us.
Because you quite neglect me. Because you seem to have cast off all Care
of us.

_Au._ But there is no Cause for you to be angry. But you are angry
without my Desert, and undeservedly; for it has not been my Fault, that
I have come to see you but seldom: Forgive my Hurry of Business that has
hindered me from seeing you, as often as I would have done.

_Ch._ I will pardon you upon this Condition, if you'll come to Supper
with me to Night. I'll quit you upon that Condition, if you come to
Supper with me in the Evening.

_Au. Christian_, you prescribe no hard Articles of Peace, and therefore
I'll come with all my Heart. Indeed I will do it willingly. Indeed I
would do that with all Readiness in the World. I shan't do that
unwillingly. I won't want much Courting to that. There is nothing in the
World that I would do with more Readiness. I will do it with a willing

_Ch._ I commend your obliging Temper in this, and in all other Things.

_Au._ I use always to be thus obsequious to my Friends, especially when
they require nothing but what's reasonable. O ridiculous! Do you think I
would refuse when offer'd me, that which I should have ask'd for of my
own Accord?

       *       *       *       *       *

_Don't deceive me. The Form._

_Ch._ Well, but take Care you don't delude me. See you don't deceive me.
Take Care you don't make me feed a vain Hope. See you don't fail my
Expectation. See you don't disappoint me. See you don't lull me on with
a vain Hope.

_Au._ There is no Need to swear. In other Things, in other Matters you
may be afraid of Perfidy. In this I won't deceive you. But hark you, see
that you provide nothing but what you do daily: I would have no holy Day
made upon my Account. You know that I am a Guest that am no great
Trencher Man, but a very merry Man.

_Ch._ I'll be sure to take Care. I will entertain you with Scholars
Commons, if not with slenderer Fare.

_Au._ Nay, if you'd please me, let it be with _Diogenes_'s Fare.

_Ch._ You may depend upon it, I will treat you with a _Platonick_
Supper, in which you shall have a great many learned Stories, and but a
little Meat, the Pleasure of which shall last till the next Day: whereas
they that have been nobly entertain'd, enjoy perhaps a little Pleasure
that Day, but the next are troubled with the Head-ach, and Sickness at
the Stomach. He that supp'd with _Plato_, had one Pleasure from the easy
Preparation, and Philosopher's Stories; and another the next Day, that
his Head did not ach, and that his Stomach was not sick, and so had a
good Dinner of the sauce of last Night's Supper.

_Au._ I like it very well, let it be as you have said.

_Ch._ Do you see that you leave all your Cares and melancholy Airs at
Home, and bring nothing hither but Jokes and Merriment; and as _Juvenal_

  _Protenus ante meum, quicquid dolet, exue limen.

  Lay all that troubles you down before my Door, before you come into it._

_Au._ What? Would you have me bring no Learning along with me? I will
bring my Muses with me, unless you think it not convenient.

_Ch._ Shut up your ill-natured Muses at Home with your Business, but
bring your good-natured Muses, all your witty Jests, your By-words, your
Banters, your Pleasantries, your pretty Sayings, and all your
Ridiculosities along with you.

_Au._ I'll do as you bid me; put on all my best Looks. We'll be merry
Fellows. We'll laugh our Bellies full. We'll make much of ourselves.
We'll feast jovially. We'll play the _Epicureans_. We'll set a good Face
on't, and be boon Blades. These are fine Phrases of clownish Fellows
that have a peculiar Way of speaking to themselves.

_Ch._ Where are you going so fast?

_Au._ To my Son's in Law.

_Ch._ What do you do there? Why thither? What do you with him?

_Au._ I hear there is Disturbance among them; I am going to make them
Friends again, to bring them to an Agreement; to make Peace among them.

_Ch._ You do very well, though I believe they don't want you; for they
will make the Matter up better among themselves.

_Au._ Perhaps there is a Cessation of Arms, and the Peace is to be
concluded at Night. But have you any Thing else to say to me?

_Ch._ I will send my Boy to call you.

_Au._ When you please. I shall be at Home. Farewell.

_Ch._ I wish you well. See that you be here by five a-Clock. Soho
_Peter_, call _Austin_ to Supper, who you know promised to come to
Supper with me to Day.

_Pe._ Soho! Poet, God bless you, Supper has been ready this good While,
and my Master stays for you at Home, you may come when you will.

_Au._ I come this Minute.



     _Our_ Erasmus _most elegantly proposes all the Furniture
     of this Feast; the Discourses and Behaviour of the
     Entertainer and the Guests_, &c. _Water and a Bason
     before Dinner. The_ Stoics, _the_ Epicureans; _the Form
     of the Grace at Table. It is good Wine that pleases four
     Senses. Why_ Bacchus _is the Poets God; why he is painted
     a Boy. Mutton very wholsome. That a Man does not live by
     Bread and Wine only. Sleep makes some Persons fat.
     Venison is dear. Concerning Deers, Hares, and Geese: They
     of old defended the Capitol at_ Rome. _Of Cocks, Capons
     and Fishes. Here is discoursed of by the by, Fasting. Of
     the Choice of Meats. Some Persons Superstition in that
     Matter. The Cruelty of those Persons that require these
     Things of those Persons they are hurtful to; when the
     eating of Fish is neither necessary, nor commanded by
     Christ. The eating of Fish is condemned by Physicians.
     The chief Luxury of old Time consisted in Fishes. We
     should always live a sober Life. What Number of Guests
     there should be at an Entertainment. The Bill of Fare of
     the second Course. The Magnificence of the_ French. _The
     ancient Law of Feasts. Either drink, or begone. A
     Variation of Phrases. Thanksgiving after Meat._


_Au._ O, my _Christian_, God bless you.

_Ch._ It is very well that you are come. I am glad you're come. I
congratulate myself that you are come. I believe it has not struck five

_Boy._ Yes, it is a good While past five. It is not far from six. It is
almost six. You'll hear it strike six presently.

_Au._ It is no great Matter whether I come before five or after five, as
long as I am not come after Supper; for that is a miserable Thing, to
come after a Feast is over. What's all this great Preparation for? What
means all this Provision? What, do you think I'm a Wolf? Do you take me
for a Wolf? Do you think I'm a Vulture?

_Ch._ Not a Vulture, nor yet do I think you a Grashopper, to live upon
Dew. Here is nothing of Extravagancy, I always lov'd Neatness, and abhor
Slovenliness. I am for being neither luxurious nor niggardly. We had
better leave than lack. If I dress'd but one Dish of Peas, and the Soot
should chance to fall in the Pot and spoil it, what should we have to
eat then? Nor does every Body love one Thing; therefore I love a
moderate Variety.

_Au._ An't you afraid of the sumptuary Laws?

_Ch._ Nay, I most commonly offend on the contrary Side. There is no need
of the _Fannian_ Law at our House. The Slenderness of my Income teaches
me Frugality sufficiently.

_Au._ This is contrary to our Agreement. You promised me quite

_Ch._ Well, Mr. Fool, you don't stand to your Agreement. For it was
agreed upon that you should bring nothing but merry Tales. But let us
have done with these Matters, and wash, and sit down to Supper. Soho,
Boy, bring a little Water and a Bason; hang a Towel over your Shoulder,
pour out some Water. What do you loiter for? Wash, _Austin_.

_Au._ Do you wash first.

_Ch._ Pray excuse me. I had rather eat my Supper with unwashen Hands
this twelve Months.

_Au._ O ridiculous! 'Tis not he that is the most honourable, but he
that is the dirtiest that should wash first; then do you wash as the

_Ch._ You are too complaisant. You are more complaisant than enough;
than is fitting. But to what Purpose is all this Ceremony? Let us leave
these trifling Ceremonies to Women, they are quite kick'd out of the
Court already, although they came from thence at first. Wash three or
four at a Time. Don't let us spend the Time in these Delays. I won't
place any Body, let every one take what Place he likes best. He that
loves to sit by the Fire, will sit best here. He that can't bear the
Light let him take this Corner. He that loves to look about him, let him
sit here. Come, here has been Delays enough. Sit down. I am at Home,
I'll take my Supper standing, or walking about, which I like best. Why
don't you sit down, Supper will be spoiled.

_Au._ Now let us enjoy ourselves, and eat heartily. Now let us be
_Epicures_. We have nothing to do with Superciliousness. Farewell Care,
let all Ill-will and Detraction be banished. Let us be merry, pleasant,
and facetious.

_Ch. Austin_, pray who are those _Stoics_ and _Epicures_?

_Au._ The _Stoics_ are a certain melancholy, rigid, parcimonious Sect of
Philosophers, who make the _Summum bonum_ of Mankind, to consist in a
certain, I can't tell what, _honestum_. The _Epicures_ are the Reverse
of these, and they make the Felicity of a Man to consist in Pleasure.

_Ch._ Pray what Sect are you of, a _Stoic_ or an _Epicure_?

_Au._ I recommend _Zeno_'s Rules; but I follow _Epicurus_'s Practice.

_Ch. Austin_, what you speak in Jest, a great many do in Earnest, and
are only Philosophers by their Cloaks and Beards.

_Au._ Nay, indeed they out-live the _Asots_ in Luxury.

_Ch. Dromo_, come hither. Do your Office, say Grace.

_Boy._ "May he that feeds all Things by his Bounty, command his Blessing
upon what is or shall be set upon this Table. Amen."

_Ch._ Set the Victuals on the Table. Why do we delay to eat up this
Capon? Why are we afraid to carve this Cock?

_Au._ I'll be _Hercules_, and slay this Beast. Which had you rather
have, a Wing or a Leg?

_Ch._ Which you will, I don't matter which.

_Au._ In this Sort of Fowls the Wing is look'd upon the best; in other
Fowls the Leg is commonly esteemed the greater dainty Bit.

_Ch._ I put you to a great Deal of Trouble. You take a great Deal of
Trouble upon you, upon my Account. You help every Body else, and eat
nothing yourself. I'll help you to this Wing; but upon this Condition,
that you shall give me Half of it back.

_Au._ Say you so, that is serving yourself and not me; keep it for
yourself. I am not so bashful as to want any Body to help me.

_Ch._ You do very well.

_Au._ Do you carve for a Wolf? Have you invited a Vulture?

_Ch._ You fast. You don't eat.

_Au._ I eat more than any Body.

_Ch._ Nay, rather, you lye more than any Body. Pray be as free as if you
were at your own House.

_Au._ I take myself to be there. I do so. I am resolv'd so to do. I
design to do so.

_Ch._ How does this Wine please you? Does this Wine please your Palate?

_Au._ Indeed it pleases me very well. Indeed it pleases mightily. It
pleases me well enough. It pleases me very well.

_Ch._ Which had you rather have, Red or White?

_It is no Matter what Colour it is._

_Au._ Indeed I like both alike. It is no Matter what Colour 'tis, so the
Taste be pleasing. I don't much mind how the Wine pleases the Eye, so it
do but please the Palate. I an't much mov'd at the Sight of it, if the
Taste be but grateful. It is no great Matter what Colour it is of, or
what Colour it has, if it does but taste well. I don't desire to please
my Eyes if I can but please my Taste. If it do but please the Palate, I
don't regard the Colour, if it be well relish'd.

_Ch._ I believe so: But there are some Persons that are mighty deeply
read in Table Philosophy, who deny that the Wine can be good, unless it
pleases four Senses: The Eye, with its Colour; the Nose, with its Smell;
the Palate, with its Taste; the Ears, by its Fame and Name.

_Au._ O ridiculous! What signifies Fame to Drink?

_Ch._ As much as many that have a good Palate mightily approve of
_Lovain_ Wine, when they believe it to be _Bern_ Wine.

_Au._ It may be, they had spoiled their Palate by much Drinking.

_Ch._ No, before they had drank one Drop. But I have a Mind to hear your
Opinion, who are a Man of great Skill in these Matters.

_Au._ Our Countrymen prefer White before Red, because the Red is a
little more upon the Acid, and the White a smaller Wine; but that is the
milder, and in my Opinion the more wholsome.

_Ch._ We have a pale red Wine, and a yellow Wine, and a purple Colour
Wine. This is new Wine, this Year's Wine. This is two Years old, if any
Body is for an old Wine. We have some four Years old, but it is grown
flat and dead with Age. The Strength is gone with Age.

_Au._ Why, you're as rich as _Lucullus_.

_Ch._ Soho, Boy, where are you a loitering? You give us no Attendance;
don't you see we have no Wine here? What if a Fire should happen now?
How should we put it out? Give every one a full Glass. _Austin_, What's
the matter that you are not merry? What makes you sit so Melancholy?
What's the Matter with you, that you an't chearful? You are either
troubled at something, or you're making Verses. You play the
_Crysippus_ now, you want a _Melissa_ to feed you.

_Au._ What Story is this you are telling me of?

_Ch. Crysippus_ is reported to have been so intent upon his logical
Subtilties, that he would have been starved at Table, unless his Maid
_Melissa_ had put the Meat into his Mouth.

_Au._ He did not deserve to have his Life sav'd; but if Silence is an
Offence to you, and you love a noisy Feast, you have gotten that will
make one.

_Ch._ I remember I have. That's very well minded: We must drink more
freely, we ought to drink more largely, more Wine and less Water.

      _You have hit on the Matter._

_Au._ You have hit the Nail on the Head. You are in the Right. You have
hit the Mark. For,

_Foecundi calices quem non fecere disertum?_

_Ch._ That is very learnedly spoken, _Austin_, and so indeed is all that
comes from you; but since we are fallen into a Discourse concerning
Wine, since we have happen'd to make mention of Wine, I have a mind to
ask you, for what Reason the Ancients, who will have _Bacchus_ the
Inventor of Wine, call him the God of the Poets? What has that drunken
God to do with Poets, who are the Votaries of the Virgin Muses?

_Au._ By _Bacchus_, this is a Question fit to be put over a Bottle. But
I see very well, what your Question drives at.

_Ch._ What, prithee?

_Au._ You very cunningly put a Question about Wine, by a _French_ Trick,
which I believe you learn'd at _Paris_, that you may save your Wine by
that Means. Ah, go your Way, I see you're a Sophister; you have made a
good Proficiency in that School.

_Ch._ Well, I take all your Jokes; I'll return the like to you, when
Opportunity shall offer. But to the Matter in Hand.

_Au._ I'll go on, but I'll drink first, for it is absurd to dispute
about a tippling Question with a dry Throat. Here's to you _Christian_.
Half this Cup to you.

_Ch._ I thank you kindly. God bless it to you, much good may it do you.

_Au._ Now I'm ready, at your Service. I'll do it as well as I can after
my Manner. That they have given a Boy's Face to _Bacchus_, has this
Mystery in it; that Wine being drank, takes away Cares and Vexations
from our Minds, and adds a Sort of a Chearfulness to them. And for this
Reason, it adds a Sort of Youthfulness even to old Men, in that it makes
them more chearful, and of a better Complexion. The same thing _Horace_
in many Places, and particularly testifies in these Verses:

      _Ad mare cum veni, generosum et lene requiro,
      Quod curas abigat, quod cum spe divite manet.
      In venas, animumque meum, quod verba ministret.
      Quod me Lucanoe juvenem commendet amicæ._

For that they have assign'd the Poets to this Deity, I believe by it
they design'd to intimate this, that Wine both stirs up Wit and
administers Eloquence; which two Things are very fit for Poets. Whence
it comes to pass, that your Water Drinkers make poor Verses. For
_Bacchus_ is of a fiery Constitution naturally, but he is made more
temperate, being united with the Nymphs. Have you been answer'd to your

_Ch._ I never heard any Thing more to the Purpose from a Poet. You
deserve to drink out of a Cup set with Jewels. Boy, take away this Dish,
and set on another.

_Au._ You have got a very clownish Boy.

_Ch._ He is the unluckiest Knave in the World.

_Au._ Why don't you teach him better Manners?

_Ch._ He is too old to learn. It is a hard matter to mend the Manners of
an old Sinner. An old Dog won't be easily brought to wear the Collar.
He's well enough for me. Like Master like Man.

       *       *       *       *       *

_If I knew what you lik'd, I would help you._

_Au._ I would cut you a Slice, if I knew what would please you. I would
help you, if I knew your Palate. I would help you, if I knew what you
lik'd best. If I knew the Disposition of your Palate, I would be your
Carver. Indeed my Palate is like my Judgment.

_Ch._ You have a very nice Palate. No Body has a nicer Palate than you
have. I don't think you come behind him of whose exquisite Skill the
Satyrist says,

      _Ostrea callebat primo deprendere morsu,
      Et semel aspecti dicebat littus echini._

_Au._ And you, my _Christian_, that I may return the Compliment, seem to
have been Scholar to _Epicurus_, or brought up in the _Catian_ School.
For what's more delicate or nice than your Palate?

_Ch._ If I understood Oratory so well as I do Cookery, I'd challenge
_Cicero_ himself.

_Au._ Indeed if I must be without one, I had rather want Oratory than

_Ch._ I am entirely of your Mind, you judge gravely, wisely, and truly.
For what is the Prattle of Orators good for, but to tickle idle Ears
with a vain Pleasure? But Cookery feeds and repairs the Palate, the
Belly, and the whole Man, let him be as big as he will. _Cicero_ says,
_Concedat laurea lingæ_; but both of them must give place to Cookery. I
never very well liked those _Stoicks_, who referring all things to their
(I can't tell what) _honestum_, thought we ought to have no regard to
our Persons and our Palates. _Aristippus_ was wiser than _Diogenes_
beyond Expression in my Opinion.

_Au._ I despise the _Stoicks_ with all their Fasts. But I praise and
approve _Epicurus_ more than that _Cynic Diogenes_, who lived upon raw
Herbs and Water; and therefore I don't wonder that _Alexander_, that
fortunate King, had rather be _Alexander_ than _Diogenes_.

_Ch._ Nor indeed would I myself, who am but an ordinary Man, change my
Philosophy for _Diogenes_'s; and I believe your _Catius_ would refuse
to do it too. The Philosophers of our Time are wiser, who are content to
dispute like _Stoicks_, but in living out-do even _Epicurus_ himself.
And yet for all that, I look upon Philosophy to be one of the most
excellent Things in Nature, if used moderately. I don't approve of
philosophising too much, for it is a very jejune, barren, and melancholy
Thing. When I fall into any Calamity or Sickness, then I betake myself
to Philosophy, as to a Physician; but when I am well again, I bid it

_Au._ I like your Method. You do philosophize very well. Your humble
Servant, Mr. Philosopher; not of the _Stoick_ School, but the Kitchen.

_Ch._ What is the Matter with you, _Erasmus_, that you are so
melancholy? What makes you look so frowningly? What makes you so silent?
Are you angry with me because I have entertained you with such a slender

_Er._ Nay, I am angry with you that you have put your self to so much
Charge upon my Account. _Austin_ laid a strict Charge upon you that you
would provide nothing extraordinary upon his Account. I believe you have
a Mind we should never come to see you again; for they give such a
Supper as this that intended to make but one. What sort of Guests did
you expect? You seem to have provided not for Friends, but for Princes.
Do you think we are Gluttons? This is not to entertain one with a
Supper, but victualling one for three Days together.

_Ch._ You will be ill-humour'd. Dispute about that Matter to-Morrow;
pray be good humour'd to-Day. We'll talk about the Charge to-Morrow; I
have no Mind to hear any Thing but what is merry at this time.

_Au. Christian_, whether had you rather have, Beef or Mutton?

_Ch._ I like Beef best, but I think Mutton is the most wholsome. It is
the Disposition of Mankind to be most desirous of those Things that are
the most hurtful.

_Au._ The _French_ are wonderful Admirers of Pork.

_Ch._ The _French_ love that most that costs least.

_Au._ I am a Jew in this one Thing, there is nothing I hate so much as
Swine's Flesh.

_Ch._ Nor without Reason, for what is more unwholsome? In this I am not
of the _French_ Man's but of the _Jew's_ Mind.

_Er._ But I love both Mutton and Pork, but for a different Reason; for I
eat freely of Mutton, because I love it; but Hogs Flesh I don't touch,
by Reason of Love, that I may not give Offence.

_Ch._ You are a clever Man, _Erasmus_, and a very merry one too. Indeed
I am apt to admire from whence it comes to pass that there is such a
great Diversity in Mens Palates, for if I may make use of this Verse of

      Tres mihi convivæ propè dissentire videntur,
      Poscentes vario multùm diversa palato.

_Er._ Although as the Comedian says, _So many Men, so many Minds_, and
every Man has his own Way; yet no Body can make me believe, there is
more Variety in Mens Dispositions, than there is in their Palates: So
that you can scarce find two that love the same Things. I have seen a
great many, that can't bear so much as the Smell of Butter and Cheese:
Some loath Flesh; one will not eat roast Meat, and another won't eat
boil'd. There are many that prefer Water before Wine. And more than
this, which you'll hardly believe; I have seen a Man who would neither
eat Bread, nor drink Wine.

_Ch._ What did that poor Man live on?

_Er._ There was nothing else but what he could eat; Meat, Fish, Herbs
and Fruit.

_Ch._ Would you have me believe you?

_Er._ Yes, if you will.

_Ch._ I will believe you; but upon this Condition, that you shall
believe me when I tell a Lye.

_Er._ Well, I will do it, so that you lye modestly.

_Ch._ As if any Thing could be more impudent than your Lye.

_Er._ What would your Confidence say, if I should shew you the Man?

_Ch._ He must needs be a starveling Fellow, a meer Shadow.

_Er._ You'd say he was a Champion.

_Ch._ Nay, rather a _Polyphemus_.

_Er._ I wonder this should seem so strange to you, when there are a
great many that eat dry'd Fish instead of Bread: And some that the Roots
of Herbs serve for the same Use that Bread does us.

_Ch._ I believe you; lye on.

_Er._ I remember, I saw a Man when I was in _Italy_, that grew fat with
Sleep, without the Assistance either of Meat or Drink.

_Ch._ Fie for Shame; I can't forbear making Use of that Expression of
the Satyrist,

      Tunc immensa cavi spirant mendacia folles.

Thou poeticisest. You play the Part of a Poet. I am loath to give you
the Lye.

_Er._ I am the greatest Lyar in the World, if _Pliny_, an Author of
undoubted Credit, has not written, that a Bear in fourteen Days Time
will grow wonderfully fat with nothing but Sleep: And that he will sleep
so sound, that you can scarce wake him, by wounding him: Nay, to make
you admire the more, I will add what _Theophrastus_ writes, that during
that Time, if the Flesh of the Bear be boil'd, and kept some Time, it
will come to Life again.

_Ch._ I am afraid that _Parmeno_ in _Terence_ will hardly be able to
comprehend these Things. I believe it readily. I would help you to some
Venison, if I were well enough accomplished.

_Er._ Where have you any Hunting now? How came you by Venison?

_Ch._ _Midas_, the most generous spirited Man living, and a very good
Friend of mine, sent it me for a Present; but so, that I oftentimes buy
it for less.

_Er._ How so?

_Ch._ Because I am obliged to give more to his Servants, than I could
buy it for in the Market.

_Er._ Who obliges you to that?

_Ch._ The most violent Tyrant in the World.

_Er._ Who is he?

_Ch._ Custom.

_Er._ Indeed, that Tyrant does frequently impose the most unjust Laws
upon Mankind.

_Ch._ The same Tyrant hunted this Stag, but the Day before Yesterday.
What did you do, who used to be a very great Lover of that Sport?

_Au._ Indeed I have left off that Sport, and now I hunt after nothing
but Learning.

_Ch._ In my Opinion, Learning is fleeter than any Stag.

_Au._ But I hunt chiefly with two Dogs, that is to say, with Love and
Industry: For Love affords a great Deal of Eagerness to learn, and as
the most elegant Poet says,

      ----_Labor improbus omnia vincit._

_Ch. Austin_, you admonish after a friendly Manner, as you use to do;
and therefore, I won't give over, nor rest, nor tire, till I attain.

_Au._ Venison is now in the Prime. _Pliny_ tells us a very admirable
Story concerning this Animal.

_Ch._ What is it, I pray you?

_Au._ That as often as they prick up their Ears, they are very quick of
Hearing; but on the contrary, when they let them down, they are deaf.

_Ch._ That very often happens to myself; for if I happen to hear a Word
spoken of receiving Guineas, there is no Body quicker of Hearing than I;
for then with _Pamphilus_ in _Terence_, I prick up my Ears; but when
there is any Mention made of paying them away, I let them down, and am
presently hard of Hearing.

_Au._ Well, I commend you; you do as you should do.

_Ch._ Would you have some of the Leg of this Hare?

_Au._ Take it yourself.

_Ch._ Or had you rather have some of the Back?

_Au._ This Creature has nothing good but its Flank and hind Legs.

_Ch._ Did you ever see a white Hare?

_Au._ Oftentimes. _Pliny_ writes, that on the _Alps_ there are white
Hares; and that it is believed in the Winter Time they feed upon Snow:
Whether it be true or no, let _Pliny_ see to that: For if Snow makes a
Hare's Skin white, it must make his Stomach white too.

_Ch._ I don't know but it may be true.

_Au._ I have something for you that is stranger than that; but it may be
you have heard of it. The same Man testifies that there is the same
Nature in all of them; that is, of Males and Females, and that the
Females do as commonly breed without the Use of the Male, as with it.
And many Persons assert the same, and especially your skilful Hunters.

_Ch._ You say right; but if you please, let us try these Rabbets, for
they are fat and tender. I would help that pretty Lady if I sat nigher
to her. _Austin_, pray take Care of that Lady that sits by you, for you
know how to please the fair Sex.

_Au._ I know what you mean, you Joker.

_Ch._ Do you love Goose?

_Au._ Ay, I love 'em mightily, and I an't very nice. I don't know what's
the Matter, but this Goose don't please me; I never saw any Thing dryer
in all my Life; it is dryer than a Pumice-Stone, or _Furius_'s Mother in
Law, upon whom _Catullus_ breaks so many Jests. I believe it is made of
Wood; And in Troth I believe 'tis an old Soldier, that has worn itself
out with being upon the Guard. They say a Goose is the most wakeful
Creature living. In Truth, if I am not out in my Guess, this Goose was
one of them, who when the Watch and their Dogs were fast asleep, in old
Time defended the _Roman_ Capitol.

_Ch._ As I hope to live I believe it was, for I believe it liv'd in that

_Au._ And this Hen was either half starv'd, or else was in love, or was
jealous; for this Sort of Creatures are much troubled with that
Distemper. This Capon fatten'd much better; see what Cares will do. If
we were to geld our _Theodoricus_, he would grow fat much the sooner.

_Th._ I an't a Cock.

_Au._ I confess you are not _Gallus Cybeles_, nor a Dunghil-Cock; but it
may be you are _Gallus Gallaceus_.

_Ch._ What Word is that?

_Au._ I leave that Word to be unriddled by you: I am _Sphinx_, and you
shall be _Oedipus_.

_Ch. Austin_, tell me truly, have you had no Conversation with _French_
Men, have you had no Affinity with them? Had you nothing to do with

_Au._ None at all, indeed.

_Ch._ Then you are so much the worse.

_Au._ But perhaps I have had to do with _French_ Women.

_Ch._ Will you have any of this Goose's Liver? This was look'd upon as a
great Delicacy by the Ancients.

_Au._ I will refuse nothing that comes from your Hand.

_Ch._ You must not expect _Roman_ Dainties.

_Au._ What are they?

_Ch._ Thistles, Cockles, Tortoises, Conger-Eels, Mushrooms, Truffles,

_Au._ I had rather have a Turnip than any of them. You are liberal and
bountiful, _Christian_.

_Ch._ No Body touches these Partridges nor the Pigeons, to-Morrow is a
Fast-Day appointed by the Church; prepare against that Hunger; Ballast
your Ship against the impending Storm. War is a coming, furnish your
Belly with Provision.

_Au._ I wish you had kept that Word in, we should have risen from Supper
more merrily. You torment us before the Time.

_Ch._ Why so?

_Au._ Because I hate Fish worse than I do a Snake.

_Ch._ You are not alone.

_Au._ Who brought in this troublesome Custom?

_Ch._ Who order'd you to take Aloes, Wormwood and Scammony in Physick?

_Au._ But these Things are given to Folks that are sick.

_Ch._ So these Things are given to them that are too well. It is better
sometimes to be sick, than to be too well.

_Au._ In my Opinion the _Jews_ themselves did not labour under such a
Burden. Indeed I could easily refrain from Eels and Swines Flesh, if I
might fill my Belly with Capons and Partridges.

_Ch._ In a great many Circumstances it is not the Thing, but the Mind
that distinguishes us from _Jews_; they held their Hands from certain
Meats, as from unclean Things, that would pollute the Mind; but we,
understanding that _to the Pure, all Things are pure_, yet take away
Food from the wanton Flesh, as we do Hay from a pamper'd Horse, that it
may be more ready to hearken to the Spirit. We sometimes chastise the
immoderate Use of pleasant Things, by the Pain of Abstinence.

_Au._ I hear you; but by the same Argument, Circumcision of the Flesh
may be defended; for that moderates the Itch of Coition, and brings
Pain. If all hated Fish as bad as I do, I would scarce put a Parricide
to so much Torture.

_Ch._ Some Palates are better pleas'd with Fish than Flesh.

_Au._ Then they like those Things that please their Gluttony, but don't
make for their Health.

_Ch._ I have heard of some of the _Æsops_ and _Apitius_'s, that have
look'd upon Fish as the greatest Delicacy.

_Au._ How then do Dainties agree with Punishment?

_Ch._ Every Body han't Lampreys, Scares, and Sturgeons.

_Au._ Then it is only the poor Folks that are tormented, with whom it is
bad enough, if they were permitted to eat Flesh; and it often happens,
that when they may eat Flesh for the Church, they can't for their Purse.

_Ch._ Indeed, a very hard Injunction!

_Au._ And if the Prohibition of Flesh be turned to delicious Living to
the Rich; and if the Poor can't eat Flesh many Times, when otherwise
they might, nor can't eat Fish, because they are commonly the dearer; to
whom does the Injunction do good?

_Ch._ To all; for poor Folks may eat Cockles or Frogs, or may gnaw upon
Onions or Leeks. The middle Sort of People will make some Abatement in
their usual Provision; and though the Rich do make it an Occasion of
living deliciously, they ought to impute that to their Gluttony, and not
blame the Constitution of the Church.

_Au._ You have said very well; but for all that, to require Abstinence
from Flesh of poor Folks, who feed their Families by the Sweat of their
Brows, and live a great Way from Rivers and Lakes, is the same Thing as
to command a Famine, or rather a _Bulimia_. And if we believe _Homer_,
it is the miserablest Death in the World to be starv'd to Death.

_Ch._ So it seem'd to blind _Homer_; but with _Christians_, he is not
miserable that dies well.

_Au._ Let that be so; yet it is a very hard Thing to require any Body to

_Ch._ The Popes don't prohibit the eating of Flesh with that Design, to
kill Men, but that they may be moderately afflicted if they have
transgress'd; or that taking away their pleasant Food, their Bodies may
be less fierce against the Spirit.

_Au._ The moderate Use of Flesh would effect that.

_Ch._ But in so great a Variety of Bodies certain Bounds of Flesh can't
be prescrib'd, a Kind of Food may.

_Au._ There are Fishes that yield much Aliment, and there are Sorts of
Flesh that yield but little.

_Ch._ But in general Flesh is most nourishing.

_Au._ Pray tell me, if you were to go a Journey any whither, would you
chuse a lively Horse that was a little wanton, or a diseased Horse, who
would often stumble and throw his Rider?

_Ch._ What do you mean by that?

_Au._ Because Fish-eating, by its corrupt Humours, renders the Body
liable to a great many Diseases, that it can't subserve the Spirit as it
should do.

_Ch._ To what Diseases?

_Au._ Gouts, Fevers, Leprosies, the King's-Evil.

_Ch._ How do you know?

_Au._ I believe Physicians. I had rather do so than try the Experiment.

_Ch._ Perhaps that happens to a few.

_Au._ Indeed I believe to a great many; besides, in as much as the Mind
acts by the material Organs of the Body, which are affected with good or
bad Humours, the Instruments being vitiated, it can't exert its Power as
it would.

_Ch._ I know Doctors do very much find Fault with the eating of Fish;
but our Ancestors thought otherwise, and it is our Duty to obey them.

_Au._ It was a Piece of Religion formerly not to break the Sabbath; but
for all that, it was more eligible to save a Man on the Sabbath-Day.

_Ch._ Every one consults his own Health.

_Au._ If we will obey St. _Paul, Let no Body mind his own Things, but
every one the Things of another_.

_Ch._ How come we by this new Divine at our Table? Whence comes this new
upstart Master of ours?

_Au._ Because I don't like Fishes.

_Ch._ What, then won't you abstain from Flesh?

_Au._ I do abstain, but grumblingly, and to my great Detriment too.

_Ch. Charity suffers all Things._

_Au._ It is true; but then the same requires but little. If it suffers
all Things, why won't it suffer us to eat those Meats the Gospel has
given us a Liberty to eat? Why do those Persons, from whom Christ has so
often required the Love of himself, suffer so many Bodies of Men to be
endanger'd by capital Diseases, and their Souls to be in Danger of
eternal Damnation, because of a Thing neither forbidden by _Christ_, nor
necessary in itself?

_Ch._ When Necessity requires it, the Force of a human Constitution
ceases, and the Will of the Lawgiver ceases.

_Au._ But the Offence of the Weak does not cease. The Scruple of a
tender Conscience does not cease. And lastly, it is uncertain with what
Limits that Necessity shall be bounded; shall it be when the Fish-eater
shall be a giving up the Ghost? It is too late to give Flesh to a Man
when he is dying; or shall it be when his Body becomes all feverish?
The Choice of Meats is not of so much Consequence.

_Ch._ What would you have prescrib'd then?

_Au._ I can tell well enough, if I might be allow'd to be a Dictator in
Ecclesiastical Affairs.

_Ch._ What do you mean by that?

_Au._ If I were Pope I would exhort all Persons to a perpetual Sobriety
of Life, but especially before an holy-Day; and moreover, I would give
every one leave to eat what he would, for the Health of his Body, so he
did it moderately, and with Thanksgiving; and I would endeavour that
what was abated of these Observations should be made up in the Study of
true Piety.

_Ch._ That in my Opinion is of so great Weight, that we ought to make
you Pope.

_Au._ For all your laughing, this Neck could bear a triple Crown.

_Ch._ But in the mean Time take Care that these Things be not enter'd
down in the _Sorbon_ at _Paris_.

_Au._ Nay, rather let what is said be written in Wine, as it is fit
those Things should that are said over our Cups; but we have had
Divinity enough for a Feast We are at Supper, not at the _Sorbon_.

_Ch._ Why mayn't that be call'd _Sorbon_ where we sup plentifully?

_Au._ Well, let us sup then, and not dispute, lest the _Sorbon_ be
called after us from _Sorbis_, and not from _Sorbendo_.


_Ch._ Well, come my kind Guests, I pray you that you would take this
little Supper in good Part, though it be but a slender one. Be merry and
good humour'd, though the Supper be but mean and slender. I, relying
upon your Familiarity, made bold to invite you; and I will assure you,
your Company and Presence is not only very grateful to me, but very

_Gu._ We do assure you, good _Christian_, that we esteem your Supper to
have been very pretty and noble; and we have nothing to find Fault with,
but that you make Excuses for it, for that it was very magnificent; for
indeed I look upon the Entertainment to be splendid to the greatest
degree, that in the first Place consisted of Courses agreeable to
Nature, and was season'd with Mirth, Laughter, Jokes and Witticisms,
none of which have been wanting in our Entertainment. But here is
something comes into my Mind, as to the Number of the Guests, which
_Varro_ writes, _should not be fewer than three, nor more than nine_.
For the _Graces_, who are the Presidents of Humanity and Benevolence,
are three; and the _Muses_, that are the Guides of commendable Studies,
are nine; and I see here we have ten Guests besides the Virgins.

_Au._ Nothing could happen more agreeably; we are in that something
wiser than _Varro_, for we have gotten here three pretty Maids for the
three _Graces_; and as it is not to be thought that _Apollo_ is ever
absent from the Chorus of the _Muses_, we have very much _à propos_
added the tenth Guest.

_Ch._ You have spoken very much like a Poet. If I had a Laurel here I
would crown you with it, and you should be Poet Laureat.

_Au._ If I were crown'd with Mallows, I should be Poet _Maleat_; I do
not arrogate that Honour to myself. This is an Honour that I don't

      ------_Haud equidem tali me dignor honore._

_Ch._ Will you, every one of you, do as much for me as I will do for

_Gu._ Ay, that we will with all our Hearts.

_Ch._ Then let every one drink off his Cup round as I do. Here's to you
first, _Midas_.

_Mi._ I thank you heartily. I pledge you heartily; for which the Vulgar
says _Præstolor_. Indeed I won't refuse. I won't refuse any Thing for
your Sake.

_Ch._ Now do you drink to the rest.

_Mi. Erasmus_, Half this Cup to you.

_Er._ I pray it may do you good. May it do you good. Much good may it do
you. _Proficiat_ is an out of the Way Word.

_Ch._ Why does the Cup stand still? Why does it not go about? Is our
Wine gone? Where are your Eyes, you Rascal? Run quickly, fetch two
Quarts of the same Wine.

_Boy. Erasmus_, your humble Servant, there is one wants to speak with
you at the Door.

_Er._ Who is it?

_Boy._ He says he is one Mr. _More_'s, Man, his Master is come out of
_Britain_, and he desires you would make him a Visit, because he sets
out for _Germany_ to-Morrow by Break of Day.

_Er. Christian_, gather the Reckoning, for I must be going.

_Ch._ The Reckoning, most learned _Erasmus_, of this Supper, I will
discharge that. You have no Need to put your Hand in your Pocket. I
thank you that you honour'd me with your Company; but I am sorry you are
called away before the Comedy is ended.

_Er._ Have I any Thing more to do but to bid you _Farewell and be

_Ch._ Farewell, we can't take it amiss, because you don't leave a
Shoulder of Mutton for a Sheep's-Head, but go from Friends to a better

_Er._ And I in like Manner return you my Thanks, that you have been so
kind as to invite me to this most pleasant Entertainment. My very good
Friends, fare ye well. Drink heartily, and live merrily.

_Ch._ Soho, _Dromo_. You, all of you, have sitten still a good While.
Does any Body please to have any Thing else?

_Gu._ Nothing at all. We have eat very plentifully.

_Ch._ Then take away these Things, and set on the Desert. Change the
Trenchers and the Plates. Take up my Knife that is fallen down. Pour
some Wine over the Pears. Here are some early ripe Mulberries that grew
in my own Garden.

_Gu._ They will be the better for being of your own Growth.

_Ch._ Here are some wheaten Plumbs: See, here are Damascens, a rare
Sight with us: See, here are mellow Apples; and here is a new Sort of an
Apple, the Stock of which I set with my own Hands; and Chestnuts, and
all Kinds of Delicacies, which our Gardens produce plentifully.

_Au._ But here are no Flowers.

_Ch._ They are _French_ Entertainments, who love that Sort of Splendor
most that costs least; but that is not my Humour.

_Au._ 'Tis not only among _Frenchmen_ that you will find those that love
what is of little Cost.

_Ch._ But hark you, _Austin_, do you think to come off so? What, won't
you pledge me when I drink to you? You ought to have taken off Half the
Cup of him that drank to you.

_Au._ He excused me for that a great While ago. He discharg'd me of that

_Ch._ Pray who gave him that Power? The Pope himself can hardly dispense
with this Obligation. You know the ancient Law of Drinking, _Either
drink or go your Way_.

_Au._ He that an Oath is made to has Power to suspend it, and especially
he, whose Concern it was to have it kept.

_Ch._ But it is the Duty of all Guests to observe Laws inviolably.

_Au._ Well, come on, since this is the _German_ Custom, I'll drink what
is left. But what Business have you with me?

_Ch._ You must pay for all. Why do you look pale? Don't be afraid, you
may do it very easily, do as you have often done, that by some Elegancy
we may rise from Table more learned; nor are you ignorant that the
Ancients over the second Course used to dispute of some more diverting
Subjects. Come on then, by what, and after how many Ways may this
Sentence be vary'd, _Indignum auditu?_

       *       *       *       *       *

_It is not worth hearing. The Form._

_Au._ You have very fitly made Use of the latter Supine. It is not worth
hearing. It is unworthy to be heard. It is not worthy to be heard. It is
so light it ought not to be heard. It is scarce worth While to relate.
It is not of such Value as to be heard. It is too silly to be heard. It
is not worth While to tell it.

_Ch._ How many Ways may this Sentence be turn'd, _Magno mihi constat?_

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Ratio of varying this Sentence._

_Magno mihi constat._

_Au._ By these Words, _impendo, insumo, impertio, constat_, as: I have
taken Pains much in teaching you. I have taken much Pains in that
Matter. I have not spent less Money than I have Care upon that Matter. I
have not spent a little Money, but much Time, and very much Labour, and
some Study. I have spent much Study. This Thing has cost me many a
Night's Sleep, much Sweat, much Endeavour, very much Labour, a great
Expence, a great Deal of Money. It has cost me more than you believe. My
Wife stands me in less than my Horse.

_Ch._ But what is the meaning, _Austin_, that you put sometimes an
Ablative, and sometimes a Genitive Case to the Verb _constat_?

_Au._ You have stated a very useful and very copious Question. But that
I may not be troublesome to the Company by my too much Talk, I will
dispatch it in a few Words. But I desire to hear every Man's Opinion,
that I may not be troublesome to any Man, as I have said.

_Ch._ But why may not the Damsels desire the same?

_Au._ Indeed they do nothing else but hear. I'll attempt it with
_Grammatica_'s Assistance. "You know that Verbs of buying and selling,
and some others, are of a like Signification, to which these Genitives
are put alone, without Substantives, _tanti, quanti, pluris, minoris,
tantidem, quantivis, quanticunque_: But in Case Substantives be not
added, which, if they happen to be put, they are both turned into the
Ablative Case; so that if a certain Price be set down, you put it in the
Ablative Case; if by an Adjective put substantively, you put it in the
Ablative Case, unless you had rather make Use of an Adverb."

_Ch._ What are those Verbs that you speak of?

_Au._ "They are commonly _emo, mereor; redimo_, (that is a Thing either
taken or lost) _vendo, venundo; revendo_, (that is, I sell again that
which was sold to me) _veneo_, (that is, I am sold) whose Prater Tense
is _venivi_, or _venii_, the Supine _venum_; hence comes _venalis_; and
from that, _i.e._ _vendo_, comes _vendibilis; mereo_, for _inservio et
stipendium_ _facio_, _i.e._ to serve under (as a Soldier). _Comparo_,
that is, to buy, or commit. _Computo_, I change, I exchange with.
_Cambire_ is wholly barbarous in this Sense. _Æstimo_, to tax. _Indico_,
for I estimate, rate. _Liceor, liceris; licitor, licitaris_, to cheapen,
to bid. _Distrahor_, _i.e._ I am carried about to be sold. _Metior_, for
I estimate or rate. _Constat_, for it is bought. _Conducere_, to let to
hire. _Fænero_, I put to Interest. _Fæneror_, I take at Interest (to
Usury.) _Paciscor, pactus sum pango, pepigi_, _i.e._ I make a Bargain."

_Ch._ Give an Example.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Of selling and buying._

_The Forms._

_Au._ How much do you lett that Field for by the Year. We will answer.
For twenty _French_ Pounds. Whoo! You lett it too dear. Nay, I have lett
it for more before now. But I would not give so much for it. If you hire
it for less I'll be hang'd. Nay, your Neighbour _Chremes_ offer'd me a
Field, and asks for it--How much? Just as much as you ask for yours.
But it is much better. That's a Lye. I do as they use to do who cheapen
a Thing. Do you keep it yourself at that Price. What, do you cheapen,
ask the Price, when you won't buy any Thing. Whatsoever you shall lett
it me for shall be paid you very honestly.

_Of Selling and Buying._

_Another Example._

How much do you sell that Conger Eel for?

_Syra._ For five Pence. That's too much, you nasty Jade. Nay, 'tis too
little, no Body will sell you for less. Upon my Life it cost me as much
within a Trifle. You Witch, you tell a Lie, that you may sell it for
twice or three Times as much as it cost you. Ay, I'll sell it for a
hundred Times as much if I can, but I can't find such Fools. What if I
should ask the Price of yourself? What do you value yourself at?
According as I like the Person. What do you prize yourself at? What
Price do you set upon yourself? Tell me, what Price do you rate yourself
at? Ten Shillings. Whoo, so much? O strange! Do you value me at less?
Time was when I have had as much for one Night. I believe you may, but I
believe you an't now worth so much as a Fish by a great Deal. Go hang
yourself, you Pimp. I value you as little as you do me. He that shall
give a Farthing for you buys you too dear. But I'll be sold for more, or
I won't be sold at all. If you would be sold at a great Rate you must
get you a Mask, for those Wrinkles in your Forehead won't let you be
sold for much. He that won't give so much for me shan't have me. I would
not give a Straw for you. I cost more.

_A third Example._

I have been at an Auction to-Day. Say you so? I bid Money for a Share in
the Customs. But how much? Ten Thousand Pound. Whoo! what, so much?
There were those that bid a great Deal more; very few that offer'd less.
Well, and who had the Place at last? _Chremes_, your Wife's great
Friend. But guess what it was sold for. Ten. Nay, fifteen. O good God! I
would not give Half so much for him and all his Family together. But he
would give twice as much for your Wife. "Do you take Notice, that in all
these, wheresoever there is a Substantive of the Price, that is put in
the Ablative Case; but that the rest are either put in the Genitive
Case, or are changed into Adverbs. You have never heard a Comparative
without a Substantive, except in these two, _pluris_, and _minoris_.
There are some other Verbs, of which we have spoken, that are not very
much unlike these, _sum, facio, habeo, duco, æstimo, pendo_, which
signify (in a Manner) the same Thing; likewise _fio_, and they are for
the most Part join'd with these Genitives, _multi, parvi, magni, pluris,
plurimi, minoris, minimi, maximi, tanti, quanti, flocci, pili, nihili,
nauci, hujus_, and any other like them." _Ch._ Give Examples.

_Of valuing. The Form._

_Au._ Do you know how much I have always valu'd you? You will always be
made of such Account by Men as you make Account of Virtue. Gold is
valued at a great Rate now a-Days, Learning is valued at a very little,
or just nothing at all. I value Gold less than you think for. I don't
value your Threats of a Rush. I make a very little Account of your
Promises. I don't value you of a Hair. If Wisdom were but valued at so
great a Rate as Money, no Body would want Gold. With us, Gold without
Wisdom is esteem'd to be of more Worth than Wisdom without Gold. I
esteem you at a greater Rate, because you are learned. You will be the
less esteem'd on here because you don't know how to lye. Here are a
great many that will persuade you that Black is White. I set the
greater Value upon you because you love Learning. So much as you have,
so much you shall be esteem'd by all Men; so much as you have, so much
you shall be accounted of every where. It is no Matter what you are
accounted, but what you are. I value my _Christian_ above any Man else
in the World. "There are some other Verbs found with these Genitives and
Ablatives, which in their own Nature don't signify buying, or anything
like it." _Peter_ bought a Kiss of the Maid for a Shilling. Much good
may it do him. I would not kiss at that Rate. How much do you play for?
What did you pay for Supper? We read of some that have spent Six hundred
Sesterces for a Supper. But the _French_ often sup for a Half-penny.
What Price does _Faustus_ teach for? A very small Matter. But for more
than _Delius_. For how much then? For nineteen Guineas. I won't learn to
lye at so dear a Rate. _Phædria_ in _Terence_ lost both his Substance
and himself. But I would not love at that Rate. Some Persons pay a great
Price for sleeping. _Demosthenes_ had more for holding his Tongue than
others had for speaking. I pray you to take it in good Part. "There is
another Sort of Verbs, that require an Accusative Case, with a Genitive
or Ablative, which are, _accuso_, _i.e._ I object a Crime, or _culpo_,
also one that's absent; _Incuso_, _i.e._ I blame without Judgment;
_arguo_, I reprehend, _insimulo_, _i.e._ I throw in a Suspicion of a
Fault. _Postulo_, _i.e._ I require you to answer at Law, _accerso_, I
impeach, _damno_, I condemn, I pronounce him to be in Fault. _Admoneo_,
I admonish."

_Ch._ For Example Sake?

_Forms of Accusing._

_Au. Scipio_ is accused of courting the Populace. Thou who art the most
impudent, accusest me of Impudence. _Lepidus_ is accused of Bribery. You
are accus'd of a capital Crime. If you shall slily insinuate a Man to
be guilty of Covetousness, you shall hear that which is worse again. Put
him in Mind of his former Fortune. Men are put in Mind of their
Condition, by that very Word. Put _Lepidus_ in Mind of his Promise.
"There are many that admit of a double Accusative Case. I teach thee
Letters. He entreats you to pardon him. I will unteach thee those

"Here I must put you in Mind of that Matter, that in these the Passives
also obtain a second Accusative Case. The others will have a Genitive."
You are taught Letters by me. They accuse me of Theft. I am accused of
Theft. Thou accusest me of Sacrilege. I am accused of Sacrilege. I know
you are not satisfied yet. I know you are not satisfied in Mind. For
when will so great a Glutton of Elegancies be satisfy'd? But I must have
Regard to the Company, who are not all equally diverted with these
Matters. After Supper, as we walk, we will finish what is behind, unless
you shall rather chuse to have it omitted.

_Ch._ Let it be as you say. Let us return Thanks to divine Bounty and
afterwards we'll take a little Walk.

_Mi._ You say very well, for nothing can be more pleasant, nor wholsome
than this Evening Air.

_Ch. Peter_, come hither, and take the Things away in Order, one after
the other, and fill the Glasses with Wine.

_Pe._ Do you bid me return Thanks?

_Ch._ Aye, do.

_Pe._ Had you rather it should be done in _Greek_, or in _Latin_.

_Ch._ Both Ways.

_Pe. Gratias agimus tibi, pater coelestis, qui tua ineffabili potentia
condidisti omnia, tua inscrutabili sapientia gubernas universa, tua
inexhausta bonitate cuncta pascis ac vegetas: largire filiis tuis, ut
aliquando tecum bibant in regno tuo nectar illud immortalitatis, quod
promisisti ac praeparasti vere diligentibus te, per Iesum Christum.

We thank thee, heavenly Father, who by thy unspeakable Power, hast
created all Things, and by thy inexhaustible Wisdom governest all
Things, and by thy inexhaustible Goodness feedest and nourishest all
Things: Grant to thy Children, that they may in due Time drink with thee
in thy Kingdom, that _Nectar_ of Immortality; which thou hast promis'd
and prepar'd for those that truly love thee, through Jesus Christ,

_Ch._ Say in _Greek_ too, that the rest mayn't understand what thou

_Pe._ [Greek: Heucharistoumen soi, pater ouranie, ho tê arrêtô sou
dunamei ktisas ta panta, ho tê anexereunêtô sou sophia kubernôn
hapaxapanta, ho tê anexantlêtô sou chrêstotêti hekasta trephomenos te
kai auxanon. Charizou tois yiois sou to meta sou pote piein to tês
athanasias nektar, ho upechou kai êtoimasas tois alêthôs agapôsi se, dia
Iêsou Christou, tou yiou sou, tou kyriou hêmôn, tou meta sou zôntos kai
basileuontos en henotêti tou pneumatos hagiou, eis tous aiônas. Amên.]

_Ch._ My most welcome Guests, I give you Thanks that you have honour'd
my little Entertainment with your Company. I intreat you to accept it

_Gu._ And we would not only have, but return our Thanks to you. Don't
let us be over ceremonious in thanking, but rather let us rise from
Table, and walk out a little.

_Au._ Let us take these Virgins along with us, so our Walk will be more

_Ch._ You propose very well. We'll not want Flowers, if the Place we
walk in don't afford any. Had you rather take a Turn in our Garden, in a
poetical Manner, or walk out abroad by the River-Side.

_Au._ Indeed, your Gardens are very pleasant, but keep that Pleasure for
Morning Walks. When the Sun is towards setting, Rivers afford wonderful
pleasant Prospects.

_Ch. Austin_, do you walk foremost as a Poet should do, and I'll walk by
your Side.

_Au._ O good God, what a jolly Company we have, what a Retinue have I!
_Christian_, I can't utter the Pleasure I take, I seem to be some

_Ch._ Now be as good as your Word. Perform the Task you have taken upon

_Au._ What is it you'd have me speak of chiefly?

_Ch._ I us'd formerly to admire many Things in _Pollio_'s Orations; but
chiefly this, that he us'd so easily, so frequently and beautifully to
turn a Sentence, which seemed not only a great Piece of Wit, but of
great Use.

_Au._ You were much in the Right on't, _Christian_, to admire that in
_Pollio_. For he seems, in this Matter, to have had a certain divine
Faculty, which I believe, was peculiar to him, by a certain Dexterity of
Art, and by much Use of Speaking, Reading and Writing, rather than by
any Rules or Instructions.

_Ch._ But I would fain have some Rule for it, if there be any to be

_Au._ You say very well; and since I see you are very desirous of it,
I'll endeavour it as much as I can: And I will give those Rules, as well
as I can, which I have taken Notice of in _Pollio_'s Orations.

_Ch._ Do, I should be very glad to hear 'em.

_Au._ I am ready to do it.

       *       *       *       *       *


     _A short Rule concerning this Copia, it teaches how to
     vary a Sentence pleasantly, copiously, easily,
     frequently, and elegantly; by short Rules given, and by a
     Praxis upon these Rules, in an elegant Turning of one

In the first Place, it is to be set forth in pure and choice _Latin_
Words; which to do is no mean Piece of Art: For there are a great many,
who do, I don't know after what Manner, affect the _Copia_ and Variation
of Phrase, when they don't know how to express it once right. It is not
enough for them to have babbled once, but they must render the Babble
much more babbling, by first one, and then by another turning of it; as
if they were resolv'd to try the Experiment, how barbarously they were
able to speak: And therefore, they heap together, certain simple
synonymous Words, that are so contrary one to the other, that they may
admire themselves how they do agree together. For what is more absurd,
than that a ragged old Fellow, that has not a Coat to his Back, but what
is so ragged that he may be ashamed to put it on, should every now and
then change his Rags, as though he design'd to shew his Beggary by Way
of Ostentation: And those Affectators of Variety seem equally
ridiculous, who, when they have spoken barbarously once, repeat the same
Thing much more barbarously; and then over and over again much more
unlearnedly. This is not to abound with Sentences, but Solæcisms:
Therefore, in the first Place, as I have said, the Thing is to be
express'd in apt and chosen Words. 2. And then we must use Variety of
Words, if there are any to be found, that will express the same Thing;
and there are a great many. 3. And where proper Words are wanting, then
we must use borrow'd Words, so the Way of borrowing them be modest. 4.
Where there is a Scarcity of Words, you must have Recourse to Passives,
to express what you have said by Actives; which will afford as many Ways
of Variation, as there were in the Actives. 5. And after that, if you
please, you may turn them again by verbal Nouns and Participles. 6. And
last of all, when we have chang'd Adverbs into Nouns, and Nouns
sometimes into one Part of Speech, and sometimes into another; then we
may speak by contraries. 7. We may either change affirmative Sentences
into negative, or the contrary. 8. Or, at least, what we have spoken
indicatively, we may speak interrogatively. Now for Example Sake, let us
take this Sentence.

      _Literæ tuæ magnopere me delectârunt.

      Your Letters have delighted me very much._


Epistle, little Epistles, Writings, Sheets, Letters.


After a wonderful Manner, wonderfully, in a greater, or great Manner, in
a wonderful Manner, above Measure, very much, not indifferently (not a
little) mightily, highly, very greatly.


My Mind, my Breast, my Eyes, my Heart, _Christian_.


They have affected, recreated, exhilarated with Pleasure, have been a
Pleasure, have delighted, have bath'd me with Pleasure; have been very
sweet, very pleasant, &c.

Now you have Matter, it is your Business to put it together: Let us try.

_Ch._ Thy Letters have very greatly delighted me. Thy Epistle has
wonderfully chear'd me.

_Au._ Turn the Active into a Passive, then it will look with another
Face. As, It can't be said how much I have been chear'd by thy Writings.

_Also by other Verbs effecting the same Thing._

I have received an incredible Pleasure from thy Writings. I have
receiv'd very much Pleasure from your Highness's Letter. Your Writings
have brought me not an indifferent Joy. Your Writings have overwhelmed
me all over with Joy. "But here you can't turn these into Passives, only
in the last, _perfusus gaudio_, as is commonly said, Pleasure was taken
by me, Joy was brought, is not so commonly used, or you must not use so

_By Affido._

Thy Letter hath affected me with a singular Pleasure.

_Change it into a Passive._

I am affected with an incredible Pleasure by thy Letter. Thy little
Epistle has brought not a little Joy.

_By_ Sum _and Nouns Adjectives._

Thy Letters have been most pleasant to me many Ways. That Epistle of
thine was, indeed, as acceptable, as any Thing in the World.

_By Nouns Substantives._

Thy Letter was to us an unspeakable Pleasure. Your Letter was an
incredible Pleasure to us.

_Change it into a Negative._

Thy Letter was no small Joy. Nothing in Life could happen more
delightful than thy Letters. "Although I have sometimes already made Use
of this Way, which is not to be pass'd over negligently. For when we
would use _multum, plurimum_, to signify, _singulariter_, we do it by a
contrary Verb." As, _Henry_ loves you mightily: He loves you with no
common Love. Wine pleases me very much: It pleases me not a little. He
is a Man of a singular Wit: A Man of no ordinary Wit. He is a Man of
admirable Learning: He is a Man not of contemptible Learning. _Thomas_
was born in the highest Place of his Family: Not in the lowest Place.
_Austin_ was a most eloquent Man: He was not ineloquent. _Carneades_ the
Orator was noble: Not an ignoble, not an obscure Man. "And the like,
which are very frequently used." But the Mention of a Thing so plain is
enough: Nor are you ignorant, that we make Use of a two-fold Manner of
Speech, of this Kind: For Modesty Sake, especially, if we speak of our
selves; also for Amplification Sake. For we use rightly and elegantly,
not ungrateful, for very grateful; not vulgarly for singularly.

_For Modesty Sake._

I have by my Letters gain'd some Reputation of Learning. I have always
made it my Business not to have the last Place in the Glory of Learning.
The Examples of Amplification are mention'd before: Now let us return to
our own. Nothing ever fell out to me more gratefully, acceptably, than
thy Letter. Nothing ever was a greater Pleasure than your Letter. I
never took so much Pleasure in any Thing, as in thy most loving Letters.
"After this Manner all the before-mention'd Sentences may be vary'd by
an Interrogation." What in Life could be more pleasant than thy Letters?
What has happened to me more sweet, than thy Letter? What has ever
delighted me like your last Letter? And after this Manner you may vary
almost any Sentence.

_Ch._ What shall we do now?

_Au._ We will now turn the whole Sentence a little more at large, that
we may express one Sentence, by a Circumlocution of many Words.

_Ch._ Give Examples.

_Au._ "That which was sometimes express'd by the Noun _incredibile_, and
then again, by the Adverb _incredibiliter_, we will change the Sentence
in some Words." I can't express how much I was delighted with your
Letters. It is very hard for me to write, and you to believe how much
Pleasure your Letter was to me. I am wholly unable to express how I
rejoic'd at your Letter. "And so _in infinitum_: Again, after another
Manner. For hitherto we have varied the Sentences by Negations and
Interrogations, and in the last Place by Infinitives. Now we will vary
by Substantives or Conditionals, after this Manner." Let me die if any
Thing ever was more desired and more pleasant than thy Letters. Let me
perish if any Thing ever was more desired, and more pleasant than thy
Letter. As God shall judge me, nothing in my whole Life ever happen'd
more pleasant than thy Letters. "And also a great many more you may
contrive after this Manner."

_Ch._ What is to be done now?

_Au._ Now we must proceed to Translations, Similitudes and Examples.

_There is a Translation in these._

I have received your Letters, which were sweet as Honey. Your Writings
seem to be nothing but meer Delight. Your Letters are a meer Pleasure;
and a great many of the like Kinds. "But Care is to be taken not to make
Use of harder Translations; such as this that follows,

      _Jupiter hybernas canâ nive conspuit Alpes._

such as this is." The Suppers of thy Writings have refreshed me with
most delicious Banquets.

_A Comparison by Simile._

Thy Writings have been sweeter than either _Ambrosia_ or _Nectar_. Thy
Letters have been sweeter to me than any Honey. Your kind Letter has
excell'd even Liquorish, Locusts, and _Attic_ Honey, and Sugar; nay,
even the _Nectar_ and _Ambrosia_ of the Gods. "And here, whatsoever is
ennobled with Sweetness, may be brought into the Comparison."

_From Examples._

I will never be induc'd to believe, that _Hero_ receiv'd the Letters of
her _Leander_, either with greater Pleasure, or more Kisses, than I
received yours. I can scarce believe that _Scipio_, for the Overthrow of
_Carthage_, or _Paulus Æmylius_, for the taking of _Perseus_, ever
triumphed more magnificently than I did, when the Post-man gave me your
most charming Letter. "There are a thousand Things of this Nature, that
may be found in Poets and Historians. Likewise Similitudes are borrow'd
from Natural Philosophy; the Nature of a great many of which, it is
necessary to keep in Memory. Now if you please, we will try in another

_I will never forget you while I live._

I will always remember you, as long as I live. Forgetfulness of you,
shall never seize me as long as I live. I will leave off to live, before
I will to remember you.

_By Comparisons._

If the Body can get rid of its Shadow, then this Mind of mine may forget
you. The River _Lethe_ itself shall never be able to wash away your

"Besides, by an Impossibility, or after the Manner of Poets by

      _Dum juga montis aper, fluvios dum piscis amabit.
      Ante leves ergo pastentur in athere cervi._

which is no hard Matter to invent." But lest I should seem tedious, at
the present let these suffice: At another Time, if you please, we will
talk more copiously of this Matter.

_Ch._ I thought, _Austin_, you had been quite exhausted by this Time.
But thou hast shewn me a new Treasure beyond what I expected, which if
you shall pursue, I perceive you'll sooner want Time than Words.

_Au._ If I can perform this with my little Learning, and indifferent
Genius, what do you think _Cicero_ himself could do, who is storied to
have vy'd with _Roscius_ the Player? But the Sun is going to leave us;
and the Dew rises; it is best to imitate the Birds, to go Home, and hide
ourselves in Bed. Therefore, sweet _Christian_, farewell till to Morrow.

_Ch._ Fare you well likewise, most learned _Austin._



     _This religious Treat teaches what ought to be the
     Table-Talk of Christians. The Nature of Things is not
     dumb, but very loquacious, affording Matter of
     Contemplation. The Description of a neat Garden, where
     there is a Variety of Discourse concerning Herbs. Of
     Marjoram, Celandine, Wolfs-Bane, Hellebore. Of Beasts,
     Scorpions, the Chamæleon, the Basilisk; of Sows_, Indian
     _Ants, Dolphins, and of the Gardens of_ Alcinous. _Tables
     were esteemed sacred by the very Heathens themselves. Of
     washing Hands before Meat. A Grace before Meat out of_
     Chrysostom. _Age is to be honoured, and for what Reason.
     The Reading of the Scriptures very useful at Meals. That
     Lay Persons may Discourse concerning the Scriptures. The
     21st of_ Prov. _and 1st_ Ver. _illustrated. How God hates
     Sacrifices, in Comparison of Mercy_, Hos. 6. _No Body is
     hurt but by himself. That Persons in Wine speak true.
     That it was unlawful for the_ Ægyptian _Priests to drink
     Wine. The_ I Cor. 6. _opened. All Things are lawful for
     me. The Spirit of Christ was in the Heathens and Poets._
     Scotus _is slighted in Comparison of_ Cicero _and_
     Plutarch. _A Place is cited out of_ Cicero _and_ Cato
     Major, _and commended;_ dare omni petenti, give to every
     one that asketh, _how it is to be understood. We ought
     to give to Christ's Poor, and not to Monasteries. The
     Custom of burying in Churches blam'd. That we ought to
     give by Choice, how much, to whom, and to what End. We
     ought to deny ourselves of something that we may give it
     to the Poor_. No Body can serve two Masters, _is
     explained. A Grace after Meat out of St._ Chrysostom.


_Eu._ I admire that any Body can delight to live in smoaky Cities, when
every Thing is so fresh and pleasant in the Country.

_Ti._ All are not pleased with the Sight of Flowers, springing Meadows,
Fountains, or Rivers: Or, if they do take a Pleasure in 'em, there is
something else, in which they take more. For 'tis with Pleasure, as it
is with Wedges, one drives out another.

_Eu._ You speak perhaps of Usurers, or covetous Traders; which, indeed,
are all one.

_Ti._ I do speak of them; but not of them only, I assure you; but of a
thousand other Sorts of People, even to the very Priests and Monks, who
for the Sake of Gain, make Choice of the most populous Cities for their
Habitation, not following the Opinion of _Plato_ or _Pythagoras_ in this
Practice; but rather that of a certain blind Beggar, who loved to be
where he was crowded; because, as he said, the more People, the more

_Eu._ Prithee let's leave the blind Beggar and his Gain: We are

_Ti._ So was _Socrates_ a Philosopher, and yet he preferr'd a Town Life
before a Country one; because, he being desirous of Knowledge, had there
the Opportunity of improving it. In the Country, 'tis true, there are
Woods, Gardens, Fountains and Brooks, that entertain the Sight, but
they are all mute, and therefore teach a Man nothing.

_Eu._ I know _Socrates_ puts the Case of a Man's walking alone in the
Fields; although, in my Opinion, there Nature is not dumb, but talkative
enough, and speaks to the Instruction of a Man that has but a good Will,
and a Capacity to learn. What does the beautiful Face of the Spring do,
but proclaim the equal Wisdom and Goodness of the Creator? And how many
excellent Things did _Socrates_ in his Retirement, both teach his
_Phædrus_, and learn from him?

_Ti._ If a Man could have such pleasant Company, I confess, no life in
the World could be pleasanter than a Country Life.

_Eu._ Have you a Mind to make Tryal of it? If you have, come take a
Dinner with me to Morrow: I have a pretty neat little Country House, a
little Way out of Town.

_Ti._ We are too many of us; we shall eat you out of House and Home.

_Eu._ Never fear that, you're to expect only a Garden Treat, of such
Chear as I need not go to Market for. The Wine is of my own Growth; the
Pompions, the Melons, the Figs, the Pears, the Apples and Nuts, are
offered to you by the Trees themselves; you need but gape, and they'll
fall into your Mouth, as it is in the _fortunate Islands_, if we may
give Credit to _Lucian_. Or, it may be, we may get a Pullet out of the
Hen-roost, or so.

_Ti._ Upon these Terms we'll be your Guests.

_Eu._ And let every Man bring his Friend along with him, and then, as
you now are four, we shall be the just Number of the Muses.

_Ti._ A Match.

_Eu._ And take Notice, that I shall only find Meat, you are to bring
your own Sauce.

_Ti._ What Sauce do you mean, Pepper, or Sugar?

_Eu._ No, no, something that's cheaper, but more savoury.

_Ti._ What's that?

_Eu._ A good Stomach. A light Supper to Night, and a little Walk to
Morrow Morning, and that you may thank my Country House for. But at what
Hour do you please to dine at?

_Ti._ At ten a Clock. Before it grows too hot.

_Eu._ I'll give Order accordingly.

_Boy._ Sir, the Gentlemen are come.

_Eu._ You are welcome, Gentlemen, that you are come according to your
Words; but you're twice as welcome for coming so early, and bringing the
best of Company along with you. There are some Persons who are guilty of
an unmannerly Civility, in making their Host wait for them.

_Ti._ We came the earlier, that we might have Time enough to view all
the Curiosities of your Palace; for we have heard that it is so
admirably contrived every where, as that it speaks who's the Master of

_Eu._ And you will see a Palace worthy of such a Prince. This little
Nest is to me more than a Court, and if he may be said to reign that
lives at Liberty according to his Mind, I reign here. But I think it
will be best, while the Wench in the Kitchen provides us a Salad, and it
is the cool of the Morning, to take a Walk to see the Gardens.

_Ti._ Have you any other beside this? For truly this is a wonderful neat
one, and with a pleasing Aspect salutes a Man at his entring in, and
bids him welcome.

_Eu._ Let every Man gather a Nosegay, that may put by any worse Scent he
may meet with within Doors. Every one likes not the same Scent,
therefore let every one take what he likes. Don't be sparing, for this
Place lies in a Manner common; I never shut it up but a-Nights.

_Ti._ St. Peter keeps the Gates, I perceive.

_Eu._ I like this Porter better than the _Mercuries_, Centaurs, and
other fictitious Monsters, that some paint upon their Doors.

_Ti._ And 'tis more suitable to a Christian too.

_Eu._ Nor is my Porter dumb, for he speaks to you in Three Languages.

_Ti._ What does he say?

_Eu._ Read it yourself.

_Ti._ It is too far off for my Eyes.

_Eu._ Here's a reading Glass, that will make you another _Lynceus._

_Ti._ I see the Latin. _Si vis ad vitam ingredi, serva mandata_, Mat.
19, 17. If thou wilt, enter into Life, keep the Commandments.

_Eu._ Now read the _Greek_.

_Ti._ I see the _Greek_, but I don't well know what to make on't; I'll
refer that to _Theophilus_, who's never without _Greek_ in his Mouth.

_Th._ [Greek: Metanoêsate kai epistrepsate. Praxeôn tô tritô.] _Repent
and be converted._ Acts 3. 19.

_Ch._ I'll take the _Hebrew_ upon myself, [Hebrew: vetsadik be'emunato
yihyeh] _And the Just shall live by Faithfulness._

_Eu._ Does he seem to be an unmannerly Porter, who at first Dash, bids
us turn from our Iniquities, and apply our selves to Godliness, and then
tells us, that Salvation comes not from the Works of the Law; but from
the Faith of the Gospel; and last of all, that the Way to eternal Life,
is by the Observance of evangelical Precepts.

_Ti._ And see the Chapel there on the right Hand that he directs us to,
it is a very fine one. Upon the Altar there's _Jesus Christ_ looking up
to Heaven, and pointing with his right Hand towards God the Father, and
the holy Spirit; and with his Left, he seems to court and invite all

_Eu._ Nor is he mute: You see the _Latin; Ego sum via, veritas, et vita;
I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life._ [Greek: Egô eimi to alpha kai to
ômega.] In _Hebrew_, [Hebrew: Lechu banim shim'uh li, yr'at adonai
alamdeichem] _Come, ye Children, hearken unto me; I will teach you the
fear of the Lord._

_Ti._ Truly the Lord _Jesus_ salutes us with a good Omen.

_Eu._ But that we may not seem uncivil, it is meet that we pay back an
Acknowledgment, and pray that since we can do nothing of ourselves, he
would vouchsafe of his infinite Goodness to keep us from ever straying
out of the Path of Life; but that we casting away _Jewish_ Ceremonies,
and the Delusions of the World, he would guide us by the Truth of the
Gospel to everlasting Life, drawing us of himself to himself.

_Ti._ It is most reasonable that we should pray, and the Place invites
us to it.

_Eu._ The Pleasantness of the Garden draws a great many Persons to it;
and 'tis a rare Thing that any Passes by Jesus without an Ejaculation. I
have made him Keeper, not only of my Garden, but of all my Possessions,
and of both Body and Mind, instead of filthy _Priapus_. Here is you see
a little Fountain pleasantly bubbling with wholsome Waters, this in some
Measure represents that only Fountain of Life, that by its divine
Streams, refreshes all that are weary and heavy laden; which the Soul,
tired with the Evils of this World, pants after, just as the Hart in the
Psalmist does after the Water Brooks, having tasted of the Flesh of
Serpents. From this Fountain, whoever thirsts, may drink _gratis_. Some
make it a Matter of Religion to sprinkle themselves with it; and others
for the Sake of Religion, and not of Thirst, drink of it. You are loath,
I perceive, to leave this Place: But it is Time to go to see this little
square Garden that is wall'd in, 'tis a neater one than the other. What
is to be seen within Doors, you shall see after Dinner, when the Heat of
the Sun keeps us at Home for some Hours like Snails.

_Ti._ Bless me! What a delightful Prospect is here.

_Eu._ All this Place was designed for a Pleasure Garden, but for honest
Pleasure; for the Entertainment of the Sight, the recreating the
Nostrils, and refreshing the Mind; nothing grows here but sweet Herbs,
nor every Sort of them, but only choice ones, and every Kind has its Bed
by itself.

_Ti._ I am now convinced that Plants are not mute with you.

_Eu._ You are in the Right; others have magnificent Houses, but mine is
made for Conversation, so that I can never be alone in it, and so you'll
say, when you have seen it all. As the several Plants are as it were
form'd into several Troops, so every Troop has its Standard to itself,
with a peculiar Motto, as this Marjoram's is, _Abstine, sus, non tibi
spiro: Keep off, Sow, I don't breathe my Perfume for thee_; for though
it be of a very fragrant Scent, yet Sows have a natural Aversion to it:
And so every Sort has its Title, denoting the peculiar Virtue of the

_Ti._ I have seen nothing yet more delightful than this little Fountain,
which being in the midst of them, does as it were smile upon all the
Plants, and promises them Refreshment against the scorching Heat of the
Sun. But this little Channel which shews the Water to the Eye so
advantageously, and divides the Garden every where at such equal
Distances, that it shews all the Flowers over on both Sides again, as in
a Looking-glass, is it made of Marble?

_Eu._ Marble, quoth thee, how should Marble come hither? It is a
counterfeit Marble, made of a sort of Loam, and a whitish Colour given
it in the Glasing.

_Ti._ But where does this delicious Rivulet discharge itself at last?

_Eu._ Just as it is with human Obligations, when we have served our own
Turns: After this has pleasured our Eyes, it washes our Kitchen, and
passes through the Sink into the common Shore.

_Ti._ That's very hard-hearted, as I am a Christian.

_Eu._ It had been hard-hearted, if the divine Bounty of Providence had
not appointed it for this Use. We are then hard-hearted, when we pollute
the Fountain of divine Truth, that is much more pleasant than this, and
was given us for the refreshing and purging our Minds from our Lusts and
vicious Appetites, abusing the unspeakable Bounty of God: For we make no
bad Use of the Water, if we put it to the several Uses for which he
appointed it, who supplies every Thing abundantly for human Use.

_Ti._ You say right: But how comes it about, that all your artificial
Hedges are green too?

_Eu._ Because I would have every Thing green here. Some are for a
Mixture of Red, because that sets off Green: But I like this best, as
every Man has his Fancy, though it be but in a Garden.

_Ti._ The Garden is very fine of itself; but methinks these three Walks
take off very much from the Lightsomeness and Pleasantness of it.

_Eu._ Here I either study or walk alone, or talk with a Friend, or eat,
as the Humour takes me.

_Ti._ Those speckled, wonderful, pretty party-coloured Pillars, that at
equal Distances support that Edifice, are they Marble?

_Eu._ Of the same Marble that this Channel is made of.

_Ti._ In Truth, a pretty Cheat, I should have sworn they had been

_Eu._ For this Reason then, take Care that you neither believe, nor
swear any Thing rashly: You see how a Man may be mistaken. What I want
in Wealth, I supply by Invention.

_Ti._ Could you not be content with so neat, and well furnished a Garden
in Substance, without other Gardens in Picture besides?

_Eu._ In the first Place, one Garden will not hold all Sorts of Plants;
and in the second, 'tis a double Pleasure, to see a painted Flower vie
with the Life; and in one we contemplate the Artifice of Nature, in the
other the Skill of the Painter; and in both, the Goodness of God, who
gives all Things for our Use, in every Thing equally admirable and
amiable: And in the last Place, a Garden is not always green; nor the
Flowers always fresh; but this Garden is fresh and green all the Winter.

_Ti._ But it is not fragrant.

_Eu._ But then on the other Hand it wants no dressing.

_Ti._ It only delights the Eye.

_Eu._ But then it does that always.

_Ti._ Pictures themselves grow old.

_Eu._ They do so; but yet they out-live us; and besides, whereas we are
the worse for Age, they are the better for it.

_Ti._ That's too true, if it could be otherwise.

_Eu._ In this Walk that looks toward the West, I take the Benefit of the
Morning Sun; in that which looks toward the East, I take the Cool of the
Evening; in that which looks toward the South, but lies open to the
North, I take Sanctuary against the Heats of the Meridian Sun; but we'll
walk 'em over, if you please, and take a nearer View of them: See how
green 'tis under Foot, and you have the Beauty of painted Flowers in the
very Chequers of the Pavement. This Wood, that you see painted upon this
Wall, affords me a great Variety of Prospect: For in the first Place, as
many Trees as you see, so many Sorts of Trees you see; and all express'd
to the Life. As many Birds as you see, so many Kinds you see; especially
if there be any scarce Ones, and remarkable upon any Account. For as for
Geese, Hens, and Ducks, it is not worth While to draw them. Underneath
are four-footed Creatures, or such Birds as live upon the Ground, after
the Manner of Quadrupedes.

_Ti._ The Variety indeed is wonderful, and every Thing is in Action,
either doing or saying something. There's an Owl sits peeping through
the Leaves, what says she?

_Eu._ She speaks _Greek_; she says, [Greek: Sôphronei, ou pasin
hiptêmi], she commands us to act advisedly; _I do not fly to all_;
because an inconsiderate Rashness does not fall out happily to all
Persons. There is an Eagle quarrying upon a Hare, and a Beetle
interceding to no Purpose; there is a Wren stands by the Beetle, and she
is a mortal Enemy to the Eagle.

_Ti._ What has this Swallow got in her Mouth?

_Eu._ The Herb Celandine; don't you know the Plant? with it, she
restores Sight to her blind young Ones.

_Ti._ What odd Sort of Lizard is this?

_Eu._ It is not a Lizard, but a Chamæleon.

_Ti._ Is this the Chamæleon, there is so much Talk of? I thought it had
been a Beast twice as big as a Lion, and the Name is twice as long too.

_En._ This Chamæleon is always gaping, and always hungry. This is a
wild Fig-Tree, and that is his Aversion. He is otherwise harmless; and
yet the little gaping Creature has Poison in him too, that you mayn't
contemn him.

_Ti._ But I don't see him change his Colour.

_Eu._ True; because he does not change his Place; when he changes his
Place, you will see him change his Colour too.

_Ti._ What's the Meaning of that Piper?

_Eu._ Don't you see a Camel there dancing hard by?

_Ti._ I see a very pleasant Fancy; the Ape pipes, and the Camel dances.

_Eu._ But it would require at least three Days to run through the
Particulars one by one; it will be enough at present to take a cursory
View of them. You have in the first Spot, all Sorts of famous Plants
painted to the Life: And to increase the Wonder, here are the strongest
Poisons in the World, which you may not only look upon, but handle too
without Danger.

_Ti._ Look ye, here is a Scorpion, an Animal very seldom seen in this
Country; but very frequent in _Italy_, and very mischievous too: But the
Colour in the Picture seems not to be natural.

_Eu._ Why so?

_Ti._ It seems too pale methinks; for those in _Italy_ are blacker.

_Eu._ Don't you know the Herb it has fallen upon?

_Ti._ Not very well.

_Eu._ That's no Wonder, for it does not grow in these Parts: It is
Wolf's-bane, so deadly a Poison, that upon the very touch of it, a
Scorpion is stupified, grows pale, and yields himself overcome; but when
he is hurt with one Poison, he seeks his Remedy with another. Do you see
the two Sorts of Hellebore hard by; if the Scorpion can but get himself
clear of the Wolf's-bane, and get to the white Hellebore, he recovers
his former Vigour, by the very Touch of a different Poison.

_Ti._ Then the Scorpion is undone, for he is never like to get off from
the Wolfs'-bane. But do Scorpions speak here?

_Eu._ Yes, they do, and speak _Greek_ too.

_Ti._ What does he say?

_Eu._ [Greek: Eure theos ton alitron], _God hath found out the Guilty._
Here besides the Grass, you see all Sorts of Serpents. Here is the
Basilisk, that is not only formidable for his Poison; but the very Flash
of his Eyes is also mortal.

_Ti._ And he says something too.

_Eu._ Yes, he says, _Oderint, dum metuant; Let them hate me, so they
fear me._

_Ti._ Spoken like a King entirely.

_Eu._ Like a Tyrant rather, not at all like a King. Here a Lizard fights
with a Viper, and here lies the _Dipsas_ Serpent upon the Catch, hid
under the Shell of an _Estridge_ Egg. Here you see the whole Policy of
the Ant, which we are call'd upon to imitate by _Solomon_ and _Horace_.
Here are _Indian_ Ants that carry Gold, and hoard it up.

_Ti._ O good God! how is it possible for a Man to be weary of this

_Eu._ And yet at some other Time you shall see I'll give you your Belly
full of it. Now look before you at a Distance, there is a third Wall,
where you have Lakes, Rivers, and Seas, and all Sorts of rare Fishes.
This is the River _Nile_, in which you see the _Dolphin_, that natural
Friend to Mankind, fighting with a _Crocodile_, Man's deadly Enemy. Upon
the Banks and Shores you see several amphibious Creatures, as Crabs,
Seals, Beavers. Here is a Polypus, a Catcher catch'd by an Oyster.

_Ti._ What does he say? [Greek: airôn airoumai]; _The Taker taken._ The
Painter has made the Water wonderfully transparent.

_Eu._ If he had not done so, we should have wanted other Eyes. Just by
there's another Polypus playing upon the Face of the Sea like a little
Cock-Boat; and there you see a Torpedo lying along upon the Sands, both
of a Colour, you may touch them here with your Hand without any Danger.
But we must go to something else, for these Things feed the Eye, but not
the Belly.

_Ti._ Have you any more to be seen then?

_Eu._ You shall see what the Back-side affords us by and by. Here's an
indifferent large Garden parted: The one a Kitchen Garden, that is my
Wife's and the Family's; the other is a Physick Garden, containing the
choicest physical Herbs. At the left Hand there is an open Meadow, that
is only a green Plot enclos'd with a quick-set Hedge. There sometimes I
take the Air, and divert myself with good Company. Upon the right Hand
there's an Orchard, where, when you have Leisure, you shall see a great
Variety of foreign Trees, that I have brought by Degrees to endure this

_Ti._ O wonderful! the King himself has not such a Seat.

_Eu._ At the End of the upper Walk there's an Aviary, which I'll shew
you after Dinner, and there you'll see various Forms, and hear various
Tongues, and their Humours are as various. Among some of them there is
an Agreeableness and mutual Love, and among others an irreconcilable
Aversion: And then they are so tame and familiar, that when I'm at
Supper, they'll come flying in at the Window to me, even to the Table,
and take the Meat out of my Hands. If at any Time I am upon the
Draw-Bridge you see there, talking, perhaps with a Friend, they'll some
of them sit hearkening, others of them will perch upon my Shoulders or
Arms, without any Sort of Fear, for they find that no Body hurts them.
At the further End of the Orchard I have my Bees, which is a Sight worth
seeing. But I must not show you any more now, that I may have something
to entertain you with by and by. I'll shew you the rest after Dinner.

_Boy._ Sir, my Mistress and Maid say that the Dinner will be spoil'd.

_Eu._ Bid her have a little Patience, and we'll come presently. My
friends, let us wash, that we may come to the Table with clean Hands as
well as Hearts. The very _Pagans_ us'd a Kind of Reverence in this Case;
how much more then should _Christians_ do it; if it were but in
Imitation of that sacred Solemnity of our Saviour with his Disciples at
his last Supper: And thence comes the Custom of washing of Hands, that
if any Thing of Hatred, Ill-Will, or any Pollution should remain in the
Mind of any one, he might purge it out, before he sits down at the
Table. For it is my Opinion, that the Food is the wholesomer for the
Body, if taken with a purified Mind.

_Ti._ We believe that it is a certain Truth.

_Eu. Christ_ himself gave us this Example, that we should sit down to
the Table with a Hymn; and I take it from this, that we frequently read
in the Evangelists, that he bless'd or gave Thanks to his Father before
he broke Bread, and that he concluded with giving of Thanks: And if you
please, I'll say you a Grace that St. _Chrysostom_ commends to the Skies
in one of his Homilies, which he himself interpreted.

_Ti._ We desire you would.

_Eu._ Blessed be thou, O God, who has fed me from my Youth up, and
providest Food for all Flesh: Fill thou our Hearts with Joy and
Gladness, that partaking plentifully of thy Bounty, we may abound to
every good Work, through _Christ Jesus_ our Lord, with whom, to thee and
the Holy Ghost, be Glory, Honour, and Power, World without End. _Amen._

_Eu._ Now sit down, and let every Man take his Friend next him: The
first Place is yours, _Timothy_, in Right of your Grey Hairs.

_Ti._ The only Thing in the World that gives a Title to it.

_Eu._ We can only judge of what we see, and must leave the rest to God.
_Sophronius_, keep you close to your Principal. _Theophilus_ and
_Eulalius_, do you take the right Side of the Table; _Chrysoglottus_ and
_Theodidactus_ they shall have the left. _Uranius_ and _Nephalius_ must
make a Shift with what is left. I'll keep this Corner.

_Ti._ This must not be, the Master of the House ought to take the first

_Eu._ The House is as much yours as mine, Gentlemen; however, if I may
rule within my own Jurisdiction, I'll sit where I please, and I have
made my Choice already. Now may Christ, the Enlivener of all, and
without whom nothing can be pleasant, vouchsafe to be with us, and
exhilarate our Minds by his Presence.

_Ti._ I hope he will be pleased so to do; but where shall he sit, for
the Places are all taken up?

_Eu._ I would have him in every Morsel and Drop that we eat and drink;
but especially, in our Minds. And the better to fit us for the Reception
of so divine a Guest, if you will, you shall have some Portion of
Scripture read in the Interim; but so that you shall not let that hinder
you from eating your Dinner heartily.

_Ti._ We will eat heartily, and attend diligently.

_Eu._ This Entertainment pleases me so much the better, because it
diverts vain and frivolous Discourse, and affords Matter of profitable
Conversation: I am not of their Mind, who think no Entertainment
diverting, that does not abound with foolish wanton Stories, and bawdy
Songs. There is pure Joy springs from a clear and pure Conscience; and
those are the happy Conversations, where such Things are mentioned, that
we can reflect upon afterwards with Satisfaction and Delight; and not
such as we shall afterwards be ashamed of, and have Occasion to repent

_Ti._ It were well if we were all as careful to consider those Things as
we are sure they are true.

_Eu._ And besides, these Things have not only a certain and valuable
Profit in them, but one Month's Use of them, would make them become
pleasant too.

_Ti._ And therefore it is the best Course we can take to accustom
ourselves to that which is best.

_Eu._ Read us something, Boy, and speak out distinctly.

_Boy._ Prov. xxi. _The King's Heart is in the Hand of the Lord; as the
Rivers of Waters, he turneth it whither soever he will. Every Man is
right in his own Eyes, but the Lord pondereth the Hearts. To do Justice
and Judgment, is more acceptable to the Lord than Sacrifice_, ver. 1, 2,

_Eu._ Hold there, that's enough; for it is better to take down a little
with an Appetite, than to devour more than a Man can digest.

_Ti._ 'Tis better, I must confess, in more Cases than this: _Pliny_
would have one never have _Tully's_ Offices out of ones Hand; and in my
Opinion, it were well if all Persons, but especially Statesmen, had him
every Word by Heart: And as for this little Book of Proverbs, I have
always look'd upon it the best Manual we can carry about with us.

_Eu._ I knew our Dinner would be unsavoury, and therefore I procured
this Sauce.

_Ti._ Here is nothing but what is very good; but if you had given us
this Lecture to a Dish of Beets only, without either Pepper, Wine or
Vinegar, it would have been a delicious Treat.

_Eu._ I could commend it with a better Grace, if I did but perfectly
understand what I have heard. And I would we had some able Divine among
us, that did not only understand it, but would thoroughly expound it.
But I don't know how far it may be lawful for us Laymen to descant upon
these Matters.

_Ti._ Indeed, I see no Hurt in't, even for a _Tarpawlin_ to do it,
abating the Rashness of passing Sentence in the Case. And who knows but
that _Christ_ himself (who has promis'd to be present, where two or
three are gathered together in his Name) may vouchsafe his Assistance to
us, that are a much larger Congregation.

_Eu._ What if we should take these three Verses, and divide 'em among us
nine Guests?

_Guests._ We like it well, provided the Master of the Feast lead the

_Eu._ I would not refuse it; but that I am afraid I shall entertain you
worse in my Exposition, than I do in my Dinner: But however, Ceremony
apart, that I may not seem to want much Persuasion, omitting other
Meanings that Interpreters put upon the Place: This seems to me to be
the moral Sense; "That private Men may be wrought upon by Admonition,
Reproofs, Laws and Menaces; but Kings who are above Fear, the more they
are opposed, the fiercer their Displeasure; and therefore Kings, as
often as they are resolutely bent upon any, should be left to
themselves: Not in respect of any Confidence of the Goodness of their
Inclinations; but because God many Times makes Use of their Follies and
Wickedness, as the Instruments for the Punishment of the Wicked." As he
forbad that _Nebuchodonosor_ should be resisted, because he had
determin'd to chastise his People by him, as an Instrument. And
peradventure, that which _Job_ says, looks this Way: _Who maketh the
Hypocrite reign for the Sins of his People._ And perhaps, that which
_David_ says, bewailing his Sin, has the same Tendency: _Against thee
only have I sinned, and done this Evil in thy Sight:_ Not as if the
Iniquity of Kings were not fatal to the People; but because there is
none that has Authority to condemn them, but God, from whose Judgment
there is indeed no Appeal, be the Person never so great.

_Ti._ I like the Interpretation well enough thus far; but what is meant
by _the Rivers of Waters?_

_Eu._ There is a Similitude made Use of that explains it. The Wrath of a
King is impetuous and unruly, and not to be led this Way or that Way,
but presses forward with a restless Fury: As the Sea spreads itself over
the Land, and flows sometimes this Way, and sometimes that Way, not
sparing Pastures nor Palaces, and sometimes buries in its own Bowels all
that stands in its Way; and if you should attempt to stop its Course, or
to turn it another Way, you may e'en as well let it alone: Whereas, let
it but alone, and it will sink of itself, as it happens in many great
Rivers, as is storied of _Achelous._ There is less Injury done by
quietly yielding, than by violently resisting.

_Ti._ Is there no Remedy then against the Unruliness of wicked Kings?

_Eu._ The first will be, not to receive a Lion into the City: The
second, is to tie him up by parliamentary and municipal Laws, that he
can't easily break out into Tyranny: But the best of all would be, to
train him up from his Childhood, in the Principles of Piety and Virtue,
and to form his Will, before he understands his Power. Good Counsels and
Persuasions go a great Way, provided they be seasonable and gentle. But
the last Resort must be to beg of God, to incline the King's Heart to
those Things that are becoming a Christian King.

_Ti._ Do you excuse yourself, because you are a Layman? If I were a
Batchelor in Divinity, I should value myself upon this Interpretation.

_Eu._ I can't tell whether it is right or wrong, it is enough for me if
it were not impious or heretical. However, I have done what you required
of me; and now, according to the Rules of Conversation, 'tis my Turn to
hear your Opinion.

_Ti._ The Compliment you pass'd upon my grey Hairs, gives me some kind
of Title to speak next to the Text, which will bear yet a more
mysterious Meaning.

_Eu._ I believe it may, and I should be glad to hear it.

_Ti._ "By the Word King, may be meant, a Man so perfected, as to have
wholly subdued his Lusts, and to be led by the Impulse of the Divine
Spirit only. Now perhaps it may not be proper to tie up such a Person to
the Conditions of human Laws; but to leave him to his Master, by whom he
is govern'd: Nor is he to be judg'd according to the Measures by which
the Frailty of imperfect Men advances towards true Holiness; but if he
steers another Course, we ought to say with St. _Paul, God hath accepted
him, and to his own Master he stands or falls. He that is spiritual,
judgeth of all Things, but he himself is judged of no Man_." To such,
therefore, let no Man prescribe; for the Lord, who hath appointed Bounds
to the Seas and Rivers, hath the Heart of the King in his Hand, and
inclines it which Way soever it pleases him: What need is there to
prescribe to him, that does of his own accord better Things than human
Laws oblige him to? Or, how great a Rashness were it, to bind that
Person by human Constitutions, who, it is manifest, by evident Tokens,
is directed by the Inspirations of the Holy Spirit.

_Eu._ O _Timothy_, thou hast not only got grey Hairs on this Head, but
you have likewise a Mind venerable for experimental Knowledge. And I
would to God, that we had more such Kings as this King of yours among
Christians, who, indeed, all of them ought to be such. But we have dwelt
long enough upon our Eggs and Herbs; let them be taken away, and
something else set in their Room.

_Ti._ We have done so well already on this Ovation, that there is no
Need of any more, either of Supplication or Triumph.

_Eu._ But since, by God's Assistance, we have succeeded so well in the
first Verse, I wish your _Umbra_ would explain the other, which seems to
me a little more obscure.

_Soph._ If you'll put a good Construction upon what I shall say, I will
give you my Thoughts upon it. How else can a Shadow pretend to give
Light to any Thing?

_Eu._ I undertake that for all the Company; such Shadows as you give as
much Light as our Eyes will well bear.

_Soph._ The same Thing seems to be meant here, that _Paul_ says: _That
there are several Ways of Life, that lead to Holiness_. Some affect the
Ministry, some Celibacy, others a married State; some a retired Life,
others publick Administrations of the Government, according to the
various Dispositions of their Bodies and Minds: Again, to one Man all
Meats are indifferent, another puts a Difference betwixt this Meat and
that; another he makes a Difference of Days, another thinks every Day
alike. In these Things St. _Paul_ would have every one enjoy his own
Freedom of Mind, without reproaching another; nor should we censure any
Man in those Cases, but leave him to be judg'd by him that weigheth the
Heart. It oftentimes happens, that he that eats may be more acceptable
to God, than he that forbears; and he that breaks a Holy-day, than he
that seems to observe it; and he that marries, is more acceptable to
God, than a great many that live single. I who am but a Shadow, have
spoken my Mind.

_Eu._ I wish I could have Conversation with such Shadows often. I think
you have hit the Nail on the Head: But here is one that has lived a
Batchelor, and not of the Number of Saints, who have made themselves
Eunuchs for the Sake of the Kingdom of God but was made so by force, to
gratify our Bellies, _till God shall destroy both them and Meats_. It is
a Capon of my own feeding. I am a great Lover of boil'd Meats. This is a
very good Soop, and these are choice Lettuces that are in it. Pray every
one help himself to what he likes best. But that you may not be
deceiv'd, I tell you, that we have a Course of Roast a coming, and after
that some small Desert, and so conclude.

_Ti._ But we exclude your Wife from Table.

_Eu._ When you bring your own Wives, mine shall keep them Company. She
would, if she were here, be nothing but a Mute in our Company. She talks
with more Freedom among the Women, and we are more at Liberty to
philosophise. And besides that, there would be Danger, lest we should be
serv'd as _Socrates_ was, when he had several Philosophers at Table with
him, who took more Pleasure in talking than they did in eating, and held
a long Dispute, had all their Meat thrown on the Floor by _Xantippe_,
who in a Rage overturn'd the Table.

_Ti._ I believe you have nothing of that to be afraid of: She's one of
the best-humour'd Women in the World.

_Eu._ She is such a one indeed, that I should be loath to change her if
I might; and I look upon myself to be very happy upon that Account. Nor
do I like their Opinion, who think a Man happy, because he never had a
Wife; I approve rather what the _Hebrew_ Sage said, _He that has a good
Wife has a good Lot_.

_Ti._ It is commonly our own Fault, if our Wives be bad, either for
loving such as are bad, or making them so; or else for not teaching them

_Eu._ You say very right, but all this While I want to hear the third
Verse expounded: And methinks the divine _Theophilus_ looks as if he had
a Mind to do it.

_Theo._ Truly my Mind was upon my Belly; but however, I'll speak my
Mind, since I may do it without Offence.

_Eu._ Nay, it will be a Favour to us if you should happen to be in any
Error, because by that Means you will give us Occasion of finding the

_Th._ The Sentence seems to be of the same Importance with that the Lord
expresses by the Prophet _Hosea_, Chap. vi. _I desire Mercy and not
Sacrifice, and the Knowledge of God more than Burnt-Offerings_. This is
fully explain'd, and to the Life, by the Lord _Jesus_, in St. _Matthew_,
Chap. ix. who being at Table in the House of _Levi_ the Publican, with
several others of the same Stamp and Profession, the _Pharisees_, who
were puff'd up with their external Observance of the Law, without any
Regard to the Precepts of it, whereupon the whole Law and Prophets
depend, (with a Design to alienate the Affections of his Disciples from
him) ask'd them, why their Master sat at the Table of Publicans and
Sinners. From whose Conversation those _Jews_, that would be accounted
the more holy, abstain'd; to that Degree, that if any of the stricter
Sort had met any of them by Chance, as soon as they came Home they would
wash themselves. And when the Disciples, being yet but raw, could give
no Answer; the Lord answer'd both for himself and them: _They_ (says he)
_who are whole need not a Physician, but they that are sick; but go you
and learn what that meaneth, I will have Mercy and not Sacrifice; for I
came not to call the Righteous but Sinners_.

_Eu._ Indeed you have very handsomely explain'd the Matter, by the
comparing of Texts, which is the best Way of expounding Scripture. But I
would fain know what it is he calls Sacrifice, and what Mercy. For how
can we reconcile it, that God should be against Sacrifices, who had
commanded so many to be offered?

_Th._ How far God is against Sacrifices, he himself teaches us in the
first Chapter of the Prophecy of _Isaiah_. There were certain legal
Obligations among the _Jews_, which were rather Significations of
Holiness, than of the Essence of it; of this Sort are Holy-Days,
Sabbatisms, Fasts, Sacrifices; and there were certain other Obligations
of perpetual Force, being good in their own Nature, and not meerly by
being commanded. Now God was displeased with the _Jews_, not because
they did observe the Rites and Ceremonies, but because being vainly
puffed up with these, they neglected those Things which God does in a
more especial Manner require of us; and wallowing in Avarice, Pride,
Rapines, Hatred, Envy, and other Iniquities, they thought they merited
Heaven, because that upon Holy-Days, they visited the Temple, offered
Sacrifices, abstained from forbidden Meats, and frequently fasted;
embracing the Shadow of Religion, and neglecting the Substance. But in
that, he says, _I will have Mercy, and not Sacrifice_; I take it to be
said according to the Idiom of the _Hebrew_ Tongue; that is to say,
_Mercy rather than Sacrifices, as Solomon_ interprets it in this Text,
_to do Mercy and Judgment, is more acceptable to the Lord than
Sacrifices_. And again, the Scripture expresses all the charitable
Offices to our Neighbour, under the Terms of Mercy, and eleemosynary
Tenderness, which takes its Name from Pity. By Sacrifices, I suppose is
intended, whatsoever respects corporal Ceremonies, and has any Affinity
with Judaism, such as are the choice of Meats, appointed Garments,
Fasting, Sacrifices, the saying over of Prayers, as a Boy says his
Lesson: resting upon Holy-Days. These Things, as they are not to be
neglected in their due Season, so they become displeasing to God, if a
Man relying too much upon these Observances, shall neglect to do Acts of
Mercy, as often as his Brother's Necessity requires it. And it has some
Appearance of Holiness in it, to avoid the Conversation of wicked Men:
But this ought to give Place as oft as there is an Opportunity offer'd
of shewing Charity to our Neighbour. It is a Point of Obedience to rest
upon Holy Days: But it would be very impious to make such a Conscience
of a Day as to suffer a Brother to perish upon it. Therefore to keep the
Lord's Day is a Kind of _Sacrifice_: But to be reconcil'd to my Brother
is a Point of _Mercy_. And then, as for _Judgment_, though that may seem
to respect Persons in Power; who oftentimes oppress the weak therewith,
yet it seems reasonable enough in my Opinion that the poor Man should
remind him of that in _Hosea, And the Knowledge of God more than burnt
Offerings_. No Man can be said to keep the Law of God, but he that keeps
it according to the Mind of God. The _Jews_ could lift up an Ass upon
the Sabbath that was fallen into a Pit, and yet calumniated our Saviour
for preserving a Man upon that Day. This was a preposterous Judgment,
and not according to the Knowledge of God; for they did not consider
that these Things were made for Man, and not Man for them. But I should
have esteem'd it Presumption in me to have said these Things, if you had
not commanded it; and I had rather learn of others Things more _à

_Eu._ This is so far from being a Presumption, that it looks rather like
an Inspiration. But while we are thus plentifully feeding our Souls, we
must not neglect their Companions.

_Ti._ Who are those?

_Eu._ Our Bodies; are not they the Soul's Companions? I had rather call
them so, than Instruments, Habitations or Sepulchres.

_Ti._ This is certainly to be plentifully refresh'd when the whole Man
is refresh'd.

_Eu._ I see you are very backward to help yourselves; therefore, if you
please, I'll order the Roast-Meat to be brought us, lest instead of a
good Entertainment I should treat you with a long one. Now you see your
Ordinary. Here is a Shoulder of Mutton, but it is a very fine one, a
Capon and two Brace of Partridges. These indeed I had from the Market,
this little Farm supply'd me with the rest.

_Ti._ It is a noble Dinner, fit for a Prince.

_Eu._ For a _Carmelite_, you mean. But such as it is you are welcome to
it. If the Provision be not very dainty you have it very freely.

_Ti._ Your House is so full of Talk, that not only the Walls but the
very Cup speaks.

_Eu._ What does it say?

_Ti. No Man is hurt but by himself._

_Eu._ The Cup pleads for the Cause of the Wine. For it is a common
Thing, if Persons get a Fever or the Head-ach by over drinking, to lay
it upon the Wine, when they have brought it upon themselves by their

_Soph._ Mine speaks _Greek_. [Greek: En oinô alêtheia.] _In Wine there's
Truth_ (when Wine is in the Wit is out.)

_Eu._ This gives us to understand that it is not safe for Priests or
Privy-Counsellors to give themselves so to Wine, because Wine commonly
brings that to the Mouth that lay conceal'd in the Heart.

_Soph._ In old Time among the _Egyptians_ it was unlawful for their
Priests to drink any Wine at all, and yet in those Days there was no
auricular Confession.

_Eu._ It is now become lawful for all Persons to drink Wine, but how
expedient it is I know not. What Book is that, _Eulalius_, you take out
of your Pocket? It seems to be a very neat one, it is all over gilded.

_Eulal._ It is more valuable for the Inside than the Out. It is St.
_Paul's_ Epistles, that I always carry about me, as my beloved
Entertainment, which I take out now upon the Occasion of something you
said, which minds me of a Place that I have beat my Brains about a long
Time, and I am not come to a full Satisfaction in yet. It is in the 6th
Chapter of the first Epistle to the _Corinthians_, _All Things are
lawful for me, but all Things are not expedient; all Things are lawful
for me, but I will not be brought under the Power of any_. In the first
Place (if we will believe the Stoicks) nothing can be profitable to us,
that is not honest: How comes _Paul_ then to distinguish betwixt that
which is lawful, and that which is expedient? It is not lawful to whore,
or get drunk, how then are all Things lawful? But if _Paul_ speaks of
some particular Things only, which he would have to be lawful, I can't
guess by the Tenor of the Place, which those particular Things are.
From that which follows, it may be gather'd, that he there speaks of the
Choice of Meats. For some abstain from Things offer'd to Idols, and
others from Meats forbidden by _Moses_'s Law. In the 8th Chapter he
treats of Things offer'd to Idols, and in the 10th Chapter explaining
the Meaning of this Place, says, _All Things are lawful for me, but all
Things are not expedient; all Things are lawful for me, but all Things
edify not. Let no Man seek his own, but every Man the Things of another.
Whatsoever is sold in the Shambles, eat ye_. And that which St. _Paul_
subjoins, agrees with what he said before: _Meats for the Belly, and the
Belly for Meats; but God shall destroy both it and them_. Now that which
has Respect to the _Judaical_ Choice of Meats, is in the Close of the
10th Chapter. _Give none Offence, neither to the Jews nor the Gentiles,
nor to the Church of God; even as I please all Men in all Things, not
seeking my own Profit, but the Profit of many, that they may be sav'd_.
Where in that he saith to the _Gentiles_, he seems to have Respect to
Things offer'd to Idols; and where he speaketh to the _Jews_ he seems to
refer to the Choice of Meats; what he says to the Church of God
appertains to the Weak, collected out of both Sorts. It was lawful, it
seems, to eat of all Meats whatsoever, and all Things that are Clean to
the Clean. But the Question remaining is, Whether it be expedient or no?
The Liberty of the Gospel makes all Things lawful; but Charity has
always a Regard to my Neighbour's Good, and therefore often abstains
from Things lawful, rather chasing to condescend to what is for
another's Advantage, than to make Use of its own Liberty. But now here
arises a double Difficulty; first, that here is nothing that either
precedes or follows in the Context that agrees with this Sense. For he
chides the _Corinthians_ for being Seditious, Fornicators, Adulterers,
and given to go to Law before wicked Judges. Now what Coherence is there
with this to say, _All Things are lawful for me, but all Things are not
expedient_? And in the following Matter, he returns to the Case of
_Incontinence_, which he had also repeated before, only leaving out the
Charge of Contention: _But the Body_, says he, _is not for Fornication,
but for the Lord, and the Lord for the Body._ But however, this Scruple
may be solv'd too, because a little before, in the Catalogue of Sins, he
had made Mention of Idolatry. _Be not deceived, neither Fornicators, nor
Idolaters, nor Adulterers_; now the Eating of Things offer'd to Idols is
a certain Kind of Idolatry, and therefore he immediately subjoins, _Meat
is for the Belly, and the Belly for Meat_. Intimating, that in a Case of
Necessity, and for a Season, a Man may eat any Thing, unless Charity
towards his Neighbour shall dissuade it: But that Uncleanness is in all
Persons, and at all Times to be detested. It is Matter of Necessity that
we eat, but that Necessity shall be taken away at the Resurrection of
the Dead. But if we are lustful, that proceeds from Wickedness. But
there is another Scruple that I can't tell how to solve, or how to
reconcile to that Passage: _But I will not be brought under the Power of
any_. For he says, he has the Power of all Things, and yet he will not
be brought under the Power of any one. If he may be said to be under
another Man's Power, that abstains for Fear of offending, it is what he
speaks of himself in the ninth Chapter, _For though I be free from all
Men, yet have made myself Servant to all, that I may gain all._ St.
_Ambrose_ stumbling, I suppose, at this Scruple, takes this to be the
Apostle's genuine Sense for the better Understanding of what he says in
the 9th Chapter, where he claims to himself the Power of doing that
which the rest of the Apostles (either true or false) did, of receiving
a Maintenance from them to whom he preach'd the Gospel. But he forbore
this, although he might have done it, as a Thing expedient among the
_Corinthians_, whom he reprov'd for so many and enormous Iniquities. And
moreover, he that receives, is in some Degree in the Power of him from
whom he receives, and suffers some Kind of Abatement in his Authority.
For he that takes, cannot so freely reprove his Benefactor; and he that
gives will not so easily take a Reprehension from him that he has
obliged. And in this did the Apostle _Paul_ abstain from that which was
lawful, for the Credit of his apostolical Liberty, which in this Case he
would not have to be rendered obnoxious to any one, that he might with
the greater Freedom and Authority reprehend their Vices. Indeed, I like
this Explication of St. _Ambrose_ very well. But yet, if any Body had
rather apply this Passage to Meats, St. _Paul_'s, Saying, _but I will
not be brought under the Power of any_, may be taken in this Sense:
Although I may sometimes abstain from Meats offered to Idols, or
forbidden by the _Mosaical_ Law, out of Regard to the Salvation of my
Brothers Souls, and the Furtherance of the Gospel; yet my Mind is free,
well knowing that it is lawful to eat all Manner of Meats, according to
the Necessity of the Body. But there were some false Apostles, who went
about to persuade them, that some Meats, were in themselves, by their
own Nature unclean, and were to be forborn, not upon Occasion only, but
at all Times; and that as strict as Adultery or Murder. Now those that
were thus misled, were reduced under another's Power, and fell from
their Gospel Liberty. _Theophylact_ (as I remember) is the only Man that
advances an Opinion different from all these. _It is lawful_, says he,
_to eat all Sorts of Meats; but it is not expedient to eat to Excess;
for from Luxury comes Lust._ There is no Impiety, indeed, in this Sense;
but it does not seem to me to be the genuine Sense of the Place. I have
acquainted you with my Scruples, it will become your Charity to set me
to Rights.

_Eu._ Your Discourse is, indeed, answerable to your Name, and one that
knows how to propound Questions as you do, has no Need of any Body to
answer them but himself. For you have so proposed your Doubts, as to put
one quite out of doubt, altho' St. _Paul_, in that Epistle, (proposing
to handle many Things at once) passes often from one Argument to
another, repeating what he had intermitted.

_Ch._ If I were not afraid, that by my Loquacity I should divert you
from eating your Dinners, and did think it were lawful to intermix any
Thing out of profane Authors with sacred Discourses, I would venture to
propose something that I read to Day; not so much with Perplexity, as
with a singular Delight.

_Eu._ Whatsoever is pious, and conduces to good Manners, ought not to be
called profane. The first Place must indeed be given to the Authority of
the Scriptures; but nevertheless, I sometimes find some Things said or
written by the Antients; nay, even by the Heathens; nay, by the Poets
themselves, so chastly, so holily, and so divinely, that I cannot
persuade myself, but that when they wrote them, they were divinely
inspired; and perhaps the Spirit of Christ diffuses itself farther than
we imagine; and that there are more Saints than we have in our
Catalogue. To confess freely among Friends, I can't read _Tully_ of _Old
Age_, of _Friendship_, his _Offices_, or his _Tusculan Questions_,
without kissing the Book, and Veneration for that divine Soul. And on
the contrary, when I read some of our modern Authors, treating of
_Politics, Oeconomics_ and _Ethics_, good God! how cold they are in
Comparison of these? Nay, how do they seem to be insensible of what they
write themselves? So that I had rather lose _Scotus_ and twenty more
such as he, than one _Cicero_ or _Plutarch_. Not that I am wholly
against them neither; but because, by the reading of the one, I find
myself become better; whereas, I rise from the other, I know not how
coldly affected to Virtue, but most violently inclin'd to Cavil and
Contention; therefore never fear to propose it, whatsoever it is.

_Ch._ Although all _Tully_'s Books of Philosophy seem to breathe out
something divine; yet that Treatise of _Old Age_, that he wrote in old
Age, seems to me to be according to the _Greek_ Proverb; _the Song of
the dying Swan_. I was reading it to Day, and these Words pleasing me
above the rest, I got 'em by Heart: _Should it please God to give me a
Grant to begin my Life again from my very Cradle, and once more to run
over the Course of my Years I have lived, I would not upon any Terms
accept of it: Nor would I, having in a Manner finished my Race, run it
over again from the starting Place to the Goal: For what Pleasure has
this Life in it? nay, rather, what Pain has it not? But if there were
not, there would be undoubtedly in it Satiety or Trouble. I am not for
bewailing my past Life as a great many, and learned Men too, have done,
nor do I repent that I have liv'd; because, I have liv'd so, that I am
satisfy'd I have not liv'd in vain. And when I leave this Life, I leave
it as an Inn, and not as a Place of Abode. For Nature has given us our
Bodies as an Inn to lodge in, and not to dwell in. O! glorious Day will
that be, when I shall leave this Rabble-rout and Defilements of the
World behind me, to go to that Society and World of Spirits!_ Thus far
out of _Cato_. What could be spoken more divinely by a Christian? I wish
all the Discourses of our Monks, even with their holy Virgins, were such
as the Dialogue of this aged Pagan, with the Pagan Youths of his Time.

_Eu._ It may be objected, that this Colloquy of _Tully_'s was but a

_Ch._ It is all one to me, whether the Honour of these Expressions be
given to _Cato_, who thought and spoke them, or to _Cicero_, whose Mind
could form such divine Things in Contemplation, and whose Pen could
represent such excellent Matter in Words so answerable to it; though
indeed I am apt to think that _Cato_, if he did not speak these very
Words, yet that in his familiar Conversation he us'd Words of the very
same Import. For indeed, _M. Tully_ was not a Man of that Impudence, to
draw _Cato_ otherwise than he was. Beside, that such an Unlikeness in a
Dialogue would have been a great Indecorum, which is the thing chiefly
to be avoided in this Sort of Discourse; and especially, at a Time when
his Character was fresh in the Memories of all Men.

_Th._ That which you say is very likely: But I'll tell you what came
into my Mind upon your Recital. I have often admired with myself, that
considering that all Men wish for long Life, and are afraid of Death;
that yet, I have scarce found any Man so happy, (I don't speak of old,
but of middle-aged Men); but that if the Question were put to him,
whether or no, if it should be granted him to grow young again, and run
over the same good and ill Fortune that he had before, he would not make
the same Answer that _Cato_ did; especially passing a true Reflection
upon the Mixture of Good and Ill of his past Life. For the Remembrance
even of the pleasantest Part of it is commonly attended with Shame, and
Sting of Conscience, insomuch that the Memory of past Delights is more
painful to us, than that of past Misfortunes. Therefore it was wisely
done of the ancient Poets in the Fable of _Lethe_, to represent the Dead
drinking largely of the Waters of Forgetfulness, before their Souls were
affected with any Desire of the Bodies they had left behind them.

_Ur._ It is a Thing well worthy of our Admiration, and what I myself
have observ'd in some Persons. But that in _Cato_ that pleases me the
most is his Declaration. _Neither am I sorry that I have liv'd._ Where
is the _Christian_, that has so led his Life, as to be able to say as
much as this old Man? It is a common Thing for Men, who have scrap'd
great Estates together by Hook or by Crook, when they are upon their
Death Beds, and about to leave them, then to think they have not liv'd
in vain. But _Cato_ therefore thought, that he had not liv'd in vain,
upon the Conscience of his having discharg'd all the Parts of an honest
and useful Citizen, and an uncorrupted Magistrate; and that he should
leave to Posterity, Monuments of his Virtue and Industry. And what could
be spoken more divinely than this, _I depart as from an Inn, and not an
Habitation_. So long we may stay in an Inn till the Host bids us be
gone, but a Man will not easily be forc'd from his own House. And yet
from hence the Fall of the House, or Fire, or some Accident drives us.
Or if nothing of these happen, the Structure falls to Pieces with old
Age, thereby admonishing us that we must change our Quarters.

_Neph._ That Expression of _Socrates_ in _Plato_ is not less elegant:
_Methinks_, says he, _the Soul of a Man is in the Body as in a
Garrison, there is no quitting of it without the Leave of the Generals,
nor no staying any longer in it, than during the Pleasure of him that
plac'd him there._ This Allusion of _Plato'_s, of a Garrison instead of
a House, is the more significant of the two. For in a House is only
imply'd Abode, in a Garrison we are appointed to some Duty by our
Governor. And much to the same Purpose is it, that in Holy Writ the Life
of Man is sometimes call'd a Warfare, and at other times a Race.

_Ur._ But _Cato_'s Speech, methinks, seems to agree very well with that
of St. _Paul_, who writing to the _Corinthians_, calls that heavenly
Mansion, which we look for after this Life in one Place [Greek: oikian]
a House, in another [Greek: oikêtêrion] a Mansion, and moreover (besides
that) he calls the Body [Greek: skênos] a Tabernacle. For _we also_,
(says he) _who are in this Tabernacle, groan, being burthened._

_Neph._ Much after this Manner says St. _Peter; And I think it meet_
(says he) _as long as I am in this Tabernacle, to stir you up by putting
you in Mind, being assured that I shall shortly put off this
Tabernacle._ And what else does _Christ_ himself say to us, but that we
should live and watch, as if we were presently to die: And so apply
ourselves to honest Things, as if we were to live for ever? And when we
hear these excellent Words of _Cato, O that glorious Day_, do we not
seem to hear St. _Paul_ himself saying, _I desire to be dissolved, and
to be with Christ_?

_Ch._ How happy are they that wait for Death with such a Frame of Mind?
But as for _Cato_'s Speech, altho' it be an excellent one, methinks
there is more Boldness and Arrogance in it, than becomes a Christian.
Indeed, I never read anything in a Heathen, that comes nearer to a
Christian, than what _Socrates_ said to _Crito_, a little before he
drank his Poison; _Whether I shall be approv'd or not in the Sight of
God, I cannot tell; but this I am certain of, that I have most
affectionately endeavoured to please him; and I have a good Hope, that
he will accept of my Endeavours._ This great Man was diffident of his
own Performances; but so, that being conscious to himself of the
Propensity of his Inclination to obey the divine Will, he conceived a
good Hope, that God, of his Goodness, would accept him for the Honesty
of his Intentions.

_Neph._ Indeed, it was a wonderful Elevation of Mind in a Man, that knew
not Christ, nor the holy Scriptures: And therefore, I can scarce
forbear, when I read such Things of such Men, but cry out, _Sancte
Socrates, ora pro nobis; Saint_ Socrates, _pray for us._

_Ch._ And I have much ado sometimes to keep myself from entertaining
good Hopes of the Souls of _Virgil_ and _Horace._

_Neph._ But how unwillingly have I seen many Christians die? Some put
their Trust in Things not to be confided in; others breathe out their
Souls in Desperation, either out of a Consciousness of their lewd Lives,
or by Reason of Scruples that have been injected into their Minds, even
in their dying Hours, by some indiscreet Men.

_Ch._ It is no wonder to find them die so, who have spent their Time in
philosophizing about Ceremonies all their Lives.

_Neph._ What do you mean by Ceremonies?

_Ch._ I'll tell you, but with Protestation over and over beforehand,
that I don't find Fault with the Sacraments and Rites of the Church, but
rather highly approve of them; but I blame a wicked and superstitious
Sort of People, or (to put it in the softest Term) the simple and
unlearned Persons, who teach People to put their Confidence in these
Things, omitting those Things which make them truly Christians.

_Neph._ I don't yet clearly understand what it is you aim at.

_Ch._ I'll be plainer then. If you look into Christians in common, don't
you find they live as if the whole Sum of Religion consisted in
Ceremonies? With how much Pomp are the antient Rites of the Church set
forth in Baptism? The Infant waits without the Church Door, the Exorcism
is performed, the Catechizing is performed, Vows are made, Satan is
abjured, with all his Pomps and Pleasures; then the Child is anointed,
sign'd, season'd with Salt, dipt, a Charge given to his Sureties to see
it well brought up; and the Oblation-Money being paid, they are
discharged, and by this Time the Child passes for a Christian, and in
some Sense is so. A little Time after, it is anointed again, and in Time
learns to confess, receives the Sacrament, is accustom'd to rest upon
Holy-Days, to hear Divine Service, to fast sometimes, to abstain from
Flesh; and if he observes all these, he passes for an absolute
Christian. He marries a Wife, and then comes on another Sacrament; he
enters into Holy Orders, is anointed again, and consecrated, his Habit
is chang'd, and then to Prayers. Now I approve of the doing of all this
well enough; but the doing of them more out of Custom than Conscience, I
don't approve; but to think that nothing else is requisite for the
making a Christian, I absolutely disapprove: For the greatest Part of
Men in the World trust to these Things, and think they have nothing else
to do, but get Wealth by Right or Wrong, to gratify their Passions of
Rage, Lust, Malice, Ambition: And this they do till they come upon their
Death Bed; and then there follows more Ceremonies; Confession upon
Confession, more Unction still, the Eucharist is administred; Tapers,
the Cross, holy Water are brought in; Indulgencies are procured, if they
are to be had for Love or Money; Orders are given for a magnificent
Funeral; and then comes on another solemn Contract: When the Man is in
the Agony of Death, there's one stands by bawling in his Ear, and now
and then dispatches him before his Time, if he chance to be a little in
Drink, or have better Lungs than ordinary. Now although these Things may
be well enough, as they are done in Conformity to ecclesiastical
Customs; yet there are some more internal Impressions, which have an
Efficacy to fortify us against the Assaults of Death, by filling our
Hearts with Joy, and helping us to go out of the World with a Christian

_Eu._ You speak very piously and truly; but in the mean Time here is no
Body eats; I told you before, that you must expect nothing after the
second Course, and that a Country one too, lest any Body should look for
Pheasants, Moorhens, and fine Kickshaws. Here, Boy! take away these
Things, and bring up the rest. You see, not the Affluence, but the
Straitness of my Fortune. This is the Product of my Gardens you have
seen; don't spare, if you like any Thing.

_Ti._ There's so great a Variety, it does a Man good to look upon it.

_Eu._ That you mayn't altogether despise my Thriftiness, this Dish would
have chear'd up the Heart of old _Hilarion_, the evangelical Monk, with
a hundred more of his Fellows, the Monks of that Age. But _Paul_ and
_Anthony_ would have lived a Month upon it.

_Ti._ Yes, and Prince _Peter_ too, I fancy would have leap'd at it, when
he lodg'd at _Simon_ the Tanner's.

_Eu._ Yes; and _Paul_ too, I believe, when by Reason of Poverty he sat
up a-Nights to make Tents.

_Ti._ How much do we owe to the Goodness of God! But yet, I had rather
suffer Hunger with _Peter_ and _Paul_, upon Condition, that what I
wanted for my Body, might be made up by the Satisfaction of my Mind.

_Eu._ Let us learn of St. _Paul_, both how to abound, and how to suffer
Want. When we want, let us praise God, that he has afforded us Matter to
exercise our Frugality and Patience upon: When we abound, let us be
thankful for his Munificence, who by his Liberality, invites and
provokes us to love him; and using those Things the divine Bounty has
plentifully bestowed upon us, with Moderation and Temperance; let us be
mindful of the Poor, whom God has been pleas'd to suffer to want what he
has made abound to us, that neither Side may want an Occasion of
exercising Virtue: For he bestows upon us sufficient for the Relief of
our Brother's Necessity, that we may obtain his Mercy, and that the Poor
on the other Hand, being refresh'd by our Liberality, may give him
Thanks for putting it into our Hearts, and recommend us to him in their
Prayers; and, very well remember'd! Come hither, Boy; bid my Wife send
_Gudula_ some of the roast Meat that's left, 'tis a very good poor Woman
in the Neighbourhood big with Child, her Husband is lately dead, a
profuse, lazy Fellow, that has left nothing but a Stock of Children.

_Ti._ Christ has commanded _to give to every one that asks_; but if I
should do so, I should go a begging myself in a Month's Time.

_Eu._ I suppose Christ means only such as ask for Necessaries: For to
them who ask, nay, who importune, or rather extort great Sums from
People to furnish voluptuous Entertainments, or, which is worse, to feed
Luxury and Lust, it is Charity to deny; nay, it is a Kind of Rapine to
bestow that which we owe to the present Necessity of our Neighbours,
upon those that will abuse it; upon this Consideration it is, that it
seems to me, that they can scarcely be excus'd from being guilty of a
mortal Sin, who at a prodigious Expence, either build or beautify
Monasteries or Churches, when in the mean Time so many living Temples of
Christ are ready to starve for Want of Food and Clothing, and are sadly
afflicted with the Want of other Necessaries. When I was in _England_, I
saw St. _Thomas_'s, Tomb all over bedeck'd with a vast Number of Jewels
of an immense Price, besides other rich Furniture, even to Admiration; I
had rather that these Superfluities should be apply'd to charitable
Uses, than to be reserv'd for Princes, that shall one Time or other make
a Booty of them. The holy Man, I am confident, would have been better
pleas'd, to have his Tomb adorn'd with Leaves and Flowers. When I was in
_Lombardy_, I saw a Cloyster of the _Carthusians_, not far from _Pavia_;
the Chapel is built from Top to Bottom, within and without, of white
Marble, and almost all that is in it, as Altars, Pillars, and Tombs, are
all Marble. To what Purpose was it to be at such a vast Expence upon a
Marble Temple, for a few solitary Monks to sing in? And 'tis more
Burthen to them than Use too, for they are perpetually troubled with
Strangers, that come thither, only out of mere Curiosity, to see the
Marble Temple. And that, which is yet more ridiculous, I was told there,
that there is an Endowment of three thousand Ducats a Year for keeping
the Monastery in Repair. And there are some that think that it is
Sacrilege, to convert a Penny of that Money to any other pious Uses,
contrary to the Intention of the Testator; they had rather pull down,
that they may rebuild, than not go on with building. I thought meet to
mention these, being something more remarkable than ordinary; tho' we
have a World of Instances of this Kind up and down in our Churches.
This, in my Opinion, is rather Ambition than Charity. Rich Men
now-a-Days will have their Monuments in Churches, whereas in Times past
they could hardly get Room for the Saints there: They must have their
Images there, and their Pictures, forsooth, with their Names at length,
their Titles, and the Inscription of their Donation; and this takes up a
considerable Part of the Church; and I believe in Time they'll be for
having their Corpse laid even in the very Altars themselves. But
perhaps, some will say, would you have their Munificence be discourag'd?
I say no, by no Means, provided what they offer to the Temple of God be
worthy of it. But if I were a Priest or a Bishop, I would put it into
the Heads of those thick-scull'd Courtiers or Merchants, that if they
would atone for their Sins to Almighty God, they should privately bestow
their Liberality upon the Relief of the Poor. But they reckon all as
lost, that goes out so by Piece-meal, and is privily distributed toward
the Succour of the Needy, that the next Age shall have no Memorial of
the Bounty. But I think no Money can be better bestow'd, than that which
Christ himself would have put to his Account, and makes himself Debtor

_Ti._ Don't you take that Bounty to be well plac'd that is bestow'd upon

_Eu._ Yes, and I would be a Benefactor myself, if I had an Estate that
would allow it; but it should be such a Provision for Necessaries, as
should not reach to Luxury. And I would give something too, wheresoever
I found a religious Man that wanted it.

_Ti._ Many are of Opinion, that what is given to common Beggars, is not
well bestowed.

_Eu._ I would do something that Way too; but with Discretion: But in my
Opinion, it were better if every City were to maintain their own Poor;
and Vagabonds and sturdy Beggars were not suffer'd to strole about, who
want Work more than Money.

_Ti._ To whom then would you in an especial Manner give? How much? And
to what Purposes?

_Eu._ It is a hard Matter for me to answer to all these Points exactly:
First of all, there should be an Inclination to be helpful to all, and
after that, the Proportion must be according to my Ability, as
Opportunity should offer; and especially to those whom I know to be poor
and honest; and when my own Purse fail'd me, I would exhort others to

_Ti._ But will you give us Leave now to discourse freely in your

_Eu._ As freely as if you were at Home at your own Houses.

_Ti._ You don't love vast Expences upon Churches, you say, and this
House might have been built for less than it was.

_Eu._ Indeed, I think this House of mine to be within the Compass of
cleanly and convenient, far from Luxury, or I am mistaken. Some that
live by begging, have built with more State; and yet, these Gardens of
Mine, such as they are, pay a Tribute to the Poor; and I daily lessen my
Expence, and am the more frugal in Expence upon myself and Family, that
I may contribute the more plentifully to them.

_Ti._ If all Men were of your Mind, it would be better than it is with a
good many People who deserve better, that are now in extreme Want; and
on the other Hand, many of those pamper'd Carcases would be brought
down, who deserve to be taught Sobriety and Modesty by Penury.

_Eu._ It may be so: but shall I mend your mean Entertainment now, with
the best Bit at last?

_Ti._ We have had more than enough of Delicacies already.

_Eu._ That which I am now about to give you, let your Bellies be never
so full, won't over-charge your Stomachs.

_Ti._ What is it?

_Eu._ The Book of the four Evangelists, that I may treat you with the
best at last. Read, Boy, from the Place where you left off last.

_Boy. No Man can serve two Masters; for either he will hate the one and
love the other, or else he will hold to the one and despise the other:
You cannot serve God and Mammon. Therefore, I say unto you, take no
thought for your Life, what you shall eat, or what you shall drink: Nor
yet for your Body, what you shall put on. Is not the Life more than
Meat, and the Body than Raiment?_

_Eu._ Give me the Book. In this Place _Jesus Christ_ seems to me, to
have said the same Thing twice: For instead of what he had said in the
first Place, _i.e._ _he will hate_; he says immediately, _he will
despise_. And for what he had said before, _he will love_, he by and by
turns it, _he will hold to_. The Sense is the same, tho' the Persons are

_Ti._ I do not very well apprehend what you mean.

_Eu._ Let me, if you please, demonstrate it mathematically. In the first
Part, put _A_ for the one, and _B_ for the other. In the latter Part,
put _B_ for one, and _A_ for the other, inverting the Order; for either
_A_ will hate, and _B_ will love, or _B_ will hold to, and _A_ will
despise. Is it not plain now, that _A_ is twice hated, and _B_ twice

_Ti._ 'Tis very clear.

_Eu._ This Conjunction, _or_, especially repeated, has the Emphasis of a
contrary, or at least, a different Meaning. Would it not be otherwise
absurd to say, _Either_ Peter _shall overcome me, and I'll yield; or
I'll yield, and_ Peter _shall overcome me?_

_Ti._ A pretty Sophism, as I'm an honest Man.

_Eu._ I shall think it so when you have made it out, not before.

_The._ I have something runs in my Mind, and I'm with Child to have it
out: I can't tell what to make on't, but let it be what it will, you
shall have it if you please; if it be a Dream, you shall be the
Interpreters, or midwife it into the World.

_Eu._ Although it is looked upon to be unlucky to talk of Dreams at
Table, and it is immodest to bring forth before so many Men; but this
Dream, or this Conception of thy Mind, be it what it will, let us have

_The._ In my Judgment it is rather the Thing than the Person that is
chang'd in this Text. And the Words _one_ and _one_ do not refer to _A_
and _B_; but either Part of them, to which of the other you please; so
that chuse which you will, it must be opposed to that, which is
signified by the other; as if you should say, you _shall either exclude_
A _and admit_ B, _or you shall admit_ A _and exclude_ B. Here's the
Thing chang'd, and the Person the same: And it is so spoken of _A_, that
it is the same Case, if you should say the same Thing of _B_; as thus,
either you shall exclude _B_ or admit _A_, or admit _B_ or exclude _A_.

_Eu._ In Truth, you have very artificially solv'd this Problem: No
Mathematician could have demonstrated it better upon a Slate.

_Soph._ That which is the greatest Difficulty to me is this; that we are
forbidden to take Thought for to Morrow; when yet, _Paul_ himself
wrought with his own Hands for Bread, and sharply rebukes lazy People,
and those that live upon other Men's Labour, exhorting them to take
Pains, and get their Living by their Fingers Ends, that they may have
wherewith to relieve others in their Necessities. Are not they holy and
warrantable Labours, by which a poor Husband provides for his dear Wife
and Children?

_Ti._ This is a Question, which, in my Opinion, may be resolv'd several
Ways. First of all, This Text had a particular Respect to those Times.
The Apostles being dispers'd far and wide for the Preaching of the
Gospel, all sollicitous Care for a Maintenance was to be thrown aside,
it being to be supply'd otherwise, having not Leisure to get their
Living by their Labour; and especially, they having no Way of getting
it, but by Fishing. But now the World is come to another Pass, and we
all love to live at Ease, and shun Painstaking. Another Way of
expounding it may be this; Christ had not forbid Industry, but Anxiety
of Thought, and this Anxiety of Thought is to be understood according to
the Temper of Men in common, who are anxious for nothing more than
getting a Livelihood; that setting all other Things aside, this is the
only Thing they mind. And our Saviour does in a Manner intimate the same
himself, when he says, that one Man cannot serve two Masters. For he
that wholly gives himself up to any Thing, is a Servant to it. Now he
would have the Propagation of the Gospel be our chief, but yet, not our
only Care. For he says, _Seek ye first the Kingdom of Heaven, and these
Things shall be added unto you_. He does not say, seek only; but seek
first. And besides, I take the Word to Morrow, to be hyperbolical, and
in that, signifies a Time to come, a great While hence, it being the
Custom of the Misers of this World, to be anxiously scraping together,
and laying up for Posterity.

_Eu._ We allow of your Interpretation; but what does he mean, when he
says, _Be not sollicitous for your Life, what you shall eat_? The Body
is cloth'd, but the Soul does not eat.

_Ti._ By _Anima_, is meant Life, which can't subsist without Meat (or is
in Danger, if you take away its Food): But it is not so, if you take
away the Garment, which is more for Modesty than Necessity. If a Person
is forc'd to go naked, he does not die presently; but Want of Food is
certain Death.

_Eu._ I do not well understand how this Sentence agrees with that which
follows; _Is not the Life more than Meat, and the Body than Raiment_?
For if Life be so precious, we ought to take the more Care of it.

_Ti._ This Argument does rather increase our Sollicitousness than lessen

_Eu._ But this is none of our Saviour's Meaning; who, by this Argument,
creates in us a stronger Confidence in the Father: For if a bountiful
Father hath given us _gratis_ that which is the more valuable, he will
also bestow upon us what is less valuable: He that has given us Life,
will not deny us Food: And he that has given us Bodies, will by some
Means or other give us Cloaths too: Therefore, relying upon his Bounty,
we have no Reason to disquiet ourselves with Anxiety of Thought, for
Things of smaller Moment. What remains then, but using this World, as
though we used it not, we transfer our whole Study and Application to
the Love of heavenly Things, and rejecting the World and the Devil
universally, with all his crafty Delusions, we chearfully serve God
alone, who will never forsake his Children? But all this While, here's
no Body touches the Fruits. Certainly you may eat this with Joy, for
this is the Product of my own Farm, and did not cost much Care to
provide it.

_Ti._ We have very plentifully satisfied our Bodies.

_Eu._ I should be glad if you had satisfied your Minds too.

_Ti._ Our Minds have been satisfy'd more plentifully than our Bodies.

_Eu._ Boy, take away, and bring some Water; now, my Friends, let us
wash, that if we have in eating contracted any Guilt, being cleansed, we
may conclude with a Hymn: If you please, I'll conclude with what I begun
out of St. _Chrysostom_.

_Ti._ We entreat you that you would do it.

_Eu. Glory to thee, O Lord; Glory to thee, O holy One; Glory to thee, O
King; as thou hast given us Meat for our Bodies, so replenish our Souls
with Joy and Gladness in thy holy Spirit, that we may be found
acceptable in thy Sight, and may not be made asham'd, when thou shalt
render to every one according to his Works_.

Boy. _Amen_.

_Ti._ In Truth, it is a pious and elegant Hymn.

_Eu._ Of St. _Chrysostom_'s Translation too.

_Ti._ Where is it to be found?

_Eu._ In his 56th Homily on St. _Matthew_.

_Ti._ I'll be sure to read it to Day: But I have a Mind to be informed
of one Thing, why we thrice wish Glory to Christ under these three
Denominations, of _Lord, Holy, and King_.

_Eu._ Because all Honour is due to him, and especially in these three
Respects. We call him Lord, because he hath redeem'd us by his holy
Blood from the Tyranny of the Devil, and hath taken us to himself.
Secondly, We stile him Holy, because he being the Sanctifier of all Men,
not being content alone to have freely pardoned us all our Sins _gratis_
by his holy Spirit, hath bestow'd upon us his Righteousness, that we
might follow Holiness. Lastly, We call him King, because we hope for the
Reward of a heavenly Kingdom, from him who sits at the Right-Hand of God
the Father. And all this Felicity we owe to his gratuitous Bounty, that
we have _Jesus Christ_ for our Lord, rather than the Devil to be a
Tyrant over us; that we have Innocence and Sanctity, instead of the
Filth and Uncleanness of our Sins; and instead of the Torments of Hell,
the Joys of Life everlasting.

_Ti._ Indeed it is a very pious Sentence.

_Eu._ This is your first Visit, Gentlemen, and I must not dismiss you
without Presents; but plain ones, such as your Entertainment has been.
Boy, bring out the Presents: It is all one to me, whether you will draw
Lots, or every one chuse for himself, they are all of a Price; that is
to say, of no Value. You will not find _Heliogabatus_'s Lottery, a
hundred Horses for one, and as many Flies for another. Here are four
little Books, two Dials, a Lamp, and a Pen-Case: These I suppose will be
more agreeable to you than Balsams, Dentrifices, or Looking-Glasses.

_Ti._ They are all so good, that it is a hard Matter to chuse; but do
you distribute them according to your own Mind, and they'll come the
welcomer where they fall.

_Eu._ This little Book contains _Solomon_'s Proverbs in Parchment, it
teaches Wisdom, and it is gilded, because Gold is a Symbol of Wisdom.
This shall be given to our grey-headed _Timothy_; that according to the
Doctrine of the Gospel, to him that has Wisdom, Wisdom shall be given
and abound.

_Ti._ I will be sure to make it my Study, to stand in less Need of it.

_Eu. Sophronius_, this Dial will suit you very well, whom I know to be
so good a Husband of your Time, that you won't let a Moment of that
precious Thing be lost. It came out of the furthest Part of _Dalmatia_,
and that's all the Commendation I shall give it.

_Sophr._ You indeed admonish a Sluggard to be diligent.

_Eu._ You have in this little Book the Gospel written on Vellum; it
deserv'd to be set with Diamonds, except that the Heart of a Man were a
fitter Repository for it. Lay it up there, _Theophilus_, that you may be
more and more like to your Name.

_The._ I will do my Endeavour, that you may not think your Present ill

_Eu._ There are St. _Paul_'s Epistles; your constant Companions,
_Eulalius_, are in this Book; you use to have _Paul_ constantly in your
Mouth, and he would not be there, if he were not in your Heart too: And
now for the Time to come, you may more conveniently have him in your
Hand, and in your Eye. This is a Gift with good Counsel into the
Bargain. And there is no Present more precious than good Counsel.

_Eu._ This Lamp is very fit for _Chrysoglottus_, who is an insatiable
Reader; and as M. _Tully_ says, a Glutton of Books.

_Ch._ I give you double Thanks; first, for so choice a Present, and in
the next Place, for admonishing a drowsy Person of Vigilance.

_Eu. Theodidactus_ must have this Pen-Case, who writes much, and to
excellent Purposes; and I dare pronounce these Pens to be happy, by
which the Honour of our Lord _Jesus Christ_ shall be celebrated, and
that by such an Artist.

_The._ I would you could as well have supply'd me with Abilities, as you
have with Instruments.

_Eu._ This contains some of the choicest of _Plutarch's_ Books of
Morals, and very fairly written by one very well skill'd in the _Greek_;
I find in them so much Purity of Thought, that it is my Amazement, how
such evangelical Notions should come into the Heart of a Heathen. This I
will present to young _Uranius_, that is a Lover of the _Greek_
Language. Here is one Dial left, and that falls to our _Nephalius_, as a
thrifty Dispenser of his Time.

_Neph._ We give you Thanks, not only for your Presents, but your
Compliments too. For this is not so much a making of Presents, as

_Eu._ I give you double Thanks, Gentlemen: First for taking these small
Matters in so good Part; and secondly, for the Comfort I have receiv'd
by your learned and pious Discourses. What Effect my Entertainment may
have upon you I know not; but this I am sure of, you'll leave me wiser
and better for it. I know you take no Pleasure in Fiddles or Fools, and
much less in Dice: Wherefore, if you please, we will pass away an Hour
in seeing the rest of the Curiosities of my little Palace.

_Ti._ That's the very Thing we were about to desire of you.

_Eu._ There is no Need of entreating a Man of his Word. I believe you
have seen enough of this Summer Hall. It looks three Ways, you see; and
which Way soever you turn your Eye, you have a most delicate Green
before you. If we please, we can keep out the Air or Rain, by putting
down the Sashes, if either of them be troublesome; and if the Sun is
incommodious, we have thick folding Shutters on the out-Side, and thin
ones within, to prevent that. When I dine here, I seem to dine in my
Garden, not in my House, for the very Walls have their Greens and their
Flowers intermix'd; and 'tis no ill Painting neither. Here's our Saviour
celebrating his last Supper with his elect Disciples. Here's _Herod_ a
keeping his Birth-Day with a bloody Banquet. Here's _Dives_, mention'd
in the Gospel, in the Height of his Luxury, by and by sinking into Hell.
And here is _Lazarus_, driven away from his Doors, by and by to be
receiv'd into _Abraham's_ Bosom.

_Ti._ We don't very well know this Story.

_Eu._ It is _Cleopatra_ contending with _Anthony_, which should be most
luxurious; she has drunk down the first Pearl, and now reaches forth her
Hand for the other. Here is the Battel of the _Centaurs_; and here
_Alexander_ the Great thrusts his Launce through the Body of _Clytus_.
These Examples preach Sobriety to us at Table, and deter a Man from
Gluttony and Excess. Now let us go into my Library, it is not furnish'd
with very many Books, but those I have, are very good ones.

_Ti._ This Place carries a Sort of Divinity in it, every Thing is so

_Eu._ You have now before you my chiefest Treasure: You see nothing at
the Table but Glass and Tin, and I have in my whole House but one Piece
of Plate, and that is a gilt Cup, which I preserve very carefully for
the Sake of him that gave it me. This hanging Globe gives you a Prospect
of the whole World. And here upon the Wall, are the several Regions of
it describ'd more at large. Upon those other Walls, you have the
Pictures of the most eminent Authors: There would be no End of Painting
them all. In the first Place, here is _Christ_ sitting on the Mount, and
stretching forth his Hand over his Head; the Father sends a Voice,
saying, _Hear ye him_: the Holy Ghost, with outstretch'd Wings, and in a
Glory, embracing him.

_Ti._ As God shall bless me, a Piece of Work worthy of _Apelles_.

_Eu._ Adjoining to the Library, there is a little Study, but a very neat
one; and 'tis but removing a Picture, and there is a Chimney behind it,
if the Cold be troublesome. In Summer-Time it passes for solid Wall.

_Ti._ Every Thing here looks like Jewels; and here's a wonderful pretty

_Eu._ Above all Things, I love to have my House neat and sweet, and both
these may be with little Cost. My Library has a little Gallery that
looks into the Garden, and there is a Chapel adjoining to it.

_Ti._ The Place itself deserves a Deity.

_Eu._ Let us go now to those three Walks above the other that you have
seen, that look into the Kitchen Garden. These upper Walks have a
Prospect into both Gardens; but only by Windows with Shutters;
especially, in the Walls that have no Prospect into the inner Garden,
and that's for the Safety of the House. Here upon the Left-Hand, because
there is more Light, and fewer Windows, is painted the whole Life of
_Jesus_, out of the History of the four Evangelists, as far as to the
Mission of the Holy Ghost, and the first Preaching of the Apostles out
of the Acts; and there are Notes upon the Places, that the Spectator may
see near what Lake, or upon what Mountain such or such a Thing was done.
There are also Titles to every Story, with an Abstract of the Contents,
as that of our Saviour, _I will, Be thou clean_. Over against it you
have the Types and Prophecies of the Old Testament; especially, out of
the Prophets and Psalms, which are little else but the Life of Christ
and Apostles related another Way. Here I sometimes walk, discoursing
with myself, and meditating upon the unspeakable Counsel of God, in
giving his Son for the Redemption of Mankind. Sometimes my Wife bears me
Company, or sometimes a Friend that takes Delight in pious Things.

_Ti._ Who could be tired with this House?

_Eu._ No Body that has learn'd to live by himself. Upon the upper Border
(as though not fit to be among the rest) are all the Popes Heads with
their Titles, and over against them the Heads of the _Cæsars_, for the
better taking in the Order of History. At each Corner, there is a
Lodging Room, where I can repose myself, and have a Prospect of my
Orchard, and my little Birds. Here, in the farthest Nook of the Meadow,
is a little Banquetting House; there I sup sometimes in Summer, and I
make Use of it, as an Infirmary, if any of my Family be taken ill, with
any infectious Disease.

_Ti._ Some People are of Opinion, that those Diseases are not to be

_Eu._ Why then do Men shun a Pit or Poison? Or do they fear this the
less, because they don't see it? No more is the Poison seen, that a
Basilisk darts from his Eyes. When Necessity calls for it, I would not
stick to venture my Life: But to do it without any Necessity, is
Rashness. There are some other Things worth your seeing; but my Wife
shall shew you them: Stay here this three Days if you please, and make
my House your Home; entertain your Eyes and your Minds, I have a little
Business abroad: I must ride out to some of the Neighbouring Towns.

_Ti._ What, a Money Business?

_Eu._ I would not leave such Friends for the Sake of receiving a little

_Ti._ Perhaps you have appointed a hunting Match.

_Eu._ It is a Kind of Hunting indeed, but it is something else I hunt,
than either Boars or Stags.

_Ti._ What is it then?

_Eu._ I'll tell you: I have a Friend in one Town lies dangerously ill;
the Physician fears his Life, but I am afraid of his Soul: For I don't
think he's so well prepar'd for his End as a Christian should be: I'll
go and give him some pious Admonitions that he may be the better for,
whether he lives or dies. In another Town there are two Men bitterly at
odds, they are no ill Men neither, but Men of a very obstinate Temper.
If the Matter should rise to a greater Height, I am afraid it would be
of ill Consequence to more than themselves: I will do all I can in the
World, to reconcile them; they are both my Kinsmen. This is my hunting
Match, and if I shall have good Success in it, we'll drink their

_Ti._ A very pious Hunting, indeed; we pray heartily, that not _Delia_
but _Christ_ would give you good Success.

_Eu._ I had rather obtain this Prey, than have two thousand Ducats left
me for a Legacy.

_Ti._ Will you come back quickly?

_Eu._ Not till I have try'd every Thing; therefore, I can't set a Time.
In the mean Time, be as free with any Thing of mine, as though it were
your own, and enjoy yourselves.

_Ti._ God be with you, forward and backward.



     _Canonizing, or entring the incomparable Man_, John
     Reuclin, _into the Number of the Saints, teaches how much
     Honour is due to famous Men, who have by their Industry
     improv'd the liberal Sciences_.

None that has liv'd Well, dies Ill.


_Po._ Where have you been, with your Spatter-Lashes?

_Br._ At _Tubinga_.

_Po._ Is there no News there?

_Br._ I can't but admire, that the World should run so strangely a
gadding after News. I heard a _Camel_ preach at _Lovain_, that we should
have nothing to do with any Thing that is new.

_Po._ Indeed, it is a Conceit fit for a Camel. That Man, (if he be a
Man,) ought never to change his old Shoes, or his Shirt, and always to
feed upon stale Eggs, and drink nothing but sour Wine.

_Br._ But for all this, you must know, the good Man does not love old
Things so well, but that he had rather have his Porridge fresh than

_Po._ No more of the Camel; but prithee tell me, what News have you?

_Br._ Nay, I have News in my Budget too; but News which he says is

_Po._ But that which is new, will be old in Time. Now if all old Things
be good, and all new Things be bad, then it follows of Consequence,
that that which is good at present, has been bad heretofore, and that
which is now bad, will in Time come to be good.

_Br._ According to the Doctrine of the Camel, it must be so; and
therefore, hence it follows, that he that was a young wicked Fool in
Time past, because he was new, will come to be a good One, because he is
grown old.

Po. But prithee, let's have the News, be it what it will.

_Br._ The famous triple-tongu'd Phoenix of Learning, _John Reuclin_, is
departed this Life.

_Po._ For certain?

_Br._ Nay, it is too certain.

_Po._ Why, pray, what Harm is that, for a Man to leave an immortal
Memory of a good Name and Reputation behind him, and to pass out of this
miserable World, into the Society of the Blessed?

_Br._ How do you know that to be the Case?

_Po._ It is plain, for he can't die otherwise, who has liv'd as he did.

_Br._ You would say so, indeed, if you knew what I know.

_Po._ What's that, I pray?

_Br._ No, no, I must not tell you.

_Po._ Why so?

_Br._ Because he that entrusted me with the Secret, made me promise

_Po._ Do you entrust me with it upon the same Condition, and, upon my
honest Word, I'll keep Counsel.

_Br._ That honest Word has often deceived me; but however, I'll venture;
especially, it being a Matter of that Kind, that it is fit all honest
Men should know it. There is at _Tubinge_, a certain _Franciscan_, a Man
accounted of singular Holiness in every Bodies Opinion but his own.

_Po._ That you mention, is the greatest Argument in the World of true

_Br._ If I should tell you his Name, you'd say as much, for you know the

_Po._ What if I shall guess at him?

_Br._ Do, if you will.

_Po._ Hold your Ear then.

_Br._ What needs that, when here's no Body within Hearing?

_Po._ But however, for Fashion Sake.

_Br._ 'Tis the very same.

_Po._ He is a Man of undoubted Credit. If he says a Thing, it is to me,
as true as the Gospel.

_Br._ Mind me then, and I'll give you the naked Truth of the Story. My
Friend _Reuclin_ was sick, indeed very dangerously; but yet, there was
some Hopes of his Recovery; he was a Man worthy never to grow old, be
sick, or die. One Morning I went to visit my Franciscan, that he might
ease my Mind of my Trouble by his Discourse. For when my Friend was
sick, I was sick too, for I lov'd him as my own Father.

_Po._ Phoo! There's no Body but lov'd him, except he were a very bad Man

_Br._ My Franciscan says to me, _Brassicanus_, leave off grieving, our
_Reuclin_ is well. What, said I, Is he well all on a sudden then? For
but two Days ago, the Doctors gave but little Hopes of him. Then, says
he, he is so well recover'd, that he will never be sick again. Don't
weep, says he, (for he saw the Tears standing in my Eyes) before you
have heard the Matter out. I have not indeed seen the Man this six Days,
but I pray for him constantly every Day that goes over my Head. This
Morning after Mattins, I laid myself upon my Couch, and fell into a
gentle pleasant Slumber.

_Po._ My Mind presages some joyful Thing.

_Br._ You have no bad Guess with you. Methought, says he, I was standing
by a little Bridge, that leads into a wonderful pleasant Meadow; the
emerald Verdure of the Grass and Leaves affording such a charming
Prospect; the infinite Beauty, and Variety of the Flowers, like little
Stars, were so delightful, and every Thing so fragrant, that all the
Fields on this Side the River, by which that blessed Field was divided
from the rest, seem'd neither to grow, nor to be green; but look'd dead,
blasted, and withered. And in the Interim, while I was wholly taken up
with the Prospect, _Reuclin_, as good Luck would have it, came by; and
as he past by, gave me his Blessing in _Hebrew_. He was gotten half Way
over the Bridge before I perceived him, and as I was about to run to
him, he look'd back, and bid me keep off. You must not come yet, says
he, but five Years hence, you shall follow me. In the mean Time, do you
stand by a Spectator, and a Witness of what is done. Here I put in a
Word, says I, was _Reuclin_ naked, or had he Cloaths on; was he alone,
or had he Company? He had, says he, but one Garment, and that was a very
white one; you would have said, it had been a Damask, of a wonderful
shining White, and a very pretty Boy with Wings followed him, which I
took to be his good Genius.

_Po._ But had he no evil Genius with him?

_Br._ Yes, the Franciscan told me he thought he had. For there followed
him a great Way off, some Birds, that were all over Black, except, that
when they spread their Wings, they seem'd to have Feathers, of a Mixture
of White and Carnation. He said, that by their Colour and Cry, one might
have taken them for Magpies, but that they were sixteen Times as big;
about the size of Vultures, having Combs upon their Heads, with crooked
Beaks and Gorbellies. If there had been but three of them, one would
have taken them for Harpyes.

_Po._ And what did these Devils attempt to do?

_Br._ They kept at a Distance, chattering and squalling at the Hero
_Reuclin_, and were ready to set upon him, if they durst.

_Po._ What hindred them?

_Br._ Turning upon them, and making the Sign of the Cross with his Hand
at them, he said, _Be gone, ye cursed Fiends to a Place that's fitter
for you. You have Work enough to do among Mortals, your Madness has no
Power over me, that am now lifted in the Roll of Immortality._ The
Words were no sooner out of his Mouth, says the Franciscan, but these
filthy Birds took their Flight, but left such a Stink behind them, that
a House of Office would have seem'd Oyl of sweet Marjoram, or Ointment
of Spikenard to it. He swore, he had rather go to Hell, than snuff up
such a Perfume again.

_Po._ A Curse upon these Pests.

_Br._ But, hear what the Franciscan told me besides: While I was intent
upon these Things, says he, St. _Jerome_ was come close to the Bridge,
and saluted _Reuclin_ in these Words, _God save thee, my most holy
Companion, I am ordered to conduct thee to the Mansions of the blessed
Souls above, which the divine Bounty has appointed thee as a Reward for
thy most pious Labours._ With that he took out a Garment, and put it
upon _Reuclin_. Then, said I, tell me in what Habit or Form St. _Jerome_
appear'd, was he so old as they paint him? Did he wear a Cowl or a Hat,
or the Garb of a Cardinal? Or had he a Lion by his Side? Nothing of all
these, said he; but his Person was comely, which made his Age appear
such as carried in it much Comeliness, but no Deformity. What Need had
he to have a Lion by his Side, as he is commonly painted? His Gown came
down to his Heels, as transparent as Crystal, and of the same Fashion of
that he gave to _Reuclin_. It was all over painted with Tongues of three
several Colours; some imitated Rubies, some Emeralds, and others
Sapphires; and beside the Clearness of it, the Order set it off very

_Po._ An Intimation, I suppose, of the three Tongues that he profess'd.

_Br._ Without doubt: For he said, that upon the very Borders of the
Garments were the Characters of these three Languages inscrib'd in their
different Colours.

_Po._ Had _Jerome_ no Company with him?

_Br._ No Company, do you say? The whole Field swarm'd with Myriads of
Angels, that fill'd the Air as thick, as those little Corpuscles they
call Atoms, fly in the Sun Beams; pardon the Meanness of the Comparison.
If they had not been as transparent as Glass, there would have been no
Heaven nor Earth to have been seen.

_Po._ O brave, I am glad with all my Heart, for _Reuclin_'s, Sake; but
what follow'd?

_Br. Jerome_, (says he) for Honour's Sake, giving _Reuclin_ the
Right-Hand, and embracing him, conducts him into the Meadow, and up a
Hill that was in the middle of it, where they kiss'd and embrac'd one
another again: In the mean Time, the Heavens open'd over their Heads to
a prodigious Wideness, and there appear'd a Glory so unutterable, as
made every Thing else, that pass'd for wonderful before, to look mean
and sordid.

_Po._ Can't you give us some Representation of it?

Br. No, how should I, that did not see it? He who did see it, says, that
he was not able to express the very Dream of it. He said, he would die a
thousand Deaths to see it over again, if it were but for one Moment.

_Po._ How then?

_Br._ Out of this Overture of the Heavens, there was let down a great
Pillar of Fire that was transparent, and of a very pleasant Form: By
this the two holy Souls were carried into Heaven, in one anothers
Embraces; a Choir of Angels all the While accompanying them, with so
charming a Melody, that the Franciscan says, he is never able to think
of the Delight of it without weeping. And after this there follow'd a
wonderful fragrant Smell. When he waked out of his Dream, if you will
call it a Dream, he was just like a mad Man. He would not believe he was
in his Cell; he called for his Bridge and his Meadow; he could not speak
or think of any Thing else but them. The Seniors of the Convent, when
they found the Story to be no Fable, for it is certain that _Reuclin_
dy'd at the very Instant that the holy Man had this Vision, they
unanimously gave Thanks to God, that abundantly rewards good Men for
their good Deeds.

_Po._ What have we to do, but to set down this holy Man's Name in the
Calendar of Saints?

_Br._ I should have done that if the Franciscan had seen nothing at all
of this, and in Gold Letters too, I'll assure you, next to St. _Jerome_

_Po._ And let me die if I don't put him down in my Book so too.

_Br._ And besides that, I'll set him in Gold in my little Chapel, among
the choicest of my Saints.

_Po._ And if I had a Fortune to my Mind, I'd have him in Diamonds.

_Br._ He shall stand in my Library, the very next to St. _Jerome_.

_Po._ And I'll have him in mine too.

_Br._ If they were grateful, every one who loves Learning and Languages,
especially, the holy Tongues, would do so too.

_Po._ Truly it is no more than he deserves. But han't you some Scruple
upon your Mind, in as much as he is not yet canoniz'd by the Authority
of the Bishop of _Rome_?

_Br._ Why, pray, who canoniz'd (for that's the Word) St. _Jerome_? Who
canoniz'd St. _Paul_, or the Virgin _Mary_? Pray tell me whose Memory is
most sacred among all good Men? Those that by their eminent Piety, and
the Monuments of their Learning and good Life, have entitled themselves
to the Veneration of all Men; or _Catherine_ of _Sien_, that was sainted
by _Pius_ the Second, in favour of the Order and the City?

_Po._ You say true: That's the right Worship, that by the Will of
Heaven, is paid to the Merits of the Dead, whose Benefits are always
sensibly felt.

_Br._ And can you then deplore the Death of this Man? If long Life be a
Blessing, he enjoyed it. He has left behind him immortal Monuments of
his Vertue, and by his good Works, consecrated his Name to Immortality.
He is now in Heaven, out of the Reach of Misfortunes, conversing with
St. _Jerome_ himself.

_Po._ But he suffer'd a great Deal tho' in his Life.

_Br._ But yet St. _Jerome_ suffered more. It is a Blessing to be
persecuted by wicked Men for being good.

_Po._ I confess so, and St. _Jerome_ suffer'd many unworthy Things from
the worst of Men, for the best of Deeds.

_Br._ That which Satan did formerly by the Scribes and Pharisees against
the Lord Jesus, he continues still to do by Pharisaical Men, against
good Men, who have deserved well from the World by their Studies. He now
reaps the blessed Harvest of the Seed he has been sowing. In the mean
Time, it will be our Duty, to preserve his Memory sacred; to honour his
Name, and to address him often in some such Manner as follows. _O holy
Soul, be thou propitious to Languages, and to those that cultivate them:
Favour the holy Tongues, and destroy evil Tongues that are infected with
the Poison of Hell._

_Po._ I'll do't myself, and earnestly persuade all my Friends to do it.
I make no Question but there will be those that will desire to have some
little Form of Prayer, according to Custom, to celebrate the Memory of
this most holy Hero.

_Br._ Do you mean that which they call a Collect?

_Po._ Yes.

_Br._ I have one ready, that I provided before his Death.

_Po._ I pray let's hear it.

_Br. O God, that art the Lover of Mankind, that hast by thy chosen
Servant_ John Reuclin, _renew'd to Mankind the Gift of Tongues, by which
thy holy Spirit from above, did formerly furnish thy Apostles for their
Preaching the Gospel; grant that all thy People may every where, in all
Languages, preach the Glory of thy Son Jesus Christ, to the confounding
of the Tongues of false Apostles; who being in a Confederacy to uphold
the impious Tower of_ Babel, _endeavour to obscure thy Glory, and to
advance their own, when to thee alone, together with thy only Son Jesus
Christ our Lord, and the holy Spirit, is due all Glory to eternal Ages._

_Po._ A most elegant and holy Prayer. As I live, it shall be mine daily.
And I account this a happy Opportunity, that has brought me to the
Knowledge of so joyful a Story.

_Br._ Mayst thou long enjoy that Comfort, and so farewell.

_Po._ Fare you well too.

_Br._ I will fare well, but not be a Cook.



     _This Colloquy presents you with a very chaste Wooing,
     mingling many philosophical Notions with pleasant Jokes.
     Of not being hasty in marrying; of chusing, not only for
     the Sake of the outward Person, but the inward Endowments
     of the Mind; of the Firmness of Wedlock; of not
     contracting Matrimony without the Consent of Parents; of
     living chastly in Matrimony; of bringing up Children
     piously; that the Soul is not where it animates, but
     where it loves. The Description of a deformed Man. That
     Wedlock is to be preferr'd before a single Life, and is
     not, as it is vulgarly called, a Halter. That we must not
     consult our Affections so much as Reason._


_PA._ Good Morrow, Madam, cruel, hard Heart, inflexible.

_Ma._ Good Morrow to you too, Mr. _Pamphilus_, as often, and as much,
and by what Names you please: But you seem to have forgotten my Name,
'tis _Mary_.

_Pa._ It should rather have been _Martia_.

_Ma._ Why so, pray, what is _Mars_ to me?

_Pa._ Because just as _Mars_ makes a Sport of killing Men, so do you;
saving that you do it the more cruelly of the two, because you kill one
that loves you.

_Ma._ Say you so! pray where's the great Slaughter of Men that I have
made? Where's the Blood of the Slain?

_Pa._ You may see one dead Corpse before your Face, if you look upon

_Ma._ What strange Story is this? Does a dead Man talk and walk? I wish
I may never meet with more frightful Ghosts than you are.

_Pa._ Ay, indeed, you make a Jest of it; but for all that, you kill poor
me, and more cruelly too, than if you stuck a Dagger in my Breast. For
now I, poor Wretch as I am, die a lingering Death.

_Ma._ Prithee tell me, how many Women with Child have miscarried at the
Sight of thee?

_Pa._ My Paleness shews I have no more Blood in my Body than a Ghost.

_Ma._ Indeed you are as pale as a Violet; You are as pale as a ripe
Cherry, or purple Grape.

_Pa._ You coquet it with my Misery.

_Ma._ If you can't believe me, look in the Glass.

_Pa._ I would never desire a better Glass, nor do I believe there is a
better in the World than I am a looking in already.

_Ma._ What Looking-Glass do you mean?

_Pa._ Your Eyes.

_Ma._ You Banterer! that's like you. But how do you prove yourself to be
dead? Do dead Folks eat?

_Pa._ Yes, they do; but Things that have no Relish, as I do.

_Ma._ What do they feed upon?

_Pa._ Mallows, Leeks, and Lupines.

_Ma._ But you feed upon Capons and Partridges.

_Pa._ If I do, I relish them no more than Beets without Pepper or

_Ma._ Poor Creature! but yet you're in pretty good Case, for all that.
And do dead Folks talk too?

_Pa._ Just as I do, with a weak Voice.

_Ma._ But when I heard you rallying your Rival a little While ago, your
Voice was not very low then. But, prithee, do Ghosts walk, wear Cloaths,
and sleep?

_Pa._ Yes, and enjoy one another too, after their Manner.

_Ma._ Thou art a merry Fellow.

_Pa._ But what will you say, if I prove it by undeniable Arguments, that
I am dead, and that you have kill'd me too.

_Ma._ God forbid, _Pamphilus_; but let's hear your Arguments, however.

_Pa._ In the first Place, I think you will grant me this, that Death is
only a Separation of Soul and Body.

_Ma._ I grant it.

_Pa._ But you must grant it so as not to eat your Words.

_Ma._ No, I will not.

_Pa._ You will not deny, I suppose, that the Person that takes away
another's Life, is a Murtherer.

_Ma._ I grant that too.

_Pa._ I suppose you will grant that which has been allow'd by the
greatest Men of many Ages, that the Soul of a Man is not really where it
animates, but where it loves.

_Ma._ Make that a little plainer, I can't well understand it then.

_Pa._ You might as well bid me make an Adamant sensible of it.

_Ma._ I am a Maid, not a Stone.

_Pa._ Tis true, but harder than an Adamant Stone.

_Ma._ Go on with your Inferences.

_Pa._ Those that are in a Trance, do neither hear, nor see, nor smell,
nor feel, if you kill them outright.

_Ma._ Indeed I have heard so.

_Pa._ What do you think is the Reason?

_Ma._ Do you, Philosopher, tell that.

_Pa._ Because their Mind is in Heaven, where it enjoys what it dearly
loves; and therefore is absent from the Body.

_Ma._ Well, what then?

_Pa._ What then, hard-hearted Creature? Then it follows, that I am dead,
and you have killed me.

_Ma._ Where is your Soul then?

_Pa._ Where it loves.

_Ma._ Who took this Soul of yours away? What do you Sigh for? Tell me
freely: There's no Hurt in it.

_Pa._ A cruel Maid, that I could not be angry with if she kill'd me

_Ma._ You're very good-humour'd; but why don't you take her Soul from
her too, and pay her in her own Coin, according to the old Proverb.

_Pa._ I should be the happiest Man in the World, if I could make that
Exchange, that her Heart would pass as wholly into my Breast, as mine
has into hers.

_Ma._ But may I play the Sophister with you now?

_Pa._ The Sophistress.

_Ma._ Can one and the same Body be both alive and dead?

_Pa._ Not at the same Time.

_Ma._ Is the Body dead, when the Soul is out of it?

_Pa._ Yes.

_Ma._ Nor does it animate it, but when it is in it?

_Pa._ No, it does not.

_Ma._ How comes it to pass then, that when it is there where it loves,
it yet animates the Body it is gone out of? And if it animates when it
loves any where, how is that called a dead Body which it animates?

_Pa._ Indeed, you argue very cunningly, but you shan't catch me there.
That Soul, which after some Sort governs the Body of the Lover, is but
improperly call'd a Soul, when it is but some small Remains of the Soul;
just as the Smell of a Rose remains in the Hand, when the Rose is gone.

_Ma._ I see it is a hard Matter to catch a Fox in a Trap. But answer me
this Question, does not the Person that kills, act?

_Pa._ Yes.

_Ma._ And does not he suffer who is kill'd?

_Pa._ Yes.

_Ma._ And how comes it about then, that when he that loves, acts, and
she that is lov'd, suffers, she that is lov'd should be said to kill,
when he that loves, rather kills himself?

_Pa._ Nay, on the Contrary, 'tis he that loves that suffers, and she is
lov'd, that acts.

_Ma._ You will never prove that by all your Grammar.

_Pa._ Well, I'll prove it by Logic then.

_Ma._ But do so much as answer me this one Question, do you love
voluntarily, or against your Will?

_Pa._ Voluntarily.

_Ma._ Then since a Person is at Liberty, whether he will love or no; he
that does love, is guilty of _Felo de se_, and accuses a Maid

_Pa._ A Maid does not kill in being lov'd, but in not loving again. He
is guilty of killing, that can save and don't save.

_Ma._ What if a young Man should fall into an unlawful Love, as suppose
with another Man's Wife, or a Vestal Virgin? Must she love him again, to
save the Lover?

_Pa._ But the young Man, meaning myself, loves one whom he ought to
love, and by Right and good Reason, and yet am murthered. If Murther be
a light Matter, I could indict you for Witchcraft too.

_Ma._ God forbid, do you make a _Circe_ of me?

_Pa._ You are more barbarous than _Circe_ herself, I had rather be a Hog
or a Bear, than as I now am, half dead.

_Ma._ By what Sort of Enchantments do I kill Men?

_Pa._ By the Witchcraft of your Eyes.

_Ma._ Would you have me take my noxious Eyes off of you then.

_Pa._ No, by no Means, rather look more upon me.

_Ma._ If my Eyes are so infectious, how comes it about they don't throw
others I look upon into a Consumption too? I therefore rather believe
the Infection is in your own Eyes than mine.

_Pa._ Is it not enough for you to kill poor _Pamphilus_, but you must
insult him too.

_Ma._ O pretty dead Creature! but when must I come to your Funeral?

_Pa._ Sooner than you think for, if you don't relieve me.

_Ma._ Can I perform such a wonderful Cure?

_Pa._ You can raise a dead Man to Life again with the greatest Ease

_Ma._ Ay, if I had the Grand-Elixir.

_Pa._ You have no Need of any Medicine, do but love me again. And what's
easier than that? Nay, what's more just? You can no other Way in the
World get clear of the Crime of Murther.

_Ma._ In what Court must I be try'd? In the Court of Chancery?

_Pa._ No, in the Court of _Venus_.

_Ma._ They say, she is a very merciful Goddess.

_Pa._ Nay, the most severe in the World.

_Ma._ Has she any Thunderbolts?

_Pa._ No.

_Ma._ Has she got a Trident?

_Pa._ No.

_Ma._ Has she got a Spear?

_Pa._ No; but she is the Goddess of the Sea.

_Ma._ But I don't go to Sea.

_Pa._ But she has a Son.

_Ma._ Youth is not very formidable.

_Pa._ But he is very revengeful and resolute.

_Ma._ What will he do to me?

_Pa._ What will he do? That which I can't wish to be done to one I wish
so well to. God forbid I should.

_Ma._ Tell me what it is, for I an't afraid to hear it.

_Pa._ Well, I'll tell you then; if you slight me that love you, and am
no Way unworthy of your Love; I shall be much mistaken if he don't by
his Mother's Order shoot you with a venomous Dart, and make you fall
deeply in Love with some sorry Fellow or other, that would not love you

_Ma._ That's a most horrid Punishment indeed. I had rather die a
thousand Deaths than to be so bitterly in Love with an ugly Man, and one
that won't love me neither.

_Pa._ But we had a notable Example of this not long since upon a certain

_Ma._ Where did she live?

_Pa._ At _Orleans_.

_Ma._ How many Years ago was it?

_Pa._ How many Years! not ten Months.

_Ma._ What was her Name? What do you stick at?

_Pa._ Nothing at all. I know her as well as I know you.

_Ma._ Why don't you tell me her Name then?

_Pa._ Because I am afraid it is ominous. I wish she had been of some
other Name. She was your own Namesake.

_Ma._ Who was her Father?

_Pa._ Her Father is alive at this Time, and is a topping Lawyer, and a
rich Man.

_Ma._ Tell me his Name.

_Pa. Mauritius._

_Ma._ His Sirname.

_Pa. Aglaius._

_Ma._ Is her Mother alive?

_Pa._ No, she died lately.

_Ma._ What did she die of, say you?

_Pa._ Why of Grief, and it had like to have cost her Father his Life
too, for all he was a Man of a strong Constitution.

_Ma._ Mayn't a Body know her Mother's Name.

_Pa._ Yes, _Sophrona_, every Body knows her Name. What do you mean by
that Question? Do you think I invent a Lye?

_Ma._ Why should I think so of you? Our Sex is most to be suspected for
that. But tell me what became of the Maid?

_Pa._ The Maid, as I told you before, came of very honest Parents, had a
good Fortune, was very handsome, and in few Words, was a Match for a
Prince; a certain Gentleman of an equal Fortune courted her.

_Ma._ What was his Name?

_Pa._ Ah me, I can't bear the Thoughts of it, his Name was _Pamphilus_
as well as mine. He try'd all the Ways in the World to gain her good
Will; but she slighted all his Offers. The young Man pines away with
Grief. Presently after she fell deep in Love with one more like an Ape
than a Man.

_Ma._ How!

_Pa._ Ay, so wretchedly in Love, that 'tis impossible to relate it.

_Ma._ Such a pretty Maid to fall in Love with such an ugly Fellow?

_Pa._ Ay, with a long-visag'd, scald-headed, bald-pated, hollow-ey'd,
snub-nos'd, wide-mouth'd, rotton-tooth'd, stuttering, scabby-bearded,
hump-back'd, gor-belly'd, bandy-legg'd Fellow.

_Ma._ You tell me of a mere _Thersites_.

_Pa._ Nay, they said he had but one Ear, neither.

_Ma._ It may be he had lost the other in the War.

_Pa._ No, he lost it in Peace.

_Ma._ Who dar'd to cut it off?

_Pa. Jack Ketch._

_Ma._ It may be his Riches made Amends.

_Pa._ Over Head and Ears in Debt. And with this Husband this charming
Girl now spends her Days, and is now and then drubb'd into the Bargain.

_Ma._ That is a miserable Story indeed.

_Pa._ But it is a true one. It is a just Retaliation upon her, for
slighting the young Gentleman.

_Ma._ I should rather chuse to be thunder-struck than ty'd to endure
such a Husband.

_Pa._ Then don't provoke Justice, but love him that loves you.

_Ma._ Well, if that will do, I do love you again.

_Pa._ Ay, But I would have that Love constant as mine own. I court a
Wife, not a Mistress.

_Ma._ I suppose so, but yet we ought to be very deliberate in that which
being once done, can never be undone again.

_Pa._ I have been deliberating too long already.

_Ma._ Love is none of the best Advisers; see that he han't impos'd upon
you, for they say he is blind.

_Pa._ But that Love has Eyes in his Head, that proceeds from Judgment;
you don't appear so amiable, only because I love you, but you are really
so, and therefore I love you.

_Ma._ But perhaps you don't know me thoroughly. When once a Shoe is on,
then you'll know where it pinches.

_Pa._ I'll venture it, but I gather from many Conjectures, that it will
be happy for me.

_Ma._ What, are you an Augur then?

_Pa._ Yes, I am.

_Ma._ Pray by what Auguries do you prognosticate all this? What, hath
the Night Owl appear'd luckily?

_Pa._ She flies for Fools.

_Ma._ Did you see a pair of Pigeons on your right Hand?

_Pa._ Nothing of all this. But have for some Years been satisfy'd of the
Honesty of your Father and Mother; and in the first Place, that's no bad
Sign. Nor am I ignorant how modestly and religiously you have been
brought up by them, and it is a greater Advantage to be honestly
educated, than honourably born. And then there's another good
Circumstance besides, that as my Parents are none of the worst, so yours
and mine have been very intimate for many Years, and you and I have
known one another from our very Childhood, as they use to say; and
besides all this, our Humours agree very well together. Our Age,
Fortunes, Quality, and Parentage are pretty equal. And last of all, that
which is the chief Thing in Friendship, your Temper seems to agree very
well with mine. There are some Things that may be very good in
themselves that may not agree with others. How acceptable my Temper may
be to yours, I don't know. These are the Auguries, my Dear, that make me
prognosticate that a Marriage between you and me would be happy,
lasting, comfortable and pleasant, unless you shall prevent it by a

_Ma._ What would you have me say?

_Pa._ I will sing _I am thine_ first, and you shall sing _I am thine_
after me.

_Ma._ That indeed is but a short Song, but it has a long Chorus.

_Pa._ What signifies it how long it is, so it be a merry one.

_Ma._ I have that Respect for you, I would not have you do what you
should repent of when done.

_Pa._ Leave off teasing me.

_Ma._ Perhaps I shall not appear so amiable in your Eye, when Age or
Sickness have spoil'd my Beauty.

_Pa._ No more, my Dear, shall I myself be always so young and lusty. I
don't only look at that blooming, lovely Body of yours, but it is your
Guest within it I am most in Love with.

_Ma._ What Guest do you mean?

_Pa._ This Soul of yours, whose Beauty will grow as Years increase.

_Ma._ In Truth you have a very penetrating Sight, if you can see that
through so many Coverings.

_Pa._ It is with the Eyes of my Mind that I see your Mind, and then
besides we shall be ever and anon renewing our Age by our Children.

_Ma._ But then I shall lose my Maidenhead.

_Pa._ Right enough; but prithee tell me, if you had a fine Orchard,
would you rather chuse never to have nothing but Blossoms on the Trees;
or would you rather, that the Blossoms should fall off, and see the
Boughs laden with ripe Apples?

_Ma._ Oh, how cunningly you can argue!

_Pa._ Answer me but this one Question, which is the finest Sight, a Vine
lying along upon the Ground and rotting, or twining round a Stake or an
Elm-Tree, loaden with ripe Grapes of a curious purple Colour?

_Ma._ And pray do you answer me this Question; which is the most
pleasant Sight, a Rose fresh and fair upon the Tree, or one gathered and
withering in the Hand?

_Pa._ I look upon that the happier Rose that dies in a Man's Hand; there
delighting the Sight and Smell, than that which withers away upon the
Bush, for it would die there, if it were let alone. As that Wine has the
most Honour done it; that is drank before it grows dead: Though this is
to be said, that the Flower of a Maid does not presently fade, as soon
as she is married: Nay, I have seen a great many, that before Marriage
look'd pale and languid, and just as if they were dropping into the
Ground: but having been in the Embraces of a Husband, they have
brightened up, just as if they just then began to bloom.

_Ma._ But for all that, a Maidenhead is accounted a fine Thing.

_Pa._ A young Virgin is indeed a pretty Thing: But what's more monstrous
than an old Maid? If your Mother had not shed that Blossom, we should
never have had this fine Flower, yourself. And if we don't make a barren
Match, as I hope we shan't, there will be never a Maid the less for us.

_Ma._ But they say Chastity is very well pleasing to God.

_Pa._ And for that Reason I would marry a chaste Maid, that I may live
chastly with her. The Union of Minds will be more than that of Bodies.
We'll get Subjects for the King, and Servants for Christ, and where will
the Unchastity of this Matrimony be? And who can tell but we may live
together like _Joseph_ and _Mary_? And in the mean Time, we'll learn to
be Virgins, we don't arrive at Perfection all at once.

_Ma._ What do you talk of? Is Virginity to be violated, that it may be

_Pa._ Why not? As by little and little drinking Wine sparingly, we learn
to be abstemious. Which do you think is the most temperate Person, he
that is sitting at a Table full of Delicacies, and abstains from them,
or he who is out of the Reach of those Things that incite Intemperance?

_Ma._ I think he is the most temperate Person, that the greatest Plenty
can't debauch.

_Pa._ Which is the most laudable for Chastity, he that castrates
himself, or he that having his Members entire, forbears Venery?

_Ma._ The latter, in my Opinion: I should call the former a Madman.

_Pa._ Don't they in a Manner castrate themselves, that abjure

_Ma._ I think they do.

_Pa._ Then it is no Virtue to forbear Coition.

_Ma._ Is it not?

_Pa._ I prove it thus; if it were of itself a Virtue not to copulate, it
were a Sin to do it: so that it follows of Consequence, it is a Fault
not to copulate, and a Virtue to do it.

_Ma._ When does this Case happen?

_Pa._ As often as the Husband requires his due of his Wife; especially
if he would embrace her for the Sake of Procreation.

_Ma._ But if it be out of Wantonness? Is it not lawful to deny him?

_Pa._ He may be admonish'd or dissuaded by soft Language to forbear; but
if he insists upon it, he ought not to be refus'd. But I hear very few
Husbands complain of their Wives upon this Account.

_Ma._ But Liberty is a very sweet Thing.

_Pa._ Virginity is rather a greater Burthen. I will be your King, and
you shall be my Queen, and we'll govern the Family according to our
Pleasure: And do you think that a Bondage?

_Ma._ Marriage is called a Halter.

_Pa._ They deserve a Halter that call it so. Pray tell me, is not your
Soul and Body bound together?

_Ma._ Yes, I think they are.

_Pa._ Just like a Bird in a Cage; and yet, ask it if it would be freed
from it, I believe it will say, no: And what's the Reason of that?
Because it is bound by its own Consent.

_Ma._ But we have neither of us got much of Portion.

_Pa._ We are the safer for that, you shall add to it at Home by good
Housewifery, and that is not without good Reason said to be a great
Revenue, and I'll increase it abroad by my Industry.

_Ma._ But Children bring a great many Cares along with them.

_Pa._ Have done with Scruples.

_Ma._ Would you have me marry a dead Man?

_Pa._ No, but I shall come to Life again then.

_Ma._ Well, you have removed my Objection. My _Pamphilus_, farewell.

_Pa._ Do you take Care of that.

_Ma._ I wish you a good Night. Why do you sigh?

_Pa._ A good Night, say you, I wish you would give me what you wish me.

_Ma._ Soft and fair, you are a little too hasty.

_Pa._ Must I not carry nothing of you along with me?

_Ma._ This sweet Ball; it will cheer your Heart.

_Pa._ But give me a Kiss too.

_Ma._ No, I have a Mind to keep my Maidenhead for you entire and

_Pa._ Will a Kiss take any Thing from your Virginity?

_Ma._ Will you give me leave to kiss other Folks?

_Pa._ No, by no Means, I'd have my Kisses kept for myself.

_Ma._ Well, I'll keep 'em for you: But there is another Reason why I
dare not give you a Kiss, as Things are at present.

_Pa._ What is that?

_Ma._ You say your Soul is gone out of your Body into mine, so that
there is but very little left. I am afraid that in Kissing, the little
that is left in you, should jump out of you into me, and so you should
be quite dead. Shake Hands as a Pledge of my Love, and so farewell. Do
you see that you manage the Matter vigorously, and I'll pray to God in
the mean Time, that whatsoever be done, may be for both our good.



     _A Virgin averse to Matrimony, will needs be a Nun. She
     is dissuaded from it, and persuaded to moderate her
     Inclination in that Matter, and to do nothing against her
     Parents Consent, but rather to marry. That Virginity may
     be maintain'd in a conjugal Life. The Monks Way of living
     in Celibacy is rally'd. Children, why so call'd. He
     abhors those Plagiaries who entice young Men and Maids
     into Monasteries, as though Salvation was to be had no
     other Way; whence it comes to pass, that many great Wits
     are as it were buried alive._


_Eub._ I am glad with all my Heart, that Supper is over at last, that we
may have an Opportunity to take a Walk, which is the greatest Diversion
in the World.

_Ca._ And I was quite tir'd of sitting so long at Table.

_Eu._ How green and charming does every Thing in the World look! surely
this is its Youth.

_Ca._ Ay, so it is.

_Eu._ But why is it not Spring with you too?

_Ca._ What do you mean?

_Eu._ Because you look a little dull.

_Ca._ Why, don't I look as I use to do?

_Eu._ Shall I show you how you look?

_Ca._ With all my Heart.

_Eu._ Do you see this Rose, how it contracts itself, now towards Night?

_Ca._ Yes, I do see it: And what then?

_Eu._ Why, just so you look.

_Ca._ A very fine Comparison.

_Eu._ If you won't believe me, see your own Face in this Fountain here.
What was the Meaning you sat sighing at Supper so?

_Ca._ Pray don't ask Questions about that which don't concern you.

_Eu._ But it does very much concern me, since I can't be chearful
myself, without you be so too. See now, there's another Sigh, and a deep
one too!

_Ca._ There is indeed something that troubles my Mind. But I must not
tell it.

_Eu._ What, won't you tell it me, that love you more dearly than I do my
own Sister: My _Katy_, don't be afraid to speak; be it what it will you
are safe.

_Ca._ If I should be safe enough, yet I'm afraid I shall be never the
better in telling my Tale to one that can do me no good.

_Eu._ How do you know that? If I can't serve you in the Thing itself,
perhaps I may in Counsel or Consolation.

_Ca._ I can't speak it out.

_Eu._ What is the Matter? Do you hate me?

_Ca._ I love you more dearly than my own Brother, and yet for all that
my Heart won't let me divulge it.

_Eu._ Will you tell me, if I guess it? Why do you quibble now? Give me
your Word, or I'll never let you alone till I have it out.

_Ca._ Well then, I do give you my Word.

_Eu._ Upon the whole of the Matter, I can't imagine what you should want
of being compleatly happy.

_Ca._ I would I were so.

_Eu._ You are in the very Flower of your Age: If I'm not mistaken, you
are now in your seventeenth Year.

_Ca._ That's true.

_Eu._ So that in my Opinion the Fear of old Age can't yet be any Part of
your Trouble.

_Ca._ Nothing less, I assure you.

_Eu._ And you are every Way lovely, and that is the singular Gift of

_Ca._ Of my Person, such as it is, I neither glory nor complain.

_Eu._ And besides the Habit of your Body and your Complexion bespeak you
to be in perfect Health, unless you have some hidden Distemper.

_Ca._ Nothing of that, I thank God.

_Eu._ And besides, your Credit is fair.

_Ca._ I trust it is.

_Eu._ And you are endow'd with a good Understanding suitable to the
Perfections of your Body, and such a one as I could wish to myself, in
order to my Attainment of the liberal Sciences.

_Ca._ If I have, I thank God for it.

_Eu._ And again, you are of a good agreeable Humour, which is rarely met
with in great Beauties, they are not wanting neither.

_Ca._ I wish they were such as they should be.

_Eu._ Some People are uneasy at the Meanness of their Extraction, but
your Parents are both of them well descended, and virtuous, of plentiful
Fortunes, and very kind to you.

_Ca._ I have nothing to complain of upon that Account.

_Eu._ What Need of many Words? Of all the young Women in the Country you
are the Person I would chuse for a Wife, if I were in Condition to
pretend to't.

_Ca._ And I would chuse none but you for a Husband, if I were dispos'd
to marry.

_Eu._ It must needs be some extraordinary Matter that troubles your Mind

_Ca._ It is no light Matter, you may depend upon it.

_Eu._ You won't take it ill I hope if I guess at it.

_Ca._ I have promis'd you I won't.

_Eu._ I know by Experience what a Torment Love is. Come, confess now, is
that it? You promis'd to tell me.

_Ca._ There's Love in the Case, but not that Sort of Love that you

_Eu._ What Sort of Love is it that you mean?

_Ca._ Guess.

_Eu._ I have guess'd all the Guesses I can guess; but I'm resolv'd I'll
never let go this Hand till I have gotten it out of you.

_Ca._ How violent you are.

_Eu._ Whatever your Care is, repose it in my Breast.

_Ca._ Since you are so urgent, I will tell you. From my very Infancy I
have had a very strong Inclination.

_Eu._ To what, I beseech you?

_Ca._ To put myself into a Cloyster.

_Eu._ What, to be a Nun?

_Ca._ Yes.

_Eu._ Ho! I find I was out in my Notion; to leave a Shoulder of Mutton
for a Sheep's Head.

_Ca._ What's that you say, _Eubulus_?

_Eu._ Nothing, my Dear, I did but cough. But, go on, tell me it out.

_Ca._ This was my Inclination; but my Parents were violently set against

_Eu._ I hear ye.

_Ca._ On the other Hand, I strove by Intreaties, fair Words, and Tears,
to overcome that pious Aversion of my Parents.

_Eu._ O strange!

_Ca._ At Length when they saw I persisted in Intreaties, Prayers, and
Tears, they promis'd me that if I continu'd in the same Mind till I was
seventeen Years of Age, they would leave me to my own Liberty: The Time
is now come, I continue still in the same Mind, and they go from their
Words. This is that which troubles my Mind. I have told you my
Distemper, do you be my Physician, and cure me, if you can.

_Eu._ In the first Place, my sweet Creature, I would advise you to
moderate your Affections; and if you can't do all you would, do all that
you can.

_Ca._ It will certainly be the Death of me, if I han't my Desire.

_Eu._ What was it that gave the first Rise to this fatal Resolution?

_Ca._ Formerly, when I was a little Girl, they carried me into one of
those Cloysters of Virgins, carry'd me all about it, and shew'd me the
whole College. I was mightily taken with the Virgins, they look'd so
charming pretty, just like Angels; the Chapels were so neat, and smelt
so sweet, the Gardens look'd so delicately well order'd, that in short
which Way soever I turn'd my Eye every Thing seem'd delightful. And then
I had the prettiest Discourse with the Nuns. And I found two or three
that had been my Play-Fellows when I was a Child, and I have had a
strange Passion for that Sort of Life ever since.

_Eu._ I have no Dislike to the Nunneries themselves, though the same
Thing can never agree with all Persons: But considering your Genius, as
far as I can gather from your Complexion and Manners, I should rather
advise you to an agreeable Husband, and set up a College in your own
House, of which he should be the Abbot and you the Abbess.

_Ca._ I will rather die than quit my Resolution of Virginity.

_Eu._ Nay, it is indeed an admirable Thing to be a pure Virgin, but you
may keep yourself so without running yourself into a Cloyster, from
which you never can come out. You may keep your Maidenhead at Home with
your Parents.

_Ca._ Yes, I may, but it is not so safe there.

_Eu._ Much safer truly in my Judgment there, than with those brawny,
swill-belly'd Monks. They are no Capons, I'll assure you, whatever you
may think of them. They are call'd Fathers, and they commonly make good
their Calling to the very Letter. Time was when Maids liv'd no where
honester than at home with their Parents, when the only spiritual Father
they had was the Bishop. But, prithee, tell me, what Cloyster hast thou
made Choice of among 'em all, to be a Slave in?

_Ca._ The _Chrysertian_.

_Eu._ Oh! I know it, it is a little Way from your Father's House.

_Ca._ You're right.

_Eu._ I am very well acquainted with the whole Gang. A sweet Fellowship
to renounce Father and Mother, Friends, and a worthy Family for! For the
Patriarch himself, what with Age, Wine, and a certain natural
Drowsiness, has been mop'd this many a Day, he can't now relish any
Thing but Wine; and he has two Companions, _John_ and _Jodocus_, that
match him to a Hair. And as for _John_, indeed I can't say he is an ill
Man, for he has nothing at all of a Man about him but his Beard, not a
Grain of Learning in him, and not much more common Prudence. And
_Jodocus_ he's so arrant a Sot, that if he were not ty'd up to the Habit
of his Order, he would walk the Streets in a Fool's Cap with Ears and
Bells at it.

_Ca._ Truly they seem to me to be very good Men.

_Eu._ But, my _Kitty_, I know 'em better than you do. They will do good
Offices perhaps between you and your Parents, that they may gain a

_Ca. Jodocus_ is very civil to me.

_Eu._ A great Favour indeed. But suppose 'em good and learned Men to
Day, you'll find 'em the contrary perhaps to Morrow; and let them be
what they will then, you must bear with them.

_Ca._ I am troubled to see so many Entertainments at my Father's House,
and marry'd Folks are so given to talk smutty; I'm put to't sometimes
when Men come to kiss me, and you know one can't well deny a Kiss.

_Eu._ He that would avoid every Thing that offends him, must go out of
the World; we must accustom our Ears to hear every Thing, but let
nothing enter the Mind but what is good. I suppose your Parents allow
you a Chamber to yourself.

_Ca._ Yes, they do.

_Eu._ Then you may retire thither, if you find the Company grow
troublesome; and while they are drinking and joking, you may entertain
yourself with Christ your Spouse, praying, singing, and giving Thanks:
Your Father's House will not defile you, and you will make it the more

_Ca._ But it is a great Deal safer to be in Virgins Company.

_Eu._ I do not disapprove of a chaste Society: Yet I would not have you
delude yourself with false Imaginations. When once you come to be
throughly acquainted there, and see Things nearer Hand, perhaps Things
won't look with so good a Face as they did once. They are not all
Virgins that wear Vails; believe me.

_Ca._ Good Words, I beseech you.

_Eu._ Those are good Words that are true Words. I never read of but one
Virgin that was a Mother, _i.e._ the Virgin _Mary_, unless the Eulogy we
appropriate to the Virgin be transferr'd to a great many to be call'd
Virgins after Childbearing.

_Ca._ I abhor the Thoughts on't.

_Eu._ Nay, and more than that, those Maids, I'll assure you, do more
than becomes Maids to do.

_Ca._ Ay! why so, pray?

_Eu._ Because there are more among 'em that imitate _Sappho_ in Manners,
than are like her in Wit.

_Ca._ I don't very well understand you.

_Eu._ My dear _Kitty_, I therefore speak in Cypher that you may not
understand me.

_Ca._ But my Mind runs strangely upon this Course of Life, and I have a
strong Opinion that this Disposition comes from God, because it hath
continu'd with me so many Years, and grows every Day stronger and

_Eu._ Your good Parents being so violently set against it, makes me
suspect it. If what you attempt were good, God would have inclined your
Parents to favour the Motion. But you have contracted this Affection
from the gay Things you saw when you were a Child; the Tittle-tattles of
the Nuns, and the Hankering you have after your old Companions, the
external Pomp and specious Ceremonies, and the Importunities of the
senseless Monks which hunt you to make a Proselyte of you, that they may
tipple more largely. They know your Father to be liberal and bountiful,
and they'll either give him an Invitation to them, because they know
he'll bring Wine enough with him to serve for ten lusty Soaks, or else
they'll come to him. Therefore let me advise you to do nothing without
your Parents Consent, whom God has appointed your Guardians. God would
have inspired their Minds too, if the Thing you were attempting were a
religious Matter.

_Ca._ In this Matter it is Piety to contemn Father and Mother.

_Eu._ It is, I grant, sometimes a Piece of Piety to contemn Father or
Mother for the Sake of Christ; but for all that, he would not act
piously, that being a Christian, and had a Pagan to his Father, who had
nothing but his Son's Charity to support him, should forsake him, and
leave him to starve. If you had not to this Day profess'd Christ by
Baptism, and your Parents should forbid you to be baptis'd, you would
indeed then do piously to prefer Christ before your impious Parents; or
if your Parents should offer to force you to do some impious, scandalous
Thing, their Authority in that Case were to be contemned. But what is
this to the Case of a Nunnery? You have Christ at home. You have the
Dictates of Nature, the Approbation of Heaven, the Exhortation of St.
_Paul_, and the Obligation of human Laws, for your Obedience to Parents;
and will you now withdraw yourself from under the Authority of good and
natural Parents, to give yourself up a Slave to a fictitious Father,
rather than to your real Father, and a strange Mother instead of your
true Mother, and to severe Masters and Mistresses rather than Parents?
For you are so under your Parents Direction, that they would have you be
at Liberty wholly. And therefore Sons and Daughters are call'd
[_liberi_] Children, because they are free from the Condition of
Servants. You are now of a free Woman about to make yourself voluntarily
a Slave. The Clemency of the Christian Religion has in a great Measure
cast out of the World the old Bondage, saving only some obscure
Foot-Steps in some few Places. But there is now a Days found out under
pretence of Religion a new Sort of Servitude, as they now live indeed in
many Monasteries. You must do nothing there but by a Rule, and then all
that you lose they get. If you offer to step but one Step out of the
Door, you're lugg'd back again just like a Criminal that had poison'd
her Father. And to make the Slavery yet the more evident, they change
the Habit your Parents gave you, and after the Manner of those Slaves in
old Time, bought and sold in the Market, they change the very Name that
was given you in Baptism, and _Peter_ or _John_ are call'd _Francis_, or
_Dominic_, or _Thomas_. _Peter_ first gives his Name up to Christ, and
being to be enter'd into _Dominic's_ Order, he's called _Thomas_. If a
military Servant casts off the Garment his Master gave him, is he not
look'd upon to have renounc'd his Master? And do we applaud him that
takes upon him a Habit that Christ the Master of us all never gave him?
He is punish'd more severely for the changing it again, than if he had a
hundred Times thrown away the Livery of his Lord and Emperor, which is
the Innocency of his Mind.

_Ca._ But they say, it is a meritorious Work to enter into this
voluntary Confinement.

_Eu._ That is a pharisaical Doctrine. St. _Paul_ teacheth us otherwise,
_and will not have him that is called free, make himself a Servant, but
rather endeavour that he may be more free:_ And this makes the Servitude
the worse, that you must serve many Masters, and those most commonly
Fools too, and Debauchees; and besides that, they are uncertain, being
every now and then new. But answer me this one Thing, I beseech you, do
any Laws discharge you from your Duty to your Parents?

_Ca._ No.

_Eu._ Can you buy or sell an Estate against your Parents Consent?

_Ca._ No, I can't.

_Eu._ What Right have you then to give away yourself to I know not whom,
against your Parents Consent? Are you not their Child, the dearest and
most appropriate Part of their Possession?

_Ca._ In the Business of Religion, the Laws of Nature give Place.

_Eu._ The great Point of our Religion lies in our Baptism: But the
Matter in Question here is, only the changing of a Habit, or of such a
Course of Life, which in itself is neither Good nor Evil. And now
consider but this one Thing, how many valuable Privileges you lose,
together with your Liberty. Now, if you have a Mind to read, pray, or
sing, you may go into your own Chamber, as much and as often as you
please. When you have enough of Retirement, you may go to Church, hear
Anthems, Prayers and Sermons; and if you see any Matron or Virgin
remarkable for Piety, in whose Company you may get good; if you see any
Man that is endow'd with singular Probity, from whom you may learn what
will make for your bettering, you may have their Conversation; and you
may chuse that Preacher that preaches Christ most purely. When once you
come into a Cloyster, all these Things, that are the greatest
Assistances in the Promotion of true Piety, you lose at once.

_Ca._ But in the mean Time I shall not be a Nun.

_Eu._ What signifies the Name? Consider the Thing itself. They make
their boast of Obedience, and won't you be praise-worthy, in being
obedient to your Parents, your Bishop and your Pastor, whom God has
commanded you to obey? Do you profess Poverty? And may not you too, when
all is in your Parents Hands? Although the Virgins of former Times were
in an especial Manner commended by holy Men, for their Liberality
towards the Poor; but they could never have given any Thing, if they had
possessed nothing. Nor will your Charity be ever the less for living
with your Parents. And what is there more in a Convent than these? A
Vail, a Linnen-Shift turned into a Stole, and certain Ceremonies, which
of themselves signify nothing to the Advancement of Piety, and make no
Body more acceptable in the Eyes of Christ, who only regards the Purity
of the Mind.

_Ca._ This is News to me.

_Eu._ But it is true News. When you, not being discharg'd from the
Government of your Parents, can't dispose of, or sell so much as a Rag,
or an Inch of Ground, what Right can you pretend to for disposing of
yourself into the Service of a Stranger?

_Ca._ They say, that the Authority of a Parent does not hinder a Child
from entering into a religious Life.

_Eu._ Did you not make Profession of Religion in your Baptism?

_Ca._ Yes.

_Eu._ And are not they religious Persons that conform to the Precepts of

_Ca._ They are so.

_Eu._ What new Religion is that then, which makes that void, that the
Law of Nature had establish'd? What the old Law hath taught, and the
Gospel approv'd, and the Apostles confirm'd? That is an Ordinance that
never came from Heaven, but was hatch'd by a Company of Monks in their
Cells. And after this Manner, some of them undertake to justify a
Marriage between a Boy and a Girl, though without the Privity, and
against the Consent of their Parents; if the Contract be (as they phrase
it) in Words of the present Tense. And yet that Position is neither
according to the Dictate of Nature, the Law of _Moses_, or the Doctrine
of _Christ_ or his Apostles.

_Ca._ Do you think then, that I may not espouse myself to Christ without
my Parents Consent?

_Eu._ I say, you have espous'd him already, and so we have all. Where is
the Woman that marries the same Man twice? The Question is here only
about Places, Garments and Ceremonies. I don't think Duty to Parents is
to be abandon'd for the Sake of these Things; and you ought to look to
it, that instead of espousing Christ, you don't espouse some Body else.

_Ca._ But I am told, that in this Case it is a Piece of the highest
Sanctity, even to contemn ones Parents.

_Eu._ Pray, require these Doctors to shew you a Text for it, out of the
holy Scriptures, that teach this Doctrine; but if they can't do this,
bid them drink off a good large Bumper of _Burgundian_ Wine: That they
can do bravely. It is indeed a Piece of Piety to fly from wicked Parents
to Christ: But to fly from pious Parents to a Monkery, that is (as it
too often proves) to fly from ought to stark naught. What Pity is that I
pray? Although in old Time, he that was converted from Paganism to
Christianity, paid yet as great a Reverence to his idolatrous Parents,
as it was possible to do without prejudice to Religion itself.

_Ca._ Are you then against the main Institution of a monastick Life?

_Eu._ No, by no Means: But as I will not persuade any Body against it,
that is already engag'd in this Sort of Life, to endeavour to get out of
it, so I would most undoubtedly caution all young Women; especially
those of generous Tempers, not to precipitate themselves unadvisedly
into that State from whence there is no getting out afterwards: And the
rather, because their Chastity is more in Danger in a Cloyster than out
of it; and beside that, you may do whatsoever is done there as well at

_Ca._ You have indeed urg'd many, and very considerable Arguments; yet
this Affection of mine can't be removed.

_Eu._ If I can't dissuade you from it, as I wish heartily I could,
however, remember this one Thing, that _Eubulus_ told you before Hand.
In the mean Time, out of the Love I bear you, I wish your Inclinations
may succeed better than my Counsel.



     _A Virgin repenting before she had profess'd herself,
     goes Home again to her Parents. The crafty Tricks of the
     Monks are detected, who terrify and frighten
     unexperienced Minds into their Cloysters, by feign'd
     Apparitions and Visions_.


_Eu._ I could always wish to have such a Porter.

_Ca._ And I to have such Visitors.

_Eu._ But fare you well, _Kitty_.

_Ca._ What's the Matter, do you take Leave before you salute?

_Eu._ I did not come hither to see you cry: What's the Matter, that as
soon as ever you see me, the Tears stand in your Eyes?

_Ca._ Why in such Haste? Stay a little; pray stay. I'll put on my better
Looks, and we'll be merry together.

_Eu._ What Sort of Cattle have we got here?

_Ca._ 'Tis the Patriarch of the College: Don't go away, they have had
their Dose of Fuddle: Stay but a little While, and as soon as he is
gone, we will discourse as we use to do.

_Eu._ Well, I'll be so good natur'd as to hearken to you, though you
would not to me. Now we are alone, you must tell me the whole Story, I
would fain have it from your Mouth.

_Ca._ Now I have found by Experience, of all my Friends, which I took to
be very wise Men too, that no Body gave more wise and grave Advice than
you, that are the youngest of 'em all.

_Eu._ Tell me, how did you get your Parents Consent at last?

_Ca._ First, by the restless Sollicitations of the Monks and Nuns, and
then by my own Importunities and Tears, my Mother was at length brought
over; but my Father stood out stiffly still: But at last being ply'd by
several Engines, he was prevail'd upon to yield; but yet, rather like
one that was forced, than that consented. The Matter was concluded in
their Cups, and they preach'd Damnation to him, if he refus'd to let
Christ have his Spouse.

_Eu._ O the Villany of Fools! But what then?

_Ca._ I was kept close at Home for three Days; but in the mean Time
there were always with me some Women of the College that they call
_Convertites_, mightily encouraging me to persist in my holy Resolution,
and watching me narrowly, lest any of my Friends or Kindred should come
at me, and make me alter my Mind. In the mean While, my Habit was making
ready, and the Provision for the Feast.

_Eu._ How did you find yourself? Did not your Mind misgive you yet?

_Ca._ No, not at all; and yet I was so horridly frighted, that I had
rather die ten Times over, than suffer the same again.

_Eu._ What was that, pray?

_Ca._ It is not to be uttered.

_Eu._ Come, tell me freely, you know I'm your Friend.

_Ca._ Will you keep Counsel?

_Eu._ I should do that without promising, and I hope you know me better
than to doubt of it.

_Ca._ I had a most dreadful Apparition.

_Eu._ Perhaps it was your evil Genius that push'd you on to this.

_Ca._ I am fully persuaded it was an evil Spirit.

_Eu._ Tell me what Shape it was in. Was it such as we use to paint with
a crooked Beak, long Horns, Harpies Claws, and swinging Tail?

_Ca._ You make a Game of it, but I had rather sink into the Earth, than
see such another.

_Eu._ And were your Women Sollicitresses with you then?

_Ca._ No, nor I would not so much as open my Lips of it to them, though
they sifted me most particularly about it, when they found me almost
dead with the Surprise.

_Eu._ Shall I tell you what it was?

_Ca._ Do if you can.

_Eu._ Those Women had certainly bewitch'd you, or conjur'd your Brain
out of your Head rather. But did you persist in your Resolution still,
for all this?

_Ca._ Yes, for they told me, that many were thus troubled upon their
first consecrating themselves to Christ; but if they got the better of
the Devil that Bout, he'd let them alone for ever after.

_Eu._ Well, what Pomp were you carried out with?

_Ca._ They put on all my Finery, let down my Hair, and dress'd me just
as if it had been for my Wedding.

_Eu._ To a fat Monk, perhaps; Hem! a Mischief take this Cough.

_Ca._ I was carried from my Father's House to the College by broad
Day-Light, and a World of People staring at me.

_Eu._ O these Scaramouches, how they know to wheedle the poor People!
How many Days did you continue in that holy College of Virgins,

_Ca._ Till Part of the twelfth Day.

_Eu._ But what was it that changed your Mind, that had been so
resolutely bent upon it?

_Ca._ I must not tell you what it was, but it was something very
considerable. When I had been there six Days, I sent for my Mother; I
begged of her, and besought her, as she lov'd my Life, to get me out of
the College again. She would not hear on't, but bad me hold to my
Resolution. Upon that I sent for my Father, but he chid me too, telling
me, that I had made him master his Affections, and that now he'd make me
master mine, and not disgrace him, by starting from my Purpose. At last,
when I saw that I could do no good with them this Way, I told my Father
and Mother both, that to please them, I would submit to die, and that
would certainly be my Fate, if they did not take me out, and that very
quickly too; and upon this, they took me Home.

_Eu._ It was very well that you recanted before you had profess'd
yourself for good and all: But still, I don't hear what it was changed
your Mind so suddenly.

_Ca._ I never told any Mortal yet, nor shall.

_Eu._ What if I should guess?

_Ca._ I'm sure you can't guess it; and if you do, I won't tell you.

_Eu._ Well, for all that, I guess what it was. But in the mean Time, you
have been at a great Charge.

_Ca._ Above 400 Crowns.

_Eu._ O these guttling Nuptials! Well, but I am glad though the Money is
gone, that you're safe: For the Time to come, hearken to good Counsel
when it is given you.

_Ca._ So I will. _The burnt Child dreads the Fire._



     _This Colloquy, entitled_, The uneasy Wife: _Or_, Uxor
     [Greek: Mempsigamos], _treats of many Things that relate
     to the mutual Nourishment of conjugal Affection.
     Concerning the concealing a Husband's Faults; of not
     interrupting conjugal Benevolence; of making up
     Differences; of mending a Husband's Manners; of a Woman's
     Condescension to her Husband. What is the Beauty of a
     Woman; she disgraces herself, that disgraces her Husband;
     that the Wife ought to submit to the Husband; that the
     Husband ought not to be out of Humour when the Wife is;
     and on the Contrary; that they ought to study mutual
     Concord, since there is no Room for Advice; that they
     ought to conceal one another's Faults, and not expose one
     another; that it is in the Power of the Wife to mend her
     Husband; that she ought to carry herself engagingly,
     learn his Humour, what provokes him or appeases him; that
     all Things be in Order at Home; that he have what he
     likes best to eat; that if the Husband be vext, the Wife
     don't laugh; if he be angry, that she should speak
     pleasantly to him, or hold her Tongue; that what she
     blames him for, should be betwixt themselves; the Method
     of admonishing; that she ought to make her Complaint to
     no Body but her Husband's Parents; or to some peculiar
     Friends that have an Influence upon him. The Example of a
     prudent Man, excellently managing a young morose Wife, by
     making his Complaint to her Father. Another of a prudent
     Wife, that by her good Carriage reformed a Husband that
     frequented leud Company, Another of a Man that had beaten
     his Wife in his angry Fit; that Husbands are to be
     overcome, brought into Temper by Mildness, Sweetness, and
     Kindness; that there should be no Contention in the
     Chamber or in the Bed; but that Care should be taken,
     that nothing but Pleasantness and Engagingness be there.
     The Girdle of_ Venus _is Agreeableness of Manners.
     Children make a mutual Amity. That a Woman separated from
     her Husband, is nothing: Let her always be mindful of the
     Respect that is due to a Husband._


_EU._ Most welcome _Xantippe_, a good Morning to you.

_Xa._ I wish you the same, my dear _Eulalia_. Methinks you look prettier
than you use to do.

_Eu._ What, do you begin to banter me already?

_Xa._ No, upon my Word, for you seem so to me.

_Eu._ Perhaps then my new Cloaths may set me off to Advantage.

_Xa._ You guess right, it is one of the prettiest Suits I ever beheld in
all my Life. It is _English_ Cloth, I suppose.

_Eu._ It is indeed of _English_ Wool, but it is a _Venetian_ Dye.

_Xa._ It is as soft as Silk, and 'tis a charming Purple. Who gave you
this fine Present?

_Eu._ My Husband. From whom should a virtuous Wife receive Presents but
from him?

_Xa._ Well, you are a happy Woman, that you are, to have such a good
Husband. For my Part, I wish I had been married to a Mushroom when I was
married to my _Nick_.

_Eu._ Why so, pray? What! is it come to an open Rupture between you

_Xa._ There is no Possibility of agreeing with such a one as I have got.
You see what a ragged Condition I am in; so he lets me go like a Dowdy!
May I never stir, if I an't asham'd to go out of Doors any whither, when
I see how fine other Women are, whose Husbands are nothing nigh so rich
as mine is.

_Eu._ The Ornament of a Matron does not consist in fine Cloaths or other
Deckings of the Body, as the Apostle _Peter_ teaches, for I heard that
lately in a Sermon; but in chaste and modest Behaviour, and the
Ornaments of the Mind. Whores are trick'd up to take the Eyes of many
but we are well enough drest, if we do but please our own Husbands.

_Xa._ But mean while this worthy Tool of mine, that is so sparing toward
his Wife, lavishly squanders away the Portion I brought along with me,
which by the Way was not a mean one.

_Eu._ In what?

_Xa._ Why, as the Maggot bites, sometimes at the Tavern, sometimes upon
his Whores, sometimes a gaming.

_Eu._ O fie, you should never say so of your Husband.

_Xa._ But I'm sure 'tis too true; and then when he comes Home, after I
have been waiting for him till I don't know what Time at Night, as drunk
as _David's_ Sow, he does nothing but lye snoring all Night long by my
Side, and sometimes bespues the Bed too, to say nothing more.

_Eu._ Hold your Tongue: You disgrace yourself in disgracing your

_Xa._ Let me dye, if I had not rather lye with a Swine than such a
Husband as I have got.

_Eu._ Don't you scold at him then?

_Xa._ Yes, indeed, I use him as he deserves. He finds I have got a
Tongue in my Head.

_Eu._ Well, and what does he say to you again?

_Xa._ At first he used to hector at me lustily, thinking to fright me
with his big Words.

_Eu._ Well, and did your Words never come to downright Blows?

_Xa._ Once, and but once, and then the Quarrel rose to that Height on
both Sides, that we were within an Ace of going to Fisty-Cuffs.

_Eu._ How, Woman! say you so?

_Xa._ He held up his Stick at me, swearing and cursing like a
Foot-Soldier, and threatening me dreadfully.

_Eu._ Were not you afraid then?

_Xa._ Nay, I snatch'd up a three legg'd Stool, and if he had but touch'd
me with his Finger, he should have known he had to do with a Woman of

_Eu._ Ah! my _Xantippe_, that was not becoming.

_Xa._ What becoming? If he does not use me like a Wife, I won't use him
like a Husband.

_Eu._ But St. _Paul_ teaches, that Wives ought to be subject to their
own Husbands with all Reverence. And St. _Peter_ proposes the Example of
_Sarah_ to us, who call'd her Husband _Abraham_ Lord.

_Xa._ I have heard those Things, but the same _Paul_ likewise teaches
that _Men should love their Wives as Christ lov'd his Spouse the
Church_. Let him remember his Duty and I'll remember mine.

_Eu._ But nevertheless when Things are come to that Pass that one must
submit to the other, it is but reasonable that the Wife submit to her

_Xa._ Yes indeed, if he deserves the Name of a Husband who uses me like
a Kitchen Wench.

_Eu._ But tell me, _Xantippe_, did he leave off threatening after this?

_Xa._ He did leave off, and it was his Wisdom so to do, or else he would
have been thresh'd.

_Eu._ But did not you leave off Scolding at him?

_Xa._ No, nor never will.

_Eu._ But what does he do in the mean Time?

_Xa._ What! Why sometimes he pretends himself to be fast asleep, and
sometimes does nothing in the World but laugh at me; sometimes he
catches up his Fiddle that has but three Strings, scraping upon it with
all his Might, and drowns the Noise of my Bawling.

_Eu._ And does not that vex you to the Heart?

_Xa._ Ay, so that it is impossible to be express'd, so that sometimes I
can scarce keep my Hands off of him.

_Eu._ Well, my _Xantippe_, give me Leave to talk a little freely with

_Xa._ I do give you Leave.

_Eu._ Nay, you shall use the same Freedom with me. Our Intimacy, which
has been in a Manner from our very Cradles, requires this.

_Xa._ You say true, nor was there any of my Playfellows that I more
dearly lov'd than you.

_Eu._ Let your Husband be as bad as bad can be, think upon this, That
there is no changing. Heretofore, indeed, Divorce was a Remedy for
irreconcilable Disagreements, but now this is entirely taken away: He
must be your Husband and you his Wife to the very last Day of Life.

_Xa._ The Gods did very wrong that depriv'd us of this Privilege.

_Eu._ Have a Care what you say. It was the Will of Christ.

_Xa._ I can scarce believe it.

_Eu._ It is as I tell you. Now you have nothing left to do but to study
to suit your Tempers and Dispositions one to another, and agree

_Xa._ Do you think, I can be able to new-make him?

_Eu._ It does not a little depend upon the Wives, what Men Husbands
shall be.

_Xa._ Do you and your Husband agree very well together?

_Eu._ All is quiet with us now.

_Xa._ Well then, you had some Difference at first.

_Eu._ Never any Thing of a Storm; but yet, as it is common with human
Kind, sometimes a few small Clouds would rise, which might have produc'd
a Storm, if it had not been prevented by Condescention. Every one has
his Humours, and every one their Fancies, and if we would honestly speak
the Truth, every one his Faults, more or less, which if in any State,
certainly in Matrimony we ought to connive at, and not to hate.

_Xa._ You speak very right.

_Eu._ It frequently happens that that mutual Love that ought to be
between the Husband and Wife is cooled before they come to be throughly
acquainted one with another. This is the first Thing that ought to be
provided against; for when a Spirit of Dissention is once sprung up, it
is a difficult Matter to bring them to a Reconciliation, especially if
it ever proceeded so far as to come to reproachful Reflections. Those
Things that are joined together with Glue, are easily pull'd one from
another if they be handled roughly as soon as done, but when once they
have been fast united together, and the Glue is dry, there is nothing
more firm. For this Reason, all the Care possible is to be taken that
good Will between Man and Wife be cultivated and confirmed even in the
Infancy of Matrimony. This is principally effected by Obsequiousness,
and an Agreeableness of Tempers. For that Love that is founded only upon
Beauty, is for the most part but short-liv'd.

_Xa._ But prithee tell me by what Arts you brought your Husband to your

_Eu._ I'll tell you for this End, that you may copy after me.

_Xa._ Well, I will, if I can.

_Eu._ It will be very easy to do, if you will; nor is it too late yet;
for he is in the Flower of his Youth, and you are but a Girl; and as I
take it, have not been married this Twelve Months yet.

_Xa._ You are very right.

_Eu._ Then I'll tell you; but upon Condition, that you'll not speak of

_Xa._ Well, I will not.

_Eu._ It was my first Care that I might please my Husband in every
Respect, that nothing might give him Offence. I diligently observed his
Inclinations and Temper, and also observed what were his easiest
Moments, what Things pleas'd him, and what vex'd him, as they use to do
who tame _Elephants_ and _Lions_, or such Sort of Creatures, that can't
be master'd by downright Strength.

_Xa._ And such an Animal have I at Home.

_Eu._ Those that go near Elephants, wear no Garment that is white; nor
those who manage Bulls, red; because it is found by Experience, that
these Creatures are made fierce by these Colours, just as Tygers are
made so raging mad by the Sound of a Drum, that they will tear their own
selves; and Jockies have particular Sounds, and Whistles, and
Stroakings, and other Methods to sooth Horses that are mettlesome: How
much more does it become us to use these Acts towards our Husbands, with
whom, whether we will or no, we must live all our Lives at Bed and

_Xa._ Well, go on with what you have begun.

_Eu._ Having found out his Humour, I accommodated myself to him, taking
Care that nothing should offend him.

_Xa._ How could you do that?

_Eu._ I was very diligent in the Care of my Family, which is the
peculiar Province of Women, that nothing was neglected, and that every
Thing should be suitable to his Temper, altho' it were in the most
minute Things.

_Xa._ What Things?

_Eu._ Suppose my Husband peculiarly fancied such a Dish of Meat, or
liked it dress'd after such a Manner; or if he lik'd his Bed made after
such or such a Manner.

_Xa._ But how could you humour one who was never at Home, or was drunk?

_Eu._ Have Patience, I was coming to that Point. If at any Time my
Husband seem'd to be melancholy, and did not much care for talking, I
did not laugh, and put on a gay Humour, as some Women are us'd to do;
but I put on a grave demure Countenance, as well as he. For as a
Looking-glass, if it be a true one, represents the Face of the Person
that looks into it, so a Wife ought to frame herself to the Temper of
her Husband, not to be chearful when he is melancholy, nor be merry when
he is in a Passion. And if at any Time he was in a Passion, I either
endeavoured to sooth him with fair Words, or held my Tongue till his
Passion was over; and having had Time to cool, Opportunity offered,
either of clearing myself, or of admonishing him. I took the same
Method, if at any Time he came Home fuddled, and at such a Time never
gave him any Thing but tender Language, that by kind Expressions, I
might get him to go to Bed.

_Xa._ That is indeed a very unhappy Portion for Wives, if they must only
humour their Husbands, when they are in a Passion, and doing every Thing
that they have a Mind to do.

_Eu._ As tho' this Duty were not reciprocal, and that our Husbands are
not forc'd to bear with many of our Humours: However, there is a Time,
when a Wife may take the Freedom in a Matter of some Importance to
advise her Husband; but as for small Faults, it is better to wink at

_Xa._ But what Time is that?

_Eu._ When his Mind is serene; when he's neither in a Passion, nor in
the Hippo, nor in Liquor; then being in private, you may kindly advise
him, but rather intreat him, that he would act more prudently in this or
that Matter, relating either to his Estate, Reputation, or Health. And
this very Advice is to be season'd with witty Jests and Pleasantries.
Sometimes by Way of Preface, I make a Bargain with him before-Hand, that
he shall not be angry with me, if being a foolish Woman, I take upon me
to advise him in any Thing, that might seem to concern his Honour,
Health, or Preservation. When I have said what I had a Mind to say, I
break off that Discourse, and turn it into some other more entertaining
Subject. For, my _Xantippe_, this is the Fault of us Women, that when
once we have begun, we don't know when to make an End.

_Xa._ Why, so they say, indeed.

_Eu._ This chiefly I observed as a Rule, never to chide my Husband
before Company, nor to carry any Complaints out of Doors. What passes
between two People, is more easily made up, than when once it has taken
Air. Now if any Thing of that kind shall happen, that cannot be born
with, and that the Husband can't be cur'd by the Admonition of his Wife,
it is more prudent for the Wife to carry her Complaints to her Husband's
Parents and Kindred, than to her own; and so to soften her Complaint,
that she mayn't seem to hate her Husband, but her Husband's Vices: And
not to blab out all neither, that her Husband may tacitly own and love
his Wife for her Civility.

_Xa._ A Woman must needs be a Philosopher, who can be able to do this.

_Eu._ By this Deportment we invite our Husbands to return the Civility.

_Xa._ But there are some Brutes in the World, whom you cannot amend, by
the utmost good Carriage.

_Eu._ In Truth, I don't think it: But put the Case there are: First,
consider this; a Husband must be born with, let him be as bad as he
will. It is better therefore to bear with him as he is, or made a little
better by our courteous Temper, than by our Outrageousness to make him
grow every Day worse and worse. What if I should give Instances of
Husbands, who by the like civil Treatment have altered their Spouses
much for the better? How much more does it become us to use our Husbands
after this Manner?

_Xa._ You will give an Instance then of a Man, that is as unlike my
Husband, as black is from white.

_Eu._ I have the Honour to be acquainted with a Gentleman of a noble
Family; Learned, and of singular Address and Dexterity; he married a
young Lady, a Virgin of seventeen Years of Age, that had been educated
all along in the Country in her Father's House, as Men of Quality love
to reside in the Country, for the Sake of Hunting and Fowling: He had a
Mind to have a raw unexperienc'd Maid, that he might the more easily
form her Manners to his own Humour. He began to instruct her in
Literature and Musick, and to use her by Degrees to repeat the Heads of
Sermons, which she heard, and to accomplish her with other Things, which
would afterwards be of Use to her. Now these Things being wholly new to
the Girl, which had been brought up at Home, to do nothing but gossip
and play, she soon grew weary of this Life, she absolutely refus'd to
submit to what her Husband requir'd of her; and when her Husband press'd
her about it, she would cry continually, sometimes she would throw
herself flat on the Ground, and beat her Head against the Ground, as
tho' she wish'd for Death. Her Husband finding there was no End of this,
conceal'd his Resentment, gave his Wife an Invitation to go along with
him into the Country to his Father-in-Law's House, for the Sake of a
little Diversion. His Wife very readily obey'd him in this Matter. When
they came there, the Husband left his Wife with her Mother and Sisters,
and went a Hunting with his Father-in-Law; there having taken him aside
privately, he tells his Father-in-law, that whereas he was in good Hopes
to have had an agreeable Companion of his Daughter, he now had one that
was always a crying, and fretting herself; nor could she be cured by any
Admonitions, and intreats him to lend a helping Hand to cure his
Daughter's Disorder. His Father-in-Law made him answer, that he had once
put his Daughter into his Hand, and if she did not obey him, he might
use his Authority, and cudgel her into a due Submission. The Son-in-Law
replies, I know my own Power, but I had much rather she should be
reform'd by your Art or Authority, than to come to these Extremities.
The Father-in-Law promis'd him to take some Care about the Matter: So a
Day or two after, he takes a proper Time and Place, when he was alone
with his Daughter, and looking austerely upon her, begins in telling her
how homely she was, and how disagreeable as to her Disposition, and how
often he had been in Fear that he should never be able to get her a
Husband: But after much Pains, says he, I found you such a one, that the
best Lady of the Land would have been glad of; and yet, you not being
sensible what I have done for you, nor considering that you have such a
Husband, who if he were not the best natur'd Man in the World, would
scarce do you the Honour to take you for one of his Maid Servants, you
are disobedient to him: To make short of my Story, the Father grew so
hot in his Discourse, that he seem'd to be scarce able to keep his Hands
off her; for he was so wonderful cunning a Man, that he would act any
Part, as well as any Comedian. The young Lady, partly for Fear, and
partly convinc'd by the Truth of what was told her, fell down at her
Father's Feet, beseeching him to forget past Faults, and for the Time to
come, she would be mindful of her Duty. Her Father freely forgave her,
and also promised, that he would be to her a very indulgent Father,
provided she perform'd what she promis'd.

_Xa._ Well, what happened after that?

_Eu._ The young Lady going away, after her Fathers Discourse was ended,
went directly into her Chamber, and finding her Husband alone, she fell
down on her Knees, and said, Husband, till this very Moment, I neither
knew you nor myself; but from this Time forward, you shall find me
another Sort of Person; only, I intreat you to forget what is past. The
Husband receiv'd this Speech with a Kiss, and promised to do every Thing
she could desire, if she did but continue in that Resolution.

_Xa._ What! Did she continue in it?

_Eu._ Even to her dying Day; nor was any Thing so mean, but she readily
and chearfully went about it, if her Husband would have it so. So great
a Love grew, and was confirm'd between them. Some Years after, the young
Lady would often congratulate herself, that she had happen'd to marry
such a Husband, which had it not happen'd, said she, I had been the most
wretched Woman alive.

_Xa._ Such Husbands are as scarce now a Days as white Crows.

_Eu._ Now if it will not be tedious to you, I'll tell you a Story, that
lately happen'd in this City, of a Husband that was reclaimed by the
good Management of his Wife.

_Xa._ I have nothing to do at present, and your Conversation is very

_Eu._ There is a certain Gentleman of no mean Descent; he, like the rest
of his Quality, used often to go a Hunting: Being in the Country, he
happen'd to see a young Damsel, the Daughter of a poor old Woman, and
began to fall desperately in love with her. He was a Man pretty well in
Years; and for the Sake of this young Maid, he often lay out a Nights,
and his Pretence for it was Hunting. His Wife, a Woman of an admirable
Temper, suspecting something more than ordinary, went in search to find
out her Husband's Intrigues, and having discover'd them, by I can't tell
what Method, she goes to the Country Cottage, and learnt all the
Particulars where he lay, what he drank, and what Manner of
Entertainment he had at Table. There was no Furniture in the House,
nothing but naked Walls. The Gentlewoman goes Home, and quickly after
goes back again, carrying with her a handsome Bed and Furniture, some
Plate and Money, bidding them to treat him with more Respect, if at any
Time he came there again. A few Days after, her Husband steals an
Opportunity to go thither, and sees the Furniture increas'd, and finds
his Entertainment more delicate than it us'd to be; he enquir'd from
whence this unaccustomed Finery came: They said, that a certain honest
Gentlewoman of his Acquaintance, brought these Things; and gave them in
Charge, that he should be treated with more Respect for the future. He
presently suspected that this was done by his Wife. When he came Home,
he ask'd her if she had been there. She did not deny it. Then he ask'd
her for what Reason she had sent thither that household Furniture? My
Dear, says she, you are us'd to a handsomer Way of Living: I found that
you far'd hardly there, I thought it my Duty, since you took a Fancy to
the Place, that your Reception should be more agreeable.

_Xa._ A Wife good even to an Excess. I should sooner have sent him a
Bundle of Nettles and Thorns, than furnish'd him with a fine Bed.

_Eu._ But hear the Conclusion of my Story; the Gentleman was so touch'd,
seeing so much good Nature and Temper in his Wife, that he never after
that violated her Bed, but solaced himself with her at Home. I know you
know _Gilbert_ the _Dutchman_.

_Xa._ I know him.

_Eu._ He, you know, in the prime of his Age, marry'd a Gentlewoman well
stricken in Years, and in a declining Age.

_Xa._ It may be he marry'd the Portion, and not the Woman.

_Eu._ So it was. He having an Aversion to his Wife, was over Head and
Ears in Love with a young Woman, with whom he us'd ever and anon to
divert himself abroad. He very seldom either din'd or supp'd at home.
What would you have done, if this had been your Case, _Xantippe_?

_Xa._ Why I would have torn his beloved Strumpet's Headcloths off, and I
would have wash'd him well with a Chamber-Pot, when he was going to her,
that he might have gone thus perfum'd to his Entertainment.

_Eu._ But how much more prudently did this Gentlewoman behave herself.
She invited his Mistress home to her House, and treated her with all the
Civility imaginable. So she kept her Husband without any magical Charms.
And if at any Time he supp'd abroad with her, she sent them thither some
Nicety or other, desiring them to be merry together.

_Xa._ As for me, I would sooner chuse to lose my Life than to be Bawd to
my own Husband.

_Eu._ But in the mean Time, pray consider the Matter soberly and coolly.
Was not this much better, than if she had by her ill Temper totally
alienated her Husband's Affections from her, and spent her whole Life in
quarrelling and brawling.

_Xa._ I believe, that of two Evils it was the least, but I could never
have submitted to it.

_Eu._ I will add one more, and then I'll have done with Examples. A
next Door Neighbour of ours is a very honest, good Man, but a little too
subject to Passion. One Day he beat his Wife, a Woman of commendable
Prudence. She immediately withdrew into a private Room, and there gave
Vent to her Grief by Tears and Sighs. Soon after upon some Occasion her
Husband came into the Room, and found his Wife all in Tears. What's the
Matter, says he, that you're crying and sobbing like a Child? To which
she prudently reply'd, Why, says she, is it not much better to lament my
Misfortune here, than if I should make a Bawling in the Street, as other
Women do? The Man's Mind was so overcome and mollified by this Answer,
so like a Wife, that giving her his Hand, he made a solemn Promise to
his Wife, he would never lay his Hand upon her after, as long as he
liv'd. Nor did he ever do it.

_Xa._ I have obtain'd as much from my Husband, but by a different

_Eu._ But in the mean Time there are perpetual Wars between you.

_Xa._ What then would you have me to do?

_Eu._ If your Husband offers you any Affront, you must take no Notice of
it, but endeavour to gain his good Will by all good Offices, courteous
Carriage, and Meekness of Spirit, and by these Methods, you will in
Time, either wholly reclaim him, or at least you will live with him much
more easy than now you do.

_Xa._ Ay, but he's too ill-natur'd to be wrought upon by all the kind
Offices in the World.

_Eu._ Hold, don't say so, there is no Beast that is so savage but he may
be tam'd by good Management; therefore don't despair of it as to a Man.
Do but make the Experiment for a few Months, and if you do not find that
this Advice has been of Benefit to you, blame me. And there are also
some Faults that you must wink at; but above all Things, it is my
Opinion, you ought to avoid ever to begin any Quarrel either in the
Bed-Chamber, or in Bed, and to take a special Care that every Thing
there be chearful and pleasant. For if that Place which is consecrated
for the wiping out old Miscarriages and the cementing of Love, comes to
be unhallowed by Contention and Sourness of Temper, all Remedy for the
Reconcilement is taken away. For there are some Women of so morose
Tempers that they will be querulous, and scold even while the Rites of
Love are performing, and will by the Uneasiness of their Tempers render
that Fruition itself disagreeable which is wont to discharge the Minds
of Men from any Heart-burning, that they may have had; and by this Means
they spoil that Cordial, by which Misunderstandings in Matrimony might
be cured.

_Xa._ That has been often my Case.

_Eu._ And tho' it ought always to be the Care of a Wife, not to make her
Husband uneasy in any Thing; yet that ought to be especially her Care to
study, in conjugal Embraces to render herself by all ways possible,
agreeable and delightful to her Husband.

_Xa._ To a Man, indeed! But I have to do with an untractable Beast.

_Eu._ Come, come, leave off Railing. For the most part Husbands are made
bad, by our bad Conduct. But to return to our Argument, those that are
conversant in the antient Fables of the Poets, tell you that _Venus_,
(whom they make a Goddess, that presides over Matrimony) had a Girdle or
_Cestus_ which was made for her by _Vulcan's_ Art, in which were
interwoven all bewitching Ingredients of an amorous Medicament, and that
she put this on whenever she went to bed to her Husband.

_Xa._ I hear a Fable.

_Eu._ It is true: But hear the Moral of it.

_Xa._ Tell it me.

_Eu._ That teaches that a Wife ought to use all the Care imaginable to
be so engaging to her Husband in conjugal Embraces, that matrimonial
Affection may be retain'd and renew'd, and if there has been any
Distaste or Aversion, it may be expell'd the Mind.

_Xa._ But where can a Body get this Girdle?

_Eu._ There is no Need of Witchcrafts and Spells to procure one. There
is no Enchantment so effectual as Virtue, join'd with a Sweetness of

_Xa._ I can't be able to bring myself to humour such a Husband as I have

_Eu._ But this is for your Interest, that he would leave off to be such
a bad Husband. If you could by _Circe_'s Art transform your Husband into
a Swine or a Bear, would you do it?

_Xa._ I can't tell, whether I should or no.

_Eu._ Which had you rather have, a Swine to your Husband, or a Man?

_Xa._ In Truth, I had rather have a Man.

_Eu._ Well, come on. What if you could by _Circe_'s Arts make him a
sober Man of a Drunkard, a frugal Man of a Spendthrift, a diligent Man
of an idle Fellow, would you not do it?

_Xa._ To be sure, I would do it. But how shall I attain the Art?

_Eu._ You have the Art in yourself, if you would but make Use of it.
Whether you will or no he must be your Husband, and the better Man you
make him, the more you consult your own Advantage. You only keep your
Eyes fix'd upon his Faults, and those aggravate your Aversion to him;
and only hold him by this Handle, which is such a one that he cannot be
held by; but rather take Notice of what good Qualities he has, and hold
him by this Handle, which is a Handle he may be held by: Before you
married him, you had Time of considering what his Defects were. A
Husband is not to be chosen by the Eyes only, but by the Ears too. Now
'tis your Time to cure him, and not to find Fault with him.

_Xa._ What Woman ever made Choice of a Husband by her Ears?

_Eu._ She chuses a Husband by her Eyes, which looks at nothing else but
his Person and bare Outside: She chuses him by her Ears, who carefully
observes what Reputation he has in the World.

_Xa._ This is good Advice, but it is too late.

_Eu._ But it is not too late to endeavour to amend your Husband. It will
contribute something to the Matter, if you could have any Children by

_Xa._ I have had one.

_Eu._ When?

_Xa._ A long Time ago.

_Eu._ How many Months?

_Xa._ Why, about Seven.

_Eu._ What do I hear! You put me in Mind of the Joke of the three Months
Lying in.

_Xa._ By no Means.

_Eu._ It must be so, if you reckon from the Day of Marriage.

_Xa._ But I had some private Discourse with him before Marriage.

_Eu._ Are Children got by Talking?

_Xa._ He having by Chance got me into a Room by myself, began to play
with me, tickling me about the Arm-pits and Sides, to make me laugh, and
I not being able to bear being tickled any longer, threw myself flat
upon the Bed, and he lying upon me, kiss'd me, and I don't know what he
did to me besides; but this is certain, within a few Days after, my
Belly began to swell.

_Eu._ Get you gone now, and slight a Husband, who if he can get Children
jesting, what will he do if he sets about it in earnest?

_Xa._ I suspect that I am now with Child by him again.

_Eu._ O brave! to a good Soil, here's a good Ploughman to till it.

_Xa._ As to this Affair, he's better than I wish he was.

_Eu._ Very few Wives have this Complaint to make: But, I suppose, the
Marriage Contract was made between you, before this happened.

_Xa._ It was made.

_Eu._ Then the Sin was so much the less. Is your Child a Boy?

_Xa._ It is.

_Eu._ That will reconcile you both, if you will but qualify yourself a
little for it. What Sort of Character do your Husband's Companions give
him? And what Company does he keep when he is abroad?

_Xa._ They give him the Character of an exceeding good-humour'd,
courteous, generous Man, and a true Friend to his Friend.

_Eu._ These Things give me great Hopes, that he will become such as we
would have him be.

_Xa._ But I am the only Person he is not so to.

_Eu._ Do you but be to him what I have told you, and if he does not
begin to be so to you, instead of _Eulalia_ (a good Speaker), call me
_Pseudolalia_ (a prating Liar); and besides, consider this, that he's
but a young Man yet, I believe not above twenty-four Years of Age, and
does not yet know what it is to be the Master of a Family. You must
never think of a Divorce now.

_Xa._ But I have thought on it a great many Times.

_Eu._ But if ever that Thought comes into your Mind again, first of all
consider with yourself, what an insignificant Figure a Woman makes when
she is parted from her Husband. It is the greatest Glory of a Matron, to
be obedient to her Husband. This Nature dictates, and it is the Will of
God, that the Woman should wholly depend upon her Husband: Only think,
as it really is, he is your Husband, you cannot have another. Then call
to Mind that the little Boy belongs to you both. What would you do with
him? Would you take him away with you? Then will you defraud your
Husband of his own. Will you leave him to him? Then you will deprive
yourself of that, than which nothing is more dear. Last of all, tell me,
is there any Body that wishes you ill?

_Xa._ I have a Step-Mother, and a Mother-in-Law, as like her as may be.

_Eu._ And they wish you ill, do they?

_Xa._ They wish me in my Grave.

_Eu._ Then think of them likewise. What can you be able to do, that
would be more grateful to them, than if they should see you divorc'd
from your Husband; a Widow, nay, to live, a Widow bewitcht, worse than a
Widow? For Widows may marry again.

_Xa._ I approve of your Advice; but can't bear the Thoughts of being
always a Slave.

_Eu._ Recount what Pains you took before you could teach that Parrot to

_Xa._ A great Deal indeed.

_Eu._ And yet you think much to bestow a little Pains to mould your
Husband, with whom you may live a pleasant Life all your Days. What a
Deal of Pains do Men take to render a Horse tractable to them: And shall
we think much to take a little Pains to render our Husbands more

_Xa._ What must I do?

_Eu._ I have told you already, take Care that all Things be neat, and in
Order at Home, that there be nothing discomposing, to make him go out of
Doors; behave yourself easy and free to him, always remembring that
Respect which is due from a Wife to a Husband. Let all Melancholy and
ill-tim'd Gaiety be banished out of Doors; be not morose nor
frolicksome. Let your Table be handsomely provided. You know your
Husband's Palate, dress that which he likes best. Behave yourself
courteously and affably to those of his Acquaintance he respects. Invite
them frequently to Dinner; let all Things be pleasant and chearful at
Table. Lastly, if at any Time he happens to come Home a little merry
with Wine, and shall fall to playing on his Fiddle, do you sing, to him,
so you will gradually inure your Husband to keep at Home, and also
lessen his Expences: For he will thus reason with himself; was not I mad
with a Witness, who live abroad with a nasty Harlot, to the apparent
Prejudice of my Estate and Reputation, when I have at Home a Wife much
more entertaining and affectionate to me, with whom I may be entertained
more handsomely and more plentifully?

_Xa._ Do you think I shall succeed, if I try?

_Eu._ Look to me for that. I engage that you will: In the mean Time I'll
talk to your Husband, and put him in Mind of his Duty.

_Xa._ I approve of your Design; but take Care that he mayn't discover
any Thing of what has past between us two, for he would throw the House
out of the Windows.

_Eu._ Don't fear, I'll order my Discourse so by Turnings and Windings,
that he shall tell me himself, what Quarrels have happened between you.
When I have brought this about, I'll treat him after my Way, as
engagingly as can be, and I hope, shall render him to you better
temper'd: I'll likewise take Occasion to tell a Lie or two in your
Favour, how lovingly and respectfully you spoke of him.

_Xa._ Heaven prosper both our Undertakings.

_Eu._ It will, I doubt not, if you are not wanting to yourself.



     _This Colloquy sets out to the Life, the Madness of young
     Men that run into the Wars, and the Life of a pious
     Carthusian, which without the love of Study, can't but be
     melancholy and unpleasant. The Manners of Soldiers, the
     Manners and Diet of Carthusians. Advice in chusing a Way
     of getting a Livelihood. The Conveniency of a single
     Life, to be at Leisure for Reading and Meditation. Wicked
     Soldiers oftentimes butcher Men for a pitiful Reward. The
     daily Danger of a Soldier's Life._


_Sol._ Good Morrow, my Brother.

_Cart._ Good Morrow to you, dear Cousin.

_Sol._ I scarce knew you.

_Cart._ Am I grown so old in two Years Time?

_Sol._ No; but your bald Crown, and your new Dress, make you look to me
like another Sort of Creature.

_Cart._ It may be you would not know your own Wife, if she should meet
you in a new Gown.

_Sol._ No; not if she was in such a one as yours.

_Cart._ But I know you very well, who are not altered as to your Dress;
but your Face, and the whole Habit of your Body: Why, how many Colours
are you painted with? No Bird had ever such a Variety of Feathers. How
all is cut and slash'd! Nothing according to Nature or Fashion! your cut
Hair, your half-shav'd Beard, and that Wood upon your upper Lip,
entangled and standing out straggling like the Whiskers of a Cat. Nor is
it one single Scar that has disfigured your Face, that you may very well
be taken for one of the _Samian literati_, [q.d. burnt in the Cheek]
concerning whom there is a joking Proverb.

_Sol._ Thus it becomes a Man to come back from the Wars. But, pray, tell
me, was there so great a Scarcity of good Physicians in this Quarter of
the World?

_Cart._ Why do you ask?

_Sol._ Because you did not get the Distemper of your Brain cur'd, before
you plung'd yourself into this Slavery.

_Cart._ Why, do you think I was mad then?

_Sol._ Yes, I do. What Occasion was there for you to be buried here,
before your Time, when you had enough in the World to have lived
handsomely upon?

_Cart._ What, don't you think I live in the World now?

_Sol._ No, by _Jove_.

_Cart._ Tell me why.

_Sol._ Because you can't go where you list. You are confin'd in this
Place as in a Coop. Besides, your bald Pate, and your prodigious strange
Dress, your Lonesomeness, your eating Fish perpetually, so that I admire
you are not turn'd into a Fish.

_Cart._ If Men were turn'd into what they eat, you had long ago been
turn'd into a Hog, for you us'd to be a mighty Lover of Pork.

_Sol._ I don't doubt but you have repented of what you have done, long
enough before now, for I find very few that don't repent of it.

_Cart._ This usually happens to those who plunge themselves headlong
into this Kind of Life, as if they threw themselves into a Well; but I
have enter'd into it warily and considerately, having first made Trial
of myself, and having duly examined the whole Ratio of this Way of
Living, being twenty-eight Years of Age, at which Time, every one may be
suppos'd to know himself. And as for the Place, you are confined in a
small Compass as well as I, if you compare it to the Extent of the
whole World. Nor does it signify any Thing how large the Place is, as
long as it wants nothing of the Conveniences of Life. There are many
that seldom stir out of the City in which they were born, which if they
were prohibited from going out, would be very uneasy, and would be
wonderfully desirous to do it. This is a common Humour, that I am not
troubled with. I fancy this Place to be the whole World to me, and this
Map represents the whole Globe of the Earth, which I can travel over in
Thought with more Delight and Security than he that sails to the
new-found Islands.

_Sol._ What you say as to this, comes pretty near the Truth.

_Cart._ You can't blame me for shaving my Head, who voluntarily have
your own Hair clipp'd, for Conveniency Sake. Shaving, to me, if it does
nothing else, certainly keeps my Head more clean, and perhaps more
healthful too. How many Noblemen at _Venice_ shave their Heads all over?
What has my Garment in it that is monstrous? Does it not cover my Body?
Our Garments are for two Uses, to defend us from the Inclemency of the
Weather, and to cover our Nakedness. Does not this Garment answer both
these Ends? But perhaps the Colour offends you. What Colour is more
becoming Christians than that which was given to all in Baptism? It has
been said also, _Take a white Garment_; so that this Garment puts me in
Mind of what I promised in Baptism, that is, the perpetual Study of
Innocency. And besides, if you call that Solitude which is only a
retiring from the Crowd, we have for this the Example, not only of our
own, but of the ancient Prophets, the _Ethnick_ Philosophers, and all
that had any Regard to the keeping a good Conscience. Nay, Poets,
Astrologers, and Persons devoted to such-like Arts, whensoever they take
in Hand any Thing that's great and beyond the Sphere of the common
People, commonly betake themselves to a Retreat. But why should you call
this Kind of Life Solitude? The Conversation of one single Friend drives
away the Tædium of Solitude. I have here more than sixteen Companions,
fit for all Manner of Conversation. And besides, I have Friends who
come to visit me oftner than I would have them, or is convenient Do I
then, in your Opinion, live melancholy?

_Sol._ But you cannot always have these to talk with.

_Cart._ Nor is it always expedient: For Conversation is the pleasanter,
for being something interrupted.

_Sol._ You don't think amiss; for even to me myself, Flesh relishes much
better after Lent.

_Cart._ And more than that, when I seem to be most alone, I don't want
Companions, which are by far more delightful and entertaining than those
common Jesters.

_Sol._ Where are they?

_Cart._ Look you, here are the four Evangelists. In this Book he that so
pleasantly commun'd with the two Disciples in the Way going to _Emaus_,
and who by his heavenly Discourse caus'd them not to be sensible of the
Fatigue of their Journey, but made their Hearts burn within them with a
divine Ardour of hearing his sweet Words, holds Conversation with me. In
this I converse with _Paul_, with _Isaiah_, and the rest of the
Prophets. Here the most sweet _Chrysostom_ converses with me, and
_Basil_, and _Austin_, and _Jerome_, and _Cyprian_, and the rest of the
Doctors that are both learned and eloquent. Do you know any such
pleasant Companions abroad in the World, that you can have Conversation
with? Do you think I can be weary of Retirement, in such Society as
this? And I am never without it.

_Sol._ But they would speak to me to no Purpose, who do not understand

_Cart._ Now for our Diet, what signifies it with what Food this Body of
ours is fed which is satisfied with very little, if we live according to
Nature? Which of us two is in the best Plight? You who live upon
Partridges, Pheasants and Capons; or I who live upon Fish?

_Sol._ If you had a Wife as I have, you would not be so lusty.

_Cart._ And for that Reason, any Food serves us, let it be never so

_Sol._ But in the mean Time, you live the Life of a _Jew_.

_Cart._ Forbear Reflections: If we cannot come up to Christianity, at
least we follow after it.

_Sol._ You put too much Confidence in Habits, Meats, Forms of Prayer,
and outward Ceremonies, and neglect the Study of Gospel Religion.

_Cart._ It is none of my Business to judge what others do: As to myself,
I place no Confidence in these Things, I attribute nothing to them; but
I put my Confidence in Purity of Mind, and in _Christ_ himself.

_Sol._ Why do you observe these Things then?

_Cart._ That I may be at Peace with my Brethren, and give no Body
Offence. I would give no Offence to any one for the Sake of these
trivial Things, which it is but a very little Trouble to observe. As we
are Men, let us wear what Cloaths we will. Men are so humoursome, the
Agreement or Disagreement in the most minute Matters, either procures or
destroys Concord. The shaving of the Head, or Colour of the Habit does
not indeed, of themselves, recommend me to God: But what would the
People say, if I should let my Hair grow, or put on your Habit? I have
given you my Reasons for my Way of Life; now, pray, in your Turn, give
me your Reasons for yours, and tell me, were there no good Physicians in
your Quarter, when you listed yourself for a Soldier, leaving a young
Wife and Children at Home, and was hired for a pitiful Pay to cut Men's
Throats, and that with the Hazard of your own Life too? For your
Business did not lie among Mushrooms and Poppies, but armed Men. What do
you think is a more unhappy Way of living, for a poor Pay, to murder a
Fellow Christian, who never did you Harm, and to run yourself Body and
Soul into eternal Damnation?

_Sol._ Why, it is lawful to kill an Enemy.

_Cart._ Perhaps it may be so, if he invades your native Country: Nay,
and it is pious too, to fight for your Wife, Children, your Parents and
Friends, your Religion and Liberties, and the publick Peace. But what is
all that to your fighting for Money? If you had been knocked on the
Head, I would not have given a rotten Nut to redeem the very Soul of

_Sol._ No?

_Cart._ No, by Christ, I would not. Now which do you think is the harder
Task, to be obedient to a good Man, which we call Prior, who calls us to
Prayers, and holy Lectures, the Hearing of the saving Doctrine, and to
sing to the Glory of God: Or, to be under the Command of some barbarous
Officer, who often calls you out to fatiguing Marches at Midnight, and
sends you out, and commands you back at his Pleasure, exposes you to the
Shot of great Guns, assigns you a Station where you must either kill or
be killed?

_Sol._ There are more Evils than you have mentioned yet.

_Cart._ If I shall happen to deviate from the Discipline of my Order, my
Punishment is only Admonition, or some such slight Matter: But in War,
if you do any Thing contrary to the General's Orders, you must either be
hang'd for it, or run the Gantlope; for it would be a Favour to have
your Head cut off.

_Sol._ I can't deny what you say to be true.

_Cart._ And now your Habit bespeaks, that you han't brought much Money
Home, after all your brave Adventures.

_Sol._ As for Money, I have not had a Farthing this good While; nay, I
have gotten a good Deal into Debt, and for that Reason I come hither out
of my Way, that you might furnish me with some Money to bear my Charges.

_Cart._ I wish you had come out of your Way hither, when you hurried
yourself into that wicked Life of a Soldier. But how come you so bare?

_Sol._ Do you ask that? Why, whatsoever I got of Pay, Plunder,
Sacrilege, Rapine and Theft, was spent in Wine, Whores and Gaming.

_Cart._ O miserable Creature! And all this While your Wife, for whose
Sake God commanded you to leave Father and Mother, being forsaken by
you, sat grieving at Home with her young Children. And do you think this
is Living, to be involved in so many Miseries, and to wallow in so great

_Sol._ The having so many Companions of my Wickedness, made me
insensible of my Evil.

_Cart._ But I'm afraid your Wife won't know you again.

_Sol._ Why so?

_Cart._ Because your Scars have made you the Picture of quite another
Man. What a Trench have you got here in your Forehead? It looks as if
you had had a Horn cut out.

_Sol._ Nay, if you did but know the Matter, you would congratulate me
upon this Scar.

_Cart._ Why so?

_Sol._ I was within a Hair's Breadth of losing my Life.

_Cart._ Why, what Mischief was there?

_Sol._ As one was drawing a Steel Cross-bow, it broke, and a Splinter of
it hit me in the Forehead.

_Cart._ You have got a Scar upon your Cheek that is above a Span long.

_Sol._ I got this Wound in a Battel.

_Cart._ In what Battel, in the Field?

_Sol._ No, but in a Quarrel that arose at Dice.

_Cart._ And I see I can't tell what Sort of Rubies on your Chin.

_Sol._ O they are nothing.

_Cart._ I suspect that you have had the Pox.

_Sol._ You guess very right, Brother. It was the third Time I had that
Distemper, and it had like to have cost me my Life.

_Cart._ But how came it, that you walk so stooping, as if you were
ninety Years of Age; or like a Mower, or as if your Back was broke?

_Sol._ The Disease has contracted my Nerves to that Degree.

_Cart._ In Truth you have undergone a wonderful Metamorphosis: Formerly
you were a Horseman, and now of a Centaur, you are become a Kind of
semi-reptile Animal.

_Sol._ This is the Fortune of War.

_Cart._ Nay, 'tis the Madness of your own Mind. But what Spoils will you
carry Home to your Wife and Children? The Leprosy? for that Scab is only
a Species of the Leprosy; and it is only not accounted so, because it
is the Disease in Fashion, and especially among Noblemen: And for this
very Reason, it should be the more carefully avoided. And now you will
infect with it those that ought to be the dearest to you of any in the
World, and you yourself will all your Days carry about a rotten Carcass.

_Sol._ Prithee, Brother, have done chiding me. I have enough upon me
without Chiding.

_Cart._ As to those Calamities, I have hitherto taken Notice of, they
only relate to the Body: But what a Sort of a Soul do you bring back
with you? How putrid and ulcered? With how many Wounds is that sore?

_Sol._ Just as clean as a _Paris_ common Shore in _Maburtus_'s Road, or
a common House of Office.

_Cart._ I am afraid it stinks worse in the Nostrils of God and his

_Sol._ Well, but I have had Chiding enough, now speak to the Matter, of
something to bear my Charges.

_Cart._ I have nothing to give you, but I'll go and try what the Prior
will do.

_Sol._ If any Thing was to be given, your Hands would be ready to
receive it; but now there are a great many Difficulties in the Way, when
something is to be paid.

_Cart._ As to what others do, let them look to that, I have no Hands,
either to give or take Money: But we'll talk more of these Matters after
Dinner, for it is now Time to sit down at Table.



     _This Colloquy sets forth the Disposition and Nature of a
     Liar, who seems to be born to lie for crafty Gain. A Liar
     is a Thief. Gain got by Lying, is baser than that which
     is got by a Tax upon Urine. An egregious Method of
     deceiving is laid open. Cheating Tradesmen live better
     than honest ones._


_Phil._ From what Fountain does this Flood of Lies flow?

_Pseud._ From whence do Spiders Webs proceed?

_Phil._ Then it is not the _Product_ of Art, but of Nature.

_Pseud._ The Seeds indeed proceed from Nature; but Art and Use have
enlarg'd the Faculty.

_Phil._ Why, are you not asham'd of it?

_Pseud._ No more than a Cuckow is of her Singing.

_Phil._ But you can alter your Note upon every Occasion. The Tongue of
Man was given him to speak the Truth.

_Pseud._ Ay, to speak those Things that tend to his Profit: The Truth is
not to be spoken at all Times.

_Phil._ It is sometimes for a Man's Advantage to have pilfering Hands;
and the old Proverb is a Witness, that that is a Vice that is
Cousin-German to yours of Lying.

_Pseud._ Both these Vices are supported by good Authorities: One has
_Ulysses_, so much commended by _Homer_, and the other has _Mercury_,
that was a God, for its Example, if we believe the Poets.

_Phil._ Why then do People in common curse Liars, and hang Thieves?

_Pseud._ Not because they lie or steal, but because they do it
bunglingly or unnaturally, not rightly understanding the Art.

_Phil._ Is there any Author that teaches the Art of Lying?

_Pseud._ Your Rhetoricians have instructed in the best Part of the Art.

_Phil._ These indeed present us with the Art of well speaking.

_Pseud._ True: and the good Part of speaking well, is to lie cleverly.

_Phil._ What is clever Lying?

_Pseud._ Would you have me define it?

_Phil._ I would have you do it.

_Pseud._ It is to lie so, that you may get Profit by it, and not be
caught in a Lie.

_Phil._ But a great many are caught in lying every Day.

_Pseud._ That's because they are not perfect Masters of the Art.

_Phil._ Are you a perfect Master in it?

_Pseud._ In a Manner.

_Phil._ See, if you can tell me a Lie, so as to deceive me.

_Pseud._ Yes, best of Men, I can deceive you yourself, if I have a Mind
to it.

_Phil._ Well, tell me some Lie or other then.

_Pseud._ Why, I have told one already, and did you not catch me in it?

_Phil._ No.

_Pseud._ Come on, listen attentively; now I'll begin to lie then.

_Phil._ I do listen attentively; tell one.

_Pseud._ Why, I have told another Lie, and you have not caught me.

_Phil._ In Truth, I hear no Lie yet.

_Pseud._ You would have heard some, if you understood the Art.

_Phil._ Do you shew it me then.

_Pseud._ First of all, I call'd you the best of Men, is not that a
swinging Lie, when you are not so much as good? And if you were good,
you could not be said to be the best, there are a thousand others better
than you.

_Phil._ Here, indeed, you have deceiv'd me.

_Pseud._ Well, now try if you can catch me again in another Lie.

_Phil._ I cannot.

_Pseud._ I want to have you shew that Sharpness of Wit, that you do in
other Things.

_Phil._ I confess, I am deficient. Shew me.

_Pseud._ When I said, now I will begin to lie, did I not tell you a
swinging Lie then, when I had been accustomed to lie for so many Years,
and I had also told a Lie, just the Moment before.

_Phil._ An admirable Piece of Witchcraft.

_Pseud._ Well, but now you have been forewarn'd, prick up your Ears,
listen attentively, and see if you can catch me in a Lie.

_Phil._ I do prick them up; say on.

_Pseud._ I have said already, and you have imitated me in lying.

_Phil._ Why, you'll persuade me I have neither Ears nor Eyes by and by.

_Pseud._ When Mens Ears are immoveable, and can neither be prick'd up
nor let down, I told a Lie in bidding you prick up your Ears.

_Phil._ The whole Life of Man is full of such Lies.

_Pseud._ Not only such as these, O good Man, for these are but Jokes:
But there are those that bring Profit.

_Phil._ The Gain that is got by Lying, is more sordid, than that which
is got by laying a Tax on Urine.

_Pseud._ That is true, I own; but then 'tis to those that han't the Art
of lying.

_Phil._ What Art is this that you understand?

_Pseud._ It is not fit I should teach you for nothing; pay me, and you
shall hear it.

_Phil._ I will not pay for bad Arts.

_Pseud._ Then will you give away your Estate?

_Phil._ I am not so mad neither.

_Pseud._ But my Gain by this Art is more certain than yours from your

_Phil._ Well, keep your Art to yourself, only give me a Specimen that I
may understand that what you say is not all Pretence.

_Pseud._ Here's a Specimen for you: I concern myself in all Manner of
Business, I buy, I sell, I receive, I borrow, I take Pawns.

_Phil._ Well, what then?

_Pseud._ And in these Affairs I entrap those by whom I cannot easily be

_Phil._ Who are those?

_Pseud._ The soft-headed, the forgetful, the unthinking, those that live
a great Way off, and those that are dead.

_Phil._ The Dead, to be sure, tell no Tales.

_Pseud._ If I sell any Thing upon Credit, I set it down carefully in my
Book of Accounts.

_Phil._ And what then?

_Pseud._ When the Money is to be paid, I charge the Buyer with more than
he had. If he is unthinking or forgetful, my Gain is certain.

_Phil._ But what if he catches you?

_Pseud._ I produce my Book of Accounts.

_Phil._ What if he informs you, and proves to your Face he has not had
the Goods you charge him with?

_Pseud._ I stand to it stiffly; for Bashfulness is altogether an
unprofitable Qualification in this Art. My last Shift is, I frame some
Excuse or other.

_Phil._ But when you are caught openly?

_Pseud._ Nothing's more easy, I pretend my Servant has made a Mistake,
or I myself have a treacherous Memory: It is a very pretty Way to jumble
the Accounts together, and this is an easy Way to impose on a Person: As
for Example, some are cross'd out, the Money being paid, and others have
not been paid; these I mingle one with another at the latter End of the
Book, nothing being cross'd out. When the Sum is cast up, we contend
about it, and I for the most Part get the better, tho' it be by
forswearing myself. Then besides, I have this Trick, I make up my
Account with a Person when he is just going a Journey, and not prepared
for the Settling it. For as for me, I am always ready. If any Thing be
left with me, I conceal it, and restore it not again. It is a long Time
before he can come to the Knowledge of it, to whom it is sent; and,
after all, if I can't deny the receiving of a Thing, I say it is lost,
or else affirm I have sent that which I have not sent, and charge it
upon the Carrier. And lastly, if I can no Way avoid restoring it, I
restore but Part of it.

_Phil._ A very fine Art.

_Pseud._ Sometimes I receive Money twice over, if I can: First at Home,
afterwards there where I have gone, and I am every where. Sometimes
Length of Time puts Things out of Remembrance: The Accounts are
perplexed, one dies, or goes a long Journey: And if nothing else will
hit, in the mean Time I make Use of other People's Money. I bring some
over to my Interest, by a Shew of Generosity, that they may help me out
in lying; but it is always at other People's Cost; of my own, I would
not give my own Mother a Doit. And tho' the Gain in each Particular may
be but small; but being many put together, makes a good round Sum; for
as I said, I concern myself in a great many Affairs; and besides all,
that I may not be catch'd, as there are many Tricks, this is one of the
chief. I intercept all the Letters I can, open them, and read them. If
any Thing in them makes against me, I destroy them, or keep them a long
Time before I deliver them: And besides all this, I sow Discord between
those that live at a great Distance one from another.

_Phil._ What do you get by that?

_Pseud._ There is a double Advantage in it. First of all, if that is not
performed that I have promised in another Person's Name, or in whose
Name I have received any Present, I lay it to this or that Man's Door,
that it was not performed, and so these Forgeries I make turn to a
considerable Account.

_Phil._ But what if he denies it?

_Pseud._ He's a great Way off, as suppose at _Basil_; and I promise to
give it in _England._ And so it is brought about, that both being
incensed, neither will believe the one the other, if I accuse them of
any Thing. Now you have a Specimen of my Art.

_Phil._ But this Art is what we Dullards call Theft; who call a Fig a
Fig, and a Spade a Spade.

_Pseud._ O Ignoramus in the Law! Can you bring an Action of Theft for
Trover or Conversion, or for one that having borrow'd a Thing forswears
it, that puts a Trick upon one, by some such Artifice?

_Phil._ He ought to be sued for Theft.

_Pseud._ Do but then see the Prudence of Artists. From these Methods
there is more Gain, or at least as much, and less Danger.

_Phil._ A Mischief take you, with your cheating Tricks and Lies, for I
han't a Mind to learn 'em. Good by to ye.

_Pseud._ You may go on, and be plagu'd with your ragged Truth. In the
mean Time, I'll live merrily upon my thieving, lying Tricks, with Slight
of Hand.



     Naufragium _exposes the Dangers of those that go to Sea;
     the various and foolish Superstition of Mariners. An
     elegant Description of a Storm. They indeed run a Risque
     that throw their valuable Commodities into the Sea.
     Mariners impiously invoke the Virgin_ Mary, _St._
     Christopher, _and the Sea itself. Saints are not to be
     pray'd to, but God alone._


_Ant._ You tell dreadful Stories: Is this going to Sea? God forbid that
ever any such Thing should come into my Mind.

_Adol._ That which I have related, is but a Diversion, in Comparison to
what you'll hear presently.

_Ant._ I have heard Calamities enough already, my Flesh trembles to hear
you relate them, as if I were in Danger myself.

_Adol._ But Dangers that are past, are pleasant to be thought on. One
thing happen'd that Night, that almost put the Pilot out of all Hopes of

_Ant._ Pray what was that?

_Adol._ The Night was something lightish, and one of the Sailors was got
into the Skuttle (so I think they call it) at the Main-Top-Mast, looking
out if he could see any Land; a certain Ball of Fire began to stand by
him, which is the worst Sign in the World to Sailors, if it be single;
but a very good one, if double. The Antients believed these to be
_Castor_ and _Pollux_.

_Ant._ What have they to do with Sailors, one of which was a Horseman,
and the other a Prize-Fighter?

_Adol._ It was the Pleasure of Poets, so to feign. The Steersman who sat
at the Helm, calls to him, Mate, says he, (for so Sailors call one
another) don't you see what a Companion you have by your Side? I do see,
says he, and I pray that he may be a lucky one. By and by this fiery
Ball glides down the Ropes, and rolls itself over and over close to the

_Ant._ And was not he frighted out of his Wits?

_Adol._ Sailors are us'd to terrible Sights. It stopp'd a little there,
then roll'd itself all round the Sides of the Ship; after that, slipping
through the Hatches, it vanished away. About Noon the Storm began to
increase. Did you ever see the _Alps_?

_Ant._ I have seen them.

_Adol._ Those Mountains are Mole Hills, if they be compar'd to the Waves
of the Sea. As oft as we were toss'd up, one might have touch'd the Moon
with his Finger; and as oft as we were let fall down into the Sea, we
seem'd to be going directly down to Hell, the Earth gaping to receive

_Ant._ O mad Folks, that trust themselves to the Sea!

_Adol._ The Mariners striving in Vain with the Storm, at length the
Pilot, all pale as Death comes to us.

_Ant._ That Paleness presages some great Evil.

_Adol._ My Friends, says he, I am no longer Master of my Ship, the Wind
has got the better of me; all that we have now to do is to place our
Hope in God, and every one to prepare himself for Death.

_Ant._ This was cold Comfort.

_Adol._ But in the first Place, says he, we must lighten the Ship;
Necessity requires it, tho' 'tis a hard Portion. It is better to
endeavour to save our Lives with the Loss of our Goods, than to perish
with them. The Truth persuaded, and a great many Casks of rich
Merchandize were thrown over-Board. _Ant._ This was casting away,
according to the Letter.

_Adol._ There was in the Company, a certain _Italian_, that had been
upon an Embassy to the King of _Scotland_. He had a whole Cabinet full
of Plate, Rings, Cloth, and rich wearing Apparel.

_Ant._ And he, I warrant ye, was unwilling to come to a Composition with
the Sea.

_Adol._ No, he would not; he had a Mind either to sink or swim with his
beloved Riches.

_Ant._ What said the Pilot to this?

_Adol._ If you and your Trinkets were to drown by yourselves, says he,
here's no Body would hinder you; but it is not fit that we should run
the Risque of our Lives, for the Sake of your Cabinet: If you won't
consent, we'll throw you and your Cabinet into the Sea together.

_Ant._ Spoken like a Tarpawlin.

_Adol._ So the Italian submitted, and threw his Goods over-Board, with
many a bitter Curse to the Gods both above and below, that he had
committed his Life to so barbarous an Element.

_Ant._ I know the Italian Humour.

_Adol._ The Winds were nothing the less boisterous for our Presents, but
by and by burst our Cordage, and threw down our Sails.

_Ant._ Lamentable!

_Adol._ Then the Pilot comes to us again.

_Ant._ What, with another Preachment?

_Adol._ He gives us a Salute; my Friends, says he, the Time exhorts us
that every one of us should recommend himself to God, and prepare for
Death. Being ask'd by some that were not ignorant in Sea Affairs, how
long he thought the Ship might be kept above Water, he said, he could
promise nothing, but that it could not be done above three Hours.

_Ant._ This was yet a harder Chapter than the former.

_Adol._ When he had said this, he orders to cut the Shrouds and the Mast
down by the Board, and to throw them, Sails and all, into the Sea.

_Ant._ Why was this done?

_Adol._ Because, the Sail either being gone or torn, it would only be a
Burden, but not of Use; all our Hope was in the Helm.

_Ant._ What did the Passengers do in the mean Time?

_Adol._ There you might have seen a wretched Face of Things; the
Mariners, they were singing their _Salve Regina_, imploring the Virgin
Mother, calling her the Star of the Sea, the Queen of Heaven, the Lady
of the World, the Haven of Health, and many other flattering Titles,
which the sacred Scriptures never attributed to her.

_Ant._ What has she to do with the Sea, who, as I believe, never went a
Voyage in her Life?

_Adol._ In ancient Times, _Venus_ took Care of Mariners, because she was
believ'd to be born of the Sea and because she left off to take Care of
them, the Virgin Mother was put in her Place, that was a Mother, but not
a Virgin.

_Ant._ You joke.

_Adol._ Some were lying along upon the Boards, worshipping the Sea,
pouring all they had into it, and flattering it, as if it had been some
incensed Prince.

_Ant._ What did they say?

_Adol._ O most merciful Sea! O most generous Sea! O most rich Sea! O
most beautiful Sea, be pacified, save us; and a Deal of such Stuff they
sung to the deaf Ocean.

_Ant._ Ridiculous Superstition! What did the rest do?

_Adol._ Some did nothing but spew, and some made Vows. There was an
_Englishman_ there, that promis'd golden Mountains to our Lady of
_Walsingham_, so he did but get ashore alive. Others promis'd a great
many Things to the Wood of the Cross, which was in such a Place; others
again, to that which was in such a Place; and the same was done by the
Virgin _Mary_, which reigns in a great many Places, and they think the
Vow is of no Effect, unless the Place be mentioned.

_Ant._ Ridiculous! As if the Saints did not dwell in Heaven.

_Adol._ Some made Promises to become _Carthusians_. There was one who
promised he would go a _Pilgrimage_ to St. _James_ at _Compostella_,
bare Foot and bare Head, cloth'd in a Coat of Mail, and begging his
Bread all the Way.

_Ant._ Did no Body make any Mention of St. _Christopher_?

_Adol._ Yes, I heard one, and I could not forbear laughing, who bawling
out aloud, lest St. _Christopher_ should not hear him, promised him, who
is at the Top of a Church at _Paris_, rather a Mountain than a Statue, a
wax Taper as big as he was himself: When he had bawl'd out this over and
over as loud as he could, an Acquaintance of his jogg'd him on the
Elbow, and caution'd him: Have a Care what you promise, for if you
should sell all you have in the World, you will not be able to pay for
it. He answer'd him softly, lest St. _Christopher_ should hear him, you
Fool, says he, do you think I mean as I speak, if I once got safe to
Shore, I would not give him so much as a tallow Candle.

_Ant._ O Blockhead! I fancy he was a _Hollander_.

_Adol._ No, he was a _Zealander_.

_Ant._ I wonder no Body thought of St. _Paul_, who has been at Sea, and
having suffered Shipwreck, leapt on Shore. For he being not unacquainted
with the Distress, knows how to pity those that are in it.

_Adol._ He was not so much as named.

_Ant._ Were they at their Prayers all the While?

_Adol._ Ay, as if it had been for a Wager. One sung his _Hail Queen_;
another, _I believe in God_. There were some who had certain particular
Prayers not unlike magical Charms against Dangers.

_Ant._ How Affliction makes Men religious! In Prosperity we neither
think of God nor Saint. But what did you do all this While? Did you not
make Vows to some Saints?

_Adol._ No, none at all.

_Ant._ Why so?

_Adol._ I make no Bargains with Saints. For what is this but a Bargain
in Form? I'll give you, if you do so and so; or I will do so and so, if
you do so and so: I'll give you a wax Taper, if I swim out alive; I'll
go to _Rome_, if you save me.

_Ant._ But did you call upon none of the Saints for Help?

_Adol._ No, not so much as that neither.

_Ant._ Why so?

_Adol._ Because Heaven is a large Place, and if I should recommend my
Safety to any Saint, as suppose, to St. _Peter_, who perhaps, would hear
soonest, because he stands at the Door; before he can come to God
Almighty, or before he could tell him my Condition, I may be lost.

_Ant._ What did you do then?

_Adol._ I e'en went the next Way to God the Father, saying, _Our Father
which art in Heaven_. There's none of the Saints hears sooner than he
does, or more readily gives what is ask'd for.

_Ant._ But in the mean Time did not your Conscience check you? Was you
not afraid to call him Father, whom you had offended with so many

_Adol._ To speak ingenuously, my Conscience did a little terrify me at
first, but I presently took Heart again, thus reasoning with myself;
There is no Father so angry with his Son, but if he sees him in Danger
of being drowned in a River or Pond, he will take him, tho' it be by the
Hair of the Head, and throw him out upon a Bank. There was no Body among
them all behaved herself more composed than a Woman, who had a Child
sucking at her Breast.

_Ant._ What did she do?

_Adol._ She only neither bawl'd, nor wept, nor made Vows, but hugging
her little Boy, pray'd softly. In the mean Time the Ship dashing ever
and anon against the Ground, the Pilot being afraid she would be beat
all to Pieces, under-girded her with Cables from Head to Stern.

_Ant._ That was a sad Shift!

_Adol._ Upon this, up starts an old Priest about threescore Years of
Age, his Name was _Adam_. He strips himself to his Shirt, throws away
his Boots and Shoes, and bids us all in like Manner to prepare ourselves
for swimming. Then standing in the middle of the Ship, he preach'd a
Sermon to us, upon the five Truths of the Benefit of Confession, and
exhorted every Man to prepare himself, for either Life or Death. There
was a _Dominican_ there too, and they confess'd those that had a Mind to

_Ant._ What did you do?

_Adol._ I seeing that every thing was in a Hurry, confess'd privately to
God, condemning before him my Iniquity, and imploring his Mercy.

_Ant._ And whither should you have gone, do you think, if you had

_Adol._ I left that to God, who is my Judge; I would not be my own
Judge. But I was not without comfortable Hopes neither. While these
Things were transacting, the Steersman comes to us again all in Tears;
Prepare your selves every one of you, says he, for the Ship will be of
no Service to us for a quarter of an Hour. For now she leak'd in several
Places. Presently after this he brings us Word that he saw a Steeple a
good Way off, and exhorts us to implore the Aid of that Saint, whoever
it was, who had the protection of that Temple. They all fall down and
pray to the unknown Saint.

_Ant._ Perhaps he would have heard ye, if ye had call'd upon him by his

_Adol._ But that we did not know. In the mean Time the Pilate steers the
Ship, torn and leaking every where, and ready to fall in Pieces, if she
had not been undergirt with Cables, as much as he could toward that

_Ant._ A miserable Condition.

_Adol._ We were now come so near the Shoar, that the Inhabitants of the
Place could see us in Distress, and ran down in Throngs to the utmost
Edge of the Shoar, and holding up Gowns and Hats upon Spears, invited us
to make towards them, and stretching out their Arms towards Heaven,
signified to us that they pitied our Misfortune.

_Ant._ I long to know what happened.

_Adol._ The Ship was now every where full of Water, that we were no
safer in the Ship than if we had been in the Sea.

_Ant._ Now was your Time to betake yourself to divine Help.

_Adol._ Ay, to a wretched one. The Sailors emptied the Ship's Boat of
Water, and let it down into the Sea. Every Body was for getting into it,
the Mariners cry'd out amain, they'll sink the Boat, it will not hold so
many; that every one should take what he could get, and swim for it.
There was no Time now for long Deliberation. One gets an Oar, another a
Pole, another a Gutter, another a Bucket, another a Plank, and every one
relying upon their Security, they commit themselves to the Billows.

_Ant._ But what became of the Woman that was the only Person that made
no Bawling?

_Adol._ She got to Shoar the first of them all.

_Ant._ How could she do that?

_Adol._ We set her upon a broad Plank, and ty'd her on so fast that she
could not easily fall off, and we gave her a Board in her Hand to make
Use of instead of an Oar, and wishing her good Success, we set her
afloat, thrusting her off from the Ship with Poles, that she might be
clear of it, whence was the greatest Danger. And she held her Child in
her left Hand, and row'd with her right Hand.

_Ant._ O _Virago_!

_Adol._ Now when there was nothing else left, one pull'd up a wooden
Image of the Virgin _Mary_, rotten, and rat-eaten, and embracing it in
his Arms, try'd to swim upon it.

_Ant._ Did the Boat get safe to Land?

_Adol._ None perish'd sooner than they that were in that, and there were
above thirty that had got into it.

_Ant._ By what bad Accident was that brought about?

_Adol._ It was overset by the rolling of the Ship, before they could get
clear of it.

_Ant._ A sad Accident: But how then?

_Adol._ While I was taking Care for others, I had like to have been lost

_Ant._ How so?

_Adol._ Because there was nothing left that was fit for swimming.

_Ant._ There Corks would have been of good Use.

_Adol._ In that Condition I would rather have had a sorry Cork than a
gold Candlestick. I look'd round about me, at Length I bethought myself
of the Stump of the Mast, and because I could not get it out alone, I
took a Partner; upon this we both plac'd ourselves, and committed
ourselves to the Sea. I held the right End, and my Companion the left
End. While we lay tumbling and tossing, the old preaching Sea-Priest
threw himself upon our Shoulders. He was a huge Fellow. We cry out,
who's that third Person? He'll drown us all. But he very calmly bids us
be easy, for there was Room enough, God will be with us.

_Ant._ How came he to be so late?

_Adol._ He was to have been in the Boat with the _Dominican_. For they
all paid him this Deference. But tho' they had confess'd themselves in
the Ship, yet having forgotten I know not what Circumstances, they
confess'd over again at the Ship-Side, and each lays his Hand upon the
other, and while this was doing the Boat was over-turn'd. This I had
from _Adam_ himself.

_Ant._ What became of the _Dominican_?

_Adol._ As the same Man told me, having implor'd the Help of his Saints,
and stript himself, he threw himself naked into the Sea.

_Ant._ What Saints did he call upon?

_Adol._ St. _Dominick_, St. _Thomas_, St. _Vincent_, and one of the
_Peters_, but I can't tell which: But his chief Reliance was upon
_Catherinea Senensis_.

_Ant._ Did he not remember _Christ_?

_Adol._ Not, as the old Priest told me.

_Ant._ He would have swam better if he had thrown off his sanctified
Coul: But if that had been laid aside, how should _Catherine_ of _Siena_
have known him? But go on and tell me about yourself.

_Adol._ While we were yet tumbling and tossing near the Ship, which
roll'd hither and thither at the Mercy of the Waves, the Thigh of him
that held the left End of the Stump of the Mast was broken by a great
Spike, and so that made him let go his Hold. The old Priest wishing him
everlasting Rest, took his Place, encouraging me to maintain my Post on
the right Hand resolutely, and to strike out my Feet stoutly. In the
mean Time we drank in abundance of salt Water. For _Neptune_ had
provided us not only a salt Bath, but a salt Potion too, altho' the old
Priest prescribed a Remedy for it.

_Ant._ What was that?

_Adol._ Why, as often as a Billow met us, he turn'd his Head and shut
his Mouth.

_Ant._ You tell me of a brave old Fellow.

_Adol._ When we had been some Time swimming at this Rate, and had made
some Way, the old Priest being a very tall Man, cries out, Be of good
Heart, I feel Ground; but I durst not hope for such a Blessing. No, no,
says I, we are too far from Shoar to hope to feel Ground. Nay, says he,
I feel the Ground with my Feet. Said I, perhaps it is some of the Chests
that have been roll'd thither by the Sea. Nay, says he, I am sure I feel
Ground by the Scratching of my Toes. Having floated thus a little
longer, and he had felt the Bottom again, Do you do what you please,
says he, I'll leave you the whole Mast, and wade for it. And so he took
his Opportunity, at the Ebbing of the Billows, he made what Haste he
could on his Feet, and when the Billows came again, he took Hold of his
Knees with his Hands, and bore up against the Billows, hiding himself
under them as Sea Gulls and Ducks do, and at the Ebbing of the Wave, he
would start up and run for it. I seeing that this succeeded so well to
him, followed his Example. There stood upon the Shoar Men, who had long
Pikes handed from one to another, which kept them firm against the Force
of the Waves, strong bodied Men, and accustom'd to the Waves, and he
that was last of them held out a Pike to the Person swimming towards
him. All that came to Shoar, and laying hold of that, were drawn safely
to dry Land. Some were sav'd this Way.

_Ant._ How many?

_Adol._ Seven. But two of these fainted away being brought to the Fire.

_Ant._ How many were in the Ship?

_Adol._ Fifty-eight.

_Ant._ O cruel Sea. At least it might have been content with the Tithes,
which are enough for Priests. Did it restore so few out of so great a

_Adol._ There we had Experience of the wonderful Humanity of the Nation,
that supply'd us with all Necessaries with exceeding Chearfulness; as
Lodging, Fire, Victuals, Cloaths, and Money to bear our Charges when we
went away.

_Ant._ What Country was it?

_Adol. Holland._

_Ant._ There's no Nation more human, altho' they are encompass'd with
such fierce Nations. I fancy you won't be for going to Sea again.

_Adol._ No, unless God shall please to deprive me of my Reason.

_Ant._ I would rather hear such Stories than feel them.



     _This Colloquy shews the various Customs of Nations and
     their Civility in treating Strangers. An Inn at_ Leyden
     _where are nothing but Women. The Manners of the_ French
     _Inns, who are us'd to tell Stories, and break Jests.
     The_ Germans, _far more uncivil in treating Travellers,
     being rude, and wholly inhospitable: The Guests look
     after their own Horses: The Method of receiving them into
     the Stove: They provide no Supper, till they know how
     many Guests they shall have: All that come that Night,
     sit down to Supper together: All pay alike, tho' one
     drinks twice as much Wine as another does._


_Bert._ I wonder what is the Fancy of a great many, for staying two or
three Days at _Lyons_? When I have once set out on a Journey, I an't at
Rest till I come to my Journey's End.

_Will._ Nay, I wonder as much, that any Body can get away from thence.

_Bert._ But why so?

_Will._ Because that's a Place the Companions of _Ulysses_ could not
have got away from. There are _Sirens_. No Body is better entertain'd at
his own House, than he is there at an Inn.

_Bert._ What is done there?

_Will._ There's a Woman always waiting at Table, which makes the
Entertainment pleasant with Railleries, and pleasant Jests. And the
Women are very handsome there. First the Mistress of the House came and
bad us Welcome, and to accept kindly what Fare we should have; after
her, comes her Daughter, a very fine Woman, of so handsome a Carriage,
and so pleasant in Discourse, that she would make even _Cato_ himself
merry, were he there: And they don't talk to you as if you were perfect
Strangers, but as those they have been a long Time acquainted with, and
familiar Friends.

_Bert._ O, I know the _French_ Way of Civility very well.

_Will._ And because they can't be always with you, by Reason of the
other Affairs of the House, and the welcoming of other Guests, there
comes a Lass, that supplies the Place of the Daughter, till she is at
Leisure to return again. This Lass is so well instructed in the Knack of
Repartees, that she has a Word ready for every Body, and no Conceit
comes amiss to her. The Mother, you must know, was somewhat in Years.

_Bert._ But what was your Table furnish'd with? For Stories fill no

_Will._ Truly, so splendid, that I was amaz'd that they could afford to
entertain their Guests so, for so small a Price. And then after Dinner,
they entertain a Man with such facetious Discourse, that one cannot be
tired; that I seemed to be at my own House, and not in a strange Place.

_Bert._ And how went Matters in your Chambers?

_Will._ Why, there was every where some pretty Lass or other, giggling
and playing wanton Tricks? They ask'd us if we had any foul Linnen to
wash; which they wash and bring to us again: In a word, we saw nothing
there but young Lasses and Women, except in the Stable, and they would
every now and then run in there too. When you go away, they embrace ye,
and part with you with as much Affection, as if you were their own
Brothers, or near Kinsfolks.

_Bert._ This Mode perhaps may become the _French_, but methinks the Way
of the _Germans_ pleases me better, which is more manly.

_Will._ I never have seen _Germany_; therefore, pray don't think much to
tell how they entertain a Traveller.

_Bert._ I can't tell whether the Method of entertaining be the same
every where; but I'll tell you what I saw there. No Body bids a Guest
welcome, lest he should seem to court his Guests to come to him, for
that they look upon to be sordid and mean, and not becoming the German
Gravity. When you have called a good While at the Gate, at Length one
puts his Head out of the Stove Window (for they commonly live in Stoves
till Midsummer) like a Tortoise from under his Shell: Him you must ask
if you can have any Lodging there; if he does not say no, you may take
it for granted, that there is Room for you. When you ask where the
Stable is, he points to it; there you may curry your Horse as you please
yourself, for there is no Servant will put a Hand to it. If it be a
noted Inn, there is a Servant shews you the Stable, and a Place for your
Horse, but incommodious enough; for they keep the best Places for those
that shall come afterwards; especially for Noblemen. If you find Fault
with any Thing, they tell you presently, if you don't like, look for
another Inn. In their Cities, they allow Hay, but very unwillingly and
sparingly, and that is almost as dear as Oats. When you have taken Care
of your Horse, you come whole into the Stove, Boots, Baggage, Dirt and
all, for that is a common Room for all Comers.

_Will._ In _France_, they appoint you a separate Chamber, where you may
change your Cloaths, clean and warm your self, or take Rest if you have
a Mind to it.

_Bert._ There's nothing of that here. In the Stove, you pull off your
Boots, put on your Shoes, and if you will, change your Shirt, hang up
your wet Cloths near the Stove Iron, and get near it to dry yourself.
There's Water provided for you to wash your Hands, if you will; but as
for the Cleanness of it, it is for the most Part such that you will want
another Water to wash that off.

_Will._ I commend this Sort of People, that have nothing of Effeminacy
in them.

_Bert._ If you come in at four a-Clock in the Afternoon, you must not go
to Supper till nine, and sometimes not till ten.

_Will._ Why so?

_Bert._ They never make any Thing ready till they see all their Company
together, that one Trouble may serve for all.

_Will._ They are for taking the shortest Way.

_Bert._ You are right; so that oftentimes, there come all together into
the same Stove, eighty or ninety Foot-Men, Horse-Men, Merchants,
Marriners, Waggoners, Husband-Men, Children, Women, sick and sound.

_Will._ This is having all Things in common.

_Bert._ There one combs his Head, another wipes off his Sweat, another
cleans his Spatterdashes or Boots, another belches Garlick; and in
short, there is as great a Confusion of Tongues and Persons, as there
was at the Building the Tower of _Babel_. And if they see any Body of
another Country, who by his Habit looks like a Man of Quality, they all
stare at him so wistfully, as if he was a Sort of strange Animal brought
out of _Africa_. And when they are set at Table, and he behind them,
they will be still looking back at him, and be staring him in the Face,
till they have forgot their Suppers.

_Will._ At _Rome_, _Paris_ or _Venice_, there's no Body thinks any Thing

_Bert._ In the mean Time, 'tis a Crime for you to call for any Thing.
When it is grown pretty late, and they don't expect any more Guests, out
comes an old grey-bearded Servant, with his Hair cut short, and a
crabbed Look, and a slovenly Dress.

_Will._ Such Fellows ought to be Cup-Bearers to the Cardinals at _Rome_.

_Bert._ He having cast his Eyes about, counts to himself, how many there
are in the Stove; the more he sees there, the more Fire he makes in the
Stove although it be at a Time when the very Heat of the Sun would be
troublesome; and this with them, is accounted a principal Part of good
Entertainment, to make them all sweat till they drop again. If any one
who is not used to the Steam, shall presume to open the Window never so
little, that he be not stifled, presently they cry out to shut it again:
If you answer you are not able to bear it, you'll presently hear, get
you another Inn then.

_Will._ But in my Opinion, nothing is more dangerous, than for so many
to draw in the same Vapour; especially when their Bodies are opened with
the Heat; and to eat in the same Place, and to stay there so many Hours,
not to mention the belching of Garlick, the Farting, the stinking
Breaths, for many have secret Distempers, and every Distemper has its
Contagion; and without doubt, many have the _Spanish_, or as it is
call'd, the _French_ Pox, although it is common to all Nations. And it
is my Opinion, there is as much Danger from such Persons, as there is
from those that have the Leprosy. Tell me now, what is this short of a

_Bert._ They are Persons of a strong Constitution, and laugh at, and
disregard those Niceties.

_Will._ But in the mean Time, they are bold at the Perils of other Men.

_Bert._ What would you do in this Case? 'Tis what they have been used
to, and it is a Part of a constant Mind, not to depart from a Custom.

_Will._ And yet, within these five and twenty Years, nothing was more in
Vogue in _Brabant_, than hot Baths, but now they are every where grown
out of Use; but the new Scabbado has taught us to lay them down.

_Bert._ Well, but hear the rest: By and by, in comes our bearded
_Ganymede_ again, and lays on the Table as many Napkins as there are
Guests: But, good God! not Damask ones, but such as you'd take to have
been made out of old Sails. There are at least eight Guests allotted to
every Table. Now those that know the Way of the Country, take their
Places, every one as he pleases, for there's no Difference between Poor
or Rich, between the Master and Servant.

_Will._ This was that ancient Equality which now the Tyrant Custom has
driven quite out of the World. I suppose Christ liv'd after this Manner
with his Disciples.

_Bert._ After they are all plac'd, out comes the sour-look'd _Ganymede_
again, and counts his Company over again; by and by he comes in again,
and brings every Man a Wooden Dish, and a Spoon of the same Silver, and
then a Glass; and then a little after he brings Bread, which the Guests
may chip every one for themselves at Leisure, while the Porridge is
boiling. For sometimes they sit thus for near an Hour.

_Will._ Do none of the Guests call for Meat in the mean Time?

_Bert._ None who knows the Way of the Country. At last the Wine is set
upon the Table: Good God! how far from being tasteless? So thin and
sharp, that Sophisters ought to drink no other. And if any of the Guests
should privately offer a Piece of Money to get a little better Wine some
where else; at first they'll say nothing to you, but give you a Look, as
if they were going to murder you; and if you press it farther, they
answer you, there have been so many Counts and Marquisses that have
lodg'd here, and none of them ever found fault with this Wine: If you
don't like it, get you another Inn. They account only the Noblemen of
their own Nation to be Men, and where-ever you come, they are shewing
you their Arms. By this time, comes a Morsel to pacify a barking
Stomach: And by and by follow the Dishes in great Pomp; commonly the
first has Sippits of Bread in Flesh Broth, or if it be a Fish Day, in a
Soup of Pulse. After that comes in another Soup, and then a Service of
Butcher's Meat, that has been twice boil'd, or salt Meats warm'd again,
and then Pulse again, and by and by something of more solid Food, until
their Stomachs being pretty well staid, they bring roast Meat or stewed
Fish, which is not to be at all contemn'd; but this they are sparing of,
and take it away again quickly. This is the Manner they order the
Entertainment, as Comedians do, who intermingle Dances among their
Scenes, so do they their Chops and Soups by Turns: But they take Care
that the last Act shall be the best.

_Will._ This is the Part of a good Poet.

_Bert._ And it would be a heinous Offence, if in the mean Time any Body
should say, Take away this Dish, there's no Body eats. You must sit your
Time appointed, which I think they measure by the Hour-Glass. At length,
out comes that bearded Fellow, or the Landlord himself, in a Habit but
little differing from his Servants, and asks how cheer you? And by and
by some better Wine is brought. And they like those best that drink
most, tho' he that drinks most pays no more than he that drinks least.

_Will._ A strange Temper of the Nation!

_Bert._ There are some of them that drink twice as much Wine as they pay
for their Ordinary. But before I leave this Entertainment, it is
wonderful what a Noise and Chattering there is, when once they come to
be warm with Wine. In short, it deafens a Man. They oftentimes bring in
a Mixture of Mimicks, which these People very much delight in, tho' they
are a detestable Sort of Men. There's such a singing, prating, bawling,
jumping, and knocking, that you would think the Stove were falling upon
your Head, and one Man can't hear another speak. And this they think is
a pleasant Way of living, and there you must sit in Spight of your Heart
till near Midnight.

_Will._ Make an End of your Meal now, for I myself am tir'd with such a
tedious one.

_Bert._ Well, I will. At length the Cheese is taken away, which scarcely
pleases them, except it be rotten and full of Maggots. Then the old
bearded Fellow comes again with a Trencher, and a many Circles and
semi-Circles drawn upon it with Chalk, this he lays down upon the Table,
with a grim Countenance, and without speaking. You would say he was some
_Charon_. They that understand the Meaning of this lay down their Money
one after another till the Trencher is fill'd. Having taken Notice of
those who lay down, he reckons it up himself, and if all is paid, he
gives you a Nod.

_Will._ But what if there should be any Thing over and above?

_Bert._ Perhaps he'll give it you again, and they oftentimes do so.

_Will._ Does no Body find fault with the Reckoning?

_Bert._ No Body that is wise. For they will say, what Sort of a Fellow
are you? You pay no more than the rest.

_Will._ This is a frank Sort of Men, you are speaking of.

_Bert._ If any one is weary with his Journey, and desires to go to Bed
as soon as he has supp'd, he is bid to stay till the rest go too.

_Will._ This seems to me to be _Plato_'s City.

_Bert._ Then every one is shew'd to his Chamber, and truly 'tis nothing
else but a Chamber, there is only a Bed there, and nothing else that you
can either make Use of or steal.

_Will._ Are Things very clean there?

_Bert._ As clean as they were at the Table. Sheets wash'd perhaps six
Months ago.

_Will._ What becomes of your Horses all this While?

_Bert._ They are treated after the Manner that the Men are.

_Will._ But is there the same Treatment every where.

_Bert._ It is a little more civil in some Places, and worse in others,
than I have told you; but in general it is thus.

_Will._ What if I should now tell you how they treat their Guests in
that Part of _Italy_ call'd _Lombardy_, and in _Spain_, and in
_England_, and in _Wales_, for the _English_ have the Manners both of
the _French_ and the _Germans_, being a Mixture of those two Nations.
The _Welsh_ boast themselves to be the original _English_.

_Bert._ Pray relate it. I never had the Opportunity of travelling in

_Will._ I have not Leisure now, and the Master of the Ship bid me be on
board by three a Clock, unless I would lose my Passage. Another Time we
shall have an Opportunity of prating our Bellies full.



     _This is certainly a divine Colloquy, that makes even a
     Bawdy-House a chaste Place! God can't be deceiv'd, his
     Eyes penetrate into the most secret Places. That young
     Persons ought in an especial Manner to take Care of their
     Chastity. A young Woman, who made herself common to get a
     Livelihood, is recovered from that Course of Life, as
     wretched as it is scandalous._


_Lu._ O brave! My pretty _Sophronius_, have I gotten you again? It is an
Age methinks since I saw you. I did not know you at first Sight.

_So._ Why so, my _Lucretia_?

_Lu._ Because you had no Beard when you went away, but you're come back
with something of a Beard. What's the Matter, my little Heart, you look
duller than you use to do?

_So._ I want to have a little Talk with you in private.

_Lu._ Ah, ah, are we not by ourselves already, my Cocky?

_So._ Let us go out of the Way somewhere, into a more private Place.

_Lu._ Come on then, we'll go into my inner Bed-Chamber, if you have a
Mind to do any Thing.

_So._ I don't think this Place is private enough yet.

_Lu._ How comes it about you're so bashful all on a sudden? Well, come,
I have a Closet where I lay up my Cloaths, a Place so dark, that we can
scarce see one another there.

_So._ See if there be no Chink.

_Lu._ There is not so much as a Chink.

_So._ Is there no Body near to hear us?

_Lu._ Not so much as a Fly, my Dear; Why do you lose Time?

_So._ Can we escape the Eye of God here?

_Lu._ No, he sees all Things clearly.

_So._ And of the Angels?

_Lu._ No, we cannot escape their Sight.

_So._ How comes it about then, that Men are not asham'd to do that in
the Sight of God, and before the Face of the holy Angels, that they
would be ashamed to do before Men?

_Lu._ What Sort of an Alteration is this? Did you come hither to preach
a Sermon? Prithee put on a _Franciscan_'s Hood, and get up into a
Pulpit, and then we'll hear you hold forth, my little bearded Rogue.

_So._ I should not think much to do that, if I could but reclaim you
from this Kind of Life, that is the most shameful and miserable Life in
the World.

_Lu._ Why so, good Man? I am born, and I must be kept; every one must
live by his Calling. This is my Business; this is all I have to live on.

_So._ I wish with all my Heart, my _Lucretia_, that setting aside for a
While that Infatuation of Mind, you would seriously weigh the Matter.

_Lu._ Keep your Preachment till another Time; now let us enjoy one
another, my _Sophronius_.

_So._ You do what you do for the Sake of Gain.

_Lu._ You are much about the Matter.

_So._ Thou shalt lose nothing by it, do but hearken to me, and I'll pay
you four Times over.

_Lu._ Well, say what you have a Mind to say.

_So._ Answer me this Question in the first Place: Are there any Persons
that owe you any ill Will?

_Lu._ Not one.

_So._ Is there any Body that you have a Spleen against?

_Lu._ According as they deserve.

_So._ And if you could do any Thing that would gratify them, would you
do it?

_Lu._ I would poison 'em sooner.

_So._ But then do but consider with yourself; is there any Thing that
you can do that gratifies them more than to let them see you live this
shameful and wretched Life? And what is there thou canst do that would
be more afflicting to them that wish thee well?

_Lu._ It is my Destiny.

_So._ Now that which uses to be the greatest Hardship to such as are
transported, or banish'd into the most remote Parts of the World, this
you undergo voluntarily.

_Lu._ What is that?

_So._ Hast thou not of thy own Accord renounc'd all thy Affections to
Father, Mother, Brother, Sisters, Aunts, (by Father's and Mother's Side)
and all thy Relations? For thou makest them all asham'd to own thee, and
thyself asham'd to come into their Sight.

_Lu._ Nay, I have made a very happy Exchange of Affections; for instead
of a few, now I have a great many, of which you are one, and whom I have
always esteem'd as a Brother.

_So._ Leave off Jesting, and consider the Matter seriously, as it really
is. Believe me, my _Lucretia_, she who has so many Friends, has never a
one, for they that follow thee do it not as a Friend, but as a House of
Office rather. Do but consider, poor Thing, into what a Condition thou
hast brought thyself. _Christ_ lov'd thee so dearly as to redeem thee
with his own Blood, and would have thee be a Partaker with him in an
heavenly Inheritance, and thou makest thyself a common Sewer, into which
all the base, nasty, pocky Fellows resort, and empty their Filthiness.
And if that leprous Infection they call the _French_ Pox han't yet
seiz'd thee, thou wilt not escape it long. And if once thou gettest it,
how miserable wilt thou be, though all things should go favourably on
thy Side? I mean thy Substance and Reputation. Thou wouldest be nothing
but a living Carcase. Thou thoughtest much to obey thy Mother, and now
thou art a mere Slave to a filthy Bawd. You could not endure to hear
your Parents Instructions; and here you are often beaten by drunken
Fellows and mad Whoremasters. It was irksome to thee to do any Work at
Home, to get a Living; but here, how many Quarrels art thou forc'd to
endure, and how late a Nights art thou oblig'd to sit up?

_Lu._ How came you to be a Preacher?

_So._ And do but seriously consider, this Flower of thy Beauty that now
brings thee so many Gallants, will soon fade: And then, poor Creature,
what wilt thou do? Thou wilt be piss'd upon by every Body. It may be,
thou thinkest, instead of a Mistress, I'll then be a Bawd. All Whores
can't attain to that, and if thou shouldst, what Employment is more
impious, and more like the Devil himself?

_Lu._ Why, indeed, my _Sophronius_, almost all you say is very true. But
how came you to be so religious all of a sudden? Thou usedst to be the
greatest Rake in the World, one of 'em. No Body used to come hither more
frequently, nor at more unseasonable Hours than you did. I hear you have
been at _Rome_.

_So._ I have so.

_Lu._ Well, but other People use to come from thence worse than they
went: How comes it about, it is otherwise with you?

_So._ I'll tell you, because I did not go to _Rome_ with the same
Intent, and after the same Manner that others do. Others commonly go to
_Rome_, on purpose to come Home worse, and there they meet with a great
many Opportunities of becoming so. I went along with an honest Man, by
whose Advice, I took along with me a Book instead of a Bottle: The New
Testament with _Erasmus_'s Paraphrase.

_Lu._ _Erasmus_'s? They say that he's Half a Heretick.

_So._ Has his Name reached to this Place too?

_Lu._ There's no Name more noted among us.

_So._ Did you ever see him?

_Lu._ No, I never saw him; but I should be glad to see him; I have heard
so many bad Reports of him.

_So._ It may be you have heard 'em, from them that are bad themselves.

_Lu._ Nay, from Men of the Gown.

_So._ Who are they?

_Lu._ It is not convenient to name Names.

_So._ Why so?

_Lu._ Because if you should blab it out, and it should come to their
Ears, I should lose a great many good Cullies.

_So._ Don't be afraid, I won't speak a Word of it.

_Lu._ I will whisper then.

_So._ You foolish Girl, what Need is there to whisper, when there is no
Body but ourselves? What, lest God should hear? Ah, good God! I perceive
you're a religious Whore, that relievest Mendicants.

_Lu._ I get more by them Beggars than by you rich Men.

_So._ They rob honest Women, to lavish it away upon naughty Strumpets.

_Lu._ But go on, as to your Book.

_So._ So I will, and that's best. In that Book, Paul, that can't lie,
told me, that _neither Whores nor Whore-mongers shall obtain the Kingdom
of Heaven_. When I read this, I began thus to think with myself: It is
but a small Matter that I look for from my Father's Inheritance, and yet
I can renounce all the Whores in the World, rather than be disinherited
by my Father; how much more then ought I to take Care, lest my heavenly
Father should disinherit me? And human Laws do afford some Relief in the
Case of a Father's disinheriting or discarding a Son: But here is no
Provision at all made, in case of God's disinheriting; and upon that, I
immediately ty'd myself up from all Conversation with lewd Women.

_Lu._ It will be well if you can hold it.

_So._ It is a good Step towards Continence, to desire to be so. And last
of all, there is one Remedy left, and that is a Wife. When I was at
_Rome_, I empty'd the whole Jakes of my Sins into the Bosom of a
Confessor. And he exhorted me very earnestly to Purity, both of Mind and
Body, and to the reading of the holy Scripture, to frequent Prayer, and
Sobriety of Life, and enjoin'd me no other Penance, but that I should
upon my bended Knees before the high Altar say this Psalm, _Have Mercy
upon me, O God_: And that if I had any Money, I should give one Penny to
some poor Body. And I wondring that for so many whoring Tricks he
enjoin'd me so small a Penance, he answer'd me very pleasantly, My Son,
says he, if you truly repent and change your Life, I don't lay much
Stress upon the Penance; but if thou shalt go on in it, the very Lust
itself will at last punish thee very severely, although the Priest
impose none upon thee. Look upon me, I am blear-ey'd, troubled with the
Palsy, and go stooping: Time was I was such a one as you say you have
been heretofore. And thus I repented.

_Lu._ Then as far as I perceive, I have lost my _Sophronius_.

_So._ Nay, you have rather gain'd him, for he was lost before, and was
neither his own Friend nor thine: Now he loves thee in Reality, and
longs for the Salvation of thy Soul.

_Lu._ What would you have me to do then, my _Sophronius_?

_So._ To leave off that Course of Life out of Hand: Thou art but a Girl
yet, and that Stain that you have contracted may be wip'd off in Time.
Either marry, and I'll give you something toward a Portion, or go into
some Cloyster, that takes in crakt Maids, or go into some strange Place
and get into some honest Family, I'll lend you my Assistance to any of

_Lu._ My _Sophronius_, I love thee dearly, look out for one for me, I'll
follow thy Advice.

_So._ But in the mean Time get away from hence.

_Lu._ Whoo! what so suddenly!

_So._ Why not to Day rather than to Morrow, if Delays are dangerous?

_Lu._ Whither shall I go?

_So._ Get all your Things together, give 'em to me in the Evening, my
Servant shall carry 'em privately to a faithful Matron: And I'll come a
little after and take you out as if it were to take a little Walk; you
shall live with her some Time upon my Cost till I can provide for you,
and that shall be very quickly.

_Lu._ Well, my _Sophronius_, I commit myself wholly to thy Management.

_So._ In Time to come you'll be glad you have done so.



     _The Poetical Feast teaches the Studious how to banquet.
     That Thriftiness with Jocoseness, Chearfulness without
     Obscenity, and learned Stories, ought to season their
     Feasts. Iambics are bloody. Poets are Men of no great
     Judgment. The three chief Properties of a good Maid
     Servant. Fidelity, Deformity, and a high Spirit. A Place
     out of the Prologue of_ Terence's Eunuchus _is
     illustrated. Also_ Horace's _Epode to_ Canidia. _A Place
     out of_ Seneca. Aliud agere, nihil agere, male agere. _A
     Place out of the Elenchi of_ Aristotle _is explain'd. A
     Theme poetically varied, and in a different Metre.
     Sentences are taken from Flowers and Trees in the Garden.
     Also some Verses are compos'd in_ Greek.

PARTHENIUS, MUS, _Hilary_'s Servant.

Hi. _Levis apparatus, animus est lautissimus._

Le. _Cænam sinistro es auspicatus omine._

Hi. _Imo absit omen triste. Sed cur hoc putas?_

Le. _Cruenti Iambi haud congruent convivio._

Hi. _I have but slender Fare, but a very liberal Mind._

Le. _You have begun the Banquet with a bad Omen._

Hi. _Away with bad Presages. But why do you think so?_

Le. _Bloody Iambics are not fit for a Feast._

_Cr._ O brave! I am sure the Muses are amongst us, Verses flow so from
us, when we don't think of 'em.

      _Si rotatiles trochaeos mavelis, en, accipe:
      Vilis apparatus heic est, animus est lautissimus._

If you had rather have whirling Trochees, lo, here they are for you:
Here is but mean Provision, but I have a liberal Mind.

Although Iambics in old Time were made for Contentions and Quarrels,
they were afterwards made to serve any Subject whatsoever. O Melons!
Here you have Melons that grew in my own Garden. These are creeping
Lettuces of a very milky Juice, like their Name. What Man in his Wits
would not prefer these Delicacies before Brawn, Lampreys, and Moor-Hens?

_Cr._ If a Man may be allow'd to speak Truth at a Poetic Banquet, those
you call Lettuces are Beets.

_Hi._ God forbid.

_Cr._ It is as I tell you. See the Shape of 'em, and besides where is
the milky Juice? Where are their soft Prickles?

_Hi._ Truly you make me doubt. Soho, call the Wench. _Margaret_, you
Hag, what did you mean to give us Beets instead of Lettuces?

_Ma._ I did it on Purpose.

_Hi._ What do you say, you Witch?

_Ma._ I had a Mind to try among so many Poets if any could know a
Lettuce from a Beet. For I know you don't tell me truly who 'twas that
discover'd 'em to be Beets.

_Guests._ _Crato_.

_Ma._ I thought it was no Poet who did it.

_Hi._ If ever you serve me so again, I'll call you _Blitea_ instead of

_Gu._ Ha, ha, ha.

_Ma._ Your calling me will neither make me fatter nor leaner. He calls
me by twenty Names in a Day's Time: When he has a Mind to wheedle me,
then I'm call'd _Galatea, Euterpe, Calliope, Callirhoe, Melissa, Venus,
Minerva_, and what not? When he's out of Humour at any Thing, then
presently I'm _Tisiphone_, _Megaera_, _Alecto_, _Medusa_, _Baucis_, and
whatsoever comes into his Head in his mad Mood.

_Hi._ Get you gone with your Beets, _Blitea_.

_Ma._ I wonder what you call'd me for.

_Hi._ That you may go whence you came.

_Ma._ 'Tis an old Saying and a true, 'tis an easier Matter to raise the
Devil, than 'tis to lay him.

_Gu._ Ha, ha, ha: Very well said. As the Matter is, _Hilary_, you stand
in Need of some magic Verse to lay her with.

_Hi._ I have got one ready.

[Greek: Pheugete, kantharides lukos agrios umme diôkei.]

Be gone ye Beetles, for the cruel Wolf pursues you.

_Ma._ What says _Æsop?_

_Cr._ Have a Care, _Hilary_, she'll hit you a Slap on the Face: This is
your laying her with your _Greek_ Verse. A notable Conjurer indeed!

_Hi._ _Crato_, What do you think of this Jade? I could have laid ten
great Devils with such a Verse as this.

_Ma._ I don't care a Straw for your _Greek_ Verses.

_Hi._ Well then, I must make use of a magical Spell, or, if that won't
do, _Mercury's_ Mace.

_Cr._ My _Margaret_, you know we Poets are a Sort of Enthusiasts, I
won't say Mad-Men; prithee let me intreat you to let alone this
Contention 'till another Time, and treat us with good Humour at this
Supper for my Sake.

_Ma._ What does he trouble me with his Verses for? Often when I am to go
to Market he has never a Penny of Money to give me, and yet he's a
humming of Verses.

_Cr._ Poets are such Sort of Men. But however, prithee do as I say.

_Ma._ Indeed I will do it for your Sake, because I know you are an
honest Gentleman, that never beat your Brain about such Fooleries. I
wonder how you came to fall into such Company.

_Cr._ How come you to think so?

_Ma._ Because you have a full Nose, sparkling Eyes, and a plump Body.
Now do but see how he leers and sneers at me.

_Cr._ But prithee, Sweet-Heart, keep your Temper for my Sake.

_Ma._ Well, I will go, and 'tis for your Sake and no Body's else.

_Hi._ Is she gone?

_Ma._ Not so far but she can hear you.

_Mus._ She is in the Kitchen, now, muttering something to herself I
can't tell what.

_Cr._ I'll assure you your Maid is not dumb.

_Hi._ They say a good Maid Servant ought especially to have three
Qualifications; to be honest, ugly, and high-spirited, which the Vulgar
call evil. An honest Servant won't waste, an ugly one Sweet-Hearts won't
woo, and one that is high-spirited will defend her Master's Right; for
sometimes there is Occasion for Hands as well as a Tongue. This Maid of
mine has two of these Qualifications, she's as ugly as she's surly; as
to her Honesty I can't tell what to say to that.

_Cr._ We have heard her Tongue, we were afraid of her Hands upon your

_Hi._ Take some of these Pompions: We have done with the Lettuces. For I
know if I should bid her bring any Lettuces, she would bring Thistles.
Here are Melons too, if any Body likes them better. Here are new Figs
too just gather'd, as you may see by the Milk in the Stalks. It is
customary to drink Water after Figs, lest they clog the Stomach. Here is
very cool clear Spring Water that runs out of this Fountain, that is
good to mix with Wine.

_Cr._ But I can't tell whether I had best to mix Water with my Wine, or
Wine with Water; this Wine seems to me so likely to have been drawn out
of the Muses Fountain.

_Hi._ Such Wine as this is good for Poets to sharpen their Wits. You
dull Fellows love heavy Liquors.

_Cr._ I wish I was that happy _Crassus_.

_Hi._ I had rather be _Codrus_ or _Ennius_. And seeing I happen to have
the Company of so many learned Guests at my Table, I won't let 'em go
away without learning something of 'em. There is a Place in the Prologue
of _Eunuchus_ that puzzles many. For most Copies have it thus:

      _Sic existimet, sciat,
      Responsum, non dictum esse, quid laesit prior,
      Qui bene vertendo, et ects describendo male, &c.

Let him so esteem or know, that it is an Answer, not a common Saying;
because he first did the Injury, who by well translating and ill
describing them, &c._

In these Words I want a witty Sense, and such as is worthy of _Terence_.
For he did not therefore do the Wrong first, because he translated the
_Greek_ Comedies badly, but because he had found Fault with _Terence's._

Eu. According to the old Proverb, _He that sings worst let him begin
first._ When I was at _London_ in _Thomas Linacre's_ House, who is a Man
tho' well skill'd in all Manner of Philosophy, yet he is very ready in
all Criticisms in Grammar, he shew'd me a Book of great Antiquity which
had it thus:

      _Sic existimet, stiat,
      Responsum, non dictum esse, quale sit prius
      Qui bene vertendo, et eas describendo male,
      Ex Graecis bonis Latinas fecit non bonas:
      Idem Menandri Phasma nunc nuper dedit._

The Sentence is so to be ordered, that _quale sit_ may shew that an
Example of that which is spoken before is to be subjoin'd. He threatened
that he would again find Fault with something in his Comedies who had
found Fault with him, and he here denies that it ought to seem a
Reproach but an Answer. He that provokes begins the Quarrel; he that
being provok'd, replies, only makes his Defence or Answer. He promises
to give an Example thereof, _quale sit_, being the same with [Greek:
oion] in _Greek_, and _quod genus, veluti_, or _videlicet_, or _puta_ in
Latin. Then afterwards he brings a reproof, wherein the Adverb _prius_
hath Relation to another Adverb, as it were a contrary one, which
follows, _viz. nuper_ even as the Pronoun _qui_ answers to the Word
_idem_. For he altogether explodes the old Comedies of _Lavinius_,
because they were now lost out of the Memory of Men. In those which he
had lately published, he sets down the certain Places. I think that this
is the proper Reading, and the true Sense of the Comedian: If the chief
and ordinary Poets dissent not from it.

_Gu._ We are all entirely of your Opinion.

_Eu._ But I again desire to be inform'd by you of one small and very
easy Thing, how this Verse is to be scann'd.

      _Ex Græcis bonis Latinas fecit non bonas._

Scan it upon your Fingers.

_Hi._ I think that according to the Custom of the Antients _s_ is to be
cut off, so that there be an _Anapaestus_ in the second Place.

_Eu._ I should agree to it, but that the Ablative Case ends in _is_, and
is long by Nature. Therefore though the Consonant should be taken away,
yet nevertheless a long Vowel remains.

_Hi._ You say right.

_Cr._ If any unlearned Person or Stranger should come in, he would
certainly think we were bringing up again among ourselves the
Countrymens Play of holding up our Fingers (_dimicatione digitorum_,
_i.e._ the Play of Love).

_Le._ As far as I see, we scan it upon our Fingers to no Purpose. Do you
help us out if you can.

_Eu._ To see how small a Matter sometimes puzzles Men, though they be
good Scholars! The Preposition _ex_ belongs to the End of the foregoing

      _Qui bene vertendo, et eas describendo male, ex
      Graecis bonis Latinas fecit non bonas._

Thus there is no Scruple.

_Le._ It is so, by the Muses. Since we have begun to scan upon our
Fingers, I desire that somebody would put this Verse out of _Andria_
into its Feet.

      Sine invidia laudem invenias, et amicos pares.

For I have often tri'd and could do no good on't.

_Le. Sine in_ is an Iambic, _vidia_ an Anapæstus, _Laudem in_ is a
Spondee, _venias_ an Anapæstus, _et ami_ another Anapæstus.

_Ca._ You have five Feet already, and there are three Syllables yet
behind, the first of which is long; so that thou canst neither make it
an _Iambic_ nor a _Tribrach._

_Le._ Indeed you say true. We are aground; who shall help us off?

_Eu._ No Body can do it better than he that brought us into it. Well,
_Carinus_, if thou canst say any Thing to the Matter, don't conceal it
from your poor sincere Friends.

_Ca._ If my Memory does not fail me, I think I have read something of
this Nature in _Priscian_, who says, that among the Latin Comedians _v_
Consonant is cut off as well as the Vowel, as oftentimes in this Word
_enimvero;_ so that the part _enime_ makes an Anapæstus.

_Le._ Then scan it for us.

_Ca._ I'll do it. _Sine inidi_ is a proseleusmatic Foot, unless you had
rather have it cut off _i_ by Syneresis, as when _Virgil_ puts _aureo_
at the End of an heroick Verse for _auro._ But if you please let there
be a Tribrach in the first Place, _a lau_ is a Spondee, _d'inveni_ a
Dactyl, _as et a_ a Dactyl, _micos_ a Spondee, _pares_ an Iambic.

_Sb. Carinus_ hath indeed got us out of these Briars. But in the same
Scene there is a Place, which I can't tell whether any Body has taken
Notice of or not.

_Hi._ Prithee, let us have it.

_Sb._ There _Simo_ speaks after this Manner.

                    Sine ut eveniat, quod volo,
      In Pamphilo ut nihil sit morae, restat Chremes.

_Suppose it happen, as I desire, that there be no delay in_ Pamphilus;
Chremes _remains._

What is it that troubles you in these Words?

_Sb. Sine_ being a Term of Threatning, there is nothing follows in this
Place that makes for a Threatning. Therefore it is my Opinion that the
Poet wrote it,

      _Sin eveniat, quod volo;_

that _Sin_ may answer to the _Si_ that went before.

_Si propter amorem uxorem nolit ducere._

For the old Man propounds two Parts differing from one another: _Si, &c.
If_ Pamphilus _for the Love of_ Glycerie _refuseth to marry, I shall
have some Cause to chide him; but if he shall not refuse, then it
remains that I must intreat_ Chremes. Moreover the Interruption of
_Sosia_, and _Simo_'s Anger against _Davus_ made too long a
Transposition of the Words.

_Hi._ _Mouse_, reach me that Book.

_Cr._ Do you commit your Book to a Mouse?

_Hi._ More safely than my Wine. Let me never stir, if _Sbrulius_ has not
spoken the Truth.

_Ca._ Give me the Book, I'll shew you another doubtful Place. This Verse
is not found in the Prologue of _Eunuchus_:

_Habeo alia multa, quæ nunc condonabuntur._

_I have many other Things, which shall now be delivered._

Although the _Latin_ Comedians especially take great Liberty to
themselves in this Kind of Verse, yet I don't remember that they any
where conclude a Trimetre with a Spondee, unless it be read
_Condonabitur_ impersonally, or _Condonabimus_, changing the Number of
the Person.

_Ma._ Oh, this is like Poets Manners indeed! As soon as ever they are
set down to Dinner they are at Play, holding up their Fingers, and
poring upon their Books. It were better to reserve your Plays and your
Scholarship for the second Course.

_Cr. Margaret_ gives us no bad Counsel, we'll humour her; when we have
fill'd our Bellies, we'll go to our Play again; now we'll play with our
Fingers in the Dish.

_Hi._ Take Notice of Poetick Luxury. You have three Sorts of Eggs,
boil'd, roasted, and fry'd; they are all very new, laid within these two

_Par._ I can't abide to eat Butter; if they are fry'd with Oil, I shall
like 'em very well.

_Hi._ Boy, go ask _Margaret_ what they are fry'd in.

_Mo._ She says they are fry'd in neither.

_Hi._ What! neither in Butter nor Oil. In what then?

_Mo._ She says they are fry'd in Lye.

_Cr._ She has given you an Answer like your Question. What a great
Difficulty 'tis to distinguish Butter from Oil.

_Ca._ Especially for those that can so easily know a Lettuce from a

_Hi._ Well, you have had the Ovation, the Triumph will follow in Time.
Soho, Boy, look about you, do you perceive nothing to be wanting?

_Mo._ Yes, a great many Things.

_Hi._ These Eggs lack Sauce to allay their Heat.

_Mo._ What Sauce would you have?

_Hi._ Bid her send us some Juice of the Tendrels of a Vine pounded.

_Mo._ I'll tell her, Sir.

_Hi._ What, do you come back empty-handed?

_Mo._ She says, Juice is not used to be squeez'd out of Vine Tendrels.

_Le._ A fine Maid Servant, indeed!

_Sb._ Well, we'll season our Eggs with pleasant Stories. I found a Place
in the Epodes of _Horace_, not corrupted as to the Writing, but wrong
interpreted, and not only by _Mancinellus_, and other later Writers; but
by _Porphyry_ himself. The Place is in the Poem, where he sings a
Recantation to the Witch _Canidia_.

      _tuusque venter pactumeius, et tuo
      cruore rubros obstetrix pannos lavit,
      utcunque fortis exilis puerpera._

For they all take _exilis_ to be a Noun in this Place, when it is a
Verb. I'll write down _Porphyry_'s Words, if we can believe 'em to be
his: She is _exilis_, says he, under that Form, as though she were
become deform'd by Travel; by Slenderness of Body, he means a natural
Leanness. A shameful Mistake, if so great a Man did not perceive that
the Law of the Metre did contradict this Sense. Nor does the fourth
Place admit of a Spondee: but the Poet makes a Jest of it; that she did
indeed bear a Child, though she was not long weak, nor kept her Bed long
after her Delivery; but presently jumpt out of Bed, as some lusty
lying-in Women used to do.

_Hi._ We thank you _Sbrulius_, for giving us such fine Sauce to our

_Le._ There is another Thing in the first Book of _Odes_ that is not
much unlike this. The _Ode_ begins thus: _Tu ne quæ sieris._ Now the
common Reading is thus, _Neu Babylonios Tentaris numeros, ut melius
quicquid erit pati_. The antient Interpreters pass this Place over, as
if there were no Difficulty in it. Only _Mancinettus_ thinking the
Sentence imperfect, bids us add _possis_.

_Sb._ Have you any Thing more that is certain about this Matter?

_Le._ I don't know whether I have or no; but in my Opinion, _Horace_
seems here to have made Use of the _Greek_ Idiom; and this he does more
than any other of the Poets. For it is a very common Thing with the
_Greeks_, to join an infinitive Mood with the Word [Greek: hôs] and
[Greek: hôste]. And so _Horace_ uses _ut pati_, for _ut patiaris_:
Although what _Mancinellus_ guesses, is not altogether absurd.

_Hi._ I like what you say very well. Run, _Mouse_, and bring what is to
come, if there be any Thing.

_Cr._ What new dainty Dish is this?

_Hi._ This is a Cucumber sliced; this is the Broth of the Pulp of a
Gourd boil'd, it is good to make the Belly loose.

_Sb._ Truly a medical feast.

_Hi._ Take it in good Part. There's a Fowl to come out of our Hen-Coop.

_Sb._ We will change thy Name, and call thee _Apicius_, instead of

_Hi._ Well, laugh now as much as you will, it may be you'll highly
commend this Supper to Morrow.

_Sb._ Why so?

_Hi._ When you find that your Dinner has been well season'd.

_Sb._ What, with a good Stomach?

_Hi._ Yes, indeed.

_Cr._ _Hilary_, do you know what Task I would have you take upon you?

_Hi._ I shall know when you have told me.

_Cr._ The Choir sings some Hymns, that are indeed learned ones; but are
corrupted in many Places by unlearned Persons. I desire that you would
mend 'em; and to give you an Example, we sing thus:

      _Hostis Herodes impie,
      Christum venire quid times?_

      _Thou wicked Enemy_ Herod, _why dost thou dread the Coming
      of Christ?_

The mis-placing of one Word spoils the Verse two Ways. For the Word
_hostis_, making a Trochee, has no Place in an _Iambick Verse_, and
_Hero_ being a _Spondee_ won't stand in the second Place. Nor is there
any doubt but the Verse at first was thus written,

      _Herodes hostis impie._

For the Epithete _impie_ better agrees with _Hostis_ than with _Herod_.
Besides _Herodes_ being a _Greek_ Word [Greek: ê or ae] is turned into
[Greek: e] in the vocative; as [Greek: Sôkrataes, ô Sokrates]; and so
[Greek: Agamemnôn [Transcribers Note: this word appears in Greek with
the ô represented by the character omega.]] in the nominative Case is
turned into _[Greek: o]_. So again we sing the Hymn,

      _Jesu corona virginum,
      Quem mater ilia concepit,
      Quæ sola virgo parturit.

      O Jesus the Crown of Virgins,
      Whom she the Mother conceiv'd,
      Which was the only Person of a Virgin that brought forth._

There is no Doubt but the Word should be pronounc'd _concipit._ For the
Change of the Tense sets off a Word. And it is ridiculous for us to
find Fault with _concipit_ when _parlurit_ follows.

_Hi._ Truly I have been puzzled at a great many such Things; nor will it
be amiss, if hereafter we bestow a little Time upon this Matter. For
methinks _Ambrose_ has not a little Grace in this Kind of Verse, for he
does commonly end a Verse of four Feet with a Word of three Syllables,
and commonly places a _cæsura_ in the End of a Word. It is so common
with him that it cannot seem to have been by Chance. If you would have
an Example, _Deus Creator_. Here is a _Penthemimeris_, it follows,
_omnium; Polique rector_, then follows, _vestiens; diem decoro_, and
then _lumine; noctem soporis_, then follows _gratia_.

_Hi._ But here's a good fat Hen that has laid me Eggs, and hatch'd me
Chickens for ten Years together.

_Cr._ It is Pity that she should have been kill'd.

_Ca._ If it were fit to intermingle any Thing of graver Studies, I have
something to propose.

_Hi._ Yes, if it be not too crabbed.

_Ca._ That it is not. I lately began to read _Seneca's_ Epistles, and
stumbled, as they say, at the very Threshold. The Place is in the first
Epistle; _And if_, says he, _thou wilt but observe it, great Part of our
Life passes away while we are doing what is ill; the greatest Part,
while we are doing nothing, and the whole of it while we are doing that
which is to no Purpose_. In this Sentence, he seems to affect I can't
tell what Sort of Witticism, which I do not well understand.

_Le._ I'll guess, if you will.

_Ca._ Do so.

_Le._ No Man offends continually. But, nevertheless, a great Part of
one's Life is lost in Excess, Lust, Ambition, and other Vices; but a
much greater Part is lost in doing of nothing. Moreover they are said to
do nothing, not who live in Idleness, but they who are busied about
frivolous Things which conduce nothing at all to our Happiness: And
thence comes the Proverb, _It is better to be idle, than to be doing,
but to no Purpose_. But the whole Life is spent in doing another Thing.
He is said, _aliud agere_, who does not mind what he is about. So that
the whole of Life is lost: Because when we are vitiously employ'd we are
doing what we should not do; when we are employ'd about frivolous
Matters we do that we should not do; and when we study Philosophy, in
that we do it negligently and carelesly, we do something to no Purpose.
If this Interpretation don't please you, let this Sentence of _Seneca_
be set down among those Things of this Author that _Aulus Gellius_
condemns in this Writer as frivolously witty.

_Hi._ Indeed I like it very well. But in the mean Time, let us fall
manfully upon the Hen. I would not have you mistaken, I have no more
Provision for you. It agrees with what went before. _That is the basest
Loss that comes by Negligence_, and he shews it by this Sentence
consisting of three Parts. But methinks I see a Fault a little after:
_We foresee not Death, a great Part of it is past already._ It is my
Opinion it ought to be read; _We foresee Death._ For we foresee those
Things which are a great Way off from us, when Death for the most Part
is gone by us.

_Le._ If Philosophers do sometimes give themselves Leave to go aside
into the Meadows of the Muses, perhaps it will not be amiss for us, if
we, to gratify our Fancy, take a Turn into their Territories.

_Hi._ Why not?

_Le._ As I was lately reading over again _Aristotle_'s Book that he
entitles [Greek: Peri tôn elenchôn], the Argument of which is for the
most Part common both to Rhetoricians and Philosophers, I happen'd to
fall upon some egregious Mistakes of the Interpreters. And there is no
Doubt but that they that are unskill'd in the _Greek_ have often miss'd
it in many Places. For _Aristotle_ proposes a Sort of such Kind of
Ambiguity as arises from a Word of a contrary Signification. [Greek: ho
ti manthanousin oi epistamenoi ta gar apostomatizomena manthanousin oi
grammatikoi to gar manthanein omônymon, to te xunienai chrômenon tê
epistêmê, kai to lambanein tên epistêmên.] And they turn it thus.
_Because intelligent Persons learn; for Grammarians are only
tongue-learn'd; for to learn is an equivocal Word, proper both to him
that exerciseth and to him that receiveth Knowledge._

_Hi._ Methinks you speak _Hebrew_, and not _English_.

_Le._ Have any of you heard any equivocal Word?

_Hi._ No.

_Le._ What then can be more foolish than to desire to turn that which
cannot possibly be turn'd. For although the _Greek_ Word [Greek:
manthanein], signifies as much as [Greek: mathein] and [Greek:
mathêteuein], so among the _Latins_, _discere_, to learn, signifies as
much as _doctrinam accipere_, or _doctrinam tradere._ But whether this
be true or no I can't tell. I rather think [Greek: manthanein], is of
doubtful Signification with the _Greeks_, as _cognoscere_ is among the
_Latins._ For he that informs, and the Judge that learns, both of them
know the Cause. And so I think among the _Greeks_ the Master is said
[Greek: manthanein] whilst he hears his Scholars, as also the Scholars
who learn of him. But how gracefully hath he turn'd that [Greek: ta gar
apostomatizomena manthanousin oi grammatikoi], _nam secundum os
grammatici discunt: For the Grammarians are tongue-learn'd_; since it
ought to be translated, _Nam grammatici, quæ dictitant, docent:
Grammarians teach what they dictate_. Here the Interpreters ought to
have given another Expression, which might not express the same Words,
but the same Kind of Thing. Tho' I am apt to suspect here is some Error
in the _Greek_ Copy, and that it ought to be written [Greek: homônumon
tô te xunienai kai tô lambanein]. And a little after he subjoins another
Example of Ambiguity, which arises not from the Diversity of the
Signification of the same Word, but from a different Connection, [Greek:
to boulesthai labein me tous polemious], _velleme accipere pugnantes. To
be willing that I should receive the fighting Men_: For so he translates
it, instead of _velle me capere hostes, to be willing that I take the
Enemies;_ and if one should read [Greek: boulesthe], it is more
perspicuous. _Vultis ut ego capiam hostes? Will ye that I take the
Enemies?_ For the Pronoun may both go before and follow the Verb
_capere_. If it go before it, the Sense will be this, _Will ye that I
take the Enemies?_ If it follows, then this will be the Sense, _Are ye
willing that the Enemies should take me?_ He adds also another Example
of the same Kind, [Greek: ara ho tis ginôskei, touto ginôskei]. i.e. _An
quod quis novit hoc novit._ The Ambiguity lies in [Greek: touto]. If it
should be taken in the accusative Case, the Sense will be this;
_Whatsoever it is that any Body knows, that Thing he knows to be._ But
if in the nominative Case, the Sense will be this, _That Thing which any
Body knows, it knows;_ as though that could not be known that knows not
again by Course. Again he adds another Example. [Greek: apa ho tis hora,
touto hora; hora de ton kiona hôste hora ho kiôn]. _That which any one
sees, does that Thing see; but he sees a Post, does the Post therefore
see?_ The Ambiguity lies again in [Greek: touto], as we shew'd before.
But these Sentences may be render'd into _Latin_ well enough; but that
which follows cannot possibly by any Means be render'd, [Greek: Ara ho
sy phês einai, touto sy phês einai; phês de lithon einai sy ara phês
lithos einai]. Which they thus render, _putas quod tu dicis esse, hoc tu
dicis esse: dicis autem lapidem esse, tu ergo lapis dicis esse._ Pray
tell me what Sense can be made of these Words? For the Ambiguity lies
partly in the Idiom of the _Greek_ Phrase, which is in the major and
minor. Although in the major there is another Ambiguity in the two Words
[Greek: o] and [Greek: touto], which if they be taken in the nominative
Case, the Sense will be, _That which thou sayest thou art, that thou
art._ But if in the accusative Case the Sense will be, _Whatsoever thou
sayst is, that thou sayst is;_ and to this Sense he subjoins [Greek:
lithon phês einai], but to the former Sense he subjoins [Greek: sy ara
phês lithos einai]. _Catullus_ once attempted to imitate the Propriety
of the _Greek_ Tongue:

      _Phaselus iste, quem videtis, hospites,
      Ait fuisse navium celerrimus.

      My Guests, that Gally which you see
      The most swift of the Navy is, says he._

For so was this Verse in the old Edition. Those who write Commentaries
on these Places being ignorant of this, must of Necessity err many Ways.
Neither indeed can that which immediately follows be perspicuous in the
_Latin_. [Greek: Kai ara eoti sigônta legein; ditton gar esti to sigonta
legein, to te ton legonta sigan, kai to ta legomena.] That they have
render'd thus; _Et putas, est tacentem dicere? Duplex enim est, tacentem
dicere; et hunc dicere tacentem, et quæ dicuntur._ Are not these Words
more obscure than the Books of the _Sibyls_?

_Hi._ I am not satisfy'd with the _Greek_.

_Le._ I'll interpret it as well as I can. _Is it possible for a Man to
speak while he is silent?_ This Interrogation has a two-Fold Sense, the
one of which is false and absurd, and the other may be true; for it
cannot possibly be that he who speaks, should not speak what he does
speak; that is that he should be silent while he is speaking; but it is
possible, that he who speaks may be silent of him who speaks. Although
this Example falls into another Form that he adds a little after. And
again, I admire, that a little after, in that kind of Ambiguity that
arises from more Words conjoin'd, the _Greeks_ have chang'd the Word
_Seculum_ into the Letters, [Greek: epistasthai ta grammata], seeing
that the _Latin_ Copies have it, _scire seculum_. For here arises a
double Sense, either _that the Age itself might know something_, or
_that somebody might know the Age_. But this is an easier Translation of
it into [Greek: aiôna] or [Greek: kosmon], than into [Greek: grammata].
For it is absurd to say that Letters know any Thing; but it is no
absurdity to say, _something is known to our Age_, or _that any one
knows his Age_. And a little after, where he propounds an Ambiguity in
the Accent, the Translator does not stick to put _Virgil's_ Words
instead of _Homer's_, when there was the same Necessity in that Example,
_quicquid dicis esse, hoc est_, _What thou sayst is, it is_. _Aristotle_
out of _Homer_ says, [Greek: ou kataputhetai ombrô], if [Greek: ou]
should be aspirated and circumflected, it sounds in _Latin_ thus; _Cujus
computrescit pluviâ_; _by whose Rain it putrifies_; but if [Greek: ou]
be acuted and exile, it sounds, _Non computrescit pluviâ; it does not
putrify with Rain_; and this indeed is taken out of the _Iliad_ [Greek:
ps]. Another is, [Greek: didomen de oi euchos aresthai]: the Accent
being placed upon the last Syllable but one, signifies, _grant to him_;
but plac'd upon the first Syllable [Greek: didomen], signifies, _we
grant_. But the Poet did not think _Jupiter_ said, _we grant to him_;
but commands the Dream itself to grant him, to whom it is sent to obtain
his Desire. For [Greek: didomen], is used for [Greek: didonai]. For
these two of _Homer_, these two are added out of our Poets; as that out
of the Odes of _Horace_.

      _Me tuo longas pereunte noctes,
                         Lydia, dormis._

For if the Accent be on _me_ being short, and _tu_ be pronounc'd short,
it is one Word _metuo_; that is, _timeo, I am afraid_: Although this
Ambiguity lies not in the Accent only, but also arises from the

They have brought another Example out of _Virgil_:

      _Heu quia nam tanti cinxerunt aethera nymbi!_

Although here also the Ambiguity lies in the Composition.

_Hi._ _Leonard_, These Things are indeed Niceties, worthy to be known;
but in the mean Time, I'm afraid our Entertainment should seem rather a
Sophistical one, than a Poetical one: At another Time, if you please,
we'll hunt Niceties and Criticisms for a whole Day together.

_Le._ That is as much as to say, we'll hunt for Wood in a Grove, or seek
for Water in the Sea.

_Hi._ Where is my Mouse?

_Mou._ Here he is.

_Hi._ Bid _Margaret_ bring up the Sweet-Meats.

_Mus._ I go, Sir.

_Hi._ What! do you come again empty-handed?

_Mus._ She says, she never thought of any Sweet-Meats, and that you have
sat long enough already.

_Hi._ I am afraid, if we should philosophize any longer, she'll come and
overthrow the Table, as _Xantippe_ did to _Socrates_; therefore it is
better for us to take our Sweet-Meats in the Garden; and there we may
walk and talk freely; and let every one gather what Fruit he likes best
off of the Trees.

_Guests._ We like your Motion very well.

_Hi._ There is a little Spring sweeter than any Wine.

_Ca._ How comes it about, that your Garden is neater than your Hall?

_Hi._ Because I spend most of my Time here. If you like any Thing that
is here, don't spare whatever you find. And now if you think you have
walk'd enough, what if we should sit down together under this Teil Tree,
and rouze up our Muses.

_Pa._ Come on then, let us do so.

_Hi._ The Garden itself will afford us a Theme.

_Pa._ If you lead the Way, we will follow you.

_Hi._ Well, I'll do so. He acts very preposterously, who has a Garden
neatly trimm'd up, and furnish'd with various Delicacies, and at the
same Time, has a Mind adorn'd with no Sciences nor Virtues.

_Le._ We shall believe the Muses themselves are amongst us, if thou
shalt give us the same Sentence in Verse.

_Hi._ That's a great Deal more easy to me to turn Prose into Verse, than
it is to turn Silver into Gold.

_Le._ Let us have it then:

_Hi.  Cui renidet hortus undiquaque flosculis,
        Animumque nullis expolitum dotibus
        Squalere patitur, is facit praepostere.

        Whose Garden is all grac'd with Flowers sweet,
        His Soul mean While being impolite,
        Is far from doing what is meet._

Here's Verses for you, without the _Muses_ or _Apollo_; but it will be
very entertaining, if every one of you will render this Sentence into
several different Kinds of Verse.

_Le._ What shall be his Prize that gets the Victory?

_Hi._ This Basket full, either of Apples, or Plumbs, or Cherries, or
Medlars, or Pears, or of any Thing else he likes better.

_Le._ Who should be the Umpire of the Trial of Skill?

_Hi._ Who shall but _Crato_? And therefore he shall be excused from
versifying, that he may attend the more diligently.

_Cr._ I'm afraid you'll have such a Kind of Judge, as the Cuckoo and
Nightingal once had, when they vy'd one with the other, who should sing

_Hi._ I like him if the rest do.

_Gu._ We like our Umpire. Begin, _Leonard_.

_Le. Cui tot deliciis renidet hortus,
       Herbis, fioribus, arborumque foetu,
       Et multo et vario, nec excolendum
       Curat pectus et artibus probatis,
       Et virtutibus, is mihi videtur
       Lævo judicio, parumque recto.

       Who that his Garden shine doth mind
       With Herbs and Flowers, and Fruits of various kind;
       And in mean While, his Mind neglected lies
       Of Art and Virtue void, he is not wise._

I have said.

_Hi. Carinus_ bites his Nails, we look for something elaborate from him.

_Ca._ I'm out of the poetical Vein.

        _Cura cui est, ut niteat hortus flosculis ac foetibus,
           Negligenti excolere pectus disciplinis optimis;
           Hic labore, mihi ut videtur, ringitur praepostero.

           Whose only Care is that his Gardens be
           With Flow'rs and Fruits furnish'd most pleasantly,
           But disregards his Mind with Art to grace,
           Bestows his Pains and Care much like an Ass._

_Hi._ You han't bit your Nails for nothing.

_Eu._ Well, since my Turn is next, that I may do something,

        _Qui studet ut variis niteat cultissimus hortus
           Deliciis, patiens animum squalere, nec ullis
           Artibus expoliens, huic est praepostera cura.

           Who cares to have his Garden neat and rare.
           And doth of Ornaments his Mind leave bare,
           Acts but with a preposterous Care._

We have no Need to spur _Sbrulius_ on, for he is so fluent at Verses,
that he oftentimes tumbles 'em out, before he is aware.

Sb.  _Cui vernat hortus cultus et elegans,
        Nee pectus uttis artibus excolit;
        Praepostera is mra laborat.
           Sit ratio tibiprima mentis.

        Who to make his Garden spring, much Care imparts,
        And yet neglects his Mind to grace with Arts,
        Acts wrong: Look chiefly to improve thy Parts._

Pa.  _Quisquis accurat, variis ut hortus
        Floribus vernet, neque pectus idem
        Artibus sanctis colit, hunc habet praepostera cura.

        Who to his Soul prefers a Flower or worse,
        May well be said to set the Cart before the Horse._

_Hi._ Now let us try to which of us the Garden will afford the most

_Le._ How can so rich a Garden but do that? even this Rose-Bed will
furnish me with what to say. _As the Beauty of a Rose is fading, so is
Youth soon gone; you make haste to gather your Rose before it withers;
you ought more earnestly to endeavour that your Youth pass not away
without Fruit._

_Hi._ It is a Theme very fit for a Verse.

_Ca. As among Trees, every one hath its Fruits: So among Men, every one
hath his natural Gift._

_Eu. As the Earth, if it be till'd, brings forth various Things for
human Use; and being neglected, is covered with Thorns and Briars: So
the Genius of a Man, if it be accomplish'd with honest Studies, yields a
great many Virtues; but if it be neglected, is over-run with various

_Sb. A Garden ought to be drest every Year, that it may look handsome:
The Mind being once furnish'd with good Learning, does always flourish
and spring forth._

_Pa. As the Pleasantness of Gardens does not draw the Mind off from
honest Studies, but rather invites it to them: So we ought to seek for
such Recreations and Divertisements, as are not contrary to Learning._

_Hi._ O brave! I see a whole Swarm of Sentences. Now for Verse: But
before we go upon that, I am of the Mind, it will be no improper nor
unprofitable Exercise to turn the first Sentence into _Greek_ Verse, as
often as we have turn'd it into _Latin._ And let _Leonard_ begin, that
has been an old Acquaintance of the _Greek_ Poets.

_Le._ I'll begin if you bid me.

_Hi._ I both bid and command you.

_Le._ [Greek: Hôi kêpos estin anthesin gelôn kalois,
           Ho de nous mal auchmôn tois kalois muthêmasin,
           Ouk esti kompsos outos, ouk orthôs phronei,
           Peri pleionos poiôn ta phaul, ê kreittona].

           He never entered Wisdom's Doors
           Who delights himself in simple Flowers,
           And his foul Soul neglects to cleanse.
           This Man knows not what Virtue means.

I have begun, let him follow me that will.

_Hi. Carinus._

_Ca._ Nay, _Hilary._

_Le._ But I see here's _Margaret_ coming upon us of a sudden, she's
bringing I know not what Dainties.

_Hi._ If she does so, my Fury'll do more than I thought she'd do. What
hast brought us?

_Ma._ Mustard-Seed, to season your Sweet-Meats. An't you ashamed to
stand prating here till I can't tell what Time of Night? And yet you
Poets are always reflecting against Womens Talkativeness.

_Cr. Margaret_ says very right, it is high Time for every one to go Home
to Bed: At another Time we'll spend a Day in this commendable Kind of

_Hi._ But who do you give the Prize to?

_Cr._ For this Time I allot it to myself. For no Body has overcome but

_Hi._ How did you overcome that did not contend at all.

_Cr._ Ye have contended, but not try'd it out. I have overcome _Marget_,
and that is more than any of you could do.

_Ca. Hilary._ He demands what's his Right, let him have the Basket.



     _This Inquisition concerning Faith, comprehends the Sum
     and Substance of the Catholick Profession. He here
     introduces a_ Lutheran _that by the Means of the orthodox
     Faith, he may bring either Party to a Reconciliation.
     Concerning Excommunication, and the Popes Thunderbolts.
     And also that we ought to associate ourselves with the
     Impious and Heretical, if we have any Hope of amending
     them._ Symbolum _is a military Word. A most divine and
     elegant Paraphrase upon the Apostles Creed._


_AU._ _Salute freely_, is a Lesson for Children. But I can't tell
whether I should bid you be well or no.

_Ba._ In Truth I had rather any one would make me well, than bid me be
so. _Aulus_, Why do you say that?

_Au._ Why? Because if you have a Mind to know, you smell of Brimstone,
or _Jupiter's_ Thunderbolt.

_Ba._ There are mischievous Deities, and there are harmless
Thunderbolts, that differ much in their Original from those that are
ominous. For I fancy you mean something about Excommunication.

_Au._ You're right.

_Ba._ I have indeed heard dreadful Thunders, but I never yet felt the
Blow of the Thunderbolt.

_Au._ How so?

_Ba._ Because I have never the worse Stomach, nor my Sleep the less

_Au._ But a Distemper is commonly so much the more dangerous, the less
it is felt. But these brute Thunderbolts as you call 'em, strike the
Mountains and the Seas.

_Ba._ They do strike 'em indeed, but with Strokes that have no effect
upon 'em. There is a Sort of Lightning that proceeds from a Glass or a
Vessel of Brass.

_Au._ Why, and that affrights too.

_Ba._ It may be so, but then none but Children are frighted at it. None
but God has Thunderbolts that strike the Soul.

_Au._ But suppose God is in his Vicar.

_Ba._ I wish he were.

_Au._ A great many Folks admire, that you are not become blacker than a
Coal before now.

_Ba._ Suppose I were so, then the Salvation of a lost Person were so
much the more to be desired, if Men followed the Doctrine of the Gospel.

_Au._ It is to be wished indeed, but not to be spoken of.

_Ba._ Why so?

_Au._ That he that is smitten with the Thunderbolt may be ashamed and

_Ba._ If God had done so by us, we had been all lost.

_Au._ Why so?

_Ba._ Because when we were Enemies to God, and Worshippers of Idols,
fighting under Satan's Banner, that is to say, every Way most accursed;
then in an especial Manner he spake to us by his Son, and by his
treating with us restored us to Life when we were dead.

_Au._ That thou say'st is indeed very true.

_Ba._ In Truth it would go very hard with all sick Persons, if the
Physician should avoid speaking to 'em, whensoever any poor Wretch was
seized with a grievous Distemper, for then he has most Occasion for the
Assistance of a Doctor.

_Au._ But I am afraid that you will sooner infect me with your Distemper
than I shall cure you of it. It sometimes falls out that he that visits
a sick Man is forced to be a Fighter instead of a Physician.

_Ba._ Indeed it sometimes happens so in bodily Distempers: But in the
Diseases of the Mind you have an Antidote ready against every Contagion.

_Au._ What's that?

_Ba._ A strong Resolution not to be removed from the Opinion that has
been fixed in you. But besides, what Need you fear to become a Fighter,
where the Business is managed by Words?

_Au._ There is something in what you say, if there be any Hope of doing
any good.

_Ba._ While there is Life there is Hope, and according to St. _Paul,
Charity can't despair, because it hopes all Things_.

_Au._ You observe very well, and upon this Hope I may venture to
discourse with you a little; and if you'll permit me, I'll be a
Physician to you.

_Ba._ Do, with all my Heart.

_Au._ Inquisitive Persons are commonly hated, but yet Physicians are
allowed to be inquisitive after every particular Thing.

_Ba._ Ask me any Thing that you have a Mind to ask me.

_Au._ I'll try. But you must promise me you'll answer me sincerely.

_Ba._ I'll promise you. But let me know what you'll ask me about.

_Au._ Concerning the Apostles Creed.

_Ba._ _Symbolum_ is indeed a military Word. I will be content to be
look'd upon an Enemy to Christ, if I shall deceive you in this Matter.

_Au._ Dost thou believe in God the Father Almighty, who made the Heaven
and Earth.

_Ba._ Yes, and whatsoever is contained in the Heaven and Earth, and the
Angels also which are Spirits.

_Au._ When thou say'st God, what dost thou understand by it?

_Ba._ I understand a certain eternal Mind, which neither had Beginning
nor shall have any End, than which nothing can be either greater, wiser,
or better.

_Au._ Thou believest indeed like a good Christian.

_Ba._ Who by his omnipotent Beck made all Things visible or invisible;
who by his wonderful Wisdom orders and governs all Things; who by his
Goodness feeds and maintains all Things, and freely restored Mankind
when fallen.

_Au._ These are indeed three especial Attributes in God: But what
Benefit dost thou receive by the Knowledge of them?

_Ba._ When I conceive him to be Omnipotent, I submit myself wholly to
him, in comparison of whose Majesty, the Excellency of Men and Angels is
nothing. Moreover, I firmly believe whatsoever the holy Scriptures teach
to have been done, and also that what he hath promised shall be done by
him, seeing he can by his single Beck do whatsoever he pleases, how
impossible soever it may seem to Man. And upon that Account distrusting
my own Strength, I depend wholly upon him who can do all Things. When I
consider his Wisdom, I attribute nothing at all to my own, but I believe
all Things are done by him righteously and justly, although they may
seem to human Sense absurd or unjust. When I animadvert on his Goodness,
I see nothing in myself that I do not owe to free Grace, and I think
there is no Sin so great, but he is willing to forgive to a true
Penitent, nor nothing but what he will freely bestow on him that asks in

_Au._ Dost thou think that it is sufficient for thee to believe him to
be so?

_Ba._ By no Means. But with a sincere Affection I put my whole Trust and
Confidence in him alone, detesting Satan, and all Idolatry, and magic
Arts. I worship him alone, preferring nothing before him, nor equalling
nothing with him, neither Angel, nor my Parents, nor Children, nor Wife,
nor Prince, nor Riches, nor Honours, nor Pleasures; being ready to lay
down my Life if he call for it, being assur'd that he can't possibly
perish who commits himself wholly to him.

_Au._ What then, dost thou worship nothing, fear nothing, love nothing
but God alone?

_Ba._ If I reverence any Thing, fear any Thing, or love any Thing, it
is for his Sake I love it, fear it, and reverence it; referring all
Things to his Glory, always giving Thanks to him for whatsoever happens,
whether prosperous or adverse, Life or Death.

_Au._ In Truth your Confession is very sound so far. What do you think
concerning the second Person?

_Ba._ Examine me.

_Au._ Dost thou believe Jesus was God and Man?

_Ba._ Yes.

_Au._ Could it be that the same should be both immortal God and mortal

_Ba._ That was an easy Thing for him to do who can do what he will: And
by Reason of his divine Nature, which is common to him with the Father,
whatsoever Greatness, Wisdom, and Goodness I attribute to the Father, I
attribute the same to the Son; and whatsoever I owe to the Father, I owe
also to the Son, but only that it hath seemed good to the Father to
bestow all Things on us through him.

_Au._ Why then do the holy Scriptures more frequently call the Son Lord
than God?

_Ba._ Because God is a Name of Authority, that is to say, of
Sovereignty, which in an especial Manner belongeth to the Father, who is
absolutely the Original of all Things, and the Fountain even of the
Godhead itself. Lord is the Name of a Redeemer and Deliverer, altho' the
Father also redeemed us by his Son, and the Son is God, but of God the
Father. But the Father only is from none, and obtains the first Place
among the divine Persons.

_Au._ Then dost thou put thy Confidence in _Jesus_?

_Ba._ Why not?

_Au._ But the Prophet calls him accursed who puts his Trust in Man.

_Ba._ But to this Man alone hath all the Power in Heaven and Earth been
given, that at his Name every Knee should bow, both of Things in Heaven,
Things in Earth, and Things under the Earth. Although I would not put my
chief Confidence and Hope in him, unless he were God.

_Au._ Why do you call him Son?

_Ba._ Lest any should imagine him to be a Creature.

_Au._ Why an only Son?

_Ba._ To distinguish the natural Son from the Sons by Adoption, the
Honour of which Sirname he imputes to us also, that we may look for no
other besides this Son.

_Au._ Why would he have him to be made Man, who was God?

_Ba._ That being Man, he might reconcile Men to God.

_Au._ Dost thou believe he was conceived without the Help of Man, by the
Operation of the holy Ghost, and born of the undented Virgin _Mary_,
taking a mortal Body of her Substance?

_Ba._ Yes.

_Au._ Why would he be so born?

_Ba._ Because it so became God to be born, because it became him to be
born in this Manner, who was to cleanse away the Filthiness of our
Conception and Birth. God would have him to be born the Son of Man, that
we being regenerated into him, might be made the Sons of God.

_Au._ Dost thou believe that he lived here upon Earth, did Miracles,
taught those Things that are recorded to us in the Gospel?

_Ba._ Ay, more certainly than I believe you to be a Man.

_Au._ I am not an _Apuleius_ turned inside out, that you should suspect
that an Ass lies hid under the Form of a Man. But do you believe this
very Person to be the very Messiah whom the Types of the Law shadowed
out, which the Oracle of the Prophets promised, which the _Jews_ looked
for so many Ages?

_Ba._ I believe nothing more firmly.

_Au._ Dost thou believe his Doctrine and Life are sufficient to lead us
to perfect Piety?

_Ba._ Yes, perfectly sufficient.

_Au._ Dost thou believe that the same was really apprehended by the
_Jews_, bound, buffeted, beaten, spit upon, mock'd, scourg'd under
_Pontius Pilate_; and lastly, nailed to the Cross, and there died?

_Ba._ Yes, I do.

_Au._ Do you believe him to have been free from all the Law of Sin

_Ba._ Why should I not? A Lamb without Spot.

_Au._ Dost thou believe he suffered all these Things of his own accord?

_Ba._ Not only willingly, but even with great Desire; but according to
the Will of his Father.

_Au._ Why would the Father have his only Son, being innocent and most
dear to him, suffer all these Things?

_Ba._ That by this Sacrifice he might reconcile to himself us who were
guilty, we putting our Confidence and Hope in his Name.

_Au._ Why did God suffer all Mankind thus to fall? And if he did suffer
them, was there no other Way to be found out to repair our Fall?

_Ba._ Not human Reason, but Faith hath persuaded me of this, that it
could be done no Way better nor more beneficially for our Salvation.

_Au._ Why did this Kind of Death please him best?

_Ba._ Because in the Esteem of the World it was the most disgraceful,
and because the Torment of it was cruel and lingring, because it was
meet for him who would invite all the Nations of the World unto
Salvation, with his Members stretch'd out into every Coast of the World,
and call off Men, who were glew'd unto earthly Cares, to heavenly
Things; and, last of all, that he might represent to us the brazen
Serpent that _Moses_ set up upon a Pole, that whoever should fix his
Eyes upon it, should be heal'd of the Wounds of the Serpent, and fulfil
the Prophet's Promise, who prophesied, _say ye among the Nations, God
hath reign'd from a Tree_.

_Au._ Why would he be buried also, and that so curiously, anointed with
Myrrh and Ointments, inclosed in a new Tomb, cut out of a hard and
natural Rock, the Door being seal'd, and also publick Watchmen set

_Ba._ That it might be the more manifest that he was really dead.

_Au._ Why did he not rise again presently?

_Ba._ For the very same Reason; for if his Death had been doubtful, his
Resurrection had been doubtful too; but he would have that to be as
certain as possible could be.

_Au._ Do you believe his Soul descended into Hell?

_Ba._ St. _Cyprian_ affirms that this Clause was not formerly inserted
either in the _Roman_ Creed or in the Creed of the Eastern Churches,
neither is it recorded in _Tertullian_, a very ancient Writer. And yet
notwithstanding, I do firmly believe it, both because it agrees with the
Prophecy of the Psalm, _Thou wilt not leave my Soul in Hell_; and again,
_O Lord, thou hast brought my Soul out of Hell_. And also because the
Apostle _Peter_, in the third Chapter of his first Epistle (of the
Author whereof no Man ever doubted,) writes after this Manner, _Being
put to Death in the Flesh, but quickned by the Spirit, in which also he
came and preach'd by his Spirit to those that were in Prison_. But
though I believe he descended into Hell, yet I believe he did not suffer
anything there. For he descended not to be tormented there, but that he
might destroy the Kingdom of Satan.

_Au._ Well, I hear nothing yet that is impious; but he died that he
might restore us to Life again, who were dead in Sin. But why did he
rise to live again?

_Ba._ For three Reasons especially.

_Au._ Which are they?

_Ba._ First of all, to give us an assur'd Hope of our Resurrection.
Secondly, that we might know that he in whom we have plac'd the Safety
of our Resurrection is immortal, and shall never die. Lastly, that we
being dead in Sins by Repentance, and buried together with him by
Baptism, should by his Grace be raised up again to Newness of Life.

_Au._ Do you believe that the very same Body that died upon the Cross,
which reviv'd in the Grave, which was seen and handled by the Disciples,
ascended into Heaven?

_Ba._ Yes, I do.

_Au._ Why would he leave the Earth?

_Ba._ That we might all love him spiritually, and that no Man should
appropriate Christ to himself upon the Earth, but that we should equally
lift up our Minds to Heaven, knowing that our Head is there. For if Men
now so much please themselves in the Colour and Shape of the Garment,
and do boast so much of the Blood or the Foreskin of Christ, and the
Milk of the Virgin _Mary_, what do you think would have been, had he
abode on the Earth, eating and discoursing? What Dissentions would those
Peculiarities of his Body have occasioned?

_Au._ Dost thou believe that he, being made immortal, sitteth at the
right Hand of the Father?

_Ba._ Why not? As being Lord of all Things, and Partaker of all his
Father's Kingdom. He promised his Disciples that this should be, and he
presented this Sight to his Martyr _Stephen_.

_Au._ Why did he shew it?

_Ba._ That we may not be discouraged in any Thing, well knowing what a
powerful Defender and Lord we have in Heaven.

_Au._ Do you believe that he will come again in the same Body, to judge
the Quick and the Dead?

_Ba._ As certain as I am, that those Things the Prophets have foretold
concerning Christ hitherto have come to pass, so certain I am, that
whatsoever he would have us look for for the future, shall come to pass.
We have seen his first Coming, according to the Predictions of the
Prophets, wherein he came in a low Condition, to instruct and save. We
shall also see his second, when he will come on high, in the Glory of
his Father, before whose Judgment-Seat all Men of every Nation, and of
every Condition, whether Kings or Peasants, _Greeks_, or _Scythians_,
shall be compell'd to appear; and not only those, whom at that Coming he
shall find alive, but also all those who have died from the Beginning of
the World, even until that Time, shall suddenly be raised, and behold
his Judge every one in his own Body. The blessed Angels also shall be
there as faithful Servants, and the Devils to be judg'd. Then he will,
from on high, pronounce that unvoidable Sentence, which will cast the
Devil, together with those that have taken his Part, into eternal
Punishments, that they may not after that, be able to do Mischief to
any. He will translate the Godly, being freed from all Trouble, to a
Fellowship with him in his heavenly Kingdom: Although he would have the
Day of his coming unknown to all.

_Au._ I hear no Error yet. Let us now come to the third Person.

_Ba._ As you please.

_Au._ Dost thou believe in the holy Spirit?

_Ba._ I do believe that it is true God, together with the Father, and
the Son. I believe they that wrote us the Books of the Old and New
Testament were inspired by it, without whose Help no Man attains

_Au._ Why is he called a Spirit?

_Ba._ Because as our Bodies do live by Breath, so our Minds are
quicken'd by the secret Inspiration of the holy Spirit.

_Au._ Is it not lawful to call the Father a Spirit?

_Ba._ Why not?

_Au._ Are not then the Persons confounded?

_Ba._ No, not at all, for the Father is called a Spirit, because he is
without a Body, which Thing is common to all the Persons, according to
their divine Nature: But the third Person is called a Spirit, because he
breathes out, and transfuses himself insensibly into our Minds, even as
the Air breathes from the Land, or the Rivers.

_Au._ Why is the Name of Son given to the second Person?

_Ba._ Because of his perfect Likeness of Nature and Will.

_Au._ Is the Son more like the Father, than the holy Spirit?

_Ba._ Not according to the divine Nature, except that he resembles the
Property of the Father the more in this, that the Spirit proceeds from
him also.

_Au._ What hinders then, but that the holy Spirit may be called Son.

_Ba._ Because, as St. _Hilary_ saith, I no where read that he was
begotten, neither do I read of his Father: I read of the _Spirit, and
that proceeding from_.

_Au._ Why is the Father alone called God in the Creed?

_Ba._ Because he, as I have said before, is simply the Author of all
Things that are, and the Fountain of the whole Deity.

_Au._ Speak in plainer Terms.

_Ba._ Because nothing can be nam'd which hath not its Original from the
Father: For indeed, in this very Thing, that the Son and Holy Spirit is
God, they acknowledge that they received it from the Father; therefore
the chief Authority, that is to say, the Cause of Beginning, is in the
Father alone, because he alone is of none: But yet, in the Creed it may
be so taken, that the Name of God may not be proper to one Person, but
used in general; because, it is distinguish'd afterwards by the Terms of
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, into one God; which Word of Nature
comprehends the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; that is to say, the three

_Au._ Dost thou believe in the holy Church?

_Ba._ No.

_Au._ What say you? Do you not believe in it?

_Ba._ I believe the holy Church, which is the Body of Christ; that is to
say, a certain Congregation of all Men throughout the whole World, who
agree in the Faith of the Gospel, who worship one God the Father, who
put their whole Confidence in his Son, who are guided by the same Spirit
of him; from whose Fellowship he is cut off that commits a deadly Sin.

_Au._ But why do you stick to say, I believe in the holy Church?

_Ba._ Because St. _Cyprian_ hath taught me, that we must believe in God
alone, in whom we absolutely put all our Confidence. Whereas the Church,
properly so called, although it consists of none but good Men; yet it
consists of Men, who of good may become bad, who may be deceived, and
deceive others.

_Au._ What do you think of the Communion of Saints?

_Ba._ This Article is not all meddled with by _Cyprian_, when he
particularly shews what in such and such Churches is more or less used;
for he thus connects them: _For there followeth after this Saying, the
holy Church, the Forgiveness of Sins, the Resurrection of this Flesh_.
And some are of Opinion, that this Part does not differ from the former;
but that it explains and enforces what before was called _the holy
Church_; so that the Church is nothing else but the Profession of one
God, one Gospel, one Faith, one Hope, the Participation of the same
Spirit, and the same Sacraments: To be short, such a Kind of Communion
of all good Things, among all godly Men, who have been from the
Beginning of the World, even to the End of it, as the Fellowship of the
Members of the Body is between one another. So that the good Deeds of
one may help another, until they become lively Members of the Body. But
out of this Society, even one's own good Works do not further his
Salvation, unless he be reconcil'd to the holy Congregation; and
therefore it follows, _the Forgiveness of Sins_; because out of the
Church there is no Remission of Sins, although a Man should pine himself
away with Repentance, and exercise Works of Charity. In the Church, I
say, not of Hereticks, but the holy Church; that is to say, gathered by
the Spirit of Christ, there is Forgiveness of Sins by Baptism, and after
Baptism, by Repentence, and the Keys given to the Church.

_Au._ Thus far they are the Words of a Man that is sound in the Faith.
Do you believe that there will be a Resurrection of the Flesh?

_Ba._ I should believe all the rest to no Purpose, if I did not believe
this, which is the Head of all.

_Au._ What dost thou mean, when thou say'st the Flesh?

_Ba._ An human Body animated with a human Soul.

_Au._ Shall every Soul receive its own Body which is left dead?

_Ba._ The very same from whence it went out; and therefore, in Cyprian's
Creed, it is added, _of this Flesh_.

_Au._ How can it be, that the Body which hath been now so often chang'd
out of one Thing into another, can rise again the same?

_Ba._ He who could create whatsoever he would out of nothing, is it a
hard Matter for him to restore to its former Nature that which hath been
changed in its Form? I don't dispute anxiously which Way it can be done;
it is sufficient to me, that he who hath promised that it shall be so,
is so true, that he can't lye, and so powerful, as to be able to bring
to pass with a Beck, whatsoever he pleases.

_Au._ What need will there be of a Body then?

_Ba._ That the whole Man may be glorified with Christ, who, in this
World, was wholly afflicted with Christ.

_Au._ What means that which he adds, _and Life everlasting_.

_Ba._ Lest any one should think that we shall so rise again, as the
Frogs revive at the Beginning of the Spring, to die again. For here is a
twofold Death of the Body, that is common to all Men, both good and bad;
and of the Soul, and the Death of the Soul is Sin. But after the
Resurrection, the godly shall have everlasting Life, both of Body and
Soul: Nor shall the Body be then any more obnoxious to Diseases, old
Age, Hunger, Thirst, Pain, Weariness, Death, or any Inconveniences; but
being made spiritual, it shall be mov'd as the Spirit will have it: Nor
shall the Soul be any more sollicited with any Vices or Sorrows; but
shall for ever enjoy the chiefest Good, which is God himself. On the
contrary, eternal Death, both of Body and Soul, shall seize upon the
wicked. For their Body shall be made immortal, in order to the enduring
everlasting Torments, and their Soul to be continually vexed with the
Gripes of their Sins, without any Hope of Pardon.

_Au._ Dost thou believe these things from thy very Heart, and

_Ba._ I believe them so certainly, I tell you, that I am not so sure
that you talk with me.

_Au._ When I was at _Rome_, I did not find all so sound in the Faith.

_Ba._ Nay; but if you examine thoroughly, you'll find a great many
others in other Places too, which do not so firmly believe these Things.

_Au._ Well then, since you agree with us in so many and weighty Points,
what hinders that you are not wholly on our Side?

_Ba._ I have a mind to hear that of you: For I think that I am orthodox.
Although I will not warrant for my Life yet I endeavour all I can, that
it may be suitable to my Profession.

_Au._ How comes it about then, that there is so great a War between you
and the orthodox?

_Ba._ Do you enquire into that: But hark you, Doctor, if you are not
displeased with this Introduction, take a small Dinner with me; and
after Dinner, you may enquire of every Thing at Leisure: I'll give you
both Arms to feel my Pulse, and you shall see both Stool and Urine; and
after that, if you please, you shall anatomize this whole Breast of
mine, that you may make a better Judgment of me.

_Au._ But I make it a matter of Scruple to eat with thee.

_Ba._ But Physicians use to eat with their Patients, that they might
better observe what they love, and wherein they are irregular.

_Au._ But I am afraid, lest I should seem to favour Hereticks.

_Ba._ Nay, but there is nothing more religious than to favour Hereticks.

_Au._ How so?

_Ba._ Did not _Paul_ wish to be made an _Anathema_ for the _Jews_, which
were worse than Hereticks? Does not he favour him that endeavours that a
Man may be made a good Man of a bad Man?

_Au._ Yes, he does so.

_Ba._ Well then, do you favour me thus, and you need not fear any Thing.

_Au._ I never heard a sick Man answer more to the Purpose. Well, come
on, let me dine with you then.

_Ba._ You shall be entertain'd in a physical Way, as it becomes a
Doctor by his Patient, and we will so refresh our Bodies with Food, that
the Mind shall be never the less fit for Disputation.

_Au._ Well, let it be so, with good Birds (_i.e._ with good Success).

_Ba._ Nay, it shall be with bad Fishes, unless you chance to have forgot
that it is _Friday._

_Au._ Indeed, that is beside our Creed.



     [Greek: Terontologia], or, [Greek: Ochêma], _shews, as
     tho' it were in a Looking-glass, what Things are to be
     avoided in Life, and what Things contribute to the
     Tranquillity of Life. Old Men that were formerly intimate
     Acquaintance when Boys, after forty Years Absence, one
     from the other, happen to meet together, going to_
     Antwerp. _There seems to be a very great Inequality in
     them that are equal in Age._ Polygamus, _he is very old:_
     Glycion _has no Signs of Age upon him, tho' he is sixty
     six; he proposes a Method of keeping off old Age. I. He
     consults what Sort of Life to chuse, and follows the
     Advice of a prudent old Man, who persuades him to marry a
     Wife that was his equal, making his Choice with Judgment,
     before he falls in Love. 2. He has born a publick Office,
     but not obnoxious to troublesome Affairs. 3. He transacts
     Affairs that do not expose him to Envy. 4. He bridles his
     Tongue. 5. He is not violently fond of, nor averse to any
     Thing. He moderates his Affections, suffers no Sorrow to
     abide with him all Night. 6. He abstains from Vices, and
     renews his Patience every Day. 7. He is not anxiously
     thoughtful of Death. 8. He does not travel into foreign
     Countries. 9. He has nothing to do with Doctors. 10. He
     diverts himself with Study, but does not study himself
     lean. On the other hand_, Polygamus _has brought old Age
     upon him, by the Intemperance of his Youth, by Drinking,
     Whoring, Gaming, running in Debt; he had had eight
     Wives._ Pampirus, _he becomes a Merchant; but consumes
     all he has by Gaming; then he becomes a Canon; then a
     Carthusian; after that a Benedictine; and last of all,
     turns Soldier._ Eusebius, _he gets a good Benefice and


_Euseb._ What new Faces do I see here? If I am not mistaken, or do not
see clear, I see three old Companions sitting by me; _Pampirus,
Polygamus_ and _Glycion;_ they are certainly the very same.

_Pa._ What do you mean, with your Glass Eyes, you Wizard? Pray come
nearer a little, _Eusebius._

_Po._ Hail, heartily, my wish'd for _Eusebius._

_Gl._ All Health to you, the best of Men.

_Eu._ One Blessing upon you all, my dear Friends. What God, or
providential Chance has brought us together now, for I believe none of
us have seen the one the other, for this forty Years. Why _Mercury_ with
his Mace could not have more luckily brought us together into a Circle;
but what are you doing here?

_Pa._ We are sitting.

_Eu._ I see that, but what do you sit for?

_Po._ We wait for the _Antwerp_ Waggon.

_Eu._ What, are you going to the Fair?

_Po._ We are so: but rather Spectators, than Traders, tho' one has one
Business, and another has another.

_Eu._ Well, and I am going thither myself too. But what hinders you,
that you are not going?

_Po._ We han't agreed with the Waggoner yet.

_Eu._ These Waggoners are a surly Sort of People; but are you willing
that we put a Trick upon them?

_Po._ With all my Heart, if it can be done fairly.

_Eu._ We will pretend that we will go thither a-Foot together.

_Po._ They'll sooner believe that a Crab-Fish will fly, than that such
heavy Fellows as we will take such a Journey on Foot.

_Eu._ Will you follow good wholsome Advice?

_Po._ Yes, by all Means.

_Gl._ They are a drinking, and the longer they are fuddling, the more
Danger we shall be in of being overturned in the Dirt.

_Po._ You must come very early, if you find a Waggoner sober.

_Gl._ Let us hire the Waggon for us four by ourselves, that we may get
to _Antwerp_ the sooner: It is but a little more Charge, not worth
minding, and this Expence will be made up by many Advantages; we shall
have the more Room, and shall pass the Journey the more pleasantly in
mutual Conversation.

_Po._ _Glycion_ is much in the Right on't. For good Company in a Journey
does the Office of a Coach; and according to the _Greek_ Proverb, we
shall have more Liberty of talking, not about a Waggon, but in a Waggon.

_Gl._ Well, I have made a Bargain, let us get up. Now I've a Mind to be
merry, seeing I have had the good Luck to see my old dear Comrades after
so long a Separation.

_Eu._ And methinks I seem to grow young again.

_Po._ How many Years do you reckon it, since we liv'd together at Paris?

_Eu._ I believe it is not less than two and forty Years.

_Pa._ Then we seem'd to be all pretty much of an Age.

_Eu._ We were so, pretty near the Matter, for if there was any
Difference it was very little.

_Pa._ But what a great Difference does there seem to be now? For Glycion
has nothing of an old Man about him, and Polygamus looks old enough to
be his Grandfather.

_Eu._ Why truly he does so, but what should be the Reason of it?

_Pa._ What? Why either the one loiter'd and stopp'd in his Course, or
the other run faster (out-run him).

_Eu._ Oh! Time does not stay, how much soever Men may loiter.

_Po._ Come, tell us, _Glycion_ truly, how many Years do you number?

_Gl._ More than Ducats in my Pocket.

_Po._ Well, but how many?

_Gl._ Threescore and six.

_Eu._ Why thou'lt never be old.

_Po._ But by what Arts hast thou kept off old Age? for you have no grey
Hairs, nor Wrinkles in your Skin, your Eyes are lively, your Teeth are
white and even, you have a fresh Colour, and a plump Body.

_Gl._ I'll tell you my Art, upon Condition you'll tell us your Art of
coming to be old so soon.

_Po._ I agree to the Condition. I'll do it. Then tell us whither you
went when you left _Paris._

_Gl._ I went directly into my own Country, and by that Time I had been
there almost a Year, I began to bethink myself what Course of Life to
chuse; which I thought to be a Matter of great Importance, as to my
future Happiness; so I cast my Thoughts about what had been successful
to some, and what had been unsuccessful to others.

_Po._ I admire you had so much Prudence, when you were as great a Maggot
as any in the World, when you were at _Paris._

_Gl._ Then my Age did permit a little Wildness. But, my good Friend, you
must know, I did not do all this neither of my own mother-Wit.

_Po._ Indeed I stood in Admiration.

_Gl._ Before I engaged in any Thing, I applied to a certain Citizen, a
Man of Gravity, of the greatest Prudence by long Experience, and of a
general Reputation with his fellow Citizens, and in my Opinion, the most
happy Man in the World.

_Eu._ You did wisely.

_Gl._ By this Man's Advice I married a Wife.

_Po._ Had she a very good Portion?

_Gl._ An indifferent good one, and according to the Proverb, in a
competent Proportion to my own: For I had just enough to do my Business,
and this Matter succeeded to my Mind.

_Po._ What was your Age then?

_Gl._ Almost two and twenty.

_Po._ O happy Man!

_Gl._ But don't mistake the Matter; all this was not owing to Fortune

_Po._ Why so?

_Gl._ I'll tell you; some love before they chuse, I made my Choice with
Judgment first, and then lov'd afterwards, and nevertheless I married
this Woman more for the Sake of Posterity than for any carnal
Satisfaction. With her I liv'd a very pleasant Life, but not above eight

_Po._ Did she leave you no children?

_Gl._ Nay, I have four alive, two Sons and two Daughters.

_Po._ Do you live as a private Person, or in some publick Office?

_Gl._ I have a publick Employ. I might have happen'd to have got into a
higher Post, but I chose this because it was creditable enough to secure
me from Contempt, and is free from troublesome Attendance: And it is
such, that no Body need object against me that I live only for myself, I
have also something to spare now and then to assist a Friend. With this
I live content, and it is the very Height of my Ambition. And then I
have taken Care so to execute my Office, to give more Reputation to my
Office than I receiv'd from it; this I account to be more honourable,
than to borrow my Dignity from the Splendor of my Office.

_Eu._ Without all Controversy.

_Gl._ By this Means I am advanced in Years, and the Affections of my
fellow Citizens.

_Eu._ But that's one of the difficultest Things in the World, when with
very good Reason there is this old Saying: _He that has no Enemies has
no Friends_; and _Envy is always an Attendant on Felicity_.

_Gl._ Envy always is a Concomitant of a pompous Felicity, but a
Mediocrity is safe; this was always my Study, not to make any Advantage
to myself from the Disadvantages of other People. I embraced as much as
I could, that which the _Greeks_ call Freedom from the Encumbrance of
Business. I intermeddled with no one's Affairs; but especially I kept
myself clear from those that could not be meddled with without gaining
the ill Will of a great many. If a Friend wants my Assistance, I so
serve him, as thereby not to procure any Enemies to myself. In Case of
any Misunderstanding between me and any Persons, I endeavour to soften
it by clearing myself of Suspicion, or to set all right again by good
Offices, or to let it die without taking Notice of it: I always avoid
Contention, but if it shall happen, I had rather lose my Money than my
Friend. Upon the Whole, I act the Part of _Mitio_ in the Comedy, I
affront no Man, I carry a chearful Countenance to all, I salute and
resalute affably, I find no Fault with what any Man purposes to do or
does, I don't prefer myself before other People; I let every one enjoy
his Opinion; what I would have kept as a Secret, I tell to no Body: I
never am curious to pry in the Privacies of other Men. If I happen to
come to the Knowledge of any thing, I never blab it. As for absent
Persons, I either say nothing at all of them, or speak of them with
Kindness and Civility. Great Part of the Quarrels that arise between
Men, come from the Intemperance of the Tongue. I never breed Quarrels or
heighten them; but where-ever Opportunity happens, I either moderate
them, or put an End to them. By these Methods I have hitherto kept clear
of Envy, and have maintained the Affections of my fellow Citizens.

_Pa._ Did you not find a single Life irksome to you?

_Gl._ Nothing happened to me in the whole Course of my Life, more
afflicting than the Death of my Wife, and I could have passionately
wish'd that we might have grown old together, and might have enjoy'd the
Comfort of the common Blessing, our Children: But since Providence saw
it meet it should be otherwise, I judged that it was best for us both,
and therefore did not think there was Cause for me to afflict myself
with Grief, that would do no good, neither to me nor the Deceased.

_Pol._ What, had you never an Inclination to marry again, especially the
first having been so happy a Match to you?

_Gl._ I had an Inclination so to do, but as I married for the Sake of
Children, so for the Sake of my Children I did not marry again.

_Pol._ But 'tis a miserable Case to lie alone whole Nights without a

_Gl._ Nothing is hard to a willing Mind. And then do but consider the
Benefits of a single Life: There are some People in the World, who will
be for making the worst of every Thing; such a one _Crates_ seemed to
be, or an Epigram under his Name, summing up the Evils of human Life.
And the Resolution is this, that it is best not to be born at all. Now
_Metrodorus_ pleases me a great Deal better, who picks out what is good
in it; this makes Life the pleasanter. And I brought my Mind to that
Temper of Indifference never to have a violent Aversion or Fondness for
any thing. And by this it comes to pass, that if any good Fortune
happens to me, I am not vainly transported, or grow insolent; or if any
thing falls out cross, I am not much perplex'd.

_Pa._ Truly if you can do this, you are a greater Philosopher than
_Thales_ himself.

_Gl._ If any Uneasiness in my Mind rises, (as mortal Life produces many
of them) I cast it immediately out of my Thoughts, whether it be from
the Sense of an Affront offered, or any Thing done unhandsomly.

_Pol._ Well, but there are some Provocations that would raise the Anger
of the most patient Man alive: As the Saucinesses of Servants frequently

_Gl._ I suffer nothing to stay long enough in my Mind to make an
Impression. If I can cure them I do it, if not, I reason thus with
myself, What good will it do me to torment myself about that which will
be never the better for it? In short, I let Reason do that for me at
first, which after a little While, Time itself would do. And this I be
sure take Care of, not to suffer any Vexation, be it never so great, to
go to Bed with me.

_Eu._ No wonder that you don't grow old, who are of that Temper.

_Gl._ Well, and that I mayn't conceal any thing from Friends, in an
especial Manner I have kept this Guard upon myself, never to commit any
Thing that might be a Reflection either on my own Honour or that of my
Children. For there is nothing more troublesome than a guilty
Conscience. And if I have committed a Fault I don't go to Bed before I
have reconcil'd myself to God. To be at Peace with God is the Fountain
of true Tranquillity of Mind, or, as the Greeks call it, [Greek:
euthymia]. For they who live thus, Men can do them no great Injury.

_Eu._ Have you never any anxious Thoughts upon the Apprehension of

_Gl._ No more than I have for the Day of my Birth. I know I must die,
and to live in the Fear of it may possibly shorten my Life, but to be
sure it would never make it longer. So that I care for nothing else but
to live piously and comfortably, and leave the rest to Providence; and a
Man can't live happily that does not live piously.

_Pa._ But I should grow old with the Tiresomeness of living so long in
the same Place, tho' it were _Rome_ itself.

_Gl._ The changing of Place has indeed something of Pleasure in it; but
then, as for long Travels, tho' perhaps they may add to a Man's
Experience, yet they are liable to a great many Dangers. I seem to
myself to travel over the whole World in a Map, and can see more in
Histories than if I had rambled through Sea and Land for twenty Years
together, as _Ulysses_ did. I have a little Country-House about two
Miles out of Town, and there sometimes, of a Citizen I become a
Country-Man, and having recreated my self there, I return again to the
City a new Comer, and salute and am welcom'd as if I had return'd from
the new-found Islands.

_Eu._ Don't you assist Nature with a little Physick?

_Gl._ I never was let Blood, or took Pills nor Potions in my Life yet.
If I feel any Disorder coming upon me, I drive it away with spare Diet
or the Country Air.

_Eu._ Don't you study sometimes?

_Gl._ I do. In that is the greatest Pleasure of my Life: But I make a
Diversion of it, but not a Toil. I study either for Pleasure or Profit
of my Life, but not for Ostentation. After Meat I have a Collation of
learned Stories, or else somebody to read to me, and I never sit to my
Books above an Hour at a Time: Then I get up and take my Violin, and
walk about in my Chamber, and sing to it, or else ruminate upon what I
have read; or if I have a good Companion with me, I relate it, and after
a While I return to my Book again.

_Eu._ But tell me now, upon the Word of an honest Man; Do you feel none
of the Infirmities of old Age, which are said to be a great many?

_Gl._ My Sleep is not so sound, nor my Memory so good, unless I fix any
thing deeply in it. Well, I have now acquitted myself of my Promise. I
have laid open to you those magical Arts by which I have kept myself
young, and now let _Polygamus_ tell us fairly, how he brought old Age
upon him to that Degree.

_Po._ Indeed, I will hide nothing from such trusty Companions.

_Eu._ You will tell it to those that will not make a Discourse of it.

_Po._ You very well know I indulg'd my Appetite when I was at _Paris_.

_Eu._ We remember it very well. But we thought that you had left your
rakish Manners and your youthful Way of Living at _Paris_.

_Po._ Of the many Mistresses I had there I took one Home, who was big
with Child.

_Eu._ What, into your Father's House?

_Po._ Directly thither; but I pretended she was a Friend's Wife, who was
to come to her in a little Time.

_Gl._ Did your Father believe it?

_Po._ He smelt the Matter out in three or four Days time, and then there
was a cruel Scolding. However, in this Interim I did not leave off
Feasting, Gaming, and other extravagant Diversions. And in short, my
Father continuing to rate me, saying he would have no such cackling
Gossips under his Roof, and ever and anon threatning to discard me, I
march'd off, remov'd to another Place with my Pullet, and she brought me
some young Chickens.

_Pa._ Where had you Money all the While?

_Po._ My Mother gave me some by Stealth, and I ran over Head and Ears in

_Eu._ Had any Body so little Wit as to lend you?

_Po._ There are some Persons who will trust no Body more readily than
they will a Spendthrift.

_Pa._ And what next?

_Po._ At last my Father was going about to disinherit me in good
earnest. Some Friends interpos'd, and made up the Breach upon this
Condition; that I should renounce the _French_ Woman, and marry one of
our own Country.

_Eu._ Was she your Wife?

_Po._ There had past some Words between us in the future Tense, but
there had been carnal Copulation in the present Tense.

_Eu._ How could you leave her then?

_Po._ It came to be known afterwards, that my _French_ Woman had a
_French_ Husband that she had elop'd from some Time before.

_Eu._ But it seems you have a Wife now.

_Po._ None besides this which is my Eighth.

_Eu._ The Eighth! Why then you were named _Polygamus_ by Way of
Prophecy. Perhaps they all died without Children.

_Po._ Nay, there was not one of them but left me a Litter which I have
at Home.

_Eu._ I had rather have so many Hens at Home, which would lay me Eggs.
An't you weary of wifeing?

_Po._ I am so weary of it, that if this Eighth should die to Day, I
would marry the Ninth to-Morrow. Nay, it vexes me that I must not have
two or three, when one Cock has so many Hens.

_Eu._ Indeed I don't wonder, Mr. Cock, that you are no fatter, and that
you have brought old Age upon you to that Degree; for nothing brings on
old Age faster, than excessive and hard Drinking, keeping late Hours,
and Whoring, extravagant Love of Women, and immoderate Venery. But who
maintains your Family all this While?

_Po._ A small Estate came to me by the Death of my Father, and I work
hard with my Hands.

_Eu._ Have you given over Study then?

_Po._ Altogether. I have brought a Noble to Nine Pence, and of a Master
of seven Arts, I am become a Workman of but one Art.

_Eu._ Poor Man! So many Times you were obliged to be a Mourner, and so
many Times a Widower.

_Po._ I never liv'd single above ten Days, and the new Wife always put
an End to the Mourning for the old one. So, you have in Truth the
Epitome of my Life; and I wish _Pampirus_ would give us a Narration of
his Life; he bears his Age well enough: For if I am not mistaken, he is
two or three Years older than I.

_Pa._ Truly I'll tell it ye, if you are at Leisure to hear such a

_Eu._ Nay, it will be a Pleasure to hear it.

_Pa._ When I went Home my antient Father began to press me earnestly to
enter into some Course of Life, that might make some Addition to what I
had; and after long Consultation Merchandizing was what I took to.

_Po._ I admire this Way of Life pleas'd you more than any other.

_Pa._ I was naturally greedy to know new Things, to see various
Countries and Cities, to learn Languages, and the Customs and Manners of
Men, and Merchandize seem'd the most apposite to that Purpose. From
which a general Knowledge of Things proceeds.

_Po._ But a wretched one, which is often purchas'd with Inconveniencies.

_Pa._ It is so, therefore my Father gave me a good large Stock, that I
might begin to trade upon a good Foundation: And at the same Time I
courted a Wife with a good Fortune, but handsome enough to have gone off
without a Portion.

_Eu._ Did you succeed?

_Pa._ No. Before I came Home, I lost all, Stock and Block.

_Eu._ Perhaps by Shipwreck.

_Pa._ By Shipwreck indeed. For we run upon more dangerous Rocks than
those of _Scilly_.

_Eu._ In what Sea did you happen to run upon that Rock? Or what is the
Name of it?

_Pa._ I can't tell what Sea 'tis in, but it is a Rock that is infamous
for the destruction of a great many, they call it _Alea_ [Dice, the
Devil's Bones] in _Latin_, how you call it in _Greek_ I can't tell.

_Eu._ O Fool!

_Pa._ Nay, my Father was a greater Fool, to trust a young Fop with such
a Sum of Money.

_Gl._ And what did you do next?

_Pa._ Why nothing at all, but I began to think of hanging myself.

_Gl._ Was your Father so implacable then? For such a Loss might be made
up again; and an Allowance is always to be made to one that makes the
first Essay, and much more it ought to be to one that tries all Things.

_Pa._ Tho' what you say may be true, I lost my Wife in the mean Time.
For as soon as the Maid's Parents came to understand what they must
expect, they would have no more to do with me, and I was over Head and
Ears in Love.

_Gl._ I pity thee. But what did you propose to yourself after that?

_Pa._ To do as it is usual in desperate Cases. My Father had cast me
off, my Fortune was consum'd, my Wife was lost, I was every where call'd
a Sot, a Spendthrift, a Rake and what not? Then I began to deliberate
seriously with myself, whether I should hang myself or no, or whether I
should throw myself into a Monastery.

_Eu._ You were cruelly put to it! I know which you would chuse, the
easier Way of Dying.

_Pa._ Nay, sick was I of Life itself; I pitched upon that which seem'd
to me the most painful.

_Gl._ And yet many People cast themselves into Monasteries, that they
may live more comfortably there.

_Pa._ Having got together a little Money to bear my Charges, I stole out
of my own Country.

_Gl._ Whither did you go at last?

_Pa._ Into _Ireland_, there I became a Canon Regular of that Order that
wear Linnen outwards and Woollen next their Skin.

_Gl._ Did you spend your Winter in _Ireland_?

_Pa._ No. But by that Time I had been among them two Months I sail'd
into _Scotland_.

_Gl._ What displeas'd you among them?

_Pa._ Nothing, but that I thought their Discipline was not severe enough
for the Deserts of one, that once Hanging was too good for.

_Gl._ Well, what past in _Scotland_?

_Pa._ Then I chang'd my Linnen Habit for a Leathern one, among the

_Eu._ These are the Men, that in Strictness of Profession, are dead to
the World.

_Pa._ It seem'd so to me, when I heard them Singing.

_Gl._ What? Do dead Men sing? But how many Months did you spend among
the _Scots_?

_Pa._ Almost six.

_Gl._ A wonderful Constancy.

_Eu._ What offended you there?

_Pa._ Because it seem'd to me to be a lazy, delicate Sort of Life; and
then I found there, many that were not of a very sound Brain, by Reason
of their Solitude. I had but a little Brain myself, and I was afraid I
should lose it all.

_Po._ Whither did you take your next Flight?

_Pa._ Into France: There I found some cloath'd all in Black, of the
Order of St. Benedict, who intimate by the Colour of their Cloaths, that
they are Mourners in this World; and among these, there were some, that
for their upper Garment wore Hair-Cloth like a Net.

_Gl._ A grievous Mortification of the Flesh.

_Pa._ Here I stay'd eleven Months.

_Eu._ What was the Matter that you did not stay there for good and all?

_Pa._ Because I found there were more Ceremonies than true Piety: And
besides, I heard that there were some who were much holier, which
_Bernard_ had enjoin'd a more severe Discipline, the black Habit being
chang'd into a white one; with these I liv'd ten Months.

_Eu._ What disgusted you here?

_Pa._ I did not much dislike any Thing, for I found them very good
Company; but the _Greek_ Proverb ran in my Mind;

      [Greek: Dei tas chelônas ê phagein ê mê phagein.]

      _One must either eat Snails, or eat nothing at all._

Therefore I came to a Resolution, either not to be a Monk, or to be a
Monk to Perfection. I had heard there were some of the Order of St.
_Bridget_, that were really heavenly Men, I betook myself to these.

_Eu._ How many Months did you stay there?

_Pa._ Two Days; but not quite that.

_Gl._ Did that Kind of Life please you no better than so?

_Pa._ They take no Body in, but those that will profess themselves
presently; but I was not yet come to that Pitch of Madness, so easily to
put my Neck into such a Halter, that I could never get off again. And as
often as I heard the Nuns singing, the Thoughts of my Mistress that I
had lost, tormented my Mind.

_Gl._ Well, and what after this?

_Pa._ My Mind was inflamed with the Love of Holiness; nor yet had I met
with any Thing that could satisfy it. At last, as I was walking up and
down, I fell in among some Cross-Bearers. This Badge pleas'd me at first
Sight; but the Variety hindered me from chusing which to take to. Some
carried a white Cross, some a red Cross, some a green Cross, some a
party-colour'd Cross, some a single Cross, some a double one, some a
quadruple, and others some of one Form, and some of another; and I, that
I might leave nothing untry'd, I carried some of every Sort. But I found
in reality, that there was a great Difference between carrying a Cross
on a Gown or a Coat, and carrying it in the Heart. At last, being tired
with Enquiry, it came into my Mind, that to arrive at universal Holiness
all at once, I would take a Journey to the holy Land, and so would
return Home with a Back-Load of Sanctimony.

_Po._ And did you go thither?

_Pa._ Yes.

_Po._ Where did you get Money to bear your Charges?

_Pa._ I wonder it never came into your Head, to ask that before now, and
not to have enquir'd after that a great While ago: But you know the old
Proverb; _a Man of Art will live any where_.

_Gl._ What Art do you carry with you?

_Pa._ Palmistry.

_Gl._ Where did you learn it?

_Pa._ What signifies that?

_Gl._ Who was your Master?

_Pa._ My Belly, the great Master of all Arts: I foretold Things past,
present, and to come.

_Gl._ And did you know any Thing of the Matter?

_Pa._ Nothing at all; but I made bold Guesses, and run no Risque
neither, having got my Money first.

_Po._ And was so ridiculous an Art sufficient to maintain you?

_Pa._ It was, and two Servants too: There is every where such a Number
of foolish young Fellows and Wenches. However, when I came to
_Jerusalem_, I put myself into the Train of a rich Nobleman, who being
seventy Years of Age, said he could never have died in Peace, unless he
had first visited _Jerusalem_.

_Eu._ What, did he leave a Wife at Home?

_Pa._ Yes, and six Children.

_Eu._ O impious, pious, old Man! Well, and did you come back holy from

_Pa._ Shall I tell you the Truth? Somewhat worse than I went.

_Eu._ So, as I hear, your Religion was grown cool.

_Pa._ Nay, it grew more hot: So I went back into _Italy_, and enter'd
into the Army.

_Eu._ What, then, did you look for Religion in the Camp. Than which,
what is there that can be more impious?

_Pa._ It was a holy War.

_Eu._ Perhaps against the _Turks_.

_Pa._ Nay, more holy than that, as they indeed gave out at that Time.

_Eu._ What was that?

_Pa._ Pope _Julius_ the Second made War upon the _French_. And the
Experience of many Things that it gives a Man, made me fancy a Soldier's

_Eu._ Of many Things indeed; but wicked ones.

_Pa._ So I found afterwards: But however, I liv'd harder here, than I
did in the Monasteries.

_Eu._ And what did you do after this?

_Pa._ Now my Mind began to be wavering, whether I should return to my
Business of a Merchant, that I had laid aside, or press forward in
Pursuit of Religion that fled before me. In the mean Time it came into
my Mind, that I might follow both together.

_Eu._ What, be a Merchant and a Monk both together?

_Pa._ Why not? There is nothing more religious than the Orders of
Mendicants, and there is nothing more like to Trading. They fly over
Sea and Land, they see many Things, they hear many Things, they enter
into the Houses of common People, Noblemen, and Kings.

_Eu._ Ay, but they don't Trade for Gain.

_Pa._ Very often, with better Success than we do.

_Eu._ Which of these Orders did you make Choice of?

_Pa._ I try'd them all.

_Eu._ Did none of them please you?

_Pa._ I lik'd them all well enough, if I might but presently have gone
to Trading; but I consider'd in my Mind, I must labour a long Time in
the Choir, before I could be qualified for the Trust: So now I began to
think how I might get to be made an Abbot: But, I thought with myself,
_Kissing goes by Favour_, and it will be a tedious Pursuit: So having
spent eight Years after this Manner, hearing of my Father's Death, I
return'd Home, and by my Mother's Advice, I marry'd, and betook myself
to my old Business of Traffick.

_Gl._ Prithee tell me, when you chang'd your Habit so often, and were
transform'd, as it were, into another Sort of Creature, how could you
behave yourself with a proper Decorum?

_Pa._ Why not, as well as those who in the same Comedy act several

_Eu._ Tell us now in good earnest, you that have try'd every Sort of
Life, which you most approve of.

_Pa. So many Men, so many Minds:_ I like none better than this which I

_Eu._ But there are a great many Inconveniences attend it.

_Pa._ There are so. But seeing there is no State of Life, that is
entirely free from Incommodities, this being my Lot, I make the best
on't: But now here is _Eusebius_ still, I hope he will not think much to
acquaint his Friends with some Scenes of his Course of Life.

_Eu._ Nay, with the whole Play of it, if you please to hear it, for it
does not consist of many Acts.

_Gl._ It will be a very great Favour.

_Eu._ When I return'd to my own Country, I took a Year to deliberate
what Way of Living to chuse, and examin'd myself, to what Employment my
Inclination led me, and I was fit for. In the mean Time a Prebendary was
offered me, as they call it; it was a good fat Benefice, and I accepted

_Gl._ That Sort of Life has no good Reputation among People.

_Eu._ As human Affairs go, I thought it was a Thing well worth the
accepting. Do you look upon it a small Happiness to have so many
Advantages to fall into a Man's Mouth, as tho' they dropt out of Heaven;
handsome Houses well furnish'd, a large Revenue, an honourable Society,
and a Church at Hand, to serve God in, when you have a Mind to it?

_Pa._ I was scandaliz'd at the Luxury of the Persons, and the Infamy of
their Concubines; and because a great many of that Sort of Men have an
Aversion to Learning.

_Eu._ I don't mind what others do, but what I ought to do myself, and
associate myself with the better Sort, if I cannot make them that are
bad better.

_Po._ And is that the State of Life you have always liv'd in?

_Eu._ Always, except four Years, that I liv'd at _Padua_.

_Po._ What did you do there?

_Eu._ These Years I divided in this Manner; I studied Physick a Year and
a half, and the rest of the Time Divinity.

_Po._ Why so?

_Eu._ That I might the better manage both Soul and Body, and also
sometimes be helpful by Way of Advice to my Friends. I preached
sometimes according to my Talent. And under these Circumstances, I have
led a very quiet Life, being content with a single Benefice, not being
ambitiously desirous of any more, and should have refus'd it, if it had
been offered me.

_Pa._ I wish we could learn how the rest of our old Companions have
liv'd, that were our Familiars.

_Eu._ I can tell you somewhat of some of them: but I see we are not far
from the City; therefore, if you are willing, we will all take up the
same Inn, and there we will talk over the rest at Leisure.

_Hugh. [a Waggoner.]_ You blinking Fellow, where did you take up this

_Harry the Waggoner._ Where are you carrying that Harlottry, you Pimp?

_Hugh._ You ought to throw these frigid old Fellows somewhere into a Bed
of Nettles, to make them grow warm again.

_Harry._ Do you see that you shoot that Herd of yours somewhere into a
Pond to cool them, to lay their Concupiscence, for they are too hot.

_Hugh._ I am not us'd to overturn my Passengers.

_Harry._ No? but I saw you a little While ago, overturn Half a Dozen
Carthusians into the Mire, so that tho' they went in white, they came
out black, and you stood grinning at it, as if you had done some noble

_Hugh._ I was in the Right of it, they were all asleep, and added a dead
Weight to my Waggon.

_Harry._ But these old Gentlemen, by talking merrily all the Way, have
made my Waggon go light. I never had a better Fare.

_Hugh._ But you don't use to like such Passengers.

_Harry._ But these are good old Men.

_Hugh._ How do you know that?

_Harry._ Because they made me drink humming Ale, three Times by the Way.

_Hugh._ Ha, ha, ha, then they are good to you.

_The FRANCISCANS,_ [Greek: Ptôchoplousioi], _or RICH BEGGARS._


     _The_ Franciscans, _or rich poor Persons, are not
     admitted into the House of a Country Parson_. Pandocheus
     _jokes wittily upon them. The Habit is not to be
     accounted odious. The Life and Death of the_ Franciscans.
     _Of the foolish Pomp of Habits. The Habits of Monks are
     not in themselves evil. What Sort of Persons Monks ought
     to be. The Use of Garments is for Necessity and Decency.
     What Decency is. Whence arose the Variety of Habits and
     Garments among the Monks. That there was in old Time no
     Superstition in the Habits._

CONRADE, _a Bernardine_ Monk, _a_ Parson, _an_ Inn-Keeper _and his_

_Con._ Hospitality becomes a Pastor.

_Pars._ But I am a Pastor of Sheep; I don't love Wolves.

_Con._ But perhaps you don't hate a Wench so much. But what Harm have we
done you, that you have such an Aversion to us, that you won't so much
as admit us under your Roof? We won't put you to the Charge of a Supper.

_Pars._ I'll tell ye, because if you spy but a Hen or a Chicken in a
Body's House, I should be sure to hear of it to-Morrow in the Pulpit.
This is the Gratitude you shew for your being entertain'd.

_Con._ We are not all such Blabs.

_Pars._ Well, be what you will, I'd scarce put Confidence in St.
_Peter_ himself, if he came to me in such a Habit.

_Con._ If that be your Resolution, at least tell us where is an Inn.

_Pars._ There's a publick Inn here in the Town.

_Con._ What Sign has it?

_Pars._ Upon a Board that hangs up, you will see a Dog thrusting his
Head into a Porridge-Pot: This is acted to the Life in the Kitchen; and
a Wolf sits at the Bar.

_Con._ That's an unlucky Sign.

_Pars._ You may e'en make your best on't.

_Ber._ What Sort of a Pastor is this? we might be starv'd for him.

_Con._ If he feeds his Sheep no better than he feeds us, they must needs
be very lean.

_Ber._ In a difficult Case, we had Need of good Counsel: What shall we

_Con._ We must set a good Face on't.

_Ber._ There's little to be gotten by Modesty, in a Case of Necessity.

_Con._ Very right, St. _Francis_ will be with us.

_Ber._ Let's try our Fortune then.

_Con._ We won't stay for our Host's Answer at the Door, but we'll rush
directly into the Stove, and we won't easily be gotten out again.

_Ber._ O impudent Trick!

_Con._ This is better than to lie abroad all Night, and be frozen to
Death. In the mean Time, put Bashfulness in your Wallet to Day, and take
it out again to-Morrow.

_Ber._ Indeed, the Matter requires it.

_Innk._ What Sort of Animals do I see here?

_Con._ We are the Servants of God, and the Sons of St. _Francis_, good

_Innk._ I don't know what Delight God may take in such Servants; but I
would not have many of them in my House.

_Con._ Why so?

_Innk._ Because at Eating and Drinking, you are more than Men; but you
have neither Hands nor Feet to work. Ha, ha! You Sons of St. _Francis_,
you use to tell us in the Pulpit, that he was a pure Batchelor, and has
he got so many Sons?

_Con._ We are the Children of the Spirit, not of the Flesh.

_Innk._ A very unhappy Father, for your Mind is the worst Part about
you; but your Bodies are too lusty, and as to that Part of you, it is
better with you, than 'tis for our Interest, who have Wives and

_Con._ Perhaps you suspect that we are some of those that degenerate
from the Institutions of our Founder; we are strict Observers of them.

_Innk._ And I'll observe you too, that you don't do me any Damage, for I
have a mortal Aversion for this Sort of Cattle.

_Con._ Why so, I pray?

_Innk._ Because you carry Teeth in your Head, but no Money in your
Pocket; and such Sort of Guests are very unwelcome to me.

_Con._ But we take Pains for you.

_Innk._ Shall I shew you after what Manner you labour for me?

_Con._ Do, shew us.

_Innk._ Look upon that Picture there, just by you, on your left Hand,
there you'll see a Wolf a Preaching, and behind him a Goose, thrusting
her Head out of a Cowl: There again, you'll see a Wolf absolving one at
Confession; but a Piece of a Sheep, hid under his Gown, hangs out. There
you see an Ape in a _Franciscan_'s Habit, he holds forth a Cross in one
Hand, and has the other Hand in the sick Man's Purse.

_Con._ We don't deny, but sometimes Wolves, Foxes and Apes are cloathed
with this Habit, nay we confess oftentimes that Swine, Dogs, Horses,
Lions and Basilisks are conceal'd under it; but then the same Garment
covers many honest Men. As a Garment makes no Body better, so it makes
no Body worse. It is unjust to judge of a Man by his Cloaths; for if so,
the Garment that you wear sometimes were to be accounted detestable,
because it covers many Thieves, Murderers, Conjurers, and Whoremasters.

_Innk._ Well, I'll dispense with your Habit, if you'll but pay your

_Con._ We'll pray to God for you.

_Innk._ And I'll pray to God for you, and there's one for t'other.

_Con._ But there are some Persons that you must not take Money of.

_Innk._ How comes it that you make a Conscience of touching any?

_Con._ Because it does not consist with our Profession.

_Innk._ Nor does it stand with my Profession to entertain Guests for

_Con._ But we are tied up by a Rule not to touch Money.

_Innk._ And my Rule commands me quite the contrary.

_Con._ What Rule is yours?

_Innk._ Read those Verses:

      _Guests at this Table, when you've eat while you're able.
      Rise not hence before you have first paid your Score._

_Con._ We'll be no Charge to you.

_Innk._ But they that are no Charge to me are no Profit to me neither.

_Con._ If you do us any good Office here, God will make it up to you

_Innk._ But these Words won't keep my Family.

_Con._ We'll hide ourselves in some Corner of the Stove, and won't be
troublesome to any Body.

_Innk._ My Stove won't hold such Company.

_Con._ What, will you thrust us out of Doors then? It may be we shall be
devour'd by Wolves to Night.

_Innk._ Neither Wolves nor Dogs will prey upon their own Kind.

_Con._ If you do so you will be more cruel than the _Turks_. Let us be
what we will, we are Men.

_Innk._ I have lost my Hearing.

_Con._ You indulge your Corps, and lye naked in a warm Bed behind the
Stove, and will you thrust us out of Doors to be perish'd with Cold, if
the Wolves should not devour us?

_Innk._ _Adam_ liv'd so in Paradise.

_Con._ He did so, but then he was innocent.

_Innk._ And so am I innocent.

_Con._ Perhaps so, leaving out the first Syllable. But take Care, if you
thrust us out of your Paradise, lest God should not receive you into

_Innk._ Good Words, I beseech you.

_Wife._ Prithee, my Dear, make some Amends for all your ill Deeds by
this small Kindness, let them stay in our House to Night: They are good
Men, and thou'lt thrive the better for't.

_Innk._ Here's a Reconciler for you. I'm afraid you're agreed upon the
Matter. I don't very well like to hear this good Character from a Woman;
Good Men!

_Wife._ Phoo, there's nothing in it. But think with your self how often
you have offended God with Dicing, Drinking, Brawling, Quarrelling. At
least, make an Atonement for your Sins by this Act of Charity, and don't
thrust these Men out of Doors, whom you would wish to be with you when
you are upon your Death-Bed. You oftentimes harbour Rattles and
Buffoons, and will you thrust these Men out of Doors?

_Innk._ What does this Petticoat-Preacher do here? Get you in, and mind
your Kitchen.

_Wife._ Well, so I will.

_Bert._ The Man softens methinks, and he is taking his Shirt, I hope all
will be well by and by.

_Con._ And the Servants are laying the Cloth. It is happy for us that no
Guests come, for we should have been sent packing if they had.

_Bert._ It fell out very happily that we brought a Flaggon of Wine from
the last Town we were at, and a roasted Leg of Lamb, or else, for what
I see here, he would not have given us so much as a Mouthful of Hay.

_Con._ Now the Servants are set down, let's take Part of the Table with
them, but so that we don't incommode any Body.

_Innk._ I believe I may put it to your Score, that I have not a Guest to
Day, nor any besides my own Family, and you good-for-nothing ones.

_Con._ Well, put it up to our Score, if it has not happened to you

_Innk._ Oftner than I would have it so.

_Con._ Well, don't be uneasy; Christ lives, and he'll never forsake his

_Innk._ I have heard you are call'd evangelical Men; but the Gospel
forbids carrying about Satchels and Bread, but I see you have great
Sleeves for Wallets, and you don't only carry Bread, but Wine too, and
Flesh also, and that of the best Sort.

_Con._ Take Part with us, if you please.

_Innk._ My Wine is Hog-Wash to it.

_Con._ Eat some of the Flesh, there is more than enough for us.

_Innk._ O happy Beggars! My Wife has dress'd nothing to Day, but
Coleworts and a little rusty Bacon.

_Con._ If you please, let us join our Stocks; it is all one to us what
we eat.

_Innk._ Then why don't you carry with you Coleworts and dead Wine?

_Con._ Because the People where we din'd to Day would needs force this
upon us.

_Innk._ Did your Dinner cost you nothing?

_Con._ No. Nay they thanked us, and when we came away gave us these
Things to carry along with us.

_Innk._ From whence did you come?

_Con._ From _Basil._

_Innk._ Whoo! what so far?

_Con._ Yes.

_Innk._ What Sort of Fellows are you that ramble about thus without
Horses, Money, Servants, Arms, or Provisions?

_Con._ You see in us some Footsteps of the evangelical Life.

_Innk._ It seems to me to be the Life of Vagabonds, that stroll about
with Budgets.

_Con._ Such Vagabonds the Apostles were, and such was the Lord Jesus

_Innk._ Can you tell Fortunes?

_Con._ Nothing less.

_Innk._ How do you live then?

_Con._ By him, who hath promised.

_Innk._ Who is he?

_Con._ He that said, _Take no Care, but all Things shall be added unto

_Innk._ He did so promise, but it was _to them that seek the Kingdom of

_Con._ That we do with all our Might.

_Innk._ The Apostles were famous for Miracles; they heal'd the Sick, so
that it is no Wonder how they liv'd every where, but you can do no such

_Con._ We could, if we were like the Apostles, and if the Matter
requir'd a Miracle. But Miracles were only given for a Time for the
Conviction of the Unbelieving; there is no Need of any Thing now, but a
religious Life. And it is oftentimes a greater Happiness to be sick than
to be well, and more happy to die than to live.

_Innk._ What do you do then?

_Con._ That we can; every Man according to the Talent that God has given
him. We comfort, we exhort, we warn, we reprove, and when Opportunity
offers, sometimes we preach, if we any where find Pastors that are dumb:
And if we find no Opportunity of doing Good, we take Care to do no Body
any Harm, either by our Manners or our Words.

_Innk._ I wish you would preach for us to Morrow, for it is a Holy-Day.

_Con._ For what Saint?

_Innk._ To St. _Antony._

_Con._ He was indeed a good Man. But how came he to have a Holiday?

_Innk._ I'll tell you. This Town abounds with Swine-Herds, by Reason of
a large Wood hard by that produces Plenty of Acorns; and the People have
an Opinion that St. _Antony_ takes Charge of the Hogs, and therefore
they worship him, for Fear he should grow angry, if they neglect him.

_Con._ I wish they would worship him as they ought to do.

_Innk._ How's that?

_Con._ Whosoever imitates the Saints in their Lives, worships as he
ought to do.

_Innk._ To-morrow the Town will ring again with Drinking and Dancing,
Playing, Scolding and Boxing.

_Con._ After this Manner the Heathens once worshipped their _Bacchus_.
But I wonder, if this is their Way of worshipping, that St. _Antony_ is
not enraged at this Sort of Men that are more stupid than Hogs
themselves. What Sort of a Pastor have you? A dumb one, or a wicked one?

_Innk._ What he is to other People, I don't know: But he's a very good
one to me, for he drinks all Day at my House, and no Body brings more
Customers or better, to my great Advantage. And I wonder he is not here

_Con._ We have found by Experience he is not a very good one for our

_Innk._ What! Did you go to him then?

_Con._ We intreated him to let us lodge with him, but he chas'd us away
from the Door, as if we had been Wolves, and sent us hither.

_Innk._ Ha, ha. Now I understand the Matter, he would not come because
he knew you were to be here.

_Con._ Is he a dumb one?

_Innk._ A dumb one! There's no Body is more noisy in the Stove, and he
makes the Church ring again. But I never heard him preach. But no Need
of more Words. As far as I understand, he has made you sensible that he
is none of the dumb Ones.

_Con._ Is he a learned Divine?

_Innk._ He says he is a very great Scholar; but what he knows is what
he has learned in private Confession, and therefore it is not lawful to
let others know what he knows. What need many Words? I'll tell you in
short; _like People, like Priest_; and _the Dish_, as we say, _wears its
own Cover_.

_Con._ It may be he will not give a Man Liberty to preach in his Place.

_Innk._ Yes, I'll undertake he will, but upon this Condition, that you
don't have any Flirts at him, as it is a common Practice for you to do.

_Con._ They have us'd themselves to an ill Custom that do so. If a
Pastor offends in any Thing, I admonish him privately, the rest is the
Bishop's Business.

_Innk._ Such Birds seldom fly hither. Indeed you seem to be good Men
yourselves. But, pray, what's the Meaning of this Variety of Habits? For
a great many People take you to be ill Men by your Dress.

_Con._ Why so?

_Innk._ I can't tell, except it be that they find a great many of you to
be so.

_Con._ And many again take us to be holy Men, because we wear this
Habit. They are both in an Error: But they err less that take us to be
good Men by our Habit, than they that take us for base Men.

_Innk._ Well, so let it be. But what is the Advantage of so many
different Dresses?

_Con._ What is your Opinion?

_Innk._ Why I see no Advantage at all, except in Processions, or War.
For in Processions there are carried about various Representations of
Saints, of _Jews_, and Heathens, and we know which is which, by the
different Habits. And in War the Variety of Dress is good, that every
one may know his own Company, and follow his own Colours, so that there
may be no Confusion in the Army.

_Con._ You say very well: This is a military Garment, one of us follows
one Leader, and another another; but we all fight under one General,
Christ. But in a Garment there are three Things to be consider'd.

_Innk._ What are they?

_Con._ Necessity, Use, and Decency. Why do we eat?

_Innk._ That we mayn't be starv'd with Hunger.

_Con._ And for the very same Reason we take a Garment that we mayn't be
starv'd with Cold.

_Innk._ I confess it.

_Con._ This Garment of mine is better for that than yours. It covers the
Head, Neck, and Shoulders, from whence there is the most Danger. Use
requires various Sorts of Garments. A short Coat for a Horseman, a long
one for one that sits still, a thin one in Summer, a thick one in
Winter. There are some at _Rome_, that change their Cloaths three Times
a Day; in the Morning they take a Coat lin'd with Fur, about Noon they
take a single one, and towards Night one that is a little thicker; but
every one is not furnish'd with this Variety; therefore this Garment of
ours is contriv'd so, that this one will serve for various Uses.

_Innk._ How is that?

_Con._ If the North Wind blow, or the Sun shines hot, we put on our
Cowl; if the Heat is troublesome, we let it down behind. If we are to
sit still, we let down our Garment about our Heels, if we are to walk,
we hold or tuck it up.

_Innk._ He was no Fool, whosoever he was, that contriv'd it.

_Con._ And it is the chief Thing in living happily, for a Man to
accustom himself to be content with a few Things: For if once we begin
to indulge ourselves with Delicacies and Sensualities, there will be no
End; and there is no one Garment could be invented, that could answer so
many Purposes.

_Innk._ I allow that.

_Con._ Now let us consider the Decency of it: Pray tell me honestly, if
you should put on your Wife's Cloaths, would not every one say that you
acted indecently?

_Innk._ They would say I was mad.

_Con._ And what would you say, if she should put on your Cloaths?

_Innk._ I should not say much perhaps, but I should cudgel her

_Con._ But then, how does it signify nothing what Garment any one

_Innk._ O yes, in this Case it is very material.

_Con._ Nor is that strange; for the Laws of the very Pagans inflict a
Punishment on either Man or Woman, that shall wear the Cloaths of a
different Sex.

_Innk._ And they are in the Right for it.

_Con._ But, come on. What if an old Man of fourscore should dress
himself like a Boy of fifteen; or if a young Man dress himself like an
old Man, would not every one say he ought to be bang'd for it? Or if an
old Woman should attire herself like a young Girl, and the contrary?

_Innk._ No doubt.

_Con._ In like Manner, if a Lay-Man should wear a Priest's Habit, and a
Priest a Lay-Man's.

_Innk._ They would both act unbecomingly.

_Con._ What if a private Man should put on the Habit of a Prince, or an
inferior Clergy-Man that of a Bishop? Would he act unhandsomely or no?

_Innk._ Certainly he would.

_Con._ What if a Citizen should dress himself like a Soldier, with a
Feather in his Cap, and other Accoutrements of a hectoring Soldier?

_Innk._ He would be laugh'd at.

_Con._ What if any _English_ Ensign should carry a white Cross in his
Colours, a _Swiss_ a red one, a _French_ Man a black one?

_Innk._ He would act impudently.

_Con._ Why then do you wonder so much at our Habit?

_Innk._ I know the Difference between a private Man and a Prince,
between a Man and a Woman; but I don't understand the Difference between
a Monk and no Monk.

_Con._ What Difference is there between a poor Man and a rich Man?

_Innk._ Fortune.

_Con._ And yet it would be unbecoming a poor Man to imitate a rich Man
in his Dress.

_Innk._ Very true, as rich Men go now a-Days.

_Con._ What Difference is there between a Fool and a wise Man?

_Innk._ Something more than there is between a rich Man and a poor Man.

_Con._ Are not Fools dress'd up in a different Manner from wise Men?

_Innk._ I can't tell how well it becomes you, but your Habit does not
differ much from theirs, if it had but Ears and Bells.

_Con._ These indeed are wanting, and we are the Fools of this World, if
we really are what we pretend to be.

_Innk._ What you are I don't know; but this I know that there are a
great many Fools that wear Ears and Bells, that have more Wit than those
that wear Caps lin'd with Furs, Hoods, and other Ensigns of wise Men;
therefore it seems a ridiculous Thing to me to make a Shew of Wisdom by
the Dress rather than in Fact. I saw a certain Man, more than a Fool,
with a Gown hanging down to his Heels, a Cap like our Doctors, and had
the Countenance of a grave Divine; he disputed publickly with a Shew of
Gravity, and he was as much made on by great Men, as any of their Fools,
and was more a Fool than any of them.

_Con._ Well, what would you infer from that? That a Prince who laughs at
his Jester should change Coats with him?

_Innk._ Perhaps _Decorum_ would require it to be so, if your Proposition
be true, that the Mind of a Man is represented by his Habit.

_Con._ You press this upon me indeed, but I am still of the Opinion,
that there is good Reason for giving Fools distinct Habits.

_Innk._ What Reason?

_Con._ That no Body might hurt them, if they say or do any Thing that's

_Innk._ But on the contrary, I won't say, that their Dress does rather
provoke some People to do them Hurt; insomuch, that oftentimes of Fools
they become Mad-Men. Nor do I see any Reason, why a Bull that gores a
Man, or a Dog, or a Hog that kills a Child, should be punish'd, and a
Fool who commits greater Crimes should be suffered to live under the
Protection of his Folly. But I ask you, what is the Reason that you are
distinguished from others by your Dress? For if every trifling Cause is
sufficient to require a different Habit, then a Baker should wear a
different Dress from a Fisherman, and a Shoemaker from a Taylor, an
Apothecary from a Vintner, a Coachman from a Mariner. And you, if you
are Priests, why do you wear a Habit different from other Priests? If
you are Laymen, why do you differ from us?

_Con._ In antient Times, Monks were only the purer Sort of the Laity,
and there was then only the same Difference between a Monk and a Layman,
as between a frugal, honest Man, that maintains his Family by his
Industry, and a swaggering Highwayman that lives by robbing. Afterwards
the Bishop of _Rome_ bestow'd Honours upon us; and we ourselves gave
some Reputation to the Habit, which now is neither simply laick, or
sacerdotal; but such as it is, some Cardinals and Popes have not been
ashamed to wear it.

_Innk._ But as to the _Decorum_ of it, whence comes that?

_Con._ Sometimes from the Nature of Things themselves, and sometimes
from Custom and the Opinions of Men. Would not all Men think it
ridiculous for a Man to wear a Bull's Hide, with the Horns on his Head,
and the Tail trailing after him on the Ground?

_Innk._ That would be ridiculous enough.

_Con._ Again, if any one should wear a Garment that should hide his
Face, and his Hands, and shew his privy Members?

_Innk._ That would be more ridiculous than the other.

_Con._ The very Pagan Writers have taken Notice of them that have wore
Cloaths so thin, that it were indecent even for Women themselves to wear
such. It is more modest to be naked, as we found you in the Stove, than
to wear a transparent Garment.

_Innk._ I fancy that the whole of this Matter of Apparel depends upon
Custom and the Opinion of People.

_Con._ Why so?

_Innk._ It is not many Days ago, since some Travellers lodg'd at my
House, who said, that they had travelled through divers Countries lately
discovered, which are wanting in the antient Maps. They said they came
to an Island of a very temperate Air, where they look'd upon it as the
greatest Indecency in the World, to cover their Bodies.

_Con._ It may be they liv'd like Beasts.

_Innk._ Nay, they said they liv'd a Life of great Humanity, they liv'd
under a King, they attended him to Work every Morning daily, but not
above an Hour in a Day.

_Con._ What Work did they do?

_Innk._ They pluck'd up a certain Sort of Roots that serves them instead
of Bread, and is more pleasant and more wholsome than Bread; and when
this was done, they every one went to his Business, what he had a Mind
to do. They bring up their Children religiously, they avoid and punish
Vices, but none more severely than Adultery.

_Con._ What's the Punishment?

_Innk._ They forgive the Women, for it is permitted to that Sex. But for
Men that are taken in Adultery, this is the Punishment, that all his
Life after, he should appear in publick with his privy Parts covered.

_Con._ A mighty Punishment indeed!

_Innk._ Custom has made it to them the very greatest Punishment that is.

_Con._ When I consider the Force of Persuasion, I am almost ready to
allow it. For if a Man would expose a Thief or a Murderer to the
greatest Ignominy, would it not be a sufficient Punishment to cut off a
Piece of the hinder Part of his Cloaths, and sow a Piece of a Wolf's
Skin upon his Buttocks, to make him wear a party-colour'd Pair of
Stockings, and to cut the fore Part of his Doublet in the Fashion of a
Net, leaving his Shoulders and his Breast bare; to shave off one Side of
his Beard, and leave the other hanging down, and curl one Part of it,
and to put him a Cap on his Head, cut and slash'd, with a huge Plume of
Feathers, and so expose him publickly; would not this make him more
ridiculous than to put him on a Fool's Cap with long Ears and Bells? And
yet Soldiers dress themselves every Day in this Trim, and are well
enough pleased with themselves, and find Fools enough, that like the
Dress too, though there is nothing more ridiculous.

_Innk._ Nay, there are topping Citizens too, who imitate them as much as
they can possibly.

_Con._ But now if a Man should dress himself up with Birds Feathers like
an _Indian_, would not the very Boys, all of them, think he was a mad

_Innk._ Stark mad.

_Con._ And yet, that which we admire, savours of a greater Madness
still: Now as it is true, that nothing is so ridiculous but Custom will
bear it out; so it cannot be denied, but that there is a certain
_Decorum_ in Garments, which all wise Men always account a _Decorum_;
and that there is also an Unbecomingness in Garments, which will to wise
Men always seem unbecoming. Who does not laugh, when he sees a Woman
dragging a long Train at her Heels, as if her Quality were to be
measured by the Length of her Tail? And yet some Cardinals are not
asham'd to follow this Fashion in their Gowns: And so prevalent a Thing
is Custom, that there is no altering of a Fashion that has once

_Innk._ Well, we have had Talk enough about Custom: But tell me now,
whether you think it better for Monks to differ from others in Habit, or
not to differ?

_Con._ I think it to be more agreeable to Christian Simplicity, not to
judge of any Man by his Habit, if it be but sober and decent.

_Innk._ Why don't you cast away your Cowls then?

_Con._ Why did not the Apostles presently eat of all Sorts of Meat?

_Innk._ I can't tell. Do you tell me that.

_Con._ Because an invincible Custom hinder'd it: For whatsoever is
deeply rooted in the Minds of Men, and has been confirm'd by long Use,
and is turn'd as it were into Nature, can never be remov'd on a sudden,
without endangering the publick Peace; but must be remov'd by Degrees,
as a Horse's Tail is pluck'd off by single Hairs.

_Innk._ I could bear well enough with it, if the Monks had all but one
Habit: But who can bear so many different Habits?

_Con._ Custom has brought in this Evil, which brings in every Thing.
_Benedict_ did not invent a new Habit, but the same that he wore himself
and his Disciples, which was the Habit of a plain, honest Layman:
Neither did _Francis_ invent a new Dress; but it was the Dress of poor
Country-Fellows. Their Successors have by new Additions turned it into
Superstition. Don't we see some old Women at this Day, that keep to the
Dress of their Times, which is more different from the Dress now in
Fashion, than my Dress is from yours?

_Innk._ We do see it.

_Con._ Therefore, when you see this Habit, you see only the Reliques of
antient Times.

_Innk._ Why then, has your Garment no Holiness in it?

_Con._ None at all.

_Innk._ There are some of you that make their Boasts that these Dresses
were divinely directed by the holy Virgin Mother.

_Con._ These Stories are but meer Dreams.

_Innk._ Some despair of being able to recover from a Fit of Sickness,
unless they be wrapp'd up in a Dominican's Habit: Nay, nor won't be
buried but in a Franciscan's Habit.

_Con._ They that persuade People of those Things, are either Cheats or
Fools, and they that believe them are superstitious. God will know a
wicked Man as well in a Franciscan's Habit, as in a Soldier's Coat.

_Innk._ There is not so much Variety in the Feathers of Birds of the
Air, as there is in your Habits.

_Con._ What then, is it not a very good Thing to imitate Nature? But it
is a better Thing to out-do it.

_Innk._ I wish you would out-do it in the Variety of your Beaks too.

_Con._ But, come on. I will be an Advocate for Variety, if you will give
me Leave. Is not a _Spaniard_ dressed after one Fashion, an _Italian_
after another, a _Frenchman_ after another, a _German_ after another, a
_Greek_ after another, a _Turk_ after another, and a _Sarazen_ after

_Innk._ Yes.

_Con._ And then in the same Country, what Variety of Garments is there
in Persons of the same Sex, Age and Degree. How different is the Dress
of the _Venetian_ from the _Florentine_, and of both from the _Roman_,
and this only within _Italy_ alone?

_Innk._ I believe it.

_Con._ And from hence also came our Variety. _Dominic_ he took his Dress
from the honest Ploughmen in that Part of _Spain_ in which he liv'd; and
_Benedict_ from the Country-Fellows of that Part of _Italy_ in which he
liv'd; and _Francis_ from the Husbandmen of a different Place, and so
for the rest.

_Innk._ So that for aught I find, you are no holier than we, unless you
live holier.

_Con._ Nay, we are worse than you, in that; if we live wickedly, we are
a greater Stumbling to the Simple.

_Innk._ Is there any Hope of us then, who have neither Patron, nor
Habit, nor Rule, nor Profession?

_Con._ Yes, good Man; see that you hold it fast. Ask your Godfathers
what you promis'd in Baptism, what Profession you then made. Do you want
a human Rule, who have made a Profession of the Gospel Rule? Or do you
want a Man for a Patron, who have Jesus Christ for a Patron? Consider
what you owe to your Wife, to your Children, to your Family, and you
will find you have a greater Load upon you, than if you had professed
the Rule of _Francis_.

_Innk._ Do you believe that any Inn-Keepers go to Heaven?

_Con._ Why not?

_Innk._ There are a great many Things said and done in this House, that
are not according to the Gospel.

_Con._ What are they?

_Innk._ One fuddles, another talks bawdy, another brawls, and another
slanders; and last of all, I can't tell whether they keep themselves
honest or not.

_Con._ You must prevent these Things as much as you can; and if you
cannot hinder them, however, do not for Profit's Sake encourage or draw
on these Wickednesses.

_Innk._ Sometimes I don't deal very honestly as to my Wine.

_Con._ Wherein?

_Innk._ When I find my Guests grow a little too hot, I put more Water
into the Wine.

_Con._ That's a smaller Fault than selling of Wine made up with
unwholsome Ingredients.

_Innk._ But tell me truly, how many Days have you been in this Journey?

_Con._ Almost a Month.

_Innk._ Who takes Care of you all the While?

_Con._ Are not they taken Care enough of, that have a Wife, and
Children, and Parents, and Kindred?

_Innk._ Oftentimes.

_Con._ You have but one Wife, we have an hundred; you have but one
Father, we have an hundred; you have but one House, we have an hundred;
you have but a few Children, we have an innumerable Company; you have
but a few Kindred, we have an infinite Number.

_Innk._ How so?

_Con._ Because the Kindred of the Spirit extends more largely, than the
Kindred of the Flesh: So Christ has promised, and we experience the
Truth of what he has promised.

_Innk._ In Troth, you have been a good Companion for me; let me die if I
don't like this Discourse better than to drink with our Parson. Do us
the Honour to preach to the People to-morrow, and if ever you happen to
come this Way again, know that here's a Lodging for you.

_Con._ But what if others should come?

_Innk._ They shall be welcome, if they be but such as you.

_Con._ I hope they will be better.

_Innk._ But among so many bad ones, how shall I know which are good?

_Con._ I'll tell you in a few Words, but in your Ear.

_Innk._ Tell me.


_Innk._ I'll remember it, and do it.



     _A certain Abbot paying a Visit to a Lady, finds her
     reading_ Greek _and_ Latin _Authors. A Dispute arises,
     whence Pleasantness of Life proceeds:_ viz. _Not from
     external Enjoyments, but from the Study of Wisdom. An
     ignorant Abbot will by no Means have his Monks to be
     learned; nor has he himself so much as a single Book in
     his Closet. Pious Women in old Times gave their Minds to
     the Study of the Scriptures; but Monks that hate
     Learning, and give themselves up to Luxury, Idleness, and
     Hunting, are provok'd to apply themselves to other Kinds
     of Studies, more becoming their Profession._


_Ant._ What Sort of Houshold-Stuff do I see?

_Mag._ Is it not that which is neat?

_Ant._ How neat it is, I can't tell, but I'm sure, it is not very
becoming, either a Maid or a Matron.

_Mag._ Why so?

_Ant._ Because here's Books lying about every where.

_Mag._ What have you liv'd to this Age, and are both an Abbot and a
Courtier, and never saw any Books in a Lady's Apartment?

_Ant._ Yes, I have seen Books, but they were _French_; but here I see
_Greek_ and _Latin_ ones.

_Mag._ Why, are there no other Books but _French_ ones that teach

_Ant._ But it becomes Ladies to have something that is diverting, to
pass away their leisure Hours.

_Mag._ Must none but Ladies be wise, and live pleasantly?

_Ant._ You very improperly connect being wise, and living pleasantly
together: Women have nothing to do with Wisdom; Pleasure is Ladies

_Mag._ Ought not every one to live well?

_Ant._ I am of Opinion, they ought so to do.

_Mag._ Well, can any Body live a pleasant Life, that does not live a
good Life.

_Ant._ Nay, rather, how can any Body live a pleasant Life, that does
live a good Life?

_Mag._ Why then, do you approve of living illy, if it be but pleasantly?

_Ant._ I am of the Opinion, that they live a good Life, that live a
pleasant Life.

_Mag._ Well, but from whence does that Pleasure proceed? From outward
Things, or from the Mind?

_Ant._ From outward Things.

_Mag._ O subtle Abbot, but thick-skull'd Philosopher! Pray tell me in
what you suppose a pleasant Life to consist?

_Ant._ Why, in Sleeping, and Feasting, and Liberty of doing what you
please, in Wealth, and in Honours.

_Mag._ But suppose to all these Things God should add Wisdom, should you
live pleasantly then?

_Ant._ What is it that you call by the Name of Wisdom?

_Mag._ This is Wisdom, to know that a Man is only happy by the Goods of
the Mind. That Wealth, Honour, and Descent, neither make a Man happier
or better.

_Ant._ If that be Wisdom, fare it well for me.

_Mag._ Suppose now that I take more Pleasure in reading a good Author,
than you do in Hunting, Drinking, or Gaming; won't you think I live

_Ant._ I would not live that Sort of Life.

_Mag._ I don't enquire what you take most Delight in; but what is it
that ought to be most delighted in?

_Ant._ I would not have my Monks mind Books much.

_Mag._ But my Husband approves very well of it. But what Reason have
you, why you would not have your Monks bookish?

_Ant._ Because I find they are not so obedient; they answer again out of
the Decrees and Decretals of _Peter_ and _Paul._

_Mag._ Why then do you command them the contrary to what _Peter_ and
_Paul_ did?

_Ant._ I can't tell what they teach; but I can't endure a Monk that
answers again: Nor would I have any of my Monks wiser than I am myself.

_Mag._ You might prevent that well enough, if you did but lay yourself
out, to get as much Wisdom as you can.

_Ant._ I han't Leisure.

_Mag._ Why so?

_Ant._ Because I han't Time.

_Mag._ What, not at Leisure to be wise?

_Ant._ No.

_Mag._ Pray what hinders you?

_Ant._ Long Prayers, the Affairs of my Houshold, Hunting, looking after
my Horses, attending at Court.

_Mag._ Well, and do you think these Things are better than Wisdom?

_Ant._ Custom has made it so.

_Mag._ Well, but now answer me this one Thing: Suppose God should grant
you this Power, to be able to turn yourself and your Monks into any Sort
of Animal that you had a Mind: Would you turn them into Hogs, and
yourself into a Horse?

_Ant._ No, by no Means.

_Mag._ By doing so you might prevent any of them from being wiser than

_Ant._ It is not much Matter to me what Sort of Animals my Monks are, if
I am but a Man myself.

_Mag._ Well, and do you look upon him to be a Man that neither has
Wisdom, nor desires to have it?

_Ant._ I am wise enough for myself.

_Mag._ And so are Hogs wise enough for themselves.

_Ant._ You seem to be a Sophistress, you argue so smartly.

_Mag._ I won't tell you what you seem to me to be. But why does this
Houshold-Stuff displease you?

_Ant._ Because a Spinning-Wheel is a Woman's Weapon.

_Mag._ Is it not a Woman's Business to mind the Affairs of her Family,
and to instruct her Children?

_Ant._ Yes, it is.

_Mag._ And do you think so weighty an Office can be executed without

_Ant._ I believe not.

_Mag._ This Wisdom I learn from Books.

_Ant._ I have threescore and two Monks in my Cloister, and you will not
see one Book in my Chamber.

_Mag._ The Monks are finely look'd after all this While.

_Ant._ I could dispense with Books; but I can't bear _Latin_ Books.

_Mag._ Why so?

_Ant._ Because that Tongue is not fit for a Woman.

_Mag._ I want to know the Reason.

_Ant._ Because it contributes nothing towards the Defence of their

_Mag._ Why then do _French_ Books that are stuff'd with the most
trifling Novels, contribute to Chastity?

_Ant._ But there is another Reason.

_Mag._ Let it be what it will, tell me it plainly.

_Ant._ They are more secure from the Priests, if they don't understand

_Mag._ Nay, there's the least Danger from that Quarter according to your
Way of Working; because you take all the Pains you can not to know any
Thing of _Latin_.

_Ant._ The common People are of my Mind, because it is such a rare
unusual Thing for a Woman to understand _Latin._

_Mag._ What do you tell me of the common People for, who are the worst
Examples in the World that can be follow'd. What have I to do with
Custom, that is the Mistress of all evil Practices? We ought to
accustom ourselves to the best Things: And by that Means, that which was
uncustomary would become habitual, and that which was unpleasant would
become pleasant; and that which seemed unbecoming would look graceful.

_Ant._ I hear you.

_Mag._ Is it becoming a _German_ Woman to learn to speak _French_.

_Ant._ Yes it is.

_Mag._ Why is it?

_Ant._ Because then she will be able to converse with those that speak

_Mag._ And why then is it unbecoming in me to learn _Latin_, that I may
be able daily to have Conversation with so many eloquent, learned and
wise Authors, and faithful Counsellors?

_Ant._ Books destroy Women's Brains, who have little enough of

_Mag._ What Quantity of Brains you have left I cannot tell: And as for
myself, let me have never so little, I had rather spend them in Study,
than in Prayers mumbled over without the Heart going along with them, or
sitting whole Nights in quaffing off Bumpers.

_Ant._ Bookishness makes Folks mad.

_Mag._ And does not the Rattle of your Pot-Companions, your Banterers,
and Drolls, make you mad?

_Ant._ No, they pass the Time away.

_Mag._ How can it be then, that such pleasant Companions should make me

_Ant._ That's the common Saying.

_Mag._ But I by Experience find quite the contrary. How many more do we
see grow mad by hard drinking, unseasonable feasting, and sitting up all
Night tippling, which destroys the Constitution and Senses, and has made
People mad?

_Ant._ By my Faith, I would not have a learned Wife.

_Mag._ But I bless myself, that I have gotten a Husband that is not
like yourself. Learning both endears him to me, and me to him.

_Ant._ Learning costs a great Deal of Pains to get, and after all we
must die.

_Mag._ Notable Sir, pray tell me, suppose you were to die to-Morrow, had
you rather die a Fool or a wise Man?

_Ant._ Why, a wise Man, if I could come at it without taking Pains.

_Mag._ But there is nothing to be attained in this Life without Pains;
and yet, let us get what we will, and what Pains soever we are at to
attain it, we must leave it behind us: Why then should we think much to
be at some Pains for the most precious Thing of all, the Fruit of which
will bear us Company unto another Life.

_Ant._ I have often heard it said, that a wise Woman is twice a Fool.

_Mag._ That indeed has been often said; but it was by Fools. A Woman
that is truly wise does not think herself so: But on the contrary, one
that knows nothing, thinks her self to be wise, and that is being twice
a Fool.

_Ant._ I can't well tell how it is, that as Panniers don't become an Ox,
so neither does Learning become a Woman.

_Mag._ But, I suppose, you can't deny but Panniers will look better upon
an Ox, than a Mitre upon an Ass or a Sow. What think you of the Virgin

_Ant._ Very highly.

_Mag._ Was not she bookish?

_Ant._ Yes; but not as to such Books as these.

_Mag._ What Books did she read?

_Ant._ The canonical Hours.

_Mag._ For the Use of whom?

_Ant._ Of the Order of _Benedictines_.

_Mag._ Indeed? What did _Paula_ and _Eustochium_ do? Did not they
converse with the holy Scriptures?

_Ant._ Ay, but this is a rare Thing now.

_Mag._ So was a blockheaded Abbot in old Time; but now nothing is more
common. In old Times Princes and Emperors were as eminent for Learning
as for their Governments: And after all, it is not so great a Rarity as
you think it. There are both in _Spain_ and _Italy_ not a few Women,
that are able to vye with the Men, and there are the _Morites_ in
_England_, and the _Bilibald-duks_ and _Blaureticks_ in _Germany_. So
that unless you take Care of yourselves it will come to that Pass, that
we shall be Divinity-Professors in the Schools, and preach in the
Churches, and take Possession of your Mitres.

_Ant._ God forbid.

_Mag._ Nay it is your Business to forbid it. For if you hold on as you
have begun, even Geese themselves will preach before they'll endure you
a Parcel of dumb Teachers. You see the World is turn'd up-Side down, and
you must either lay aside your Dress, or perform your Part.

_Ant._ How came I to fall into this Woman's Company? If you'll come to
see me, I'll treat you more pleasantly.

_Mag._ After what Manner?

_Ant._ Why, we'll dance, and drink heartily, and hunt and play, and

_Mag._ I can hardly forbear laughing now.



     _The Muses and Graces are brought in, as singing the
     Epithalamium of_ Peter Ægidius. Alipius _spies the nine
     Muses, and the three Graces coming out of a Grove, which_
     Balbinus _can't see: They take their Way to_ Antwerp, _to
     the Wedding of_ Ægidius, _to whom they wish all joy, that
     nothing of Difference or Uneasiness may ever arise
     between 'em. How those Marriages prove that are made, the
     Graces not favouring 'em. Congratulatory Verses._


_Al._ Good God! What strange glorious Sight do I see here?

_Ba._ Either you see what is not to be seen, or I can't see that which
is to be seen.

_Al._ Nay, I'll assure you, 'tis a wonderful charming Sight.

_Ba._ Why do you plague me at this Rate? Tell me, where 'tis you see it.

_Al._ Upon the left Hand there in the Grove, under the Side of the Hill.

_Ba._ I see the Hill, but I can see nothing else.

_Al._ No! don't you see a Company of pretty Maids there?

_Ba._ What do you mean, to make a Fool of me at this Rate? I can't see a
bit of a Maid any where.

_Al._ Hush, they're just now coming out of the Grove. Oh admirable! How
neat they are! How charmingly they look! 'Tis a heavenly Sight.

_Ba._ What! Are you possess'd?

_Al._ Oh, I know who they are; they're the nine Muses and the three
Graces, I wonder what they're a-doing. I never in all my Life saw 'em
more charmingly dress'd, nor in a gayer Humour; they have every one of
'em got Crowns of Laurel upon their Heads, and their Instruments of
Musick in their Hands. And how lovingly the Graces go Side by Side! How
becomingly they look in their loose Dress, with their Garments flowing
and trailing after 'em.

_Ba._ I never heard any Body talk more like a mad Man in all my Days,
than you do.

_Al._ You never saw a happier Man in all your Life-Time.

_Ba._ Pray what's the Matter, that you can see and I can't?

_Al._ Because you have never drank of the Muses Fountain; and no Body
can see 'em but they that have.

_Ba._ I have drank plentifully out of _Scotus's_ Fountain.

_Al._ But that is not the Fountain of the Muses, but a Lake of Frogs.

_Ba._ But can't you do something to make me see this Sight, as well as

_Al._ I could if I had a Laurel-Branch here, for Water out of a clear
Spring, sprinkled upon one with a Laurel Bough, makes the Eyes capable
of such Sights as these.

_Ba._ Why, see here is a Laurel and a Fountain too.

_Al._ Is there? That's clever, I vow.

_Ba._ But prithee, sprinkle me with it.

_Al._ Now look, do you see now?

_Ba._ As much as I did before. Sprinkle me again.

_Al._ Well, now do you see?

_Ba._ Just as much; sprinkle me plentifully.

_Al._ I believe you can't but see now.

_Ba._ Now I can scarce see you.

_Al._ Ah poor Man, how total a Darkness has seized your Eyes! This Art
would open even the Eyes of an old Coachman: But however, don't plague
yourself about it, perhaps 'tis better for you not to see it, lest you
should come off as ill by seeing the Muses, as _Actæon_ did by seeing
_Diana_: For you'd perhaps be in Danger of being turn'd either into a
Hedgehog, or a wild Boar, a Swine, a Camel, a Frog, or a Jackdaw. But
however, if you can't see, I'll make you hear 'em, if you don't make a
Noise; they are just a-coming this Way. Let's meet 'em. Hail, most
welcome Goddesses.

_Mu._ And you heartily, Lover of the Muses.

_Al._ What makes you pull me so?

_Ba._ You an't as good as your Word.

_Al._ Why don't you hear 'em?

_Ba._ I hear somewhat, but I don't know what it is.

_Al._ Well, I'll speak _Latin_ to 'em then. Whither are you going so
fine and so brisk? Are you going to _Louvain_ to see the University?

_Mu._ No, we assure you, we won't go thither.

_Al._ Why not?

_Mu._ What Place is for us, where so many Hogs are grunting, Camels and
Asses braying, Jackdaws cawing, and Magpies chattering?

_Al._ But for all that, there are some there that are your Admirers.

_Mu._ We know that, and therefore we'll go thither a few Years hence.
The successive Period of Ages has not yet brought on that Time; for
there will be one, that will build us a pleasant House there, or a
Temple rather, such a one, as there scarce is a finer or more sacred any
where else.

_Al._ Mayn't a Body know who it will be, that shall do so much Honour to
our Country?

_Mu._ You may know it, that are one of our Priests. There's no doubt,
but you have heard the Name of the _Buslidians_, famous all the World

_Al._ You have mention'd a noble Family truly, born to grace the Palaces
of the greatest Princes in the Universe. For who does not revere the
great _Francis Buslidius_, the Bishop of the Church of _Bezancon_, who
has approv'd himself more than a single _Nestor_, to _Philip_ the Son
of _Maximilian_ the Great, the Father of _Charles_, who will also be a
greater Man than his Father?

_Mu._ O how happy had we been, if the Fates had not envy'd the Earth the
Happiness of so great a Man, What a Patron was he to all liberal
Studies! How candid a Favourer of Ingenuity! But he has left two
brothers, _Giles_ a Man of admirable Judgment and Wisdom, and _Jerome_.

_Al._ We know very well that _Jerome_ is singularly well accomplish'd
with all Manner of Literature, and adorn'd with every Kind of Virtue.

_Mu._ But the Destinies won't suffer him to be long-liv'd neither,
though no Man in the World better deserves to be immortaliz'd.

_Al._ How do you know that?

_Mu._ We had it from _Apollo_.

_Al._ How envious are the Destinies, to take from us all desirable
Things so hastily!

_Mu._ We must not talk of that at this Time; but this _Jerome_, dying
with great Applause, will leave his whole Estate for the building of a
College at _Louvain_, in which most learned Men shall profess and teach
publickly, and gratis, the three Languages. These Things will bring a
great Ornament to Learning, and Glory to _Charles_ himself: Then we'll
reside at _Louvain_, with all our Hearts.

_Al._ But whither are you going now?

_Mu._ To _Antwerp_.

_Al._ What, the Muses and Graces going to a Fair?

_Mu._ No, we assure you, we are not going to a Fair; but to a Wedding.

_Al._ What have Virgins to do at Weddings?

_Mu._ 'Tis no indecent Thing at all, for Virgins to be at such a Wedding
as this is.

_Al._ Pray what Sort of a Marriage is it?

_Mu._ A holy, undefiled, and chaste Marriage, such a one as _Pallas_
herself need not be asham'd to be at: Nay, more than that, we believe
she will be at it.

_Al._ Mayn't a Body know the Bride and Bridegroom's Name?

_Mu._ We believe you must needs know that most courteous and
accomplish'd Youth in all Kinds of polite Learning, _Peter Ægidius_.

_Al._ You have named an Angel, not a Man.

_Mu._ The pretty Maid _Cornelia_, a fit Match for _Apollo_ himself, is
going to be married to _Ægidius_.

_Al._ Indeed he has been a great Admirer of you, even from his Infancy.

_Mu._ We are going to sing him an Epithalamium.

_Al._ What, and will the Graces dance too?

_Mu._ They will not only dance, but they will also unite those two true
Lovers, with the indissoluble Ties of mutual Affection, that no
Difference or Jarring shall ever happen between 'em. She shall never
hear any Thing from him, but my Life; nor he from her, but my Soul: Nay:
and even old Age itself, shall be so far from diminishing that, that it
shall increase the Pleasure.

_Al._ I should admire at it, if those that live so sweetly, could ever
be able to grow old.

_Mu._ You say very right, for it is rather a Maturity, than an old Age.

_Al._ But I have known a great many, to whom these kind Words have been
chang'd into the quite contrary, in less than three Months Time; and
instead of pleasant Jests at Table, Dishes and Trenchers have flown
about. The Husband, instead of my dear Soul, has been call'd Blockhead,
Toss-Pot, Swill-Tub; and the Wife, Sow, Fool, dirty Drab.

_Mu._ You say very true; but these Marriages were made when the Graces
were out of Humour: But in this Marriage, a Sweetness of Temper will
always maintain a mutual Affection.

_Al._ Indeed you speak of such a happy Marriage as is very seldom seen.

_Mu._ An uncommon Felicity is due to such uncommon Virtues.

_Al._ But what! Will the Matrimony be without _Juno_ and _Venus_?

_Mu._ Indeed _Juno_ won't be there, she's a scolding Goddess, and is but
seldom in a good Humour with her own _Jove_. Nor indeed, that earthly
drunken _Venus_; but another heavenly one, which makes a Union of Minds.

_Al._ Then the Marriage you speak of, is like to be a barren one.

_Mu._ No, by no Means, but rather like to be the most happily fruitful.

_Al._ What, does that heavenly _Venus_ produce any Thing but Souls then?

_Mu._ Yes, she gives Bodies to the Souls; but such Bodies, as shall be
exactly conformable to 'em, just as though you should put a choice
Ointment into a curious Box of Pearl.

_Al._ Where is she then?

_Mu._ Look, she is coming towards you, a pretty Way off.

_Al._ Oh! I see her now. O good God, how bright she is! How majestical
and beautiful she appears! The t'other _Venus_ compar'd with this, is a
homely one.

_Mu._ Do you see what modest _Cupids_ there are; they are no blind ones,
such as that _Venus_ has, that makes Mankind mad? But these are sharp
little Rogues, and they don't carry furious Torches, but most gentle
Fires; they have no leaden-pointed Darts, to make the belov'd hate the
Lover, and torment poor Wretches with the Want of a reciprocal

_Al._ In Truth, they're as like their Mother as can be. Oh, that's a
blessed House, and dearly belov'd by the Gods! But may not a Body hear
the Marriage-Song that you design to present 'em with?

_Mu._ Nay, we were just a-going to ask you to hear it.

Peter _hath married fair_ Cornelia, _Propitious Heaven! bless
the Wedding-Day._

_Concord of_ Turtle-Doves _between them be, And of the_
Jack-daw _the Vivacity_.

_From_ Gracchus _may he win the Prize, And for_ Cornelia's
_Life, his own despise._

_May she in Love exceed_ Admetus' _Wife, Who laid her own
down, for her Husband's Life._

_May he love her with stronger Flame, But much more
happy Fate, Than_ Plaucius, _who did disdain To out-live his deceas'd

_May she love him with no less Flame, But with much better
Fate; Than_ Porcia _chaste, her_ Brutus _did, Whom brave Men celebrate._

_For Constancy, I wish the Bridegroom may Be equal to the
famous_ Nasica.

_The Bride in Chastity may she Superior to_ Paterculana _be._

_May their Offspring like them be, Their Honour equal
their Estate; Always from ranc'rous Envy free, Deserved Glory on them

_Al._ I should very much envy _Peter Ægidius_ so much Happiness, but
that he is a Man of such Candour, that he himself envies no Body.

_Mu._ It is now high Time for us to prosecute our Journey.

_Al._ Have you any Service to command me at _Louvain_?

_Mu._ That thou wouldst recommend us to all our sincere loving Friends;
but especially to our antient Admirers. _John Paludus, Jodocus Gaverius,
Martin Dorpius_, and _John Borsalus._

_Al._ Well, I'll be sure to take Care to do your Message. What shall I
say to the rest?

_Mu._ I'll tell you in your Ear.

_Al._ Well, 'tis a Matter that won't cost very much; it shall certainly
be done out of Hand.



     _This Colloquy detects the Artifices of Impostors, who
     impose upon the credulous and simple, framing Stories of
     Apparitions of Daemons and Ghosts, and divine Voices._
     Polus _is the Author of a Rumour, that an Apparition of a
     certain Soul was heard in his Grounds, howling after a
     lamentable Manner: At another Place he pretends to see a
     Dragon in the Air, in the middle of the Day, and
     persuades other Persons that they saw it too; and he
     prevails upon_ Faunus, _a Parish-Priest of a neighbouring
     Town, to make Trial of the Truth of the Matters, who
     consents to do it, and prepares Exorcisms._ Polus _gets
     upon a black Horse, throws Fire about, and with divers
     Tricks deceives credulous_ Faunus, _and other Men of none
     of the deepest Penetration._


_Tho._ What good News have you had, that you laugh to yourself thus, as
if you had found a Treasure?

_Ans._ Nay, you are not far from the Matter.

_Tho._ But won't you impart it to your Companion, what good Thing soever
it is?

_Ans._ Yes, I will, for I have been wishing a good While, for somebody
to communicate my Merriment to.

_Tho._ Come on then, let's have it.

_Ans._ I was just now told the pleasantest Story, which you'd swear was
a Sham, if I did not know the Place, the Persons, and whole Matter, as
well as you know me.

_Tho._ I'm with Child to hear it.

_Ans._ Do you know _Polus, Faunus_'s Son-in-Law?

_Tho._ Perfectly well.

_Ans._ He's both the Contriver and Actor of this Play.

_Tho._ I am apt enough to believe that; for he can Act any Part to the

_Ans._ He can so: I suppose too, you know that he has a Farm not far
from _London_.

_Tho._ Phoo, very well; he and I have drank together many a Time there.

_Ans._ Then you know there is a Way between two straight Rows of Trees.

_Tho._ Upon the left Hand, about two Flight Shot from the House?

_Ans._ You have it. On one Side of the Way there is a dry Ditch,
overgrown with Thorns and Brambles; and then there's a Way that leads
into an open Field from a little Bridge.

_Tho._ I remember it.

_Ans._ There went a Report for a long Time among the Country-People, of
a Spirit that walk'd near that Bridge, and of hideous Howlings that were
every now and then heard there: They concluded it was the Soul of
somebody that was miserably tormented.

_Tho._ Who was it that raised this Report?

_Ans._ Who but _Polus_, that made this the Prologue to his Comedy.

_Tho._ What did he mean by inventing such a Flam?

_Ans._ I know nothing; but that it is the Humour of the Man, he takes
Delight to make himself Sport, by playing upon the Simplicity of People,
by such Fictions as these. I'll tell you what he did lately of the same
Kind. We were a good many of us riding to _Richmond_, and some of the
Company were such that you would say were Men of Judgment. It was a
wonderful clear Day, and not so much as a Cloud to be seen there.
_Polus_ looking wistfully up into the Air, signed his Face and Breast
with the Sign of the Cross, and having compos'd his Countenance to an
Air of Amazement, says to himself, O immortal God, what do I see! They
that rode next to him asking him what it was that he saw, he fell again
to signing himself with a greater Cross. May the most merciful God, says
he, deliver me from this Prodigy. They having urg'd him, desiring to
know what was the Matter, he fixing his Eyes up to Heaven, and pointing
with his Finger to a certain Quarter of it, don't you see, says he, that
monstrous Dragon arm'd with fiery Horns, and its Tail turn'd up in a
Circle? And they denying they saw it, he bid them look earnestly, every
now and then pointing to the Place: At last one of them, that he might
not seem to be bad-sighted, affirmed that he saw it. And in Imitation of
him, first one, and then another, for they were asham'd that they could
not see what was so plain to be seen: And in short, in three Days Time,
the Rumour of this portentous Apparition had spread all over _England_.
And it is wonderful to think how popular Fame had amplified the Story,
and some pretended seriously to expound to what this Portent did
predict, and he that was the Contriver of the Fiction, took a mighty
Pleasure in the Folly of these People.

_Tho._ I know the Humour of the Man well enough. But to the Story of the

_Ans._ In the mean Time, one _Faunus_ a Priest (of those which in
_Latin_ they call _Regulars_, but that is not enough, unless they add
the same in _Greek_ too, who was Parson of a neighbouring Parish, this
Man thought himself wiser than is common, especially in holy Matters)
came very opportunely to pay a Visit to _Polus_.

_Tho._ I understand the Matter: There is one found out to be an Actor in
this Play.

_Ans._ At Supper a Discourse was raised of the Report of this
Apparition, and when _Polus_ perceiv'd that _Faunus_ had not only heard
of the Report, but believ'd it, he began to intreat the Man, that as he
was a holy and a learned Person, he would afford some Relief to a poor
Soul that was in such dreadful Torment: And, says he, if you are in any
Doubt as to the Truth of it, examine into the Matter, and do but walk
near that Bridge about ten a-Clock, and you shall hear miserable Cries;
take who you will for a Companion along with you, and so you will hear
both more safely and better.

_Tho._ Well, what then?

_Ans._ After Supper was over, _Polus_, as his Custom was, goes a Hunting
or Fowling. And when it grew duskish, the Darkness having taken away all
Opportunity of making any certain Judgment of any Thing, _Faunus_ walks
about, and at last hears miserable Howlings. _Polus_ having hid himself
in a Bramble Hedge hard by, had very artfully made these Howlings, by
speaking through an earthen Pot; the Voice coming through the Hollow of
it, gave it a most mournful Sound.

_Tho._ This Story, as far as I see, out-does _Menander's Phasma_.

_Ans._ You'll say more, if you shall hear it out. _Faunus_ goes Home,
being impatient to tell what he had heard. _Polus_ taking a shorter Way,
had got Home before him. _Faunus_ up and tells _Polus_ all that past,
and added something of his own to it, to make the Matter more wonderful.

_Tho._ Could _Polus_ keep his Countenance in the mean Time?

_Ans._ He keep his Countenance! He has his Countenance in his Hand, you
would have said that a serious Affair was transacted. In the End
_Faunus_, upon the pressing Importunity of _Polus_, undertakes the
Business of Exorcism, and slept not one Wink all that Night, in
contriving by what Means he might go about the Matter with Safety, for
he was wretchedly afraid. In the first Place he got together the most
powerful Exorcisms that he could get, and added some new ones to them,
as the Bowels of the Virgin _Mary_, and the Bones of St. _Winifred_.
After that, he makes Choice of a Place in the plain Field, near the
Bramble Bushes, from whence the Voice came. He draws a very large
Circle with a great many Crosses in it, and a Variety of Characters. And
all this was perform'd in a set Form of Words; there was also there a
great Vessel full of holy Water, and about his Neck he had a holy Stole
(as they call'd it) upon which hung the Beginning of the Gospel of
_John_. He had in his Pocket a little Piece of Wax, which the Bishop of
_Rome_ used to consecrate once a Year, which is commonly call'd _Agnus
Dei_. With these Arms in Times past, they were wont to defend themselves
against evil Spirits, before the Cowl of St. _Francis_ was found to be
so formidable. All these Things were provided, lest if it should be an
evil Spirit it should fall foul upon the Exorcist: nor did he for all
this, dare to trust himself in the Circle alone, but he determined to
take some other Priest along with him. Upon this _Polus_ being afraid,
that if he took some sharper Fellow than himself along with him, the
whole Plot might come to be discover'd, he got a Parish-Priest
there-about, whom he acquainted before-hand with the whole Design; and
indeed it was necessary for the carrying on the Adventure, and he was a
Man fit for such a Purpose. The Day following, all Things being prepared
and in good Order, about ten a-Clock _Faunus_ and the Parish-Priest
enter the Circle. _Polus_ had got thither before them, and made a
miserable Howling out of the Hedge; Faunus begins his Exorcism, and
_Polus_ steals away in the Dark to the next Village, and brings from
thence another Person, for the Play could not be acted without a great
many of them.

_Tho._ Well, what do they do?

_Ans._ They mount themselves upon black Horses, and privately carry Fire
along with them; when they come pretty near to the Circle, they shew the
Fire to affright _Faunus_ out of the Circle.

_Tho._ What a Deal of Pains did this _Polus_ take to put a Cheat upon

_Ans._ His Fancy lies that Way. But this Matter had like to have been
mischievous to them.

_Tho._ How so?

_Ans._ For the Horses were so startled at the sudden flashing of the
Fire, that they had like to have thrown their Riders. Here's an End of
the first Act of this Comedy. When they were returned and entered into
Discourse, _Polus_, as though he had known nothing of the Matter,
enquires what was done. _Faunus_ tells him, that two hideous Caco-dæmons
appear'd to him on black Horses, their Eyes sparkling with Fire, and
breathing Fire out of their Nostrils, making an Attempt to break into
the Circle, but that they were driven away with a Vengeance, by the
Power and Efficacy of his Words. This Encounter having put Courage into
_Faunus_, the next Day he goes into his Circle again with great
Solemnity, and after he had provok'd the Spirit a long Time with the
Vehemence of his Words, _Polus_ and his Companion appear again at a
pretty Distance, with their black Horses, with a most outragious Noise,
making a Feint, as if they would break into the Circle.

_Tho._ Had they no Fire then?

_Ans._ No, none at all; for that had lik'd to have fallen out very
unluckily to them. But hear another Device: They drew a long Rope over
the Ground, and then hurrying from one Place to another, as though they
were beat off by the Exorcisms of _Faunus_, they threw down both the
Priest and holy Water-Pot all together.

_Tho._ This Reward the Parish-Priest had for playing his Part?

_Ans._ Yes, he had; and for all that, he had rather suffer this than
quit the Design. After this Encounter, when they came to talk over the
Matter again, _Faunus_ tells a mighty Story to _Polus_, what great
Danger he had been in, and how couragiously he had driven both the evil
Spirits away with his Charms, and now he had arriv'd at a firm
Persuasion, that there was no Dæmon, let him be ever so mischievous or
impudent, that could possibly break into this Circle.

_Tho._ This _Faunus_ was not far from being a Fool.

_Ans._ You have heard nothing yet. The Comedy being thus far advanc'd,
_Polus_'s Son-in-Law comes in very good Time, for he had married
_Polus's_ eldest Daughter; he's a wonderful merry Droll, you know.

_Tho._ Know him! Ay, I know him, that he has no Aversion for such Tricks
as these.

_Ans._ No Aversion, do you say, nay he would leave the most urgent
Affair in the World, if such a Comedy were either to be seen or acted.
His Father-in-Law tells him the whole Story, and gives him his Part,
that was, to act the Ghost. He puts on a Dress, and wraps himself up in
a Shrowd, and carrying a live Coal in a Shell, it appear'd through his
Shrowd as if something were burning. About Night he goes to the Place
where this Play was acted, there were heard most doleful Moans. _Faunus_
lets fly all his Exorcisms. At Length the Ghost appears a good Way off
in the Bushes, every now and then shewing the Fire, and making a rueful
Groaning. While _Faunus_ was adjuring the Ghost to declare who he was,
_Polus_ of a sudden leaps out of the Thicket, dress'd like a Devil, and
making a Roaring, answers him, you have nothing to do with this Soul, it
is mine; and every now and then runs to the very Edge of the Circle, as
if he would set upon the Exorcist, and then retired back again, as if he
was beaten back by the Words of the Exorcism, and the Power of the holy
Water, which he threw upon him in great Abundance. At last when this
guardian Devil was chased away, _Faunus_ enters into a Dialogue with the
Soul. After he had been interrogated and abjured, he answers, that he
was the Soul of a Christian Man, and being asked his Name, he answered
_Faunus_. _Faunus_! replies the other, that's my Name. So then they
being Name-Sakes, he laid the Matter more to Heart, that _Faunus_ might
deliver _Faunus_. _Faunus_ asking a Multitude of Questions, lest a long
Discourse should discover the Fraud, the Ghost retires, saying it was
not permitted to stay to talk any longer, because its Time was come,
that it must go whither its Devil pleased to carry it; but yet promised
to come again the next Day, at what Hour it could be permitted. They
meet together again at _Polus's_ House, who was the Master of the Show.
There the Exorcist relates what was done, and tho' he added some Lies to
the Story, yet he believed them to be true himself, he was so heartily
affected with the Matter in Hand. At last it appeared manifestly, that
it was the Soul of a Christian who was vexed with the dreadful Torments
of an unmerciful Devil: Now all the Endeavours are bent this Way. There
happened a ridiculous Passage in the next Exorcism.

_Tho._ Prithee what was that?

_Ans._ When _Faunus_ had called up the Ghost, _Polus_, that acted the
Devil, leap'd directly at him, as if he would, without any more to do,
break into the Circle; and _Faunus_ he resisted stoutly with his
Exorcisms, and had thrown a power of holy Water, the Devil at last cries
out, that he did not value all this of a Rush; you have had to do with a
Wench, and you are my own yourself. And tho' _Polus_ said so in Jest, it
seemed that he had spoken Truth: For the Exorcist being touched with
this Word, presently retreated to the very Centre of the Circle, and
whispered something in the Priest's Ear. _Polus_ seeing that, retires,
that he might not hear what it was not fit for him to hear.

_Tho._ In Truth, _Polus_ was a very modest, religious Devil.

_Ans._ He was so, otherwise he might have been blamed for not observing
a _Decorum_, but yet he heard the Priest's Voice appointing him

_Tho._ What was that?

_Ans._ That he should say the glorious 78th Psalm, three Times over, by
which he conjectured he had had to do with her three Times that Night.

_Tho._ He was an irregular _Regular_.

_Ans._ They are but Men, and this is but human Frailty.

_Tho._ Well, proceed: what was done after this?

_Ans._ Now _Faunus_ more couragiously advances to the very Edge of the
Circle, and challenges the Devil of his own Accord; but the Devil's
Heart failed him, and he fled back. You have deceived me, says he, if I
had been wise I had not given you that Caution: Many are of Opinion,
that what you have once confess'd is immediately struck out of the
Devil's Memory, that he can never be able to twit you in the Teeth for

_Tho._ What a ridiculous Conceit do you tell me of?

_Ans._ But to draw towards a Conclusion of the Matter: This Dialogue
with the Ghost held for some Days; at last it came to this Issue: The
Exorcist asking the Soul, If there was any Way by which it might
possibly be delivered from its Torments, it answered, it might, if the
Money that it had left behind, being gotten by Cheating, should be
restored. Then, says _Faunus_, What if it were put into the Hands of
good People, to be disposed of to pious Uses? The Spirit reply'd, That
might do. The Exorcist was rejoic'd at this; he enquires particularly,
What Sum there was of it? The Spirit reply'd, That it was a vast Sum,
and might prove very good and commodious: it told the Place too where
the Treasure was hid, but it was a long Way off: And it order'd what
Uses it should be put to.

_Tho._ What were they?

_Ans._ That three Persons were to undertake a Pilgrimage; one to the
Threshold of St. _Peter_; another to salute St. _James_ at
_Compostella;_ and the third should kiss _Jesus'_s Comb at _Tryers_; and
after that, a vast Number of Services and Masses should be performed in
several great Monasteries; and as to the Overplus, he should dispose of
it as he pleas'd. Now _Faunus'_s Mind was fixed upon the Treasure; he
had, in a Manner, swallowed it in his Mind.

_Tho._ That's a common Disease; but more peculiarly thrown in the
Priests Dish, upon all Occasions.

_Ans._ After nothing had been omitted that related to the Affair of the
Money, the Exorcist being put upon it by _Polus_, began to put Questions
to the Spirit, about several Arts, as Alchymy and Magick. To these
Things the Spirit gave Answers, putting off the Resolution of these
Questions for the present, promising it would make larger Discoveries as
soon as ever, by his Assistance, it should get out of the Clutches of
its Keeper, the Devil; and, if you please, you may let this be the
third Act of this Play. As to the fourth Act, _Faunus_ began, in good
Earnest, everywhere to talk high, and to talk of nothing else in all
Companies and at the Table, and to promise glorious Things to
Monasteries; and talk'd of nothing that was low and mean. He goes to the
Place, and finds the Tokens, but did not dare to dig for the Treasure,
because the Spirit had thrown this Caution in the Way, that it would be
extremely dangerous to touch the Treasure, before the Masses had been
performed. By this Time, a great many of the wiser Sort had smelt out
the Plot, while _Faunus_ at the same Time was every where proclaiming
his Folly; tho' he was privately cautioned by his Friends, and
especially his Abbot, that he who had hitherto had the Reputation of a
prudent Man, should not give the World a Specimen of his being quite
contrary. But the Imagination of the Thing had so entirely possess'd his
Mind, that all that could be said of him, had no Influence upon him, to
make him doubt of the Matter; and he dreamt of nothing but Spectres and
Devils: The very Habit of his Mind was got into his Face, that he was so
pale, and meagre and dejected, that you would say he was rather a Sprite
than a Man: And in short, he was not far from being stark mad, and would
have been so, had it not been timely prevented.

_Tho._ Well, let this be the last Act of the Play.

_Ans._ Well, you shall have it. _Polus_ and his Son-in-Law, hammer'd out
this Piece betwixt them: They counterfeited an Epistle written in a
strange antique Character, and not upon common Paper, but such as
Gold-Beaters put their Leaf-Gold in, a reddish Paper, you know. The Form
of the Epistle was this:

Faunus, _long a Captive, but now free. To_ Faunus, _his gracious
Deliverer sends eternal Health. There is no Need, my dear_ Faunus, _that
thou shouldest macerate thyself any longer in this Affair. God has
respected the pious Intention of thy Mind; and by the Merit of it, has
delivered me from Torments, and I now live happily among the Angels.
Thou hast a Place provided for thee with St. Austin, which is next to
the Choir of the Apostles: When thou earnest to us, I will give thee
publick Thanks. In the mean Time, see that thou live merrily._

      _From the_ Imperial Heaven, _the
      Ides of_ September, _Anno_ 1498.
      _Under the Seal of my own Ring._

This Epistle was laid privately under the Altar where _Faunus_ was to
perform divine Service: This being done, there was one appointed to
advertise him of it, as if he had found it by Chance. And now he carries
the Letter about him, and shews it as a very sacred Thing; and believes
nothing more firmly, than that it was brought from Heaven by an Angel.

_Tho._ This is not delivering the Man from his Madness, but changing the
Sort of it.

_Ans._ Why truly, so it is, only he is now more pleasantly mad than

_Tho._ I never was wont to give much Credit to Stories of Apparitions in
common; but for the Time to come, I shall give much less: For I believe
that many Things that have been printed and published, as true
Relations, were only by Artifice and Imposture, Impositions upon
credulous Persons, and such as _Faunus._

_Ans._ And I also believe that a great many of them are of the same



     _This Colloquy shews the Dotage of an old Man, otherwise
     a very prudent Person, upon this Art; being trick'd by a
     Priest, under Pretence of a two-Fold Method in this Art,
     the_ long Way _and the_ short Way. _By the long Way he
     puts an egregious Cheat upon old_ Balbinus: _The
     Alchymist lays the Fault upon his Coals and Glasses.
     Presents of Gold are sent to the Virgin_ Mary, _that she
     would assist them in their Undertakings. Some Courtiers
     having come to the Knowledge that_ Balbinus _practis'd
     this unlawful Art, are brib'd. At last the Alchymist is
     discharg'd, having Money given him to bear his Charges._


_Phi._ What News is here, that _Lalus_ laughs to himself so that he e'en
giggles again, every now and then signing himself with the Sign of the
Cross? I'll interrupt his Felicity. God bless you heartily, my very good
Friend _Lalus_; you seem to me to be very happy.

_La._ But I shall be much happier, if I make you a Partaker of my merry

_Phi._ Prithee, then, make me happy as soon as you can.

_La._ Do you know _Balbinus_?

_Phi._ What, that learned old Gentleman that has such a very good
Character in the World?

_La._ It is as you say; but no Man is wise at all Times, or is without
his blind Side. This Man, among his many good Qualifications, has some
Foibles: He has been a long Time bewitch'd with the Art call'd

_Phi._ Believe me, that you call only Foible, is a dangerous Disease.

_La._ However that is, notwithstanding he had been so often bitten by
this Sort of People, yet he has lately suffer'd himself to be impos'd
upon again.

_Phi._ In what Manner?

_La._ A certain Priest went to him, saluted him with great Respect, and
accosted him in this Manner: Most learned _Balbinus_, perhaps you will
wonder that I, being a Stranger to you, should thus interrupt you, who,
I know, are always earnestly engag'd in the most sacred Studies.
_Balbinus_ gave him a Nod, as was his Custom; for he is wonderfully
sparing of his Words.

_Phi._ That's an Argument of Prudence.

_La._ But the other, as the wiser of the two, proceeds. You will forgive
this my Importunity, when you shall know the Cause of my coming to you.
Tell me then, says _Balbinus_, but in as few Words as you can. I will,
says he, as briefly as I am able. You know, most learned of Men, that
the Fates of Mortals are various; and I can't tell among which I should
class myself, whether among the happy or the miserable; for when I
contemplate my Fate on one Part, I account myself most happy, but if on
the other Part, I am one of the most miserable. _Balbinus_ pressing him
to contract his Speech into a narrow Compass; I will have done
immediately, most learned _Balbinus_, says he, and it will be the more
easy for me to do it, to a Man who understands the whole Affair so well,
that no Man understands it better.

_Phi._ You are rather drawing an Orator than an Alchymist.

_La._ You shall hear the Alchymist by and by. This Happiness, says he, I
have had from a Child, to have learn'd that most desirable Art, I mean
Alchymy, the very Marrow of universal Philosophy. At the very Mention of
the Name Alchymy, _Balbinus_ rais'd himself a little, that is to say,
in Gesture only, and fetching a deep Sigh, bid him go forward. Then he
proceeds: But miserable Man that I am, said he, by not falling into the
right Way! _Balbinus_ asking him what Ways those were he spoke of; Good
Sir, says he, you know (for what is there, most learned Sir, that you
are ignorant of?) that there are two Ways in this Art, one which is
_call'd the Longation, and the other which is call'd the Curtation_. But
by my bad Fate, I have fallen upon _Longation. Balbinus_ asking him,
what was the Difference of the Ways; it would be impudent in me, says
he, to mention this to a Man, to whom all Things are so well known, that
Nobody knows them better; therefore I humbly address myself to you, that
you would take Pity on me, and vouchsafe to communicate to me that most
happy Way of _Curtation_. And by how much the better you understand this
Art, by so much the less Labour you will be able to impart it to me: Do
not conceal so great a Gift from your poor Brother that is ready to die
with Grief. And as you assist me in this, so may _Jesus Christ_ ever
enrich you with more sublime Endowments. He thus making no End of his
Solemnity of Obtestations, _Balbinus_ was oblig'd to confess, that he
was entirely ignorant of what he meant by _Longation_ and _Curtation_,
and bids him explain the Meaning of those Words. Then he began; Altho'
Sir, says he, I know I speak to a Person that is better skill'd than
myself, yet since you command me I will do it: Those that have spent
their whole Life in this divine Art, change the Species of Things two
Ways, the one is shorter, but more hazardous, the other is longer, but
safer. I account myself very unhappy, that I have laboured in that Way
that does not suit my Genius, nor could I yet find out any Body who
would shew me the other Way that I am so passionately desirous of; but
at last God has put it into my Mind to apply myself to you, a Man of as
much Piety as Learning; your Learning qualifies you to answer my Request
with Ease, and your Piety will dispose you to help a Christian Brother,
whose Life is in your Hands. To make the Matter short, when this crafty
Fellow, with such Expressions as these, had clear'd himself from all
Suspicion of a Design, and had gain'd Credit, that he understood one Way
perfectly well, _Balbinus_'s Mind began to have an Itch to be meddling.
And at last, when he could hold no longer, Away with your Methods, says
he, of _Curtation_, the Name of which I never heard before, I am so far
from understanding it. Tell me sincerely, Do you throughly understand
Longation? Phoo! says he, perfectly well; but I don't love the
Tediousness of it. Then _Balbinus_ asked him, how much Time it wou'd
take up. Too much, says he; almost a whole Year; but in the mean Time it
is the safest Way. Never trouble yourself about that, says _Balbinus_,
although it should take up two Years, if you can but depend upon your
Art. To shorten the Story: They came to an Agreement, that the Business
should be set on foot privately in _Balbinus_'s, House, upon this
Condition, that he should find Art, and _Balbinus_ Money; and the Profit
should be divided between them, although the Imposter modestly offered
that _Balbinus_ should have the whole Gain. They both took an Oath of
Secrecy, after the Manner of those that are initiated into mysterious
Secrets; and presently Money is paid down for the Artist to buy Pots,
Glasses, Coals, and other Necessaries for furnishing the Laboratory:
This Money our Alchymist lavishes away on Whores, Gaming, and Drinking.

_Phi._ This is one Way, however, of changing the Species of Things.

_La. Balbinus_ pressing him to fall upon the Business; he replies, Don't
you very well know, that _what's well begun is half done?_ It is a great
Matter to have the Materials well prepar'd. At last he begins to set up
the Furnace; and here there was Occasion for more Gold, as a Bait to
catch more: For as a Fish is not caught without a Bait, so Alchymists
must cast Gold in, before they can fetch Gold out. In the mean Time,
_Balbinus_ was busy in his Accounts; for he reckoned thus, if one Ounce
made fifteen, what would be the Product of two thousand; for that was
the Sum that he determined to spend. When the Alchymist had spent this
Money and two Months Time, pretending to be wonderfully busy about the
Bellows and the Coals, Balbinus enquired of him, whether the Business
went forward? At first he made no Answer; but at last he urging the
Question, he made him Answer, As all great Works do; the greatest
Difficulty of which is, in entring upon them: He pretended he had made a
Mistake in buying the Coals, for he had bought Oaken ones, when they
should have been Beechen or Fir ones. There was a hundred Crowns gone;
and he did not spare to go to Gaming again briskly. Upon giving him new
Cash, he gets new Coals, and then the Business is begun again with more
Resolution than before; just as Soldiers do, when they have happened to
meet with a Disaster, they repair it by Bravery. When the Laboratory had
been kept hot for some Months, and the golden Fruit was expected, and
there was not a Grain of Gold in the Vessel (for the Chymist had spent
all that too) another Pretence was found out, That the Glasses they
used, were not rightly tempered: For, as every Block will not make a
Mercury, so Gold will not be made in any Kind of Glass. And by how much
more Money had been spent, by so much the lother he was to give it over.

_Phi._ Just as it is with Gamesters, as if it were not better to lose
some than all.

_La._ Very true. The Chymist swore he was never so cheated since he was
born before; but now having found out his Mistake, he could proceed with
all the Security in the World, and fetch up that Loss with great
Interest. The Glasses being changed, the Laboratory is furnished the
third Time: Then the Operator told him, the Operation would go on more
successfully, if he sent a Present of Crowns to the Virgin Mary, that
you know is worshipped at _Paris_; for it was an holy Act: And in Order
to have it carried on successfully, it needed the Favour of the Saints.
_Balbinus_ liked this Advice wonderfully well, being a very pious Man
that never let a Day pass, but he performed some Act of Devotion or
other. The Operator undertakes the religious Pilgrimage; but spends this
devoted Money in a Bawdy-House in the next Town: Then he goes back, and
tells _Balbinus_ that he had great Hope that all would succeed according
to their Mind, the Virgin _Mary_ seem'd so to favour their Endeavours.
When he had laboured a long Time, and not one Crumb of Gold appearing,
_Balbinus_ reasoning the Matter with him, he answered, that nothing like
this had ever happened all his Days to him, tho' he had so many Times
had Experience of his Method; nor could he so much as imagine what
should be the Reason of this Failing. After they had beat their Brains a
long Time about the Matter, _Balbinus_ bethought himself, whether he had
any Day miss'd going to Chapel, or saying the _Horary Prayers_, for
nothing would succeed, if these were omitted. Says the Imposter you have
hit it. Wretch that I am, I have been guilty of that once or twice by
Forgetfulness, and lately rising from Table, after a long Dinner, I had
forgot to say the Salutation of the Virgin. Why then, says _Balbinus_,
it is no Wonder, that a Thing of this Moment succeeds no better. The
Trickster undertakes to perform twelve Services for two that he had
omitted, and to repay ten Salutations for that one. When Money every now
and then fail'd this extravagant Operator, and he could not find out any
Pretence to ask for more, he at last bethought himself of this Project.
He comes Home like one frighted out of his Wits, and in a very mournful
Tone cries out, O _Balbinus_ I am utterly undone, undone; I am in Danger
of my Life. _Balbinus_ was astonished, and was impatient to know what
was the Matter. The Court, says he, have gotten an Inkling of what we
have been about, and I expect nothing else but to be carried to Gaol
immediately. _Balbinus_, at the hearing of this, turn'd pale as Ashes;
for you know it is capital with us, for any Man to practice _Alchymy_
without a License from the Prince: He goes on: Not, says he, that I am
afraid of Death myself, I wish that were the worst that would happen, I
fear something more cruel. _Balbinus_ asking him what that was, he
reply'd, I shall be carried away into some Castle, and there be forc'd
to work all my Days, for those I have no Mind to serve. Is there any
Death so bad as such a Life? The Matter was then debated, _Balbinus_
being a Man that very well understood the Art of Rhetorick, casts his
Thoughts every Way, if this Mischief could be prevented any Way. Can't
you deny the Crime, says he? By no Means, says the other; the Matter is
known among the Courtiers, and they have such Proof of it that it can't
be evaded, and there is no defending of the Fact; for the Law is
point-blank against it. Many Things having been propos'd, but coming to
no conclusion, that seem'd feasible; says the Alchymist, who wanted
present Money, O _Balbinus_ we apply ourselves to slow Counsels, when
the Matter requires a present Remedy. It will not be long before they
will be here that will apprehend me, and carry me away into Tribulation.
And last of all, seeing _Balbinus_ at a Stand, says the Alchymist, I am
as much at a Loss as you, nor do I see any Way left, but to die like a
Man, unless you shall approve what I am going to propose, which is more
profitable than honourable; but Necessity is a hard Chapter. You know
these Sort of Men are hungry after Money, and so may be the more easily
brib'd to Secrecy. Although it is a hard Case to give these Rascals
Money to throw away; but yet, as the Case now stands, I see no better
Way. _Balbinus_ was of the same Opinion, and he lays down thirty Guineas
to bribe them to hush up the Matter.

_Phi. Balbinus_ was wonderful liberal, as you tell the Story.

_La._ Nay, in an honest Cause, you would sooner have gotten his Teeth
out of his Head than Money. Well, then the Alchymist was provided for,
who was in no Danger, but that of wanting Money for his Wench.

_Phi._ I admire _Balbinus_ could not smoak the Roguery all this While.

_La._ This is the only Thing that he's soft in, he's as sharp as a
Needle in any Thing else. Now the Furnace is set to work again with new
Money; but first, a short Prayer is made to the Virgin Mary to prosper
their Undertakings. By this Time there had been a whole Year spent,
first one Obstacle being pretended, and then another, so that all the
Expence and Labour was lost. In the mean Time there fell out one most
ridiculous Chance.

_Phi._ What was that?

_La._ The Alchymist had a criminal Correspondence with a certain
Courtier's Lady: The Husband beginning to be jealous, watch'd him
narrowly, and in the Conclusion, having Intelligence that the Priest was
in the Bed-Chamber, he comes Home before he was look'd for, knocks at
the Door.

_Phi._ What did he design to do to him?

_La._ What! Why nothing very good, either kill him or geld him. When the
Husband being very pressing to come, threatned he would break open the
Door, if his Wife did not open it, they were in bodily Fear within, and
cast about for some present Resolution; and Circumstances admitting no
better, he pull'd off his Coat, and threw himself out of a narrow
Window, but not without both Danger and Mischief, and so got away. Such
Stories as these you know are soon spread, and it came to _Balbinus_'s
Ear, and the Chymist guess'd it would be so.

_Phi._ There was no getting off of this Business.

_La._ Yes, he got off better here, than he did out at the Window. Hear
the Man's Invention: _Balbinus_ said not a Word to him about the Matter,
but it might be read in his Countenance, that he was no Stranger to the
Talk of the Town. The Chymist knew _Balbinus_ to be a Man of Piety, and
in some Points, I was going to say, superstitious, and such Persons are
very ready to forgive one that falls under his Crime, let it be never so
great; therefore, he on Purpose begins a Talk about the Success of their
Business, complaining, that it had not succeeded as it us'd to do, and
as he would have it; and he-wondered greatly, what should be the Reason
of it: Upon this Discourse, _Balbinus_, who seemed otherwise to have
been bent upon Silence, taking an Occasion, was a little moved: It is
no hard Matter, says he, to guess what the Obstacle is. Sins are the
Obstacles that hinder our Success, for pure Works should be done by pure
Persons. At this Word, the Projector fell down on his Knees, and beating
his Breast with a very mournful Tone, and dejected Countenance, says, O
_Balbinus_, what you have said is very true, it is Sin, it is Sin that
has been the Hinderance; but my Sins, not yours; for I am not asham'd to
confess my Uncleanness before you, as I would before my most holy Father
Confessor: The Frailty of my Flesh overcame me, and Satan drew me into
his Snares; and O miserable Wretch that I am! Of a Priest, I am become
an Adulterer; and yet, the Offering that you sent to the Virgin Mother,
is not wholly lost neither, for I had perish'd inevitably, if she had
not helped me; for the Husband broke open the Door upon me, and the
Window was too little for me to get out at; and in this Pinch of Danger,
I bethought myself of the blessed Virgin, and I fell upon my Knees, and
besought her, that if the Gift was acceptable to her, she would assist
me, and in a Minute I went to the Window, (for Necessity forced me so to
do) and found it large enough for me to get out at.

_Phi._ Well, and did _Balbinus_ believe all this?

_La._ Believe it, yes, and pardon'd him too, and admonish'd him very
religiously, not to be ungrateful to the blessed Virgin: Nay, there was
more Money laid down, upon his giving his Promise, that he would for the
future carry on the Process with Purity.

_Phi._ Well, what was the End of all this?

_La._ The Story is very long; but I'll cut it short. When he had play'd
upon _Balbinus_ long enough with these Inventions, and wheedled him out
of a considerable Sum of Money, a certain Gentleman happen'd to come
there, that had known the Knave from a Child: He easily imagining that
he was acting the same Part with _Balbinus_, that he had been acting
every where, admonishes _Balbinus_ privately, and acquainted him what
Sort of a Fellow he harbour'd, advising him to get rid of him as soon
as possible, unless he had a Mind to have him sometime or other, to
rifle his Coffers, and then run away.

_Phi._ Well, what did _Balbinus_ do then? Sure, he took Care to have him
sent to Gaol?

_La._ To Gaol? Nay, he gave him Money to bear his Charges, and conjur'd
him by all that was sacred, not to speak a Word of what had happened
between them. And in my Opinion, it was his Wisdom so to do, rather than
to be the common Laughing-stock, and Table-Talk, and run the Risk of the
Confiscation of his Goods besides; for the Imposter was in no Danger; he
knew no more of the Matter than an Ass, and cheating is a small Fault in
these Sort of Cattle. If he had charg'd him with Theft, his Ordination
would have say'd him from the Gallows, and no Body would have been at
the Charge of maintaining such a Fellow in Prison.

_Phi._ I should pity _Balbinus_; but that he took Pleasure in being

_La._ I must now make haste to the Hall; at another Time I'll tell you
Stories more ridiculous than this.

_Phi._ When you shall be at Leisure, I shall be glad to hear them, and
I'll give you Story for Story.



     _The_ Horse-Cheat _lays open the cheating Tricks of those
     that sell or let out Horses to hire; and shews how those
     Cheats themselves are sometimes cheated._


Good God! What a grave Countenance our _Phaedrus_ has put on, gaping
ever and anon into the Air. I'll attack him. _Phaedrus_, what News to

_Ph._ Why do you ask me that Question, _Aulus_?

_Aul._ Because, of a _Phaedrus_, you seem to have become a _Cato_, there
is so much Sourness in your Countenance.

_Ph._ That's no Wonder, my Friend, I am just come from Confession.

_Aul._ Nay, then my Wonder's over; but tell me upon your honest Word,
did you confess all?

_Ph._ All that I could remember, but one.

_Aul._ And why did you reserve that one?

_Ph._ Because I can't be out of Love with it.

_Aul._ It must needs be some pleasant Sin.

_Ph._ I can't tell whether it is a Sin or no; but if you are at Leisure,
you shall hear what it is.

_Aul._ I would be glad to hear it, with all my Heart.

_Ph._ You know what cheating Tricks are play'd by our _Jockeys_, who
sell and let out Horses.

_Aul._ Yes, I know more of them than I wish I did, having been cheated
by them more than once.

_Ph._ I had Occasion lately to go a pretty long Journey, and I was in
great Haste; I went to one that you would have said was none of the
worst of 'em, and there was some small Matter of Friendship between us.
I told him I had an urgent Business to do, and had Occasion for a strong
able Gelding; desiring, that if he would ever be my Friend in any Thing,
he would be so now. He promised me, that he would use me as kindly as if
I were his own dear Brother.

_Aul._ It may be he would have cheated his Brother.

_Ph._ He leads me into the Stable, and bids me chuse which I would out
of them all. At last I pitch'd upon one that I lik'd better than the
rest. He commends my Judgment, protesting that a great many Persons had
had a Mind to that Horse; but he resolved to keep him rather for a
singular Friend, than sell him to a Stranger. I agreed with him as to
the Price, paid him down his Money, got upon the Horse's Back. Upon the
first setting out, my Steed falls a prancing; you would have said he was
a Horse of Mettle; he was plump, and in good Case: But, by that Time I
had rid him an Hour and a half, I perceiv'd he was downright tir'd, nor
could I by spurring him, get him any further. I had heard that such
Jades had been kept for Cheats, that you would take by their Looks to be
very good Horses; but were worth nothing for Service. I says to myself
presently, I am caught. But when I come Home again, I will shew him
Trick for Trick.

_Aul._ But what did you do in this Case, being a Horseman without a

_Ph._ I did what I was oblig'd to do. I turn'd into the next Village,
and there I set my Horse up privately, with an Acquaintance, and hired
another, and prosecuted my Journey; and when I came back, I return'd my
hired Horse, and finding my own in very good Case, and thoroughly
rested, I mounted his Back, and rid back to the Horse-Courser, desiring
him to set him up for a few Days, till I called for him again. He ask'd
me how well he carry'd me; I swore by all that was good, that I never
bestrid a better Nag in my Life, that he flew rather than walk'd, nor
ever tir'd the least in the World in all so long a Journey, nor was a
Hair the leaner for it. I having made him believe that these Things were
true, he thought with himself, he had been mistaken in this Horse; and
therefore, before I went away, he ask'd me if I would sell the Horse. I
refus'd at first; because if I should have Occasion to go such another
Journey, I should not easily get the Fellow of him; but however, I
valued nothing so much, but I would sell it, if I could have a good
Price for it, altho' any Body had a Mind to buy myself.

_Aul._ This was fighting a Man with his own Weapons.

_Ph._ In short, he would not let me go away, before I had set a Price
upon him. I rated him at a great Deal more than he cost me. Being gone,
I got an Acquaintance to act for me, and gave him Instructions how to
behave himself: He goes to the House, and calls for the Horse-Courser,
telling him, that he had Occasion for a very good, and a very hardy Nag.
The Horse-Courser shews him a great many Horses, still commending the
worst most of all; but says not a Word of that Horse he had sold me,
verily believing he was such as I had represented him. My Friend
presently ask'd whether that was not to be sold; for I had given him a
Description of the Horse, and the Place where he stood. The
Horse-Courser at first made no Answer, but commended the rest very
highly. The Gentleman lik'd the other Horses pretty well; but always
treated about that very Horse: At last thinks the Horse-Courser with
himself, I have certainly been out in my Judgment as to this Horse, if
this Stranger could presently pick this Horse out of so many. He
insisting upon it, He may be sold, says he; but it may be, you'll be
frighted at the Price. The Price, says he, is a Case of no great
Importance, if the Goodness of the Thing be answerable: Tell me the
Price. He told him something more than I had set him at to him, getting
the Overplus to himself. At last the Price was agreed on, and a good
large Earnest was given, a Ducat of Gold to bind the Bargain. The
Purchaser gives the Hostler a Groat, orders him to give his Horse some
Corn, and he would come by and by, and fetch him. As soon as ever I
heard the Bargain was made so firmly, that it could not be undone again,
I go immediately, booted and spurr'd to the Horse-Courser, and being out
of Breath, calls for my Horse. He comes and asks what I wanted: Says I,
get my Horse ready presently, for I must be gone this Moment, upon an
extraordinary Affair: But, says he, you bid me keep the Horse a few
Days: That's true, said I, but this Business has happened unexpectedly,
and it is the King's Business, and it will admit of no Delay. Says he,
take your Choice, which you will of all my Horses; you cannot have your
own. I ask'd him, why so? Because, says he, he is sold. Then I pretended
to be in a great Passion; God forbid, says I; as this Journey has
happen'd, I would not sell him, if any Man would offer me four Times his
Price. I fell to wrangling, and cry out, I am ruin'd: At Length he grew
a little warm too: What Occasion is there for all this Contention: You
set a Price upon your Horse, and I have sold him; if I pay you your
Money, you have nothing more to do to me; we have Laws in this City, and
you can't compel me to produce the Horse. When I had clamoured a good
While, that he would either produce the Horse, or the Man that bought
him: He at last pays me down the Money in a Passion. I had bought him
for fifteen Guineas, I set him to him at twenty six, and he had valued
him at thirty two, and so computed with himself he had better make that
Profit of him, than restore the Horse. I go away, as if I was vex'd in
my Mind, and scarcely pacified, tho' the Money was paid me: He desires
me not to take it amiss, he would make me Amends some other Way: So I
bit the Biter: He has a Horse not worth a Groat; he expected that he
that had given him the Earnest, should come and pay him the Money; but
no Body came, nor ever will come.

_Aul._ But in the mean Time, did he never expostulate the Matter with

_Ph._ With what Face or Colour could he do that? I have met him over
and over since, and he complain'd of the Unfairness of the Buyer: But I
often reason'd the Matter with him, and told him, he deserv'd to be so
serv'd, who by his hasty Sale of him, had depriv'd me of my Horse. This
was a Fraud so well plac'd, in my Opinion, that I could not find in my
Heart to confess it as a Fault.

_Aul._ If I had done such a Thing, I should have been so far from
confessing it as a Fault, that I should have requir'd a Statue for it.

_Ph._ I can't tell whether you speak as you think or no; but you set me
agog however, to be paying more of these Fellows in their own Coin.



     _The Beggars Dialogue paints out the cheating, crafty
     Tricks of Beggars, who make a Shew of being full of
     Sores, and make a Profession of Palmistry, and other Arts
     by which they impose upon many Persons. Nothing is more
     like Kingship, than the Life of a Beggar._


_Ir._ What new Sort of Bird is this I see flying here? I know the Face,
but the Cloaths don't suit it. If I'm not quite mistaken, this is
_Misoponus_. I'll venture to speak to him, as ragged as I am. God save
you, _Misoponus_.

_Mis._ Hold your Tongue, I say.

_Ir._ What's the Matter, mayn't a Body salute you?

_Mis._ Not by that Name.

_Ir._ Why, what has happen'd to you? Are you not the same Man that you
was? What, have you changed your Name with your Cloaths?

_Mis._ No, but I have taken up my old Name again.

_Ir._ Who was you then?

_Mis._ _Apitius_.

_Ir._ Never be asham'd of your old Acquaintance, if any Thing of a
better Fortune has happen'd to you. It is not long since you belong'd to
our Order.

_Mis._ Prithee, come hither, and I'll tell you the whole Story. I am not
asham'd of your Order; but I am asham'd of the Order that I was first of

_Ir._ What Order do you mean? That of the _Franciscans_?

_Mis._ No, by no Means, my good Friend; but the Order of the

_Ir._ In Truth, you have a great many Companions of that Order.

_Mis._ I had a good Fortune, I spent lavishly, and when I began to be in
Want, no Body knew _Apitius_. I ran away for Shame, and betook myself to
your College: I lik'd that better than digging.

_Ir._ Very wisely done; but how comes your Body to be in so good Case of
late? For as to your Change of Cloaths, I don't so much wonder at that.

_Mis._ Why so?

_Ir._ Because the Goddess _Laverna_ makes many rich on a sudden.

_Mis._ What! do you think I got an Estate by Thieving then?

_Ir._ Nay, perhaps more idly, by Rapine.

_Mis._ No, I swear by your Goddess _Penia_, neither by Thieving, nor by
Rapine. But first I'll satisfy you as to the State of my Body, which
seems to you to be the most admirable.

_Ir._ For when you were with us, you were all over full of Sores.

_Mis._ But I have since made Use of a very friendly Physician.

_Ir._ Who?

_Mis._ No other Person but myself, unless you think any Body is more
friendly to me, than I am to myself.

_Ir._ But I never knew you understood Physick before.

_Mis._ Why all that Dress was nothing but a Cheat I had daub'd on with
Paints, Frankincense, Brimstone, Rosin, Birdlime, and Clouts dipp'd in
Blood; and what I put on, when I pleas'd I took off again.

_Ir._ O Impostor! Nothing appear'd more miserable than you were. You
might have acted the Part of Job in a Tragedy.

_Mis._ My Necessity made me do it, though Fortune sometimes is apt to
change the Skin too.

_Ir._ Well then, tell me of your Fortune. Have you found a Treasure?

_Mis._ No; but I have found out a Way of getting Money that's a little
better than yours.

_Ir._ What could you get Money out of, that had no Stock?

_Mis._ _An Artist will live any where._

_Ir._ I understand you now, you mean the Art of picking Pockets.

_Mis._ Not so hard upon me, I pray; I mean the Art of Chymistry.

_Ir._ Why 'tis scarce above a Fortnight, since you went away from us,
and have you in that Time learn'd an Art, that others can hardly learn
in many Years?

_Mis._ But I have got a shorter Way.

_Ir._ Prithee, what Way?

_Mis._ When I had gotten almost four Guineas by your Art, I happened, as
good Luck would have it, to fall into the Company of an old Companion of
mine, who had manag'd his Matters in the World no better than I had
done. We went to drink together; he began, as the common Custom is, to
tell of his Adventures. I made a Bargain with him to pay his Reckoning,
upon Condition that he should faithfully teach me his Art. He taught it
me very honestly, and now 'tis my Livelihood.

_Ir._ Mayn't a Body learn it?

_Mis._ I'll teach it you for nothing, for old Acquaintance Sake. You
know, that there are every where a great many that are very fond of this

_Ir._ I have heard so, and I believe it is true.

_Mis._ I take all Opportunities of insinuating myself into their
Acquaintance, and talk big of my Art, and where-ever I find an hungry
Sea-Cob, I throw him out a Bait.

_Ir._ How do you do that?

_Mis._ I caution him by all Means, not rashly to trust Men of that
Profession, for that they are most of them Cheats, that by their _hocus
pocus_ Tricks, pick the Pockets of those that are not cautious.

_Ir._ That Prologue is not fit for your Business.

_Mis._ Nay, I add this further, that I would not have them believe me
myself, unless they saw the Matter plainly with their own Eyes, and felt
it with their Hands.

_Ir._ You speak of a wonderful Confidence you have in your Art.

_Mis._ I bid them be present all the While the Metamorphosis is under
the Operation, and to look on very attentively, and that they may have
the less Reason to doubt, to perform the whole Operation with their own
Hands, while I stand at a Distance, and don't so much as put my Finger
to it. I put them to refine the melted Matter themselves, or carry it to
the Refiners to be done; I tell them beforehand, how much Silver or Gold
it will afford: And in the last Place, I bid them carry the melted Mass
to several Goldsmiths, to have it try'd by the Touchstone. They find the
exact Weight that I told them; they find it to be the finest Gold or
Silver, it is all one to me which it is, except that the Experiment in
Silver is the less chargeable to me.

_Ir._ But has your Art no Cheat in it?

_Mis._ It is a mere Cheat all over.

_Ir._ I can't see where the Cheat lies.

_Mis._ I'll make you see it presently. I first make a Bargain for my
Reward, but I won't be paid before I have given a Proof of the Thing
itself: I give them a little Powder, as though the whole Business was
effected by the Virtue of that; but I never tell them how to make it,
except they purchase it at a very great Price. And I make them take an
Oath, that for six Months they shall not discover the Secret to any Body

_Ir._ But I han't heard the Cheat yet.

_Mis._ The whole Mystery lies in one Coal, that I have prepared for this
Purpose. I make a Coal hollow, and into it I pour melted Silver, to the
Quantity I tell them before-Hand will be produc'd. And after the Powder
is put in, I set the Pot in such a Manner, that it is cover'd all over,
above, beneath, and Sides, with Coals, and I persuade them, that the Art
consists in that; among those Coals that are laid at Top, I put in one
that has the Silver or Gold in it, that being melted by the Heat of the
Fire, falls down among the other Metal, which melts, as suppose Tin or
Brass, and upon the Separation, it is found and taken out.

_Ir._ A ready Way; but, how do you manage the Fallacy, when another does
it all with his own Hands?

_Mis._ When he has done every Thing, according to my Direction, before
the Crucible is stirr'd, I come and look about, to see if nothing has
been omitted, and then I say, that there seems to want a Coal or two at
the Top, and pretending to take one out of the Coal-Heap, I privately
lay on one of my own, or have laid it there ready before-Hand, which I
can take, and no Body know any Thing of the Matter.

_Ir._ But when they try to do this without you, and it does not succeed,
what Excuse have you to make?

_Mis._ I'm safe enough when I have got my Money. I pretend one Thing or
other, either that the Crucible was crack'd, or the Coals naught, or the
Fire not well tempered. And in the last Place, one Part of the Mystery
of my Profession is, never to stay long in the same Place.

_Ir._ And is there so much Profit in this Art as to maintain you?

_Mis._ Yes, and nobly too: And I would have you, for the future, if you
are wise, leave off that wretched Trade of Begging, and follow ours.

_Ir._ Nay, I should rather chuse to bring you back to our Trade.

_Mis._ What, that I should voluntarily return again to that I have
escap'd from, and forsake that which I have found profitable?

_Ir._ This Profession of ours has this Property in it, that it grows
pleasant by Custom. And thence it is, that tho' many have fallen off
from the Order of St. _Francis_ or St. _Benedict_, did you ever know
any that had been long in our Order, quit it? For you could scarce taste
the Sweetness of Beggary in so few Months as you follow'd it.

_Mis._ That little Taste I had of it taught me, that it was the most
wretched Life in Nature.

_Ir._ Why does no Body quit it then?

_Mis._ Perhaps, because they are naturally wretched.

_Ir._ I would not change this Wretchedness, for the Fortune of a King.
For there is nothing more like a King, than the Life of a Beggar.

_Mis._ What strange Story do I hear? Is nothing more like Snow than a

_Ir._ Wherein consists the greatest Happiness of Kings?

_Mis._ Because in that they can do what they please.

_Ir._ As for that Liberty, than which nothing is sweeter, we have more
of it than any King upon Earth; and I don't doubt, but there are many
Kings that envy us Beggars. Let there be War or Peace we live secure, we
are not press'd for Soldiers, nor put upon Parish-Offices, nor taxed.
When the People are loaded with Taxes, there's no Scrutiny into our Way
of Living. If we commit any Thing that is illegal, who will sue a
Beggar? If we beat a Man, he will be asham'd to fight with a Beggar?
Kings can't live at Ease neither in War or in Peace, and the greater
they are, the greater are their Fears. The common People are afraid to
offend us, out of a certain Sort of Reverence, as being consecrated to

_Mis._ But then, how nasty are ye in your Rags and Kennels?

_Ir._ What do they signify to real Happiness. Those Things you speak of
are out of a Man. We owe our Happiness to these Rags.

_Mis._ But I am afraid a good Part of your Happiness will fail you in a
short Time.

_Ir._ How so?

_Mis._ Because I have heard a Talk in the Cities, that there will be a
Law, that Mendicants shan't be allow'd to stroll about at their
Pleasure, but every City shall maintain its own Poor; and that they that
are able shall be made to work.

_Ir._ What Reason have they for this?

_Mis._ Because they find great Rogueries committed under Pretence of
Begging, and that there are great Inconveniencies arise to the Publick
from your Order.

_Ir._ Ay, I have heard these Stones Time after Time, and they'll bring
it about when the Devil's blind.

_Mis._ Perhaps sooner than you'd have it.



     _The fabulous Feast contains various Stories and pleasant
     Tales._ Maccus _puts a Trick upon a Shoe-maker. A
     Fruiterer is put upon about her Figs. A very clever Cheat
     of a Priest, in relation to Money._ Lewis _the Eleventh,
     King of_ France, _eats some of a Country-Man's Turnips,
     and gives him 1000 Crowns for an extraordinary large one
     that he made a Present of to him. A certain Man takes a
     Louse off of the King's Garment, and the King gives him
     40 Crowns for it. The Courtiers are trick'd. One asks for
     an Office, or some publick Employment. To deny a Kindness
     presently, is to bestow a Benefit._ Maximilian _was very
     merciful to his Debtors. An old Priest Cheats an Usurer._
     Anthony _salutes one upon letting a Fart, saying the
     Backside was the cleanest Part of the Body._


_Pol._ As it is unfitting for a well order'd City to be without Laws and
without a Governor; so neither ought a Feast to be without Orders and a

_Ge._ If I may speak for the rest, I like it very well.

_Po._ Soho, Sirrah! bring hither the Dice, the Matter shall be
determin'd by their Votes; he shall be our President that _Jupiter_
shall favour. O brave! _Eutrapelus_ has it, the fittest Man that could
be chosen, if we had every individual Man of us thrown. There is an
usual Proverb, that has more Truth in't than good Latin, _Novus Rex nova
Lex, New Lords new Laws_. Therefore, King, make thou Laws.

_Eut._ That this may be a merry and happy Banquet, in the first Place I
command, that no Man tell a Story but what is a ridiculous one. He that
shall have no Story to tell, shall pay a Groat, to be spent in Wine; and
Stories invented extempore shall be allow'd as legitimate, provided
Regard be had to Probability and Decency. If no Body shall want a Story,
let those two that tell, the one the pleasantest, and the other the
dullest, pay for Wine. Let the Master of the Feast be at no Charge for
Wine, but only for the Provisions of the Feast. If any Difference about
this Matter shall happen, let _Gelasinus_ be Judge. If you agree to
these Conditions, let 'em be ratified. He that won't observe the Orders,
let him be gone, but with Liberty to come again to a Collation the next

_Ge._ We give our Votes for the Passing the Bill our King has brought
in. But who must tell the first Story?

_Eut._ Who should, but the Master of the Feast?

_As._ But, Mr. King, may I have the liberty to speak three Words?

_Eut._ What, do you take the Feast to be an unlucky one?

_As._ The Lawyers deny that to be Law that is not just.

_Eut._ I grant it.

_As._ Your Law makes the best and worst Stories equal.

_Eut._ Where Diversion is the Thing aim'd at, there he deserves as much
Commendation who tells the worst, as he that tells the best Story,
because it affords as much Merriment; as amongst Songsters none are
admir'd but they that sing very well, or they that sing very ill. Do not
more laugh to hear the Cuckoo than to hear the Nightingal? In this Case
Mediocrity is not Praise-worthy.

_As._ But pray, why must they be punish'd, that carry off the Prize?

_Eut._ Lest their too great Felicity should expose them to Envy, if they
should carry away the Prize, and go Shot-free too.

_As._ By _Bacchus, Minos_ himself never made a juster Law.

_Phily._ Do you make no Order as to the Method of Drinking?

_Eut._ Having consider'd the Matter, I will follow the Example of
_Agesilaus_ King of the _Lacedæmonians_.

_Phily._ What did he do?

_Eut._ Upon a certain Time, he being by Lot chosen Master of the Feast,
when the Marshal of the Hall ask'd him, how much Wine he should set
before every Man; If, says he, you have a great Deal of Wine, let every
Man have as much as he calls for, but if you're scarce of Wine, give
every Man equally alike.

_Phily._ What did the _Lacedæmonian_ mean by that?

_Eut._ He did this, that it might neither be a drunken Feast, nor a
querulous one.

_Phily._ Why so?

_Eut._ Because some like to drink plentifully, and some sparingly, and
some drink no Wine at all; such an one _Romulus_ is said to have been.
For if no Body has any Wine but what he asks for, in the first Place no
Body is compell'd to drink, and there is no Want to them that love to
drink more plentifully. And so it comes to pass that no Body is
melancholy at the Table. And again, if of a less quantity of Wine every
one has an equal Portion, they that drink moderately have enough; nor
can any Body complain in an Equality, and they that would have drank
more largely, are contentedly temperate.

_Eut._ If you like it, this is the Example I would imitate, for I would
have this Feast to be a fabulous, but not a drunken one.

_Phily._ But what did _Romulus_ drink then?

_Eut._ The same that Dogs drink.

_Phily._ Was not that unbeseeming a King?

_Eut._ No more than it is unseemly for a King to draw the same Air that
Dogs do, unless there is this Difference, that a King does not drink the
very same Water that a Dog drank, but a Dog draws in the very same Air
that the King breath'd out; and on the contrary, the King draws in the
very same Air that the Dog breath'd out. It would have been much more to
_Alexander_'s, Glory, if he had drank with the Dogs. For there is
nothing worse for a King, who has the Care of so many thousand Persons,
than Drunkenness. But the Apothegm that _Romulus_ very wittily made Use
of, shews plainly that he was no Wine-Drinker. For when a certain
Person, taking Notice of his abstaining from Wine, said to him, that
Wine would be very cheap, if all Men drank as he did; nay, says he, in
my Opinion it would be very dear, if all Men drank it as I drink; for I
drink as much as I please.

_Ge._ I wish our _John Botzemus_, the Canon of _Constance_, was here;
he'd look like another _Romulus_ to us: For he is as abstemious, as he
is reported to have been; but nevertheless, he is a good-humoured,
facetious Companion.

_Po._ But come on, if you can, I won't say _drink and blow_, which
_Plautus_ says is a hard Matter to do, but if you can eat and hear at
one and the same Time, which is a very easy Matter, I'll begin the
Exercise of telling Stories, and auspiciously. If the Story be not a
pleasant one, remember 'tis a _Dutch_ one. I suppose some of you have
heard of the Name of _Maccus_?

_Ge._ Yes, he has not been dead long.

_Po._ He coming once to the City of _Leiden_, and being a Stranger
there, had a Mind to make himself taken Notice of for an arch Trick (for
that was his Humour); he goes into a Shoemaker's Shop, and salutes him.
The Shoemaker, desirous to sell his Ware, asks him what he would buy:
_Maccus_ setting his Eyes upon a Pair of Boots that hung up there, the
Shoemaker ask'd him if he'd buy any Boots; _Maccus_ assenting to it, he
looks out a Pair that would fit him, and when he had found 'em brings
'em out very readily, and, as the usual Way is, draws 'em on. _Maccus_
being very well fitted with a Pair of Boots, How well, says he, would a
Pair of double soal'd Shoes agree with these Boots? The Shoemaker asks
him, if he would have a Pair of Shoes too. He assents, a Pair is look'd
out presently and put on. _Maccus_ commends the Boots, commends the
Shoes. The Shoemaker glad in his Mind to hear him talk so, seconds him
as he commended 'em, hoping to get a better Price, since the Customer
lik'd his Goods so well. And by this Time they were grown a little
familiar; then says _Maccus_, Tell me upon your Word, whether it never
was your Hap, when you had fitted a Man with Boots and Shoes, as you
have me, to have him go away without paying for 'em? No, never in all my
Life, says he. But, says _Maccus_, if such a Thing should happen to you,
what would you do in the Case? Why, quoth the Shoemaker, I'd run after
him. Then says _Maccus_, but are you in Jest or in Earnest? In Earnest,
says the other, and I'd do it in Earnest too. Says _Maccus_, I'll try
whether you will or no. See I run for the Shoes, and you're to follow
me, and out he runs in a Minute; the Shoemaker follows him immediately
as fast as ever he could run, crying out, Stop Thief, stop Thief; this
Noise brings the People out of their Houses: _Maccus_ laughing, hinders
them from laying Hold of him by this Device, Don't stop me, says he, we
are running a Race for a Wager of a Pot of Ale; and so they all stood
still and look'd on, thinking the Shoemaker had craftily made that
Out-cry that he might have the Opportunity to get before him. At last
the Shoemaker, being tir'd with running, gives out, and goes sweating,
puffing and blowing Home again: So _Maccus_ got the Prize.

_Ge._ _Maccus_ indeed escap'd the Shoemaker, but did not escape the

_Po._ Why so?

_Ge._ Because he carried the Thief along with him.

_Po._ Perhaps he might not have Money at that Time, but paid for 'em

_Ge._ He might have indicted him for a Robbery.

_Po._ That was attempted afterwards, but now the Magistrates knew

_Ge._ What did _Maccus_ say for himself?

_Po._ Do you ask what he said for himself, in so good a Cause as this?
The Plaintiff was in more Danger than the Defendant.

_Ge._ How so?

_Po._ Because he arrested him in an Action of Defamation, and prosecuted
him upon the Statute of _Rheims_ which says, that he that charges a Man
with what he can't prove, shall suffer the Penalty, which the Defendant
was to suffer if he had been convicted. He deny'd that he had meddled
with another Man's Goods without his Leave, but that he put 'em upon
him, and that there was no Mention made of any Thing of a Price; but
that he challeng'd the Shoemaker to run for a Wager, and that he
accepted the Challenge, and that he had no Reason to complain because he
had out-run him.

_Ge._ This Action was pretty much like that of the Shadow of the Ass.
Well, but what then?

_Po._ When they had had laughing enough at the Matter, one of the Judges
invites _Maccus_ to Supper, and paid the Shoemaker his Money. Just such
another Thing happen'd at _Daventerv_, when I was a Boy. It was at a
Time when 'tis the Fishmonger's Fair, and the Butchers Time to be
starv'd. A certain Man stood at a Fruiterer's Stall, or Oporopolist's,
if you'd have it in _Greek_. The Woman was a very fat Woman, and he
star'd very hard upon the Ware she had to sell. She, according as the
Custom is, invites him to have what he had a Mind to; and perceiving he
set his Eyes upon some Figs, Would you please to have Figs, says she?
they are very fine ones. He gives her a Nod. She asks him how many
Pound, Would you have five Pound says she? He nods again; she turns him
five Pound into his Apron. While she is laying by her Scales, he walks
off, not in any great haste, but very gravely. When she comes out to
take her Money, her Chap was gone; she follows him, making more Noise
than Haste after him. He, taking no Notice, goes on; at last a great
many getting together at the Woman's Out-cry, he stands still, pleads
his Cause in the midst of the Multitude: there was very good Sport, he
denies that he bought any Figs of her, but that she gave 'em him freely;
if she had a Mind to have a Trial for it, he would put in an Appearance.

_Ge._ Well, I'll tell you a Story not much unlike yours, nor perhaps not
much inferior to it, saving it has not so celebrated an Author as
_Maccus_. _Pythagoras_ divided the Market into three Sorts of Persons,
those that went thither to sell, those that went thither to buy; both
these Sorts were a careful Sort of People, and therefore unhappy: others
came to see what was there to be sold, and what was done; these only
were the happy People, because being free from Care, they took their
Pleasure freely. And this he said was the Manner that a Philosopher
convers'd in this World, as they do in a Market. But there is a fourth
Kind of Persons that walk about in our Markets, who neither buy nor
sell, nor are idle Spectators of what others do, but lie upon the Catch
to steal what they can. And of this last Sort there are some that are
wonderful dextrous. You would swear they were born under a lucky Planet.
Our Entertainer gave us a Tale with an Epilogue, I'll give you one with
a Prologue to it. Now you shall hear what happen'd lately at _Antwerp_.
An old Priest had receiv'd there a pretty handsome Sum of Money, but it
was in Silver. A Sharper has his Eye upon him; he goes to the Priest,
who had put his Money in a large Bag in his Cassock, where it boug'd
out; he salutes him very civilly, and tells him that he had Orders to
buy a Surplice, which is the chief Vestment us'd in performing Divine
Service, for the Priest of his Parish; he intreats him to lend him a
little Assistance in this Matter, and to go with him to those that sell
such Attire, that he might fit one according to his Size, because he was
much about the same Stature with the Parson of his Parish. This being
but a small Kindness, the old Priest promises to do it very readily.
They go to a certain Shop, a Surplice is shew'd 'em, the old Priest
puts it on, the Seller says, it fits him as exactly as if made for him;
the Sharper viewing the old Priest before and behind, likes the Surplice
very well, but only found Fault that it was too short before. The
Seller, lest he should lose his Customer, says, that was not the Fault
of the Surplice, but that the Bag of Money that stuck out, made it look
shorter there. To be short, the old Priest lays his Bag down; then they
view it over again, and while the old Priest stands with his Back
towards it, the Sharper catches it up, and runs away as fast as he
could: The Priest runs after him in the Surplice as he was, and the
Shop-Keeper after the Priest; the old Priest cries out, Stop Thief; the
Salesman cries out, Stop the Priest; the Sharper cries out, Stop the mad
Priest; and they took him to be mad, when they saw him run in the open
Street in such a Dress: so one hindring the other, the Sharper gets
clear off.

_Eut._ Hanging is too good for such a Rogue.

_Ge._ It is so, if he be not hang'd already.

_Eut._ I would not have him hang'd only, but all those that encourage
such monstrous Rogues to the Damage of the State.

_Ge._ They don't encourage 'em for nothing; there's a fellow Feeling
between 'em from the lowest to the highest.

_Eut._ Well, but let us return to our Stories again.

_Ast._ It comes to your Turn now, if it be meet to oblige a King to keep
his Turn.

_Eut._ I won't need to be forc'd to keep my Turn, I'll keep it
voluntarily; I should be a Tyrant and not a King, if I refus'd to comply
with those Laws I prescribe to others.

_Ast._ But some Folks say, that a Prince is above the Law.

_Eut._ That saying is not altogether false, if by Prince you mean that
great Prince who was call'd _Cæsar_; and then, if by being above the
Law, you mean, that whereas others do in some Measure keep the Laws by
Constraint, he of his own Inclination more exactly observes them. For a
good Prince is that to the Body Politick, which the Mind is to the Body
Natural. What Need was there to have said a good Prince, when a bad
Prince is no Prince? As an unclean Spirit that possesses the human Body,
is not the Soul of that Body. But to return to my Story; and I think
that as I am King, it becomes me to tell a kingly Story. _Lewis_ King of
_France_ the Eleventh of that Name, when his Affairs were disturb'd at
Home, took a Journey to _Burgundy_; and there upon the Occasion of a
Hunting, contracted a Familiarity with one _Conon_, a Country Farmer,
but a plain downright honest Man; and Kings delight in the Conversation
of such Men. The King, when he went a hunting, us'd often to go to his
House; and as great Princes do sometimes delight themselves with mean
Matters, he us'd to be mightily pleas'd in eating of his Turnips. Not
long after, _Lewis_ having settled his Affairs, obtain'd the Government
of the _French_ Nation; _Conon_'s Wife puts him upon remembring the King
of his old Entertainment at their House, bids him go to him, and make
him a Present of some rare Turnips. _Conon_ at first would not hear of
it, saying he should lose his Labour, for that Princes took no Notice of
such small Matters; but his Wife over-persuaded him. _Conon_ picks out a
Parcel of choice Turnips, and gets ready for his Journey; but growing
hungry by the Way, eats 'em all up but one very large one. When _Conon_
had got Admission into the Hall that the King was to pass thro', the
King knew him presently, and sent for him; and he with a great Deal of
Chearfulness offers his Present, and the King with as much Readiness of
Mind receives it, commanding one that stood near him to lay it up very
carefully among his greatest Rarities. He commands _Conon_ to dine with
him, and after Dinner thanks him; and _Conon_ being desirous to go back
into his own Country, the King orders him 1000 Crowns for his Turnip.
When the Report of this Thing, as it is common, was spread abroad thro'
the King's Houshold-Servants, one of the Courtiers presents the King
with a very fine Horse; the King knowing that it was his Liberality to
_Conon_ that had put him upon this, he hoping to make a great Advantage
by it, he accepted it with a great Deal of Pleasure, and calling a
Council of his Nobles, began to debate, with what Present he should make
a Recompence for so fine and valuable a Horse. In the mean Time the
Giver of the Horse began to be flushed with Expectation, thinking thus
with himself; If he made such a Recompence for a poor Turnip offer'd him
by a Country Farmer, how much more magnificently will he requite the
Present of so fine a Horse by a Courtier? When one answer'd one Thing,
and another another to the King that was consulting about it, as a
Matter of great Moment, and the designing Courtier had been for a long
Time kept in Fools Paradise; At Length, says the King, it's just now
come into my Mind what Return to make him, and calling one of his
Noblemen to him, whispers him in the Ear, bids him go fetch him what he
found in his Bedchamber (telling him the Place where it lay) choicely
wrap'd up in Silk; the Turnip is brought, and the King with his own Hand
gives it the Courtier, wrap'd up as it was, saying that he thought he
had richly requited the Present of the Horse by so choice a Rarity, as
had cost him 1000 Crowns. The Courtier going away, and taking off the
Covering, did not find a _Coal instead of a Treasure_, according to the
old Proverb, but a dry Turnip: and so the Biter was bitten, and soundly
laugh'd at by every Body into the Bargain.

_As._ But, Mr. King, if you'll please to permit me, who am but a
Peasant, to speak of regal Matters, I'll tell you something that comes
into my Mind, by hearing your Story, concerning the same _Lewis_. For as
one Link of a Chain draws on another, so one Story draws on another. A
certain Servant seeing a Louse crawling upon the King's Coat, falling
upon his Knees and lifting up his Hand, gives Notice, that he had a Mind
to do some Sort of Service; _Lewis_ offering himself to him, he takes
off the Louse, and threw it away privately; the King asks him what it
was; he seem'd ashamed to tell him, but the King urging him, he
confess'd it was a Louse: That's a very good Sign, says he, for it shews
me to be a Man, because this Sort of Vermin particularly haunts Mankind,
especially while they are young; and order'd him a Present of 40 Crowns
for his good Service. Some Time after, another Person (who had seen how
well he came off that had perform'd so small a Service) not considering
that there is a great Difference between doing a Thing sincerely, and
doing it craftily, approached the King with the like Gesture; and he
offering himself to him, he made a Shew of taking something off his
Garment, which he presently threw away. But when the King was urgent
upon him, seeming unwilling to tell what it was, mimicking Abundance of
Modesty, he at last told him it was a Flea; the King perceiving the
Fraud, says to him, What do you make a Dog of me? and orders him to be
taken away, and instead of 40 Crowns orders him 40 Stripes.

_Phily._ I hear it's no good jesting with Kings; for as Lions will
sometimes stand still to be stroaked, are Lions again when they please,
and kill their Play-Fellow; just so Princes play with Men. But I'll tell
you a Story not much unlike yours: not to go off from _Lewis_, who us'd
to take a Pleasure in tricking Tricksters. He had receiv'd a Present of
ten thousand Crowns from some Place, and as often as the Courtiers know
the King has gotten any fresh Money, all the Officers are presently upon
the Hunt to catch some Part of it; this _Lewis_ knew very well, this
Money being pour'd out upon a Table, he, to raise all their
Expectations, thus bespeaks them; What say you, am not I a very rich
King? Where shall I bestow all this Money? It was presented to me, and I
think it is meet I should make Presents of it again. Where are all my
Friends, to whom I am indebted for their good Services? Now let 'em come
before this Money's gone. At that Word a great many came running; every
Body hop'd to get some of it. The King taking Notice of one that look'd
very wishfully upon it, and as if he would devour it with his Eyes,
turning to him, says, Well, Friend, what have you to say? He inform'd
the King, that he had for a long Time very faithfully kept the King's
Hawks, and been at a great Expence thereby. One told him one Thing,
another another, every one setting out his Service to the best
Advantage, and ever and anon lying into the Bargain. The King heard 'em
all very patiently, and approv'd of what they said. This Consultation
held a long Time, that he might teaze them the more, by keeping them
betwixt Hope and Despair. Among the rest stood the Great Chancellor, for
the King had order'd him to be sent for too; he, being wiser than the
rest, says never a Word of his own good Services, but was only a
Spectator of the Comedy. At Length the King turning toward him, says,
Well, what says my Chancellor to the Matter? He is the only Man that
asks nothing, and says never a Word of his good Services. I, says the
Chancellor, have receiv'd more already from your royal Bounty, than I
have deserved. I am so far from craving more, that I am not desirous of
any Thing so much, as to behave myself worthy of the royal Bounty I have
receiv'd. Then, says the King, you are the only Man of 'em all that does
not want Money. Says the Chancellor, I must thank your Bounty that I
don't. Then he turns to the others, and says, I am the most magnificent
Prince in the World, that have such a wealthy Chancellor. This more
inflam'd all their Expectations, that the Money would be distributed
among them, since he desired none of it. When the King had play'd upon
'em after this Manner a pretty While, he made the Chancellor take it all
up, and carry it Home; then turning to the rest, who now look'd a little
dull upon it, says he, You must stay till the next Opportunity.

_Philog._ Perhaps that I'm going to tell you, will not seem so
entertaining. However, I entreat you that you would not be suspicious,
that I use any Deceit or Collusion, or think that I have a Design to
desire to be excus'd. One came to the same _Lewis_, with a Petition that
he would bestow upon him an Office that happen'd to be vacant in the
Town where he liv'd. The King hearing the Petition read, answers
immediately, you shall not have it; by that Means putting him out of any
future Expectation; the Petitioner immediately returns the King Thanks,
and goes his Way. The King observing the Man's Countenance, perceiv'd he
was no Blockhead, and thinking perhaps he might have misunderstood what
he said, bids him be call'd back again. He came back; then says the
King; Did you understand what I said to you? I did understand you, quoth
he: Why, what did I say? That I should not have it, said he. What did
you thank me for then? Why, says he, I have some Business to do at Home,
and therefore it would have been a Trouble to me to have here danc'd
Attendance after a doubtful Hope; now, I look upon it a Benefit that you
have denied me the Office quickly, and so I count myself to have gain'd
whatsoever I should have lost by Attendance upon it, and gone without it
at last. By this Answer, the King seeing the Man to be no Blockhead,
having ask'd him a few Questions, says he, You shall have what you ask'd
for, that you may thank me twice, and turning to his Officers; Let, says
he, Letters patent be made out for this Man without Delay, that he may
not be detain'd here to his Detriment.

_Eugl._ I could tell you a Story of _Lewis_, but I had rather tell one
of our _Maximilian_, who as he was far from hiding his Money in the
Ground, so he was very generous to those that had spent their Estates,
if they were nobly descended. He being minded to assist a young
Gentleman, that had fallen under these Circumstances, sent him on an
Embassy to demand an hundred thousand Florins of a certain City, but I
know not upon what Account. But this was the Condition of it, that if he
by his Dexterity could make any more of it, it should be his own. The
Embassador extorted fifty thousand from 'em, and gave _Caesar_ thirty of
'em. _Caesar_ being glad to receive more than he expected, dismisses the
Man without asking any Questions. In the mean Time the Treasurer and
Receivers smelt the Matter, that he had receiv'd more than he had paid
in; they importune _Caesar_ to send for him; he being sent for, comes
immediately: Says _Maximilian_, I hear you have receiv'd fifty thousand.
He confess'd it. But you have paid in but thirty thousand. He confess'd
that too. Says he, You must give an Account of it. He promis'd he would
do it, and went away. But again he doing nothing in it, the Officers
pressing the Matter, he was call'd again; then says _Caesar_ to him, A
little While ago, you were order'd to make up the Account. Says he, I
remember it, and am ready to do it. _Caesar_, imagining that he had not
settled it, let him go again; but he thus eluding the Matter, the
Officers insisted more pressingly upon it, crying out, it was a great
Affront to play upon _Caesar_ at this Rate. They persuaded the King to
send for him, and make him balance the Account before them. _Caesar_
agrees to it, he is sent for, comes immediately, and does not refuse to
do any Thing. Then says _Caesar_, Did not you promise to balance the
Account? Yes, said he. Well, says he, you must do it here; here are some
to take your Account; it must be put off no longer. The Officers sat by,
with Books ready for the Purpose. The young Man being come to this
Pinch, replies very smartly; Most invincible _Caesar_, I don't refuse to
give an Account, but am not very well skilled in these Sort of Accounts,
never having given any; but these that sit here are very ready at such
Accounts. If I do but once see how they make up such Accounts, I can
very easily imitate them. I entreat you to command them but to shew me
an Example, and they shall see I am very docible. _Caesar_ perceived
what he meant, but they, upon whom it was spoken did not, and smiling,
answered him, you say true, and what you demand is nothing but what is
reasonable: And so dismissed the young Man. For he intimated that they
used to bring in such Accounts to _Caesar_ as he had, that is, to keep a
good Part of the Money to themselves.

_Le._ Now 'tis Time that our Story-telling should pass, as they say,
from better to worse, from Kings to _Anthony_, a Priest of _Louvain_,
who was much in Favour with _Philip_ surnamed _the Good_: there are a
great many Things told of this Man, both merrily said, and wittily done,
but most of them are something slovenly. For he used to season many of
his Jokes with a Sort of Perfume that has not a handsome Sound, but a
worse Scent. I'll pick out one of the cleanest of 'em. He had given an
Invitation to one or two merry Fellows that he had met with by Chance as
he went along; and when he comes Home, he finds a cold Kitchen; nor had
he any Money in his Pocket, which was no new Thing with him; here was
but little Time for Consultation. Away he goes, and says nothing, but
going into the Kitchen of a certain Usurer (that was an intimate
Acquaintance, by Reason of frequent Dealings with him) when the Maid was
gone out of the Way, he makes off with one of the Brass Pots, with the
Meat ready boiled, under his Coat, carries it Home, gives it his
Cook-Maid, and bids her pour out the Meat and Broth into another Earthen
Pot, and rub the Usurer's Brass one till it was bright. Having done
this, he sends his Boy to the Pawn-Broker to borrow two Groats upon it,
but charges him to take a Note, that should be a Testimonial, that such
a Pot had been sent him. The Pawn-Broker not knowing the Pot being
scour'd so bright, takes the Pawn, gives him a Note, and lays him down
the Money, and with that Money the Boy buys Wine, and so he provided an
Entertainment for him. By and by, when the Pawn-Broker's Dinner was
going to be taken up, the Pot was missing. He scolds at the Cook-Maid;
she being put hardly to it, affirmed no Body had been in the Kitchen all
that Day but _Anthony_. It seem'd an ill Thing to suspect a Priest. But
however at last they went to him, search'd the House for the Pot, but no
Pot was found. But in short, they charg'd him Home with the Pot, because
he was the only Person who had been in the Kitchen till the Pot was
missing. He confess'd that he had borrow'd a Pot, but that he had sent
it Home again to him from whom he had it. But they denying it stiffly,
and high Words arising, _Anthony_ calling some Witnesses, Look you,
quoth he, how dangerous a Thing it is to have to do with Men now-a-Days,
without a Note under their Hands: I should have been in Danger of being
indicted for Felony, if I had not had the Pawn-Broker's own Hand to
shew. And with that he produces the Note of his Hand. They perceiv'd the
Trick, and it made good Sport all the Country over, that the
Pawn-Broker had lent Money upon his own Porridge-Pot. Men are commonly
very well pleas'd with such Tricks, when they are put upon such as they
have no good Opinion of, especially such as use to impose upon other

_Adol._ In Truth, by mentioning the Name of _Anthony_, you have laid
open an Ocean of merry Stories; but I'll tell but one, and a short one
too, that was told me very lately. A certain Company of jolly Fellows,
who are for a short Life, and a merry one, as they call it, were making
merry together; among the rest there was one _Anthony_, and another
Person, a noted Fellow for an arch Trick, a second _Anthony_. And as
'tis the Custom of Philosophers, when they meet together to propound
some Questions or other about the Things of Nature, so in this Company a
Question was propos'd; Which was the most honourable Part of a Man? One
said the Eyes, another said the Heart, another said the Brain, and
others said other Parts; and every one alleg'd some Reason for his
Assertion. _Anthony_ was bid to speak his Mind, and he gave his Opinion
that the Mouth was the most honourable, and gave some Reason for't, I
can't tell what. Upon that the other Person, that he might thwart
_Anthony_, made Answer that that was the most honourable Part that we
sit upon; and when every one cry'd out, that was absurd, he back'd it
with this Reason, that he was commonly accounted the most honourable
that was first seated, and that this Honour was commonly done to the
Part that he spoke of. They applauded his Opinion, and laughed heartily
at it. The Man was mightily pleas'd with his Wit, and _Anthony_ seem'd
to have the worst on't. _Anthony_ turn'd the Matter off very well,
saying that he had given the prime Honour to the Mouth for no other
Reason, but because he knew that the other Man would name some other
Part, if it were but out of Envy to thwart him: A few Days after, when
they were both invited again to an Entertainment, _Anthony_ going in,
finds his Antagonist, talking with some other Persons, while Supper was
getting ready, and turning his Arse towards him, lets a great Fart full
in his Face. He being in a violent Passion, says to him, Out, you saucy
Fellow, where was you drag'd up? _At Hogs Norton_? Then says _Anthony_,
What, are you angry? If I had saluted you with my Mouth, you would have
answer'd me again; but now I salute you with the most honourable Part of
the Body, in your own Opinion, you call me saucy Fellow. And so
_Anthony_ regain'd the Reputation he had lost. We have every one told
our Tale. Now, Mr. Judge, it is your Business to pass Sentence.

_Ge._ Well, I'll do that, but not before every Man has taken off his
Glass, and I'll lead the Way. But _talk of the Devil and he'll appear_.

_Po._ _Levinus Panagathus_ brings no bad Luck along with him.

_Lev._ Well, pray what Diversion has there been among this merry

_Po._ What should we do but tell merry Stories till you come?

_Lev._ Well then, I'm come to conclude the Meeting. I desire you all to
come to Morrow to eat a Theological Dinner with me.

_Ge._ You tell us of a melancholy Entertainment indeed.

_Lev._ That will appear. If you don't confess that it has been more
entertaining than your fabulous one, I'll be content to be amerc'd a
Supper; there is nothing more diverting than to treat of Trifles in a
serious Manner.



     _A Lying-in Woman had rather have a Boy than a Girl.
     Custom is a grievous Tyrant. A Woman argues that she is
     as good as her Husband. The Dignity of 'em both are
     compared. The Tongue is a Woman's best Weapon. The Mother
     herself ought to be the Nurse. She is not the Mother that
     bears the Child, but she that nurses it. The very Beasts
     themselves suckle their own Young. The Nurse's Milk
     corrupts oftentimes both the Genius and natural
     Constitution of the Infant. The Souls of some Persons
     inhabit Bodies ill organized._ Cato _judges it the
     principal Part of Felicity, to dwell happily. She is
     scarce half a Mother that refuses to bring up what she
     has brought forth. A Mother is so called from [Greek: mê
     têrein]. And in short, besides the Knowledge of a great
     many Things in Nature, here are many that occur in


_Eu._ Honest _Fabulla_, I am glad to see you; I wish you well.

_Fa._ I wish you well heartily, Eutrapelus. But what's the Matter more
than ordinary, that you that come so seldom to see me, are come now?
None of our Family has seen you this three Years.

_Eu._ I'll tell you, as I chanced to go by the Door, I saw the Knocker
(called a Crow) tied up in a white Cloth, I wondered what was the

_Fa._ What! are you such a Stranger in this Country, as not to know that
that's a Token of a lying-in Woman in that House?

_Eu._ Why, pray is it not a strange Sight to see a white Crow? But
without jesting, I did know very well what was the Matter; but I could
not dream, that you that are scarce sixteen, should learn so early the
difficult Art of getting Children, which some can scarce attain before
they are thirty.

_Fa._ As you are _Eutrapelus_ by Name, so you are by Nature.

_Eu._ And so are you too. For _Fabulla_ never wants a Fable. And while I
was in a Quandary, _Polygamus_ came by just in the Nick of Time.

_Fa._ What he that lately buried his tenth Wife?

_Eu._ The very same, but I believe you don't know that he goes a
courting as hotly as if he had lived all his Days a Batchelor. I ask'd
him what was the Matter; he told me that in this House the Body of a
Woman had been dissever'd. For what great Crime, says I? says he, If
what is commonly reported be true, the Mistress of this House attempted
to circumcise her Husband, and with that he went away laughing.

_Fa._ He's a mere Wag.

_Eu._ I presently ran in a-Doors to congratulate your safe Delivery.

_Fa._ Congratulate my safe Delivery if you will, _Eutrapelus_, you may
congratulate my happy Delivery, when you shall see him that I have
brought forth give a Proof of himself to be an honest Man.

_Eu._ Indeed, my _Fabulla_ you talk very piously and rationally.

_Fa._ Nay, I am no Body's _Fabulla_ but _Petronius's._

_Eu._ Indeed you bear Children for _Petronius_ alone, but you don't live
for him alone, I believe. But however, I congratulate you upon this,
that you have got a Boy.

_Fa._ But why do you think it better to have a Boy than a Girl?

_Eu._ Nay, but rather you _Petronius's Fabulla_ (for now I am afraid to
call you mine) ought to tell me what Reason you Women have to wish for
Boys rather than Girls?

_Fa._ I don't know what other People's Minds are; at this Time I am glad
I have a Boy, because so it pleased God. If it had pleased him best I
should have had a Girl, it would have pleased me best too.

_Eu._ Do you think God has nothing else to do but be a Midwife to Women
in Labour?

_Fa._ Pray, _Eutrapelus_, what should he do else, but preserve by
Propagation, what he has founded by Creation?

Eu, What should he do else good Dame? If he were not God, he'd never be
able to do what he has to do. _Christiernus_ King of _Denmark_, a
religious Favourer of the Gospel, is in Exile. _Francis_, King of
_France_, is a Sojourner in _Spain._ I can't tell how well he may bear
it, but I am sure he is a Man that deserves better Fortune. _Charles_
labours with might and main to inlarge the Territories of his Monarchy.
And _Ferdinand_ is mightily taken up about his Affairs in _Germany._ And
the Courtiers every where are almost Famished with Hunger after Money.
The very Farmers raise dangerous Commotions, nor are deterred from their
Attempts by so many Slaughters of Men, that have been made already. The
People are for setting up an Anarchy, and the Church goes to Ruin with
dangerous Factions. Christ's seamless Coat is rent asunder on all Sides.
God's Vineyard is spoiled by more Boars than one. The Authority of the
Clergy with their Tythes, the Dignity of Divines, the Majesty of Monks
is in Danger: Confession nods, Vows stagger, the Pope's Constitutions go
to decay, the Eucharist is call'd in Question, and Antichrist is
expected every Day, and the whole World seems to be in Travail to bring
forth I know not what Mischief. In the mean Time the _Turks_ over-run
all where-e'er they come, and are ready to invade us and lay all waste,
if they succeed in what they are about; and do you ask what God has
else to do? I think he should rather see to secure his own Kingdom in

_Fa._ Perhaps that which Men make the greatest Account of, seems to God
of no Moment. But however, if you will, let us let God alone in this
Discourse of ours. What is your Reason to think it is happier to bear a
Boy than a Girl? It is the Part of a pious Person to think that best
which God, who without Controversy is the best Judge, has given.

_Eu._ And if God should give you but a Cup made of Crystal, would you
not give him Thanks for it?

_Fa._ Yes, I would.

_Eu._ But what if he should give you one of common Glass, would you give
him the like Thanks? But I'm afraid instead of comforting you, by this
Discourse, I should make you uneasy.

_Fa._ Nay, a _Fabulla_ can be in no Danger of being hurt by a Fable. I
have lain in now almost a Month, and I am strong enough for a Match at

_Eu._ Why don't you get out of your Bed then?

_Fa._ The King has forbid me.

_Eu._ What King?

_Fa._ Nay a Tyrant rather.

_Eu._ What Tyrant prithee?

_Fa._ I'll tell you in one Syllable. Custom (_Mos_).

_Eu._ Alas! How many Things does that Tyrant exact beyond the Bounds of
Equity? But let us go on to talk of our Crystal and our common Glass.

_Fa._ I believe you judge, that a Male is naturally more excellent and
strong than a Female.

_Eu._ I believe they are.

_Fa._ That is Mens Opinion. But are Men any Thing longer-liv'd than
Women? Are they free from Distempers?

_Eu._ No, but in the general they are stronger.

_Fa._ But then they themselves are excell'd by Camels in Strength.

_Eu._ But besides, the Male was created first.

_Fa._ So was _Adam_ before _Christ_. Artists use to be most exquisite in
their later Performances.

_Eu._ But God put the Woman under Subjection to the Man.

_Fa._ It does not follow of Consequence, that he is the better because
he commands, he subjects her as a Wife, and not purely as a Woman; and
besides that he so puts the Wife under Subjection, that tho' they have
each of them Power over the other, he will have the Woman to be obedient
to the Man, not as to the more excellent, but to the more fierce Person.
Tell me, _Eutrapelus_, which is the weaker Person, he that yields to
another, or he that is yielded to?

_Eu._ I'll grant you that, if you will explain to me, what Paul meant
when he wrote to the _Corinthians_, that _Christ was the Head of the
Man, and Man the Head of the Woman;_ and again, when he said, that _a
Man was the Image and Glory of God, and a Woman the Glory of the Man._

_Fa._ Well! I'll resolve you that, if you answer me this Question,
Whether or no, it is given to Men alone, to be the Members of Christ?

_Eu._ God forbid, that is given to all Men and Women too by Faith.

_Fa._ How comes it about then, that when there is but one Head, it
should not be common to all the Members? And besides that, since God
made Man in his own Image, whether did he express this Image in the
Shape of his Body, or the Endowments of his Mind?

_Eu._ In the Endowments of his Mind.

_Fa._ Well, and I pray what have Men in these more excellent than we
have? In both Sexes, there are many Drunkennesses, Brawls, Fightings,
Murders, Wars, Rapines, and Adulteries.

_Eu._ But we Men alone fight for our Country.

_Fa._ And you Men often desert from your Colours, and run away like
Cowards; and it is not always for the Sake of your Country, that you
leave your Wives and Children, but for the Sake of a little nasty Pay;
and, worse than Fencers at the Bear-Garden, you deliver up your Bodies
to a slavish Necessity of being killed, or yourselves killing others.
And now after all your Boasting of your warlike Prowess, there is none
of you all, but if you had once experienced what it is to bring a Child
into the World, would rather be placed ten Times in the Front of a
Battle, than undergo once what we must so often. An Army does not always
fight, and when it does, the whole Army is not always engaged. Such as
you are set in the main Body, others are kept for Bodies of Reserve, and
some are safely posted in the Rear; and lastly, many save themselves by
surrendring, and some by running away. We are obliged to encounter
Death, Hand to Hand.

_Eu._ I have heard these Stories before now; but the Question is,
Whether they are true or not?

_Fa._ Too true.

_Eu._ Well then, _Fabulla_, would you have me persuade your Husband
never to touch you more? For if so, you'll be secure from that Danger.

_Fa._ In Truth, there is nothing in the World I am more desirious of, if
you were able to effect it.

_Eu._ If I do persuade him to it, what shall I have for my Pains?

_Fa._ I'll present you with half a Score dry'd Neats-Tongues.

_Eu._ I had rather have them than the Tongues of ten Nightingales. Well,
I don't dislike the Condition, but we won't make the Bargain obligatory,
before we have agreed on the Articles.

_Fa._ And if you please, you may add any other Article.

_Eu._ That shall be according as you are in the Mind after your Month is

_Fa._ But why not according as I am in the Mind now?

_Eu._ Why, I'll tell you, because I am afraid you will not be in the
same Mind then; and so you would have double Wages to pay, and I double
Work to do, of persuading and dissuading him.

_Fa._ Well, let it be as you will then. But come on, shew me why the Man
is better than the Woman.

_Eu._ I perceive you have a Mind to engage with me in Discourse, but I
think it more adviseable to yield to you at this Time. At another Time
I'll attack you when I have furnished myself with Arguments; but not
without a Second neither. For where the Tongue is the Weapon that
decides the Quarrel; seven Men are scarce able to Deal with one Woman.

_Fa._ Indeed the Tongue is a Woman's Weapon; but you Men are not without
it neither.

_Eu._ Perhaps so, but where is your little Boy?

_Fa._ In the next Room.

_Eu._ What is he doing there, cooking the Pot?

_Fa._ You Trifler, he's with his Nurse.

_Eu._ What Nurse do you talk of? Has he any Nurse but his Mother?

_Fa._ Why not? It is the Fashion.

_Eu._ You quote the worst Author in the World, _Fabulla_, the Fashion;
'tis the Fashion to do amiss, to game, to whore, to cheat, to be drunk,
and to play the Rake.

_Fa._ My Friends would have it so; they were of Opinion I ought to
favour myself, being young.

_Eu._ But if Nature gives Strength to conceive, it doubtless gives
Strength to give Suck too.

_Fa._ That may be.

_Eu._ Prithee tell me, don't you think Mother is a very pretty Name?

_Fa._ Yes, I do.

_Eu._ And if such a Thing were possible, would you endure it, that
another Woman should be call'd the Mother of your Child?

_Fa._ By no Means.

_Eu._ Why then do you voluntarily make another Woman more than half the
Mother of what you have brought into the World?

_Fa._ O fy! _Eutrapelus_, I don't divide my Son in two, I am intirely
his Mother, and no Body in the World else.

_Eu._ Nay, _Fabulla_, in this Case Nature herself blames you to your
Face. Why is the Earth call'd the Mother of all Things? Is it because
she produces only? Nay, much rather, because she nourishes those Things
she produces: that which is produced by Water, is fed by Water. There is
not a living Creature or a Plant that grows on the Face of the Earth,
that the Earth does not feed with its own Moisture. Nor is there any
living Creature that does not feed its own Offspring. Owls, Lions, and
Vipers, feed their own Young, and does Womankind make her Offspring
Offcasts? Pray, what can be more cruel than they are, that turn their
Offspring out of Doors for Laziness, not to supply them with Food?

_Fa._ That you talk of is abominable.

_Eu._ But Womankind don't abominate it. Is it not a Sort of turning out
of Doors, to commit a tender little Infant, yet reaking of the Mother,
breathing the very Air of the Mother, imploring the Mother's Aid and
Help with its Voice, which they say will affect even a brute Creature,
to a Woman perhaps that is neither wholsome in Body, nor honest, who has
more Regard to a little Wages, than to your Child?

_Fa._ But they have made Choice of a wholsome, sound Woman.

_Eu._ Of this the Doctors are better Judges than yourself. But put the
Case, she is as healthful as yourself, and more too; do you think there
is no Difference between your little tender Infant's sucking its natural
and familiar Milk, and being cherish'd with Warmth it has been
accustomed to, and its being forc'd to accustom itself to those of a
Stranger? Wheat being sown in a strange Soil, degenerates into Oats or
small Wheat. A Vine being transplanted into another Hill, changes its
Nature. A Plant when it is pluck'd from its Parent Earth, withers, and
as it were dies away, and does in a Manner the same when it is
transplanted from its Native Earth.

_Fa._ Nay, but they say, Plants that have been transplanted and grafted,
lose their wild Nature, and produce better Fruit.

_Eu._ But not as soon as ever they peep out of the Ground, good Madam.
There will come a Time, by the Grace of God, when you will send away
your young Son from you out of Doors, to be accomplish'd with Learning
and undergo harsh Discipline, and which indeed is rather the Province of
the Father than of the Mother. But now its tender Age calls for
Indulgence. And besides, whereas the Food, according as it is,
contributes much to the Health and Strength of the Body, so more
especially it is essential to take Care, with what Milk that little,
tender, soft Body be season'd. For _Horace's_ Saying takes Place here.
_Quo semel est imbuta recens servabit odorem Testa diu. What is bred in
the Bone, will never out of the Flesh._

_Fa._ I don't so much concern myself as to his Body, so his Mind be but
as I would have it.

_Eu._ That indeed is piously spoken, but not philosophically.

_Fa._ Why not?

_Eu._ Why do you when you shred Herbs, complain your Knife is blunt, and
order it to be whetted? Why do you reject a blunt pointed Needle, when
that does not deprive you of your Art?

_Fa._ Art is not wanting, but an unfit Instrument hinders the exerting

_Eu._ Why do they that have much Occasion to use their Eyes, avoid
Darnel and Onions?

_Fa._ Because they hurt the Sight.

_Eu._ Is it not the Mind that sees?

_Fa._ It is, for those that are dead see nothing. But what can a
Carpenter do with an Ax whose Edge is spoiled?

_Eu._ Then you do acknowledge the Body is the Organ of the Mind?

_Fa._ That's plain.

_Eu._ And you grant that in a vitiated Body the Mind either cannot act
at all, or if it does, it is with Inconvenience?

_Fa._ Very likely.

_Eu._ Well, I find I have an intelligent Person to deal with; suppose
the Soul of a Man was to pass into the Body of a Cock, would it make the
same Sound it does now?

_Fa._ No to be sure.

_Eu._ What would hinder?

_Fa._ Because it would want Lips, Teeth, and a Tongue, like to that of a
Man. It has neither the Epiglottis, nor the three Cartilages, that are
moved by three Muscles, to which Nerves are joined that come from the
Brain; nor has it Jaws and Teeth like a Man's.

_Eu._ What if it should go into the Body of a Swine?

_Fa._ Then it would grunt like a Swine.

_Eu._ What if it should pass into the Body of a Camel?

_Fa._ It would make a Noise like a Camel.

_Eu._ What if it should pass into the Body of an Ass, as it happened to

_Fa._ Then I think it would bray as an Ass does.

_Eu._ Indeed he is a Proof of this, who when he had a Mind to call after
_Caesar_, having contracted his Lips as much as he possibly could,
scarce pronounced O, but could by no Means pronounce _Caesar._ The same
Person, when having heard a Story, and that he might not forget it,
would have written it, reprehended himself for his foolish Thought, when
he beheld his solid Hoofs.

_Fa._ And he had Cause enough.

_Eu._ Then it follows that the Soul does not see well thro' purblind
Eyes. The Ears hear not clearly when stopped with Filth. The Brain
smells not so well when oppressed with Phlegm. And a Member feels not so
much when it is benumbed. The Tongue tastes less, when vitiated with ill

_Fa._ These Things can't be denied.

_Eu._ And for no other Cause, but because the Organ is vitiated.

_Fa._ I believe the same.

_Eu._ Nor will you deny, I suppose, that sometimes it is vitiated by
Food and Drink.

_Fa._ I'll grant that too, but what signifies that to the Goodness of
the Mind?

_Eu._ As much as Darnel does to a clear Eye-Sight.

_Fa._ Because it vitiates the Organ.

_Eu._ Well answer'd. But solve me this Difficulty: Why is it that one
understands quicker than another, and has a better Memory; why is one
more prone to Anger than another; or is more moderate in his Resentment?

_Fa._ It proceeds from the Disposition of the Mind.

_Eu._ That won't do. Whence comes it that one who was formerly of a very
ready Wit, and a retentive Memory, becomes afterwards stupid and
forgetful, either by a Blow or a Fall, by Sickness or old Age?

_Fa._ Now you seem to play the Sophister with me.

_Eu._ Then do you play the Sophistress with me.

_Fa._ I suppose you would infer, that as the Mind sees and hears by the
Eyes and Ears, so by some Organs it also understands, remembers, loves,
hates, is provoked and appeas'd?

_Eu._ Right.

_Fa._ But pray what are those Organs, and where are they situated?

_Eu._ As to the Eyes, you see where they are.

_Fa._ I know well enough where the Ears, and the Nose, and the Palate
are; and that the Body is all over sensible of the Touch, unless when
some Member is seized with a Numbness.

_Eu._ When a Foot is cut off, yet the Mind understands.

_Fa._ It does so, and when a Hand is cut off too.

_Eu._ A Person that receives a violent Blow on the Temples, or
hinder-Part of his Head, falls down like one that is dead, and is

_Fa._ I have sometimes seen that myself.

_Eu._ Hence it is to be collected, that the Organs of the Will,
Understanding, and Memory, are placed within the Skull, being not so
crass as the Eyes and Ears, and yet are material, in as much as the most
subtile Spirits that we have in the Body are corporeal.

_Fa._ And can they be vitiated with Meat and Drink too?

_Eu._ Yes.

_Fa._ The Brain is a great Way off from the Stomach.

_Eu._ And so is the Funnel of a Chimney from the Fire-Hearth, yet if
you sit upon it you'll feel the Smoke.

_Fa._ I shan't try that Experiment.

_Eu._ Well, if you won't believe me, ask the Storks. And so it is of
Moment what Spirits, and what Vapours ascend from the Stomach to the
Brain, and the Organs of the Mind. For if these are crude or cold they
stay in the Stomach.

_Fa._ Pshaw! You're describing to me an Alembick, in which we distil

_Eu._ You don't guess much amiss. For the Liver, to which the Gall
adheres, is the Fire-Place; the Stomach, the Pan; the Scull, the Top of
the Still; and if you please, you may call the Nose the Pipe of it. And
from this Flux or Reflux of Humours, almost all Manner of Diseases
proceed, according as a different Humour falls down after a different
Manner, sometimes into the Eyes, sometimes into the Stomach, sometimes
into the Shoulders, and sometimes into the Neck, and elsewhere. And that
you may understand me the better, why have those that guzzle a great
Deal of Wine bad Memories? Why are those that feed upon light Food, not
of so heavy a Disposition? Why does Coriander help the Memory? Why does
Hellebore purge the Memory? Why does a great Expletion cause an
Epilepsy, which at once brings a Stupor upon all the Senses, as in a
profound Sleep? In the last Place, as violent Thirst or Want weaken the
Strength of Wit or Memory in Boys, so Food eaten immoderately makes Boys
dull-headed, if we believe _Aristotle_; in that the Fire of the Mind is
extinguish'd by the heaping on too much Matter.

_Fa._ Why then, is the Mind corporeal, so as to be affected with
corporeal Things?

_Eu._ Indeed the Nature itself of the rational Soul is not corrupted;
but the Power and Action of it are impeded by the Organs being vitiated,
as the Art of an Artist will stand him in no Stead, if he has not

_Fa._ Of what Bulk, and in what Form is the Mind?

_Eu._ You ask a ridiculous Question, what Bulk and Form the Mind is of,
when you have allow'd it to be incorporeal.

_Fa._ I mean the Body that is felt.

_Eu._ Nay, those Bodies that are not to be felt are the most perfect
Bodies, as God and the Angels.

_Fa._ I have heard that God and Angels are Spirits, but we feel the

_Eu._ The Holy Scriptures condescend to those low Expressions, because
of the Dullness of Men, to signify a Mind pure from all Commerce of
sensible Things.

_Fa._ Then what is the Difference between an Angel and a Mind?

_Eu._ The same that is between a Snail and a Cockle, or, if you like the
Comparison better, a Tortoise.

_Fa._ Then the Body is rather the Habitation of the Mind than the
Instrument of it.

_Eu._ There is no Absurdity in calling an adjunct Instrument an
Habitation. Philosophers are divided in their Opinions about this. Some
call the Body the Garment of the Soul, some the House, some the
Instrument, and some the Harmony; call it by which of these you will, it
will follow that the Actions of the Mind are impeded by the Affections
of the Body. In the first Place, if the Body is to the Mind that which a
Garment is to the Body, the Garment of _Hercules_ informs us how much a
Garment contributes to the Health of the Body, not to take any Notice of
Colours of Hairs or of Skins. But as to that Question, whether one and
the same Soul is capable of wearing out many Bodies, it shall be left to

_Fa._ If, according to _Pythagoras_, we could make Use of Change of
Bodies, as we do of Apparel, it would be convenient to take a fat Body,
and of a thick Texture, in Winter Time, and a thinner and lighter Body
in Summer Time.

_Eu._ But I am of the Opinion, that if we wore out our Body at last as
we do our Cloaths; it would not be convenient; for so having worn out
many Bodies, the Soul itself would grow old and die.

_Fa._ It would not truly.

_Eu._ As the Sort of Garment that is worn hath an Influence on the
Health and Agility of the Body, so it is of great Moment what Body the
Soul wears.

_Fa._ If indeed the Body is the Garment of the Soul, I see a great many
that are dress'd after a very different Manner.

_Eu._ Right, and yet some Part of this Matter is in our own Power, how
conveniently our Souls shall be cloathed.

_Fa._ Come, have done with the Garment, and say something concerning the

_Eu._ But, _Fabulla_, that what I say to you mayn't be thought a
Fiction, the _Lord Jesus_ calls his Body a _Temple_, and the Apostle
_Peter_ calls his a _Tabernacle_. And there have been some that have
call'd the Body the Sepulchre of the Soul, supposing it was call'd
[Greek: sôma], as tho' it were [Greek: sêma]. Some call it the Prison of
the Mind, and some the Fortress or fortify'd Castle. The Minds of
Persons that are pure in every Part, dwell in the Temple. They whose
Minds are not taken up with the Love of corporeal Things, dwell in a
Tent, and are ready to come forth as soon as the Commander calls. The
Soul of those that are wholly blinded with Vice and Filthiness, so that
they never breathe after the Air of Gospel Liberty, lies in a Sepulchre.
But they that wrestle hard with their Vices, and can't yet be able to do
what they would do, their Soul dwells in a Prison, whence they
frequently cry out to the Deliverer of all, _Bring my Soul out of
Prison, that I may praise thy Name, O Lord._ They who fight strenuously
with Satan, watching and guarding against his Snares, who goes about as
_a roaring Lion, seeking whom he may devour;_ their Soul is as it were
in a Garison, out of which they must not go without the General's Leave.

_Fa._ If the Body be the Habitation or House of the Soul, I see a great
many whose Mind is very illy seated.

_Eu._ It is so, that is to say, in Houses where it rains in, that are
dark, exposed to all Winds, that are smoaky, damp, decay'd, and ruinous,
and such as are filthy and infected: and yet _Cato_ accounts it the
principal Happiness of a Man, to dwell handsomly.

_Fa._ It were tolerable, if there was any passing out of one House into

_Eu._ There's no going out before the Landlord calls out. But tho' we
can't go out, yet we may by our Art and Care make the Habitation of our
Mind commodious; as in a House the Windows are changed, the Floor taken
up, the Walls are either plaistered or wainscotted, and the Situation
may be purified with Fire or Perfume. But this is a very hard Matter, in
an old Body that is near its Ruin. But it is of great Advantage to the
Body of a Child, to take the Care of it that ought to be taken presently
after its Birth.

_Fa._ You would have Mothers and Nurses to be Doctors.

_Eu._ So indeed I would, as to the Choice and moderate Use of Meat,
Drink, Motion, Sleep, Baths, Unctions, Frictions, and Cloathings. How
many are there, think you, who are expos'd to grievous Diseases and
Vices, as Epilepsies, Leanness, Weakness, Deafness, broken Backs,
crooked Limbs, a weak Brain, disturbed Minds, and for no other Reason
than that their Nurses have not taken a due Care of them?

_Fa._ I wonder you are not rather a _Franciscan_ than a Painter, who
preach so finely.

_Eu._ When you are a Nun of the Order of St. _Clare_, then I'll be a
_Franciscan_, and preach to you.

_Fa._ In Truth, I would fain know what the Soul is, about which we hear
so much, and talk of so often, and no Body has seen.

_Eu._ Nay, every Body sees it that has Eyes.

_Fa._ I see Souls painted in the Shape of little Infants, but why do
they put Wings to them as they do to Angels?

_Eu._ Why, because, if we can give any Credit to the Fables of
_Socrates_, their Wings were broken by their falling from Heaven.

_Fa._ How then are they said to fly up to Heaven?

_Eu._ Because Faith and Charity make their Wings grow again. He that was
weary of this House of his Body, begg'd for these Wings, when he cry'd
out, _Who will give me the Wings of a Dove, that I may fly away, and be
at rest_. Nor has the Soul any other Wings, being incorporeal, nor any
Form that can be beheld by the Eyes of the Body. But those Things that
are perceiv'd by the Mind, are more certain. Do you believe the Being of

_Fa._ Yes, I do.

_Eu._ But nothing is more invisible than God.

_Fa._ He is seen in the Works of Creation.

_Eu._ In like Manner the Soul is seen in Action. If you would know how
it acts in a living Body, consider a dead Body. When you see a Man Feel,
See, Hear, Move, Understand, Remember and Reason, you see the Soul to be
in him with more Certainty than you see this Tankard; for one Sense may
be deceiv'd, but so many Proofs of the Senses cannot deceive you.

_Fa._ Well then, if you can't shew me the Soul, paint it out to me, just
as you would the King, whom I never did see.

_Eu._ I have _Aristotle_'s Definition ready for you.

_Fa._ What is it? for they say he was a very good Decypherer of every

_Eu. The Soul is the Act of an Organical, Physical Body, having Life_ in

_Fa._ Why does he rather call it an _Act_ than a _Journey_ or _Way?_

_Eu._ Here's no Regard either to Coachmen or Horsemen, but a bare
Definition of the Soul. And he calls the Form _Act_, the Nature of which
is to _act_, when it is the Property of Matter to _suffer_. For all
natural Motion of the Body proceeds from the Soul. And the Motion of the
Body is various.

_Fa._ I take that in; but why does he add _of an Organical_?

_Eu._ Because the Soul does nothing but by the Help of Organs, that is,
by the Instruments of the Body.

_Fa._ Why does he say _Physical_?

_Eu._ Because _Dædalus_ made such a Body to no Purpose; and therefore he
adds, _having Life_ in Potentia. Form does not act upon every Thing; but
upon a Body that is capable.

_Fa._ What if an Angel should pass into the Body of a Man?

_Eu._ He would act indeed, but not by the natural Organs, nor would he
give Life to the Body if the Soul was absent from it.

_Fa._ Have I had all the Account that is to be given of the Soul?

_Eu._ You have _Aristotle_'s Account of it.

_Fa._ Indeed I have heard he was a very famous Philosopher, and I am
afraid that the College of Sages would prefer a Bill of Heresy against
me, if I should say any Thing against him; but else all that he has said
concerning the Soul of a Man, is as applicable to the Soul of an Ass or
an Ox.

_Eu._ Nay, that's true, or to a Beetle or a Snail.

_Fa._ What Difference then is there between the Soul of an Ox, and that
of a Man?

_Eu._ They that say the Soul is nothing else but the Harmony of the
Qualities of the Body, would confess that there was no great Difference;
and that this Harmony being interrupted, the Souls of both of them do
perish. The Soul of a Man and an Ox is not distinguished; but that of an
Ox has less Knowledge than the Soul of a Man. And there are some Men to
be seen that have less Understanding than an Ox.

_Fa._ In Truth, they have the Mind of an Ox.

_Eu._ This indeed concerns you, that according to the Quality of your
Guittar, your Musick will be the sweeter.

_Fa._ I own it.

_Eu._ Nor is it of small Moment of what Wood, and in what Shape your
Guittar is made.

_Fa._ Very true.

_Eu._ Nor are Fiddle-Strings made of the Guts of every Animal.

_Fa._ So I have heard.

_Eu._ They grow slack or tight by the Moisture and Driness of the
circumambient Air, and will sometimes break.

_Fa._ I have seen that more than once.

_Eu._ On this Account you may do uncommon Service to your little
Infant, that his Mind may have an Instrument well tempered, and not
vitiated, nor relaxed by Sloth, nor squeaking with Wrath, nor hoarse
with intemperate drinking. For Education and Diet oftentimes impress us
with these Affections.

_Fa._ I'll take your Counsel; but I want to hear how you can defend

_Eu._ He indeed in general describes the Soul, Animal, Vegetative, and
Sensitive. The Soul gives Life, but every Thing that has Life is not an
Animal. For Trees live, grow old, and die; but they have no Sense; tho'
some attribute to them a stupid Sort of Sense. In Things that adhere one
to another, there is no Sense to be perceived, but it is found in a
Sponge by those that pull it off. Hewers discover a Sense in
Timber-Trees, if we may believe them: For they say, that if you strike
the Trunk of a Tree that you design to hew down, with the Palm of your
Hand, as Wood-Mongers use to do, it will be harder to cut that Tree down
because it has contracted itself with Fear. But that which has Life and
Feeling is an Animal. But nothing hinders that which does not feel, from
being a Vegetable, as Mushrooms, Beets, and Coleworts.

_Fa._ If they have a Sort of Life, a Sort of Sense, and Motion in their
growing, what hinders but that they may be honoured with the Title of

_Eu._ Why the Antients did not think fit to call them so, and we must
not deviate from their Ordinances, nor does it signify much as to what
we are upon.

_Fa._ But I can't bear the Thoughts on't, that the Soul of a Beetle and
of a Man should be the same.

_Eu._ Good Madam, it is not the same, saving in some Respects; your Soul
animates, vegetates, and renders your Body sensible; the Soul of the
Beetle animates his Body: For that some Things act one Way, and some
another, that the Soul of a Man acts differently from the Soul of a
Beetle, partly proceeds from the Matter; a Beetle neither sings nor
speaks, because it wants Organs fit for these Actions.

_Fa._ Why then you say, that if the Soul of a Beetle should pass into
the Body of a Man, it would act as the human Soul does.

_Eu._ Nay, I say not, if it were an angelical Soul: And there is no
Difference between an Angel and a human Soul, but that the Soul of a Man
was formed to act a human Body compos'd of natural Organs; and as the
Soul of a Beetle will move nothing but the Body of a Beetle, an Angel
was not made to animate a Body, but to be capable to understand without
bodily Organs.

_Fa._ Can the Soul do the same Thing?

_Eu._ It can indeed, when it is separated from the Body.

_Fa._ Is it not at its own Disposal, while it is in the Body?

_Eu._ No indeed, except something happen beside the common Course of

_Fa._ In Truth, instead of one Soul you have given me a great many; an
animal, a vegetative, a sensitive, an intelligent, a remembring, a
willing, an angry, and desiring: One was enough for me.

_Eu._ There are different Actions of the same Soul, and these have
different Names.

_Fa._ I don't well understand you.

_Eu._ Well then, I'll make you understand me: You are a Wife in the
Bed-Chamber, in your Work-Shop a Weaver of Hangings, in your Warehouse a
Seller of them, in your Kitchen a Cook, among your Servants a Mistress,
and among your Children a Mother; and yet you are all these in the same

_Fa._ You philosophize very bluntly. Is then the Soul so in the Body as
I am in my House?

_Eu._ It is.

_Fa._ But while I am weaving in my Work-Shop, I am not cooking in my

_Eu._ Nor are you all Soul, but a Soul carrying about a Body, and the
Body can't be in many Places at the same Time; but the Soul being a
simple Form, is so in the whole Body, tho' it does not act the same in
all Parts of the Body, nor after the same Manner, how differently
affected soever they are: For it understands and remembers in the Brain,
it is angry in the Heart, it lusts in the Liver, it hears with the Ears,
sees with the Eyes, smells with the Nose, it tastes in the Palate and
Tongue, and feels in all Parts of the Body which are adjoined to any
nervous Part: But it does not feel in the Hair, nor the Ends of the
Nails; neither do the Lungs feel of themselves, nor the Liver, nor
perhaps the Milt neither.

_Fa._ So that in certain Parts of the Body it only animates and

_Eu._ It should seem so.

_Fa._ If one and the same Soul does all these Things in one and the same
Man, it follows of Consequence, that the _Foetus_ in the Womb of the
Mother, both feels and understands, as soon as it begins to grow; which
is a Sign of Life, unless a Man in his Formation has more Souls than
one, and afterwards the rest giving Place, one acts all. So that at
first a Man is a Plant, then an Animal, and lastly a Man.

_Eu._ Perhaps _Aristotle_ would not think what you say absurd: I think
it is more probable, that the rational Soul is infus'd with the Life,
and that like a little Fire that is buried as it were under too great a
Quantity of green Wood, it cannot exert its Power.

_Fa._ Why then is the Soul bound to the Body that it acts and moves?

_Eu._ No otherwise than a Tortoise is bound or tied to the Shell that he
carries about.

_Fa._ He does move it indeed; but so at the same Time that he moves
himself too, as a Pilot steers a Ship, turning it which Way he will, and
is at the same Time mov'd with it.

_Eu._ Ay, and as a Squirrel turns his Wheel-Cage about, and is himself
carried about with it.

_Fa._ And so the Soul affects the Body, and is affected by the Body.

_Eu._ Yes indeed, as to its Operations.

_Fa._ Why then, as to the Nature of it, the Soul of a Fool is equal to
the Soul of _Solomon_.

_Eu._ There's no Absurdity in that.

_Fa._ And so the Angels are equal, in as much as they are without
Matter, which, you say, is that which makes the Inequality.

_Eu._ We have had Philosophy enough: Let Divines puzzle themselves about
these Things; let us discourse of those Matters that were first
mentioned. If you would be a compleat Mother, take Care of the Body of
your little Infant, so that after the little Fire of the Mind has
disengaged itself from the Vapours, it may have sound and fit Organs to
make Use of. As often as you hear your Child crying, think this with
yourself, he calls for this from me. When you look upon your Breasts,
those two little Fountains, turgid, and of their own Accord streaming
out a milky Juice, remember Nature puts you in Mind of your Duty: Or
else, when your Infant shall begin to speak, and with his pretty
Stammering shall call you _Mammy_, How can you hear it without blushing?
when you have refus'd to let him have it, and turn'd him off to a
hireling Nipple, as if you had committed him to a Goat or a Sheep. When
he is able to speak, what if, instead of calling you Mother, he should
call you Half-Mother? I suppose you would whip him: Altho' indeed she is
scarce Half a Mother that refuses to feed what she has brought into the
World. The nourishing of the tender Babe is the best Part of Geniture:
For he is not only fed by the Milk, but with the Fragrancy of the Body
of the Mother. He requires the same natural, familiar, accustomed
Moisture, that he drew in when in her Body, and by which he received his
Coalition. And I am of that Opinion, that the Genius of Children are
vitiated by the Nature of the Milk they suck, as the Juices of the Earth
change the Nature of those Plants and Fruits that it feeds. Do you think
there is no Foundation in Reason for this Saying, _He suck'd in this ill
Humour with the Nurse's Milk?_ Nor do I think the Greeks spoke without
Reason, when they said _like Nurses_, when they would intimate that any
one was starved at Nurse: For they put a little of what they chew into
the Child's Mouth, but the greatest Part goes down their own Throats.
And indeed she can hardly properly be said to bear a Child, that throws
it away as soon as she has brought it forth; that is to miscarry, and
the _Greek_ Etymology of [Greek: Mêtêr] from [Greek: mê têrein], _i.e._
from not looking after, seems very well to suit such Mothers. For it is
a Sort of turning a little Infant out of Doors, to put it to a hireling
Nurse, while it is yet warm from the Mother.

_Fa._ I would come over to your Opinion, unless such a Woman were
chosen, against whom there is nothing to be objected.

_Eu._ Suppose it were of no Moment what Milk the little Infant suck'd,
what Spittle it swallow'd with its chew'd Victuals; and you had such a
Nurse, that I question whether there is such an one to be found; do you
think there is any one in the World will go through all the Fatigue of
Nursing as the Mother herself; the Bewrayings, the Sitting up a Nights,
the Crying, the Sickness, and the diligent Care in looking after it,
which can scarce be enough. If there can be one that loves like the
Mother, then she will take Care like a Mother. And besides, this will be
the Effect of it, that your Son won't love you so heartily, that native
Affection being as it were divided between two Mothers; nor will you
have the same Affection for your Son: So that when he is grown up, he
will neither be so obedient to you, nor will you have the same Regard
for him, perhaps perceiving in him the Disposition of his Nurse. The
principal Step to Advancement in Learning, is the mutual Love between
the Teacher and Scholar: So that if he does not lose any Thing of the
Fragrancy of his native good Temper, you will with the greater Ease be
able to instil into him the Precepts of a good Life. And a Mother can do
much in this Matter, in that she has pliable Matter to work upon, that
is easy to be carried any Way.

_Fa._ I find it is not so easy a Thing to be a Mother, as it is
generally looked upon to be.

_Eu._ If you can't depend upon what I say, St. _Paul_, speaking very
plainly of Women, says, _She shall be saved in Childbearing._

_Fa._ Are all the Women saved that bear Children?

_Eu._ No, he adds, _if she continue in the Faith_. You have not
performed the Duty of a Mother before you have first formed the little
tender Body of your Son, and after that his Mind, equally soft, by a
good Education.

_Fa._ But it is not in the Power of the Mother that the Children should
persevere in Piety.

_Eu._ Perhaps it may not be; but a careful Admonition is of that Moment,
that _Paul_ accounts it imputable to Mothers, if the Children degenerate
from Piety. But in the last Place, if you do what is in your Power, God
will add his Assistance to your Diligence.

_Fa._ Indeed _Eutrapelus_, your Discourse has persuaded me, if you can
but persuade my Parents and my Husband.

_Eu._ Well, I'll take that upon me, if you will but lend your helping

_Fa._ I promise you I will.

_Eu._ But mayn't a Body see this little Boy?

_Fa._ Yes, that you may and welcome. Do you hear, _Syrisca_, bid the
Nurse bring the Child.

_Eu._ 'Tis a very pretty Boy. It is a common Saying, there ought to be
Grains of Allowance given to the first Essay: But you upon the first
Trial have shewn the very highest Pitch of Art.

_Fa._ Why, it is not a Piece of carved Work, that so much Art should be

_Eu._ That's true; but it is a Piece of cast Work. Well, let that be how
it will, it is well performed. I wish you could make as good Figures in
the Hangings that you weave.

_Fa._ But you on the Contrary paint better than you beget.

_Eu._ It so seems meet to Nature, to act equally by all. How solicitous
is Nature, that nothing should be lost! It has represented two Persons
in one; here's the Nose and Eyes of the Father, the Forehead and Chin of
the Mother Can you find in your Heart to entrust this dear Pledge to
the Fidelity of a Stranger? I think those to be doubly cruel that can
find in their Hearts so to do; because in doing so, they do not only do
this to the Hazard of the Child; but also of themselves too; because in
the Child, the spoiling of the Milk oftentimes brings dangerous
Diseases, and so it comes about, that while Care is taken to preserve
the Shape of one Body, the Lives of two Bodies are not regarded; and
while they provide against old Age coming on too early, they throw
themselves into a too early Death. What's the Boy's Name?

_Fa. Cornelius_.

_Eu._ That's the Name of his Grand-Father by the Father's Side. I wish
he may imitate him in his unblemished Life and good Manners.

_Fa._ We will do our Endeavour what in us lies. But, hark ye,
_Eutrapelus_, here is one Thing I would earnestly entreat of you.

_Eu._ I am entirely at your Service; command what you will, I will
undertake it.

_Fa._ Well then, I won't discharge you till you have finished the good
Service that you have begun.

_Eu._ What's that?

_Fa._ First of all, to give me Instructions how I may manage my Infant,
as to his Health, and when he is grown up, how I may form his Mind with
pious Principles.

_Eu._ That I will readily do another Time, according to my Ability; but
that must be at our next Conversation: I will now go and prevail upon
your Husband and Parents.

_Fa._ I wish you may succeed.


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