Character Writings of the Seventeenth Century Part 8

As one, therefore, that in worthy examples hold imitation better than invention, I have trod in their paths, but with an higher and wider step, and out of their tablets have drawn these larger portraitures of both sorts. More might be said, I deny not, of every virtue, of every vice; I desired not to say all but enough. If thou do but read or like these I have spent good hours ill; but if thou shalt hence abjure those vices, which before thou thoughtest not ill-favoured, or fall in love with any of these goodly faces of virtue, or shalt hence find where thou hast any little touch of these evils, to clear thyself, or where any defect in these graces to supply it, neither of us shall need to repent of our labour.

THE FIRST BOOK.

_CHARACTERISMS OF VIRTUES._

THE PROEM.

Virtue is not loved enough, because she is not seen; and vice loseth much detestation, because her ugliness is secret. Certainly, my lords, there are so many beauties, and so many graces in the face of goodness, that no eye can possibly see it without affection, without ravishment; and the visage of evil is so monstrous through loathsome deformities, that if her lovers were not ignorant they would be mad with disdain and astonishment. What need we more than to discover these two to the world?

This work shall save the labour of exhorting and dissuasion. I have here done it as I could, following that ancient master of morality, who thought this the fittest task for the ninety and ninth year of his age, and the profitablest monument that he could leave for a farewell visit to his Grecians. Lo here then virtue and vice stripped naked to the open view, and despoiled, one of her rags the other of her ornaments, and nothing left them but bare presence to plead for affection: see now whether shall find more suitors. And if still the vain minds of lewd men shall dote upon their old mistress, it will appear to be, not because she is not foul, but for that they are blind and bewitched. And first behold the goodly features of wisdom, an amiable virtue, and worthy to lead this stage; which as she extends herself to all the following graces, so amongst the rest is for her largeness most conspicuous.

CHARACTER OF THE WISE MAN.

There is nothing that he desires not to know, but most and first himself, and not so much his own strength as his weaknesses; neither is his knowledge reduced to discourse, but practice. He is a skilful logician, not by nature so much as use; his working mind doth nothing all his time but make syllogisms and draw out conclusions; everything that he sees and hears serves for one of the premisses; with these he cares first to inform himself, then to direct others. Both his eyes are never at once from home, but one keeps house while the other roves abroad for intelligence. In material and weighty points he abides not his mind suspended in uncertainties, but hates doubting where he may, where he should be resolute: and first he makes sure work for his soul, accounting it no safety to be unsettled in the foreknowledge of his small estate. The best is first regarded; and vain is that regard which endeth not in security. Every care hath his just order; neither is there any one either neglected or misplaced. He is seldom ever seen with credulity; for, knowing the falseness of the world, he hath learned to trust himself always, others so far as he may not be damaged by their disappointment. He seeks his quietness in secrecy, and is wont both to hide himself in retiredness, and his tongue in himself. He loves to be guessed at, not known; and to see the world unseen; and when he is forced into the light, shows by his actions that his obscurity was neither from affectation nor weakness. His purposes are neither so variable as may argue inconstancy, nor obstinately unchangeable, but framed according to his after-wits, or the strength of new occasions. He is both an apt scholar and an excellent master; for both everything he sees informs him, and his mind, enriched with plentiful observation, can give the best precepts. His free discourse runs back to the ages past, and recovers events out of memory, and then preventeth time in flying forward to future things; and comparing one with the other, can give a verdict well near prophetical, wherein his conjectures are better than another's judgments. His pa.s.sions are so many good servants, which stand in a diligent attendance ready to be commanded by reason, by religion; and if at any time forgetting their duty, they be miscarried to rebel, he can first conceal their mutiny, then suppress it. In all his just and worthy designs he is never at a loss, but hath so projected all his courses that a second begins where the first failed, and fetcheth strength from that which succeeded not. There be wrongs which he will not see, neither doth he always look that way which he meaneth, nor take notice of his secret smarts, when they come from great ones. In good turns he loves not to owe more than he must; in evil, to owe and not pay. Just censures he deserves not, for he lives without the compa.s.s of an adversary; unjust he contemneth, and had rather suffer false infamy to die alone than lay hands upon it in an open violence. He confineth himself in the circle of his own affairs, and lists not to thrust his finger into a needless fire. He stands like a centre unmoved, while the circ.u.mference of his estate is drawn above, beneath, about him. Finally, his wit hath cost him much, and he can both keep, and value, and employ it. He is his own lawyer, the treasury of knowledge, the oracle of counsel; blind in no man's cause, best sighted in his own.

OF AN HONEST MAN.

He looks not to what he might do, but what he should. Justice is his first guide, the second law of his actions is expedience. He had rather complain than offend, and hates sin more for the indignity of it than the danger. His simple uprightness works in him that confidence which ofttimes wrongs him, and gives advantage to the subtle, when he rather pities their faithlessness than repents of his credulity. He hath but one heart, and that lies open to sight; and were it not for discretion, he never thinks aught whereof he would avoid a witness. His word is his parchment, and his yea his oath, which he will not violate for fear or for loss. The mishaps of following events may cause him to blame his providence, can never cause him to eat his promise: neither saith he, This I saw not; but, This I said. When he is made his friend's executor, he defrays debts, pays legacies, and scorneth to gain by orphans, or to ransack graves, and therefore will be true to a dead friend, because he sees him not. All his dealings are square and above the board; he bewrays the fault of what he sells, and restores the overseen gain of a false reckoning. He esteems a bribe venomous, though it come gilded over with the colour of gratuity. His cheeks are never stained with the blushes of recantation, neither doth his tongue falter to make good a lie with the secret glosses of double or reserved senses, and when his name is traduced his innocency bears him out with courage: then, lo, he goes on the plain way of truth, and will either triumph in his integrity or suffer with it. His conscience overrules his providence; so as in all things good or ill, he respects the nature of the actions, not the sequel. If he see what he must do, let G.o.d see what shall follow. He never loadeth himself with burdens above his strength, beyond his will; and once bound, what he can he will do, neither doth he will but what he can do. His ear is the sanctuary of his absent friend's name, of his present friend's secret; neither of them can miscarry in his trust. He remembers the wrongs of his youth, and repays them with that usury which he himself would not take. He would rather want than borrow, and beg than not to pay: his fair conditions are without dissembling, and he loves actions above words. Finally, he hates falsehood worse than death: he is a faithful client of truth, no man's enemy, and it is a question whether more another man's friend or his own; and if there were no heaven, yet he would be virtuous.

OF THE FAITHFUL MAN.

His eyes have no other objects but absent and invisible, which they see so clearly as that to them sense is blind. That which is present they see not; if I may not rather say, that what is past or future is present to them. Herein he exceeds all others, that to him nothing is impossible, nothing difficult, whether to bear or undertake. He walks every day with his Maker, and talks with Him familiarly, and lives ever in heaven, and sees all earthly things beneath him. When he goes in to converse with G.o.d, he wears not his own clothes, but takes them still out of the rich wardrobe of his Redeemer, and then dares boldly press in and challenge a blessing. The celestial spirits do not scorn his company; yea, his service. He deals in these worldly affairs as a stranger, and hath his heart ever at home. Without a written warrant he dare do nothing, and with it anything. His war is perpetual, without truce, without intermission, and his victory certain; he meets with the infernal powers, and tramples them under feet. The s.h.i.+eld that he ever bears before him can neither be missed nor pierced; if his hand be wounded, yet his heart is safe. He is often tripped, seldom foiled, and, if sometimes foiled, never vanquished. He hath white hands, and a clean soul fit to lodge G.o.d in, all the rooms whereof are set apart for His holiness. Iniquity hath oft called at the door and craved entertainment, but with a repulse; or, if sin of force will be his tenant, his Lord he cannot. His faults are few, and those he hath G.o.d will not see. He is allied so high, that he dare call G.o.d father, his Saviour brother, heaven his patrimony, and thinks it no presumption to trust to the attendance of angels. His understanding is enlightened with the beams of divine truth. G.o.d hath acquainted him with His will; and what he knows he dare confess: there is not more love in his heart than liberty in his tongue. If torments stand betwixt him and Christ, if death, he contemns them; and if his own parents lie in his way to G.o.d, his holy carelessness makes them his footsteps. His experiments have drawn forth rules of confidence, which he dares oppose against all the fears of distrust; wherein he thinks it safe to charge G.o.d with what he hath done, with what he hath promised. Examples are his proofs, and instances his demonstrations. What hath G.o.d given which he cannot give? What have others suffered which he may not be enabled to endure? Is he threatened banishment? there he sees the dear Evangelist in Patmos. Cutting in pieces? he sees Esai under the saw. Drowning? he sees Jonah diving into the living gulf? Burning? he sees the three children in the hot walk of the furnace. Devouring? he sees Daniel in the sealed den amidst his terrible companions. Stoning? he sees the first martyr under his heap of many gravestones. Heading? lo, there the Baptist's neck bleeding in Herodias' platter. He emulates their pain, their strength, their glory.

He wearies not himself with cares; for he knows he lives not of his own cost, not idly omitting means, but not using them with diffidence. In the midst of ill rumours and amazements his countenance changeth not; for he knows both whom he hath trusted, and whither death can lead him.

He is not so sure he shall die as that he shall be restored, and outfaceth his death with resurrection. Finally, he is rich in works, busy in obedience, cheerful and unmoved in expectation, better with evils, in common opinion miserable, but in true judgment more than a man.

OF THE HUMBLE MAN.

He is a friendly enemy to himself; for, though he be not out of his own favour, no man sets so low a value of his worth as himself--not out of ignorance or carelessness, but of a voluntary and meek dejectedness. He admires everything in another, while the same or better in himself he thinks not unworthily contemned. His eyes are full of his own wants, and others' perfections. He loves rather to give than take honour; not in a fas.h.i.+on of complimental courtesy, but in simplicity of his judgment.

Neither doth he fret at those on whom he forceth precedence, as one that hoped their modesty would have refused; but holds his mind unfeignedly below his place, and is ready to go lower (if need be) without discontent. When he hath his due, he magnifieth courtesy, and disclaims his deserts. He can be more ashamed of honour than grieved with contempt; because he thinks that causeless, this deserved. His face, his carriage, his habit, savour of lowliness without affectation, and yet he is much under that he seemeth. His words are few and soft, never either peremptory or censorious; because he thinks both each man more wise, and none more faulty than himself. And, when he approacheth to the throne of G.o.d, he is so taken up with the Divine greatness that, in his own eyes, he is either vile or nothing. Places of public charge are fain to sue to him, and hail him out of his chosen obscurity; which he holds ofif, not cunningly, to cause importunity, but sincerely, in the conscience of his defects. He frequenteth not the stages of common resorts, and then alone thinks himself in his natural element when he is shrouded within his own walls. He is ever jealous over himself, and still suspecteth that which others applaud. There is no better object of beneficence; for what he receives he ascribes merely to the bounty of the giver, nothing to merit. He emulates no man in anything but goodness, and that with more desire than hope to overtake. No man is so contented with his little, and so patient under miseries; because he knows the greatest evils are below his sins, and the least favours above his deservings. He walks ever in awe, and dare not but subject every word and action to an high and just censure. He is a lowly valley, sweetly planted and well watered; the proud man's earth, whereon he trampleth; but secretly full of wealthy mines, more worth than he that walks over them; a rich stone set in lead; and, lastly, a true temple of G.o.d built with a low roof.

OF A VALIANT MAN.

He undertakes without rashness, and performs without fear; he seeks not for dangers, but, when they find him, he bears them over with courage, with success. He hath ofttimes looked death in the face, and pa.s.sed by it with a smile; and when he sees he must yield, doth at once welcome and contemn it. He forecasts the worst of all events, and encounters them before they come in a secret and mental war. And if the suddenness of an unexpected evil have surprised his thoughts, and infected his cheeks with paleness, he hath no sooner digested it in his conceit than he gathers up himself, and insults over mischief. He is the master of himself, and subdues his pa.s.sions to reason, and by this inward victory works his own peace. He is afraid of nothing but the displeasure of the Highest, and runs away from nothing but sin: he looks not on his hands, but his cause; not how strong he is, but how innocent: and, where goodness is his warrant, he may be over-mastered; he cannot be foiled.

The sword is to him the last of all trials, which he draws forth still as defendant, not as challenger, with a willing kind of unwillingness: no man can better manage it, with more safety, with more favour; he had rather have his blood seen than his back, and disdains life upon base conditions. No man is more mild to a relenting or vanquished adversary, or more hates to set his foot on a carcase. He had rather smother an injury than revenge himself of the impotent, and I know not whether he more detests cowardliness or cruelty. He talks little, and brags less; and loves rather the silent language of the hand, to be seen than heard.

He lies ever close within himself, armed with wise resolution, and will not be discovered but by death or danger. He is neither prodigal of blood to misspend it idly, nor n.i.g.g.ardly to grudge it, when either G.o.d calls for it, or his country; neither is he more liberal of his own life than of others. His power is limited by his will, and he holds it the n.o.blest revenge, that he might hurt and doth not. He commands without tyranny and imperiousness, obeys without servility, and changes not his mind with his estate. The height of his spirits overlooks all casualties, and his boldness proceeds neither from ignorance nor senselessness; but first he values evils, and then despises them. He is so balanced with wisdom that he floats steadily in the midst of all tempests. Deliberate in his purposes, firm in resolution, bold in enterprising, unwearied in achieving, and howsoever happy in success; and if ever he be overcome, his heart yields last.

OF A PATIENT MAN.

The patient man is made of a metal, not so hard as flexible: his shoulders are large, fit for a load of injuries; which he bears not out of baseness and cowardliness, because he dare not revenge, but out of Christian fort.i.tude, because he may not: he has so conquered himself that wrongs cannot conquer him; and herein alone finds that victory consists in yielding. He is above nature, while he seems below himself.

The vilest creature knows how to turn again; but to command himself not to resist being urged is more than heroical. His constructions are ever full of charity and favour; either this wrong was not done, or not with intent of wrong; or if that, upon mis-information; or if none of these, rashness (though a fault) shall serve for an excuse. Himself craves the offender's pardon before his confession; and a slight answer contents where the offended desires to forgive. He is G.o.d's best witness; and when he stands before the bar for truth his tongue is calmly free, his forehead firm, and he with erect and settled countenance hears his just sentence, and rejoices in it. The jailors that attend him are to him his pages of honour; his dungeon, the lower part of the vault of heaven; his rack or wheel, the stairs of his ascent to glory: he challenges his executioners, and encounters the fiercest pains with strength of resolution; and while he suffers the beholders pity him, the tormentors complain of weariness, and both of them wonder. No anguish can master him, whether by violence or by lingering. He accounts expectation no punishment, and can abide to have his hopes adjourned till a new day.

Good laws serve for his protection, not for his revenge; and his own power, to avoid indignities, not to return them. His hopes are so strong that they can insult over the greatest discouragements; and his apprehensions so deep that, when he hath once fastened, he sooner leaveth his life than his hold. Neither time nor perverseness can make him cast off his charitable endeavours and despair of prevailing; but in spite of all crosses and all denials, he redoubleth his beneficial offers of love. He trieth the sea after many s.h.i.+pwrecks, and beats still at that door which he never saw opened. Contrariety of events doth but exercise, not dismay him; and when crosses afflict him, he sees a divine hand invisibly striking with these sensible scourges, against which he dares not rebel nor murmur. Hence all things befall him alike; and he goes with the same mind to the shambles and to the fold. His recreations are calm and gentle, and not more full of relaxation than void of fury.

This man only can turn necessity into virtue, and put evil to good use.

He is the surest friend, the latest and easiest enemy, the greatest conqueror, and so much more happy than others, by how much he could abide to be more miserable.

OF THE TRUE FRIEND.

His affections are both united and divided; united to him he loveth, divided betwixt another and himself; and his one heart is so parted, that whilst he has some his friend hath all. His choice is led by virtue, or by the best of virtues, religion; not by gain, not by pleasure; yet not without respect of equal condition, of disposition not unlike; which, once made, admits of no change, except he whom he loveth be changed quite from himself; nor that suddenly, but after long expectation. Extremity doth but fasten him, whilst he, like a well-wrought vault, lies the stronger, by how much more weight he bears.

When necessity calls him to it, he can be a servant to his equal, with the same will wherewith he can command his inferior; and though he rise to honour, forgets not his familiarity, nor suffers inequality of estate to work strangeness of countenance; on the other side, he lifts up his friend to advancement with a willing hand, without envy, without dissimulation. When his mate is dead, he accounts himself but half alive; then his love, not dissolved by death, derives itself to those orphans which never knew the price of their father; they become the heirs of his affection, and the burden of his cares. He embraces a free community of all things, save those which either honesty reserves proper, or nature; and hates to enjoy that which would do his friend more good. His charity serves to cloak noted infirmities, not by untruth, not by flattery, but by discreet secrecy; neither is he more favourable in concealment, than round in his private reprehensions; and when another's simple fidelity shows itself in his reproof, he loves his monitor so much the more, by how much more he smarteth. His bosom is his friend's closet, where he may safely lay up his complaints, his doubts, his cares; and look how he leaves, so he finds them; save for some addition of seasonable counsel for redress. If some unhappy suggestion shall either disjoint his affection or break it, it soon knits again, and grows the stronger by that stress. He is so sensible of another's injuries, that when his friend is stricken he cries out and equally smarteth untouched, as one affected not with sympathy, but with a real feeling of pain: and in what mischief may be prevented, he interposeth his aid, and offers to redeem his friend with himself. No hour can be unseasonable, no business difficult, nor pain grievous in condition of his ease: and what either he doth or suffers, he neither cares nor desires to have known, lest he should seem to look for thanks. If he can therefore steal the performance of a good office unseen, the conscience of his faithfulness herein is so much sweeter as it is more secret. In favours done, his memory is frail; in benefits received, eternal: he scorneth either to regard recompense or not to offer it. He is the comfort of miseries, the guide of difficulties, the joy of life, the treasure of earth, and no other than a good angel clothed in flesh.

OF THE TRULY n.o.bLE.

He stands not upon what he borrowed of his ancestors, but thinks he must work out his own honour: and if he cannot reach the virtue of them that gave him outward glory by inheritance, he is more abashed of his impotency than transported with a great name. Greatness doth not make him scornful and imperious, but rather like the fixed stars; the higher he is, the less he desires to seem. Neither cares he so much for pomp and frothy ostentation as for the solid truth of n.o.bleness. Courtesy and sweet affability can be no more severed from him than life from his soul; not out of a base and servile popularity, and desire of ambitious insinuation, but of a native gentleness of disposition, and true value of himself. His hand is open and bounteous, yet not so as that he should rather respect his glory than his estate; wherein his wisdom can distinguish betwixt parasites and friends, betwixt changing of favours and expending them. He scorneth to make his height a privilege of looseness, but accounts his t.i.tles vain if he be inferior to others in goodness: and thinks he should be more strict the more eminent he is, because he is more observed, and now his offences are become more exemplar. There is no virtue that he holds unfit for ornament, for use; nor any vice which he condemns not as sordid, and a fit companion of baseness; and whereof he doth not more hate the blemish, than affect the pleasure. He so studies as one that knows ignorance can neither purchase honour nor wield it; and that knowledge must both guide and grace, him.

His exercises are from his childhood ingenious, manly, decent, and such as tend still to wit, valour, activity: and if (as seldom) he descend to disports of chance, his games shall never make him either pale with fear or hot with desire of gain. He doth not so use his followers, as if he thought they were made for nothing but his servitude, whose felicity were only to be commanded and please: wearing them to the back, and then either finding or framing excuses to discard them empty; but upon all opportunities lets them feel the sweetness of their own serviceableness and his bounty. Silence in officious service is the best oratory to plead for his respect: all diligence is but lent to him, none lost. His wealth stands in receiving, his honour in giving. He cares not either how many hold of his goodness, or to how few he is beholden: and if he have cast away favours, he hates either to upbraid them to his enemy, or to challenge rest.i.tution. None can be more pitiful to the distressed, or more p.r.o.ne to succour; and then most where is least means to solicit, least possibility of requital. He is equally addressed to war and peace; and knows not more how to command others, than how to be his country's servant in both. He is more careful to give true honour to his Maker than to receive civil honour from men. He knows that this service is free and n.o.ble, and ever loaded with sincere glory; and how vain it is to hunt after applause from the world till he be sure of Him that mouldeth all hearts, and poureth contempt on princes; and shortly, so demeans himself as one that accounts the body of n.o.bility to consist in blood, the soul in the eminence of virtue.

OF THE GOOD MAGISTRATE.

He is the faithful deputy of his Maker, whose obedience is the rule whereby he ruleth. His breast is the ocean, whereinto all the cares of private men empty themselves; which, as he receives without complaint and overflowing, so he sends them forth again by a wise conveyance in the streams of justice. His doors, his ears, are ever open to suitors; and not who comes first speeds well, but whose cause is best. His nights, his meals, are short and interrupted; all which he bears well, because he knows himself made for a public servant of peace and justice.

He sits quietly at the stern, and commands one to the topsail, another to the main, a third to the plummet, a fourth to the anchor, as he sees the needs of their course and weather requires; and doth no less by his tongue than all the mariners with their hands. On the bench he is another from himself at home; now all private respects of blood, alliance, amity are forgotten; and if his own son come under trial he knows him not. Pity, which in all others is wont to be the best praise of humanity and the fruit of Christian love, is by him thrown over the bar for corruption. As for Favour, the false advocate of the gracious, he allows him not to appear in the court; there only causes are heard speak, not persons. Eloquence is then only not dis-couraged when she serves for a client of truth. Mere narrations are allowed in this oratory, not proems, not excursions, not glosses. Truth must strip herself and come in naked to his bar, without false bodies or colours, without disguises. A bribe in his closet, or a letter on the bench, or the whispering and winks of a great neighbour, are answered with an angry and courageous repulse. Displeasure, Revenge, Recompense stand on both sides the bench, but he scorns to turn his eye towards them, looking only right forward at Equity, which stands full before him. His sentence is ever deliberate and guided with ripe wisdom, yet his hand is slower than his tongue; but when he is urged by occasion either to doom or execution, he shows how much he hateth merciful injustice. Neither can his resolution or act be reversed with partial importunity. His forehead is rugged and severe, able to discountenance villainy, yet his words are more awful than his brow, and his hand than his words. I know not whether he be more feared or loved, both affections are so sweetly contempered in all hearts. The good fear him lovingly, the middle sort love him fearfully, and only the wicked man fears him slavishly without love. He hates to pay private wrongs with the advantage of his office; and if ever he be partial, it is to his enemy. He is not more sage in his gown than valorous in arms, and increaseth in the rigour of discipline as the times in danger. His sword hath neither rusted for want of use, nor surfeiteth of blood; but after many threats is unsheathed, as the dreadful instrument of divine revenge. He is the guard of good laws, the refuge of innocence, the comet of the guilty, the paymaster of good deserts, the champion of justice, the patron of peace, the tutor of the Church, the father of his country, and as it were another G.o.d upon earth.

OF THE PENITENT.

He has a wounded heart and a sad face, yet not so much for fear as for unkindness. The wrong of his sin troubles him more than the danger. None but he is the better for his sorrow; neither is any pa.s.sion more hurtful to others than this is gainful to him: the more he seeks to hide his grief, the less it will be hid; every man may read it not only in his eyes, but in his bones. Whilst he is in charity with all others, he is so fallen out with himself that none but G.o.d can reconcile him. He hath sued himself in all courts, accuseth, arraigneth, sentenceth, punisheth himself impartially, and sooner may find mercy at any hand than at his own. He only hath pulled off the fair visor of sin; so as that which appears not but masked unto others, is seen of him barefaced, and bewrays that fearful ugliness, which none can conceive but he that hath viewed it. He hath looked into the depth of the bottomless pit, and hath seen his own offence tormented in others, and the same brands shaken at him. He hath seen the change of faces in that cool one, as a tempter, as a tormentor; and hath heard the noise of a conscience, and is so frightened with all these, that he can never have rest till he have run out of himself to G.o.d, in whose face at first he find rigour, but afterwards sweetness in his bosom; he bleeds first from the hand that heals him. The law of G.o.d hath made work for mercy, which he hath no sooner apprehended than he forgets his wounds, and looks carelessly upon all these terrors of guiltiness. When he casts his eye back upon himself, he wonders where he was and how he came there; and grants that if there were not some witchcraft in sin, he could not have been so sottishly graceless. And now, in the issue, Satan finds (not without indignation and repentance) that he hath done him a good turn in tempting him: for he had never been so good if he had not sinned; he had never fought with such courage, if he had not seen his blood and been ashamed of his folly. Now he is seen and felt in the front of the spiritual battle; and can teach others how to fight, and encourage them in fighting. His heart was never more taken up with the pleasure of sin, than now with care of avoiding it: the very sight of that cup, wherein such a fulsome portion was brought him, turns his stomach: the first offers of sin make him tremble more now than he did before at the judgments of his sin; neither dares he so much as look towards Sodom.

All the powers and craft of h.e.l.l cannot fetch him in for a customer to evil; his infirmity may yield once, his resolution never. There is none of his senses or parts, which he hath not within covenants for their good behaviour, which they cannot ever break with impunity. The wrongs of his sin he repays to men with recompense, as hating it should be said he owes anything to his offence; to G.o.d (what in him lies) with sighs, tears, vows, and endeavours of amendment. No heart is more waxen to the impressions of forgiveness, neither are his hands more open to receive than to give pardon. All the injuries which are offered to him are swallowed up in his wrongs to his Maker and Redeemer; neither can he call for the arrearages of his farthings, when he looks upon the millions forgiven him: he feels not what he suffers from men, when he thinks of what he hath done and should have suffered. He is a thankful herald of the mercies of his G.o.d; which if all the world hear not from his mouth it is no fault of his. Neither did he so burn with the evil fires or concupiscence as now with the holy flames of zeal to that glory which he hath blemished; and his eyes are as full of moisture as his heart of heat. The gates of heaven are not so knocked at by any suitor, whether for frequency or importunity. You shall find his cheeks furrowed, his knees hard, his lips sealed up, save when he must accuse himself or glorify G.o.d, his eyes humbly dejected, and sometimes you shall take him breaking of a sigh in the midst, as one that would steal an humiliation unknown, and would be offended with any part that should not keep his counsel. When he finds his soul oppressed with the heavy guilt of a sin, he gives it vent through his mouth into the ear of his spiritual physician, from whom he receives cordials answerable to his complaint. He is a severe exactor of discipline: first upon himself, on whom he imposes more than one Lent; then upon others, as one that vowed to be revenged on sin wheresoever he finds it; and though but one hath offended him, yet his detestation is universal. He is his own taskmaster for devotion; and if Christianity have any work more difficult or perilous than other, that he enjoins himself, and resolves contentment even in miscarriage. It is no marvel if the acquaintance of his wilder times know him not, for he is quite another from himself; and if his mind could have had any intermission of dwelling within his breast, it could not have known this was the lodging. Nothing but an outside is the same it was, and that altered more with regeneration than with age. None but he can relish the promises of the gospel, which he finds so sweet that he complains not, his thirst after them is unsatiable; and now that he hath found his Saviour, he hugs Him so fast and holds Him so dear that he feels not when his life is fetched away from him for his martyrdom. The latter part of his life is so led as if he desired to unlive his youth, and his last testament is full of rest.i.tutions and legacies of piety. In sum, he hath so lived and died as that Satan hath no such match, sin hath no such enemy, G.o.d hath no such servant as he.

HE IS A HAPPY MAN

That hath learned to read himself more than all books, and hath so taken out this lesson that he can never forget it; that knows the world, and cares not for it; that, after many traverses of thoughts, is grown to know what he may trust to, and stands now equally armed for all events; that hath got the mastery at home, so as he can cross his will without a mutiny, and so please it that he makes it not a wanton; that in earthly things wishes no more than nature, in spiritual is ever graciously ambitious; that for his condition stands on his own feet, not needing to lean upon the great, and can so frame his thoughts to his estate that when he hath least he cannot want, because he is as free from desire as superfluity; that hath seasonably broken the headstrong restiness of prosperity, and can now manage it at pleasure; upon whom all smaller crosses light as hailstones upon a roof; and for the greater calamities, he can take them as tributes of life and tokens of love; and if his s.h.i.+p be tossed, yet he is sure his anchor is fast. If all the world were his, he could be no other than he is, no whit gladder of himself, no whit higher in his carriage, because he knows contentment lies not in the things he hath, but in the mind that values them. The powers of his resolution can either multiply or subtract at pleasure. He can make his cottage a manor or a palace when he lists, and his home-close a large dominion, his stained cloth arras, his earth plate, and can see state in the attendance of one servant, as one that hath learned a man's greatness or baseness is in himself; and in this he may even contest with the proud, that he thinks his own the best. Or if he must be outwardly great, he can but turn the other end of the gla.s.s, and make his stately manor a low and straight cottage, and in all his costly furniture he can see not richness but use; he can see dross in the best metal and earth through the best clothes, and in all his troupe he can see himself his own servant. He lives quietly at home out of the noise of the world, and loves to enjoy himself always, and sometimes his friend, and hath as full scope to his thought as to his eyes. He walks ever even in the midway betwixt hopes and fears, resolved to fear nothing but G.o.d, to hope for nothing but what which he must have. He hath a wise and virtuous mind in a serviceable body, which that better part affects as a present servant and a future companion, so cheris.h.i.+ng his flesh as one that would scorn to be all flesh. He hath no enemies; not for that all love him, but because he knows to make a gain of malice. He is not so engaged to any earthly thing that they two cannot part on even terms; there is neither laughter in their meeting, nor in their shaking of hands tears. He keeps ever the best company, the G.o.d of Spirits and the spirits of that G.o.d, whom he entertains continually in an awful familiarity, not being hindered either with too much light or with none at all. His conscience and his hand are friends, and (what devil soever tempt him) will not fall out. That divine part goes ever uprightly and freely, not stooping under the burden of a willing sin, not fettered with the gyves of unjust scruples. He would not, if he could, run away from himself or from G.o.d; not caring from whom he lies hid, so he may look these two in the face. Censures and applauses are pa.s.sengers to him, not guests; his ear is their thoroughfare, not their harbour; he hath learned to fetch both his counsel and his sentence from his own breast. He doth not lay weight upon his own shoulders, as one that loves to torment himself with the honour of much employment; but as he makes work his game, so doth he not list to make himself work. His strife is ever to redeem and not to spend time. It is his trade to do good, and to think of it his recreation. He hath hands enough for himself and others, which are ever stretched forth for beneficence, not for need. He walks cheerfully in the way that G.o.d hath chalked, and never wishes it more wide or more smooth. Those very temptations whereby he is foiled strengthen him; he comes forth crowned and triumphing out of the spiritual battles, and those scars that he hath make him beautiful. His soul is every day dilated to receive that G.o.d, in whom he is; and hath attained to love himself for G.o.d, and G.o.d for His own sake.

His eyes stick so fast in heaven that no earthly object can remove them; yea, his whole self is there before his time, and sees with Stephen, and hears with Paul, and enjoys with Lazarus, the glory that he shall have, and takes possession beforehand of his room amongst the saints; and these heavenly contentments have so taken him up that now he looks down displeasedly upon the earth as the region of his sorrow and banishment, yet joying more in hope than troubled with the sense of evils. He holds it no great matter to live, and his greatest business to die; and is so well acquainted with his last guest that he fears no unkindness from him: neither makes he any other of dying than of walking home when he is abroad, or of going to bed when he is weary of the day. He is well provided for both worlds, and is sure of peace here, of glory hereafter; and therefore hath a light heart and a cheerful face. All his fellow-creatures rejoice to serve him; his betters, the angels, love to observe him; G.o.d Himself takes pleasure to converse with him, and hath sainted him before his death, and in his death crowned him.