To my Lord, the Car­dinall De la Valet. LETTER I.

SIR, being not able to bring you this untoward Present my selfe, I humbly entreat you to excuse mee that I send it. Wherein I bind you not to a second perusall, and to read that againe, which per­haps you have read already with distast. It is true Sir, that something is altered in the Co­pie, and well neere one halfe added to the ori­ginall; but the spight is, that base wares get no value by store, and the water that comes from the same Spring, can never be much differing: but if in any of the passages, I have not altoge­ther come off ill, and that I have had some tole­rable conceits, I acknowledge Sir, that I have had it all from the good education I had with you; and that it is the fruit of those Instructi­ons, which you have done me the honour to impart unto me. For, no man ever had con­ceits [Page 4] more pure, more pregnant, than your selfe; no man ever saw things more cleerly than you doe; you can tell precisely in what degree of good and evill any thing stands; and to find out the truth, there needs no more, but to follow your opinion. But to speake truly, I feare this qualitie in you, no lesse than I esteeme it; you have too much knowledge in you for a Dis­course that requires simplicitie in the Reader. Neither am I so unadvised, to expose it to the severitie of your judgement, I submit it rather to the protection of your goodnesse, and hope you will not lay open those faults, which none but your selfe can see: Humbly entreating you to protect a spirit of your owne making; and not so much to consider my manner of expressing, as the affection with which I am

To the same as before. LETTER II.

SIR, I am negligent, for feare of being trou­blesome, and least I should be importunate­ly complementall; I forbeare to shew my selfe officiously dutifull. But my fault growing from [Page 5] discretion, I hope you will not take it ill, that I have a care not to trouble you, and that you will pardon the intermission of my Letters, which hath no other end, but the solacing your eyes. I seeke no colours of Art, to paint out the af­fection I owe to your service; This were to corrupt the naturall puritie. Truth is simple and shamefast, and when shee cannot shew her selfe by reall effects, shee will scorne to doe it by verball expressions. It is not in my tongue to expresse her otherwise, than in such termes as are the engagements of a lye; and when I shall have made you most sincere protestations of in­violable fidelitie, there will come a coozening companion that will out-vie me, and endeare himselfe beyond all my oathes. I could wish there were some marke to distinguish protesta­tions that are true, from those that are feigned; for if there were, I should have great advantage over many Courtiers, more officious and more hot in offering their service, than I am, and you should acknowledge that the eminency of your vertue, not to speake of the eminency of your dignitie, is of no man more religiously reveren­ced, than of my selfe, who am, and ever will be

To Monsieur Godeau. LETTER III.

SIR, Disguising will not serve your turne, you are a remarkable man, and whether it be that you call the dissembling of Art, Negli­gence, or that you cannot put off those orna­ments which are naturall in you; I let you know that the excellency of your style, extends even to your familiar speech, and that you are able to sweeten it without sawcing it. A man may see that come springing & flowing from you, which in others is brought [...]farre off, and that with en­gines; you gather that which others pull off, and though you write nothing loosly, yet you write nothing with streyning: yet I must tell you, they are not the periods of your sentences, nor the pawses that winne mee so much unto you; I am too grosse for such slender and fine threads; if you had nothing but rich conceits and choice words, this were but the vertue of a So­phister, and I should place you in the number of things that may please but not of things that one ought to love; I make more reckoning of the honesty of a dumbe man, than of the eloquence of a varlet; I looke after the good of societie, and the comfort of life, & not after the delight of Theaters, and the amusement of company: Let us make then a serious profession of our du­ties, and let us give good examples to an evill [Page 7] age; let us make the world see, that the know­ledge wee have of vertue, is not meerly specu­lative; and let us justifie our Bookes and our Studies, that now are charged with the vices and imperfections of their Teachers. Philoso­phy is not made to be playd withall, but to be made use of, and we must count it an Armour, and not a painted Coate. They are men of the worst making, that now adayes make the worst doing; sots take upon them to be subtle, and wee have no more any tame Beasts amongst us, they are all savage and wilde. For my selfe, who have seene wickednesse in its Triumph, and who have sometime lived in the Countrey of subtlety & craft; I assure you, I have brought nothing from thence, but loathing, and before ever I tasted it, was cloyed. I am exceeding glad to find you of the same dyet, and doubt not of the Doctrine I Preach, seeing I read the same in your owne Letter; Beleeve it Sir, there is none more wholesome, none more worthy of our Creation. Which I am resolved to main­taine, even to Death, and will no more leave it, than the resolution I have made, to be with­out ceasing;

To Monsieur Godeau againe. LETTER IIII.

SIR, I have knowne a good while, that you are no longer a Druyde, and that you lately made your entry into Paris: I doubt not but with magnificence enough, and not without be­stowing some publike largesse. I never knew you goe a forraging, that you returned not home laden with bootie; and your Voyages have al­wayes enriched your followers. I pretend my selfe to have a feeling of this, and though farre remooved from the place where you act them, yet I cannot learne, that my absence makes me loose my part in the distribution of your good deedes. Cease not Sir, I entreat you, to bind me unto you, and to deserve well of my tongue. Fill our Closets with the fruits of your braine, and since you can doe it, make us to gather more sheaves of Corne, than the best workmen hi­therto have left us eares. My devotion stands waiting continually for your Christian workes, and I entreat you, they may be done in such a volume, that we may carry them handsomely with us to Church. That which I have seene of them, doth so exceedingly please mee, that I would be a Poet for nothing else but withsome indifferent grace to prayse them, and to say,

[Page 9] If I did not love you well, I should envie you the conversation of Monsieur Chaplaine, from whom in fifteene dayes I have received but one small sparke of a Letter by the ordinary Post. Thus I doe but tast of that whereof you make full meales; yet remember, I have as good right in him as your selfe, and though I trust you with the keeping him, yet I doe not quit my part in him; To him and you both, I am most affectio­nately

To Monsieur Conrat. LETTER V.

SIR, I had undertaken to have answered to every point of your eloquent Letter, but when I had spent a whole moneth about it, I could not satisfie my selfe with my underta­king. That which I had written, was not wor­thy, me thought, that I should Father it; and I began to thinke I should doe you a great cour­tesie, to save you the reading of an ill Oration. But seeing of evills, the least are the best, you shall have cause to thanke your selfe for this complement, which will cost you no more but one looke to looke over, and never put you to the labour of turning over the leafe. I have this onely to say at this time, that the report which was spread of my death, hath not killed me, and [Page 10] that in despight of rumour and mortall Presa­ges, I intend to be happy by your meanes, and not to forgoe the good fortune presented to me in your person: so I call your excellent friend­ship, with which no burden is heavie, no cala­mitie dolorous. For I know I shall finde in you that ancient generousnesse, whereof Monsieur de la Nove, and Monsieur de Ferries, made pro­fession. I account when I discover secrets to you, I hide them; and shall have no jealousie of my honour when I have put it into your hands. In such sort Sir, that my soule should be of a ve­ry hard temper, if it did not feele a kind of tick­ling in so present and great advantages, and if I should not most perfectly be, as you oblige me to be,

To my Lord the Bishop of Nantes. LETTER VI.

SIR, I was upon the point of sending my footman to you, when I saw your footman enter my lodging, who brought me newes ex­ceeding joyfull; and now I depend no longer upon Fortune, since another besides her selfe can make me happie; and am so indeed as much as I would wish, and should never know the value of your friendship, if I made it not the bounds of my ambition. To complaine of for­tune, [Page 11] and to be your favourite, are things that im­ply a morall contradiction: it is an easie-matter to comfort a pension ill payd, when a man is in possession of store of treasure, and having nei­ther the gift of impudency, nor of hypocrisie, it is not for me to prosper in an age which e­steemes them most that are owners of these qualities. It is enough for me, that M. the Car­dinall doth me the honour to wish me well, and condemnes not your judgement of mee; all o­ther disgraces, from whence soever they come, I am prepared to beare, and take for a favour the contempt that is linked to the profession of vertue. But it is too much to say of mee, that which Seneca said of Cato: Catonem saeculum suum parùm intellexit. These are transcenden­cies of M. de Nantes, and impostures of his love. He stretcheth all objects to infinitie, and all his comparisons are beyond proportion. The Sunne and the Starres are common things with him, and he can finde nothing in Nature goodly e­nough to serve for a similitude of that he loves. It is this deceitfull passion hath made you be­leeve, that I am of some great worth, and that my barren soyle is fruitfull in high conceits. But Sir, I count all this nothing, if this love of yours perswade you not to come & stay a while in it, and to be mindfull of your word. I have put Monsieur—in hope hereof, and make my selfe sure since you have made me a solemne promise; knowing that Truth is residentupon the mouth of Bishops.

The Authour of these Verses shall be your fourth suppliant: it is one that hath been of your olde acquaintance, and was accounted the Vir­gill of his time. I make use of him upon this occasion, because perhaps you will make more reckoning of him than of me, who yet am more than any man in the world.

Another to my Lord Bishop of Nantes. LETTER VII.

SIR, I speake Latin but once a yeare, and yet as seldome as it is, it comes more upon hazard than out of knowledge, and holds lesse of learning than of rapture: vouchsafe there­fore to take it in good part, that in my setled braines, I answer you in the vulgar tongue, and tell you, that never eares were more attentive, nor more prepard to hearing, than those of our family when I read your Letter before them: they were not satisfied to have onely a literall interpretation, and to make me their Gramma­ [...]ian, but I must declaime upon it, and make a [Page 13] Paraphrase as large as a Commentary. If you will know the successe, I can truly say, that all the company was well satisfied; but to tell you all, was even ravished with admiration of your bountie, specially my Niece, who in the grea­test vanitie, that sexe is capable of, never durst imagine shee should ever have the honour to be praysed in Latin, and should serve for an Argu­ment of commendation to the greatest Doctor of our age. Shee saith, this is a second obligati­on you bind her in, to make her a Romane after you have made her your daughter; and to give her so noble a Country, after giving her so wor­thy a Father. And yet to these two favours, I can adde a third, which shee forgot: methinkes Sir, shee fattens and grows gracefull with these prayses you give her; shee is fayrer by one halfe than shee was before. And if from ver­tue there issue certaine beames which enlighten the objects that are neere it; and that beautie flowes from goodnesse, as from the Spring, I need not then goe farre to seeke from whence this varnish of her looke, this amiablenesse of her countenance, is growne upon her: It is cer­tainly your late benediction that hath painted her; and to speake it in the words of the Poet,

I have considered of the Letters whereof you pleased to send me a Copie, and in my judge­ment, you have all the reason in the world to [Page 14] rest satisfied with it. They could never have been more in favour of you, if you had endited them your selfe, and our friend himselfe had writ them: if you had been the King, and he the Secretary, if I be not deceived, this stile will bring a cooling upon the joy of—and make them see, they have at least mistaken one word for another, and that the absence of—hath not been a discharge of his authoritie, but one­ly a breathing from the labours of his charge. I am wrestling still with—and preparing you an after-dinners Recreation, which I will bring my selfe to Burdeaux, if you stay there till the next moneth. In the meane time, since you desire new assurances of my fidelitie, I sweare vnto you, with all the Religion of Oathes, and with all the libertie and sinceritie of the golden age, that I am

To Monsieur de la Nauue, Coun­cellour of the King, in his first Chamber of Enquests. LETTER VIII.

SIR, my deare Cousin, your noblenesse is not of these times, but you are generous af­ter the old fashion. To call the paines I put you [Page 15] to, a favour, and to thanke a man for persecuting you, this is a vertue which Orestes and Pylades perhaps knew, but is now no where to be found, but either in old fables, or in your Letter. The offers you make me, doe not so much give me a possession, as confirme me in it, and assure me the durablenes of a happinesse which wants nothing of being perfect, but being durable. Monsieur de—hath stretched his beliefe yet further; he hath told mee of your comming into this Province, and hath promised me at lest some houres of those Grand daies that bring you hither: if they were as long as those of Platoes yeare, they should not be too long for me, if I might be so happie to spend them in your com­pany. I make account to husband the least mi­nutes of it I can take hold of, and am about in such sort to deck up my Hermitage, that it may not be offensive to your eyes. I can present you but with grosse pleasures and Country recreati­ons; yet you that are perfectly just, will not re­fuse to take a little contentment where you are perfectly loved, and preferre a lively passion, and a heart sincere, before false semblances and a dead magnificence. My complements are short, and I am by profession a very bad Cour­tier, but my words carry truth in them, and I am with all my soule,

To Monsieur de la Motte le Voyer. LETTER IX.

SIR, I am going from Paris in hast, and car­ry with me the griefe that I cannot stay to tell you in how great account I hold the offer you make me of your friendship. If this be the price of so poore a marchandise, as that I sent you, never was man a greater gainer by traffi­king than I: and you seeme in this, not unlike those Indians, who thought to over-reach the Spaniards, by giving them Gold for Glasse. I have long since knowne your great worth, though you would not be knowne to have such worth in you; all the care you can take to hide the beautie of your life, cannot keepe the lustre of it from dazeling mine eyes, and though you make your vertue a secret, yet I have pierced into it, and discovered it. And yet I must con­fesse unto you my infirmitie, I finde it too sub­lime for me, and with my uttermost abilitie am not able to reach it; all I can doe, is to respect it with reverence, and to follow you with my eyes and thoughts. The world cannot all rayse it selfe above the pitch of the presentage, and be wise in equall rank with Aristides & Socrates; I am contented to be in a lower forme of ver­tue, for I am a man, and they demy Gods; I nei­ther aspire to be their equall, nor their rivall, much lesse Sir, to be their judge or accuser. [Page 17] Anitus and Melitus would be much mistaken in me, if they should thinke I would joyne with them in their accusation, as though I thought all opinions to be bad which are not like mine own; I had rather thinke, that it is I that loose the sight of Orasius Tubero sometimes, than thinke that he is strayed, or out of the way; & rather charge my selfe with weaknesse, than accuse him of rashnesse. Let him leave the middle Region of the ayre below him, and mount up above the highest; let him take upon him to judge of hu­mane things, from Shepheards to Kings, from shrubbes to starres, provided, that he be pleased to hold there, and bow his wings, and submit his reason to things divine. I have not time to tell you, how much I value him. Monsieur de—will at more leisure entertaine you with discourse about it, I onely will assure you, that what maske soever you put upon your face, I finde you alwayes exceeding amiable, and that I will ever be

To Madam de Villesavin. LETTER X.

MAdam, seeing it is my ill fortune, that I cannot finde you when I come to see you, I entreat you to let me speake to you by an In­terpreter, [Page 18] and that I may make this benefit of my being so farre from Paris, to have a right of writing to you when I could not have the pow­er of speaking with you. Indeed as long as you were taken up with entertaining your deare sonne, whom long absence had made as it were new unto you, and as long as you were tasting the first joyes which his returne had brought with it; It had been a great indiscretion in a stranger, to intrude himselfe into your private feast, & not give you the libertie to make choice of your Guests; but now, that your extasies of joy are over-passed, and that a more calme estate makes you sociable to others abroad: Now Ma­dam, you may vouchsafe to accept my comple­ment, and to heare me say, with my Countrey freedome, that you want much of that I wish you, if you want any thing of absolute felicitie. I make no doubt but Monsieur Bouthillier your sonne, as he parted from hence a right honest man, so he is returned hither an understanding man; and that to the lights which are given by Nature, he hath added those that are gotten by practise, and by conference. The ayre of Italie which is so powerfull in ripening of fruits, hath not been lesse favourable to the seeds of his spi­rit, and having been at the spring-head of hu­mane prudence, I assure my selfe, he hath drawn deepe of it, and hath filled his minde with so many new and sublime knowledges; that even his Father (if it were not for the great love he [...] him) might not unjustly grow jealous at it. This Madam, is that happinesse I speake to [Page 19] you off, and which I have alwayes wished to you, and to which, there can nothing be added, but to see shortly so excellent an instrument set aworke, and so able a man employed in great affayres. When this shall be, I shall then see the successe of my ancient predictions, and of that I have long read in his very face; so that, you may well thinke, I shall take no distast at your con­tentment, as well for the reputation of my skill in Physnomie and Prognosticating, as for that I perfectly am

To Monsieur de Gomberville, LETTER XI.

SIR, the mischance at the Tuilliries, hath disquieted me all night, and my unquiet­nesse would have continued still, if you had not taken the paines to calme it. The newes you send me, gives me life; A man cannot be innocent, whom Madam de Maiso [...]fort judgeth culpa­ble, shee is not one that will complaine where there is no fault; and truly, if she had taken the mischance of her page in another fashion than shee did, I would rather have abandoned reason than maintaine it against her, & would not have [Page 20] trusted my owne testimony, if shee rejected it. You remember, that but hearing her Name, I fell downe in a trance, and that the very sight of her livery, strucke into me a religious horrour, and a trembling respect, which is not borne, but to things divine. And in this ranke, I place so rare a beauty as hers is; and though I be no man of the world, yet I am not so very a stranger to the occurrents of the world, but that I very well know, shee is universally adored; I must not al­wayes passe for an Hermite; this I am sure, shee carries with her the desires and vowes of all the Court, and shee leades in triumph those Gallants, who have themselves triumphed over our enemies: yet I know withall, they depend more upon her by their owne passion, than by her endeavours, and follow without being drawne. These are Captives, whom shee trusts upon their word, for their true imprison­ment, and whom shee suffers to be their owne Keepers. In the course shee holds of honestie, her favours are so morall, or so light, that either they content none but the wise, because they desire no more than what is given them; or none but the unwise, because they take that to be given them, which was never meant them; so there are some perhaps well satisfied, but it is by the force of their imagination, and no body hath cause to be proud of a Fortune, which no body possesseth. As her vertue is as cleere as the fire that sparkles in her eyes, so her reputa­tion is as much without blemish as her beautie; & of this, honest people give testimony by their [Page 21] words, and Detractors by their silence. Shee makes thornes that they cannot pricke, and makes slander it selfe to learne good manners. And therefore Sir, I should be very unfortu­nate, if I had been cause of displeasing her, whom all the world endeavours to please; and it would be a shame to our Nation, that a Frenchman should beare himselfe unreverently towards her, to whom very Barbarians beare a reverence. If this mis-fortune had besallen me, it is not the saving my Pages life, should make me stand in the defence; and I would never de­sire to augment my traine, but to the end I might have the more sacrifices to offer upon the Altar of her choler. But shee is too mercifull, to pu­nish meane Delinquents, and too generous, to give petty Examples: shee reserves her justice for the Great ones, and the Proud; for those who having more tender senses, are better able to feele the weight of her anger; or els in truth her purpose is to shew me a particular favour, by a publike declaration, and to let the world see, shee makes a reckoning of that of which the world makes none. And knowing what the gratefulnesse of good Letters is, shee is desirous to have them in her debt; shee payes our studies before-hand, for the fruit shee expects from them, and obligeth the Art which can prayse the Obligation: shee is made beleeve, that I have some skill in this Art, and I perceive I am not in so little respect with her as I thought; and of this I am assured, by the paines it cost you, to make her take her Page againe that was hurt; [Page 22] and by the civill language shee desired you to deliver from her. It exceeded indeed all bounds of moderation, and it seemes shee would not only for my sake protect an innocent, but would be ready, if need were, to reward a delinquent. For acknowledgment of which generous good­nesse, all my owne spirit, and all my friends put together, can never be too much. It is particu­larly your selfe to whom I must have recourse in this occasiō: you Sir, who set the Crown up­on Beauties head, who have the power to make Queenes at your pleasure; and to whom Olym­pia and Yzatide, are beholding for their Em­pire: having bestowed so great glory upon persons that never were; and set all France a running after Phantosmes, you may well take upon you to defend the reputation of a sensible and living vertue, and choose a subject that may be thankefull to you for your choice; and this is a matter you cannot deny, of which wee will talke more, and conclude it after dinner in pre­sence of the Lady that is interessed in it, into whose presence, I must entreat you, to be my usher to bring me, that so I may ever more and more be,

To Monsieur de Villiers Hottoman. LETTER XII.

SIR, being equally tender of the good will you beare me, and of the account you make of me, I cannot choose but rest well satisfied with your remembring me, and with the judge­ment you deliver of my writings; you are not a man that will beare false witnesse, and you have too much honestie to deceive the world, but withall, you have too much understanding to be deceived your selfe, and one may well re­lie upon a wisedome that is confirmed by time and practise. This is that which makes mee to make such reckoning of your approbation, and such account of your counsell, that I should be loath to be defective in the least tittle of conten­ting you. It is farre from me, to maintaine a point, that you oppose; I give it over at the first blow, and yeeld at the first summons: yet I could never have thought, that of a jeast, there should have been made a fault; or that a poore word, spoken without designe or ayming at any, should have been the cause of so great complaints. You know, that in a certaine moderne Schoole, there is a difference made, Fra la virtu faeminile, & la Donnesca; and it is held, that to make love, is more the vice of a woman, than of a Princesse; and lesse to be blamed in the person of Semird­mis or Cleopatra, than in the person of Lucretia [Page 24] or Virginia: I carry not my opinions so farre, and I meane to be no Authour of so extrava­gant a Moralitie. It may suffice, that without descending from the thesis to the hypothesis, I protest unto you, I should be very sorry, I had trenched upō the reputation of that great Queen, or intended to corrupt the memory of so excel­lent an odour, as shee hathleft behinde her; of whose great worthinesse, I have in other places sayd so much, that I should but shame my selfe to say any otherwise; and indeed, the termes I used were free, and not injurious, and such, as if they wound a little, they tickle & delight much more: I neither spake disgracefully of the dig­nitie of her royall birth, nor gave her any odious or uncivill names, as some others have done, whom I condemne extreamly for it; yet Sir, I will yeeld to confesse, that I have said too much, and though my saying too much should have attractives to charm me, and were as deare to me as any part of my selfe, yet seeing it is di­stastfull to you, I will for your sake cut it cleane off, and never looke for further reasons to in­duce me to it. I can deny nothing to my friends, and therefore make no doubt of the power you have over me, and of my testifying, upon this occasion, without further opening my eyes, that I am

To Monsieur de Borstell. LETTER XIII.

SIR, I am so farre from seeking to justifie my negligence, that I will not goe about so much as to excuse it: nothing but my being dead, can be a valuable reason why I waited not upon you, to offer you my service; all other impediments would prove too light, to have kept mee here: but such is your graciousnesse, that it is impossible to fall foule with you; such your indulgence, that you remit a fault before I can confesse it: you give me no leisure to aske you, at the very first, you oblige me to thanke you, and I have received my pardon here at home, which I never looked to obtaine, but at Oradour, and that with long solliciting. I have not yet seene the Ambassatrix, who hath done me the favour to bring it to me, and I cannot imagine, shee should be surprized with that de­spaire, as your Letter represents herein. Al­clones affliction, in respect of hers, would be but meane, and those women whose teares Anti­quitie hath hallowed, did but hate their hus­bands, in comparison of her: I know not whe­ther you doe her a pleasure, to raise her sorrow to so high a pitch; for after this you speake of, shee shall never be allowed to lift up her eyes, and you give her a reputation whereof shee is not worthy, if shee leave but one haire upon her [Page 26] head. I much distast your exaggerations, and cannot thinke shee will beare you out in the re­port you make of her miserable estate: if it were such, as you make it, it would be capable of no remedie: Epictetus and Seneca, would be too meane Physitions, to take her in hand; yet I meane not to contradict you:

Yet the glory of her spirit makes me beleeve withall, that this sad humour was but a Fit, and continued not long, and that the same day upon the tempest there followed a calme. A man shall meet with some women of such spirits, that neither time nor Philosophie can worke upon them; and some others againe, that pre­vent the worke of time & Philosophie, by their owne naturall constitution. As there are some fleshes so hard to heale, that no Balme can cure the pricke but of a pinne; so againe, there are some bodies so well cōposed, that their wounds are healed with plaine Spring water, and they close and grow together of themselves. I assure my selfe, our faire Lady is of this perfect tem­per, and that she wouldbe no example, to make widowes condemned for curling their locks, or for wearing their mourning gowns edged with [Page 27] greene. You should alledge unto her the Prin­cesse Leonina, so highly esteemed of the Court of Spaine, and the prime ornament of this last age. Knowing that her husbands quirry was come, to relate unto her the particulars of his death, & hearing that his Secretary was to come the morrow after, shee sent the quirry word, to forbeare comming to see her, till the Secre­tary were come, that so shee might not be ob­liged to shed teares twice. There is no vertue now adayes so common as constancy, nor any thing so superfluous, as the custome of comfor­ting. All the Steele of Biscay, and all the poy­son of Thessalie, might well enough be trusted in the hands of the mourners of our time, with­out doing any hurt. I scarce know a man that would not be glad to out-live, not onely his friends & parents, but even the age he lives in, & his very Country, and rather than die, would willingly stay in the world himselfe alone. Speake therefore no more of keeping Angeli­ca here by force, who in my opinion is not of herselfe unwilling; and not having lost the King of Sweden, may therefore the more easily re­payre her losse. I would to God Sir, I could be no sadder than shee is, and that I could forget a person, who is at this present the torment of my spirit; as he hath heretofore been the delight of my eyes: but melancholick men doe not so easily let goe the hold of their passions, and the good remedies you have sent to comfort mee for his death; I approve them all, but apply none of them: yet I give you a thousands marks, [Page 28] though six moneths after they were due; and though I say not often, yet I say it most truly, that you shall never take care of any man, that is more than my selfe,

To Madam—LETTER XIIII.

MAdam, seeing I could not come to see you at your departure, as I was bound to doe, I doe not thinke I shall doe you any wrong to send you a better companion than that I promi­sed you; I meane the Booke I now send you, whereof you have heard so much talke, and which you meant to have carried with you into Perigord, to be your comforter for the losse of Paris. It is in truth worthy of the good opini­on you have of it, and of the impatience with which I am a witnesse, you have expected it. And if wagers have been layd upon Queenes great bellies, and assurance given they should be brought abed of a sonne, why should I won­der that you have given before hand, your ap­probation of a thing that deserves the approba­tion of all the world? It will certainly bring you [Page 29] out of tast with the Present I gave you, when you desired me to looke you out some of my Compositions. In it you shall finde that, that will shorten he longest dayes of this season; That, that will keepe you from tediousnesse when you are alone; That, that will make you thanke me for my absence. For to say true, all visits will be unseasonable to you, when you set your selfe to the Recreation of so sweet a rea­ding; and whosoever shall come to trouble you at such a time, must needs have from you some secret maledictions, what civilities soever you make shew of, as your custome is. I would be loath to fall into this inconvenience, it is better I give my opinion a farre off, and in a Letter, which you may entertaine without any solem­nitie: since then you will have me beleeve, that my judgement is not altogether bad, nor my o­pinions wholly unsound; I professe unto you Madam, that setting aside the affection I beare to the Authour of this worke, I have observed in the worke it selfe, a number of excellent things, which I could not chuse but prayse, e­ven in an enemy. He is not so cholerick I hope, but that he will pardon me if I say that he is one of the most pleasing lyars that ever I saw. I complaine not of his impostures, but when he ceaseth to deceive me, because I would gladly have them last alwayes. His History hath quite removed my spirit out of its place, and hath tou­ched to the quicke all that I have sensible in me. I will not hide my weaknesse: I knew at first, that the painting I looked on, was all false, yet [Page 30] I could not hold from having as violent passi­ons, as if it had been true, and as if I had seen it with mine eyes: sometimes sorrowfull, some­times glad; as it pleaseth Monsieur de Bois Ro­bert to tell me tales of good or bad fortune. I find my selfe interessed in good earnest in all the affayres of his imaginary Kings; I am put in feare for the poore Anaxandra, more than I can expresse, and as much I am humbled for the mis-fortunes of Lysimantus, and I have seene them both in such extremities, that I made so­lemne vowes for their safetie, when at the very height they were miraculously delivered. In conclusion Madam, though I have a heart hard enough, and eyes not very moyst, yet I could not forbeare to shed teares, in spight of my selfe; and I have been even ashamed to see, that they were but the dreames and fancies of another man, and not my owne proper evils which put into me such true passions. This is a tyrannicall power, which the sence usurpeth over the rea­son, and which makes us see, that the neigh­bour-hood of the imagination, is extreamly contagious to the intellectuall part, and that there is much more body than soule in this proud creature, which thinkes it selfe borne to command all others. The Aethiopick History hath oftentimes given me these Alarums, and I cannot yet reade it without suffering my selfe to be deceived. As for other writings of this kinde, it is true, I make some choice, and runne not after all Spanish Romanos, with equall pas­sion. They are indeed for the most part, but He­liodorus [Page 31] in other clothes, or as—sayd, but children borne of Theagenes and Chariclea, and seeme to resemble their Father and Mother so neere, that there is not a haires breadth of difference betweene them. But in this worke Madam, I make you promise you shall see no­velties, and shall finde in it this sweet ayre of the wide world, and these dainties of the spirit, which are not common in our Provinces. I con­fesso unto you, there is in some passages some thing that may seeme too much painted, and perhaps too garish, and which will not beare examining by the rigour of Precepts; but then you must confesse as well that Fables looke chiefly after beautie, and care not though it be a little immodest, seeing this kinde of writing is rather a loose Poesie, than a regular Prose. As soone as I shall be able to ride, I will come and heare your Oracles hereupon, and tell you, as I use to doe, that as your selfe is one of the per­fectest things I ever saw, so I am more than of any other,

To Monsieur Hobier, President of the Treasures in the Ge­neralitie of Bourges. LETTER XV.

SIR, though you should say, I present you alwayes with flowers that prick you, and offer you services that may seeme unseasonable, yet I cannot forbeare the sollicitations of my Letters, nor the trading with you by this way of Complements. The Booke which I have desi­red Monsieur de—to deliver to you, shall passe if you please, but for an Essay; and I am contented that my discourses Morall and Poli­tick, shall contribute nothing to the mending of my own fortune, so they may contribute some­thing to the recommending of my Sisters busi­nesse: if it become me to speake of a person that is so neere unto me, and if you thinke me wor­thy to be credited in the testimony I shall give of her, I am able Sir, to say thus much, that shee is a womā, either lifted up by her own strength above the passions of her sexe, or that Nature hath exempted her from them, by a peculiar priviledge: so farre, as that amongst us, shee stands for an example, and leads a life that is the edification of all our Province. But though shee make profession of severe vertues, yet shee aspires to no glory by sullen humours; shee hath [Page 33] nothing muddy, nor clownish in her, but tem­pers her austerity with so much exterior sweet­nesse, that without endeavouring to please any, shee seemes to be pleasing to all the world, I therefore sollicite you for her, in behalfe of all the world, and crave your favour with vio­lence; for to crave it with discretion, would make but a weake shew, of the desire I have to obtaine it. In matters that concerne my selfe onely, I am held backe by a certaine naturall [...] ­mourousnesse, which makes me oftentimes to be wanting to my selfe; but in that which con­cernes her, I observe not so much as honest re­spects; but am bold, even to temeritie; and if therein I should not doe too much, I should ne­ver thinke I did enough: and yet this is a fault, which leaves no remorse behinde it; the merit of the subject, justifies the impor [...]unitie of the suppliant; and when you shall know her bet­ter, you will find no great excesse in that I write, and will blesse my persecution. You have al­ready obliged us exceedingly, and have put the businesse in an infallible way of prospering; it onely remaines Sir, that you crowne your cour­tesie, and draw a concluding word from the parties, whom I shall call Publicans, and cou­ple them with Heathens, if they be not conver­ted and led with that you shall say unto them: but I cannot doubt of the effect of your perswa­sions, who know, that both by your tongue, and by your pen, you practise our Art, with assured successe. Let us now see the proofe of it, in this occasion, and I p [...]omise you, that never favour [Page 34] was more commended, nor shall be more re­commended, than yours shall be. The conside­ration of a good deed, being joyned to that of vertue, you shall possesse me by a double title, and I shall not be lesse of due, than I am by choice,

To Monsieur de Coupeauville, Abbot of the Victory. LETTER XVI.

SIR, seeing the Relations that come from Paris, tell us no Newes at all of you, I en­treat you to be your owne Historian, and not suffer me to be punctually informed of a thou­sand things, that are indifferent to me, and re­maine altogether ignorant of the state of your health, which is so infinitely deare unto mee. It is very likely, you have all the care that may be of it, as of a thing necessary for exercising the functions of a vertuous life; and I doubt not but you containe your selfe alwayes in that ex­cellent meane, which is between disorder and mortification. You are no longer hungry after the glory of [...], and if the Artillery of [Page 35] the Valstin carry not so farre as the Realle, I as­sure my selfe, it can doe you no hurt: my minde therefore is at quiet in that point, and I am not afraid to loose you, as I have lost some other va­liant friends; and you doe well to leave the warre to others, and stay your selfe upon the Victory. I aske you pardon for this untoward Aequivocall word, I have rather written it than thought it, and it is a mis-fortune which surpri­zeth me but very seldome: I onely say Sir, that it is better to be Abbot a dozen miles from Pa­ris, than to be Generall of an Armie in Tharin­gia or Westphalia; and that a Crosse of so many pounds a yeare, is much more worth than either Hercules clubbe, or Rowlands sword; and that he that gave you so honest and so rich an idle­nesse, hath not ill deserved of your Philosophy, to which I recommend me with all my heart, and wish unto it the continuance of this happie repose; but upon condition, that it make you not distaste our friendship, and suffer you to place one of the most noble vertues of the mind in the number of her maladies and infirmities. Be not a Doctour so farre as that, and remem­ber, you are my debtor of some affection, if you forget not, that I am

To Monsieur de Forgues, Com­mander of a Company in Holland. LETTER XVII.

SIR, my deare Cousin, I thinke my selfe a rich man with the goods you have given me another that should have received the same present, should not owe you for it the same ob­ligation, but the opinion of things, is the mea­sure of their value; and because I have neither minde nor eyes that be covetous, I account the Emeraudes of your Glasse-windowes, of as great a price as those of Lapidaries: at least, whereas they are without life and motion, these live and moove in my base Court. I know my riches, and am known by them, and after I have read my selfe starke blind, I goe and refresh my wearied sight in that admirable verdure, which is to me both a recreation and a remedie. Base objects, not onely offend my imagination, but even provoke my choler; and I should never receive a Monkey from the best of my friends, but onely to kill it: but I vow unto you, that beautie pleaseth me wheresoever I meet it; yet because it is a dangerous thing in womens faces, I like better to behold it in the feathers of birds, and in the enameling of flowers. Plea­sures so chast, are compatible with Lent, and [Page 37] offend not God: and therefore upon these one houre in a day, I take pleasure to stand gazing and amuse my selfe: I thanke you for it with all my heart, and passionately am

To Madam d'Anguitur. LETTER XVIII.

MAdam, It shall never be laid to my charge, that you speake of me with honour, and that I understand it without feeling. A good o­pinion is obligatory, from whence so ere it come, but infinitely more, when it comes from an exquisit judgement, as yours is; and I doubt not, but Socrates was more touched and tick­led with that one word the Oracle spake of him, than with all the prayses the world had given him. The favourable discourses you have held of me, ought not to be held of me in lesse acoūt than words indeed inspired, & if I should place them in the number of humane testimonies, I should sh [...]w my selfe ignorant, that it is Hea­ven which hath been your Instructour; and that from thence, you have received those cleere lights, whereof the Starres are but shadowes. [Page 38] I doe not amplifie any thing at adventure, nor suffer my selfe to be swayed with flattery; but in this point of Illumination, Madam, I alwayes except matters of Faith, least your Ministers should take advantage of my words. We must needs, I say, hold for certaine, that either you have been instructed by an extraordinary way, or confesse that you owe it all to your selfe, and that comming to know the truth, without stu­die and discipline, your vertue is a meere work of your owne making. It is no small matter for one that lives in parts remote from the Court, to be but tolerably reasonable, & able to main­taine his common sence against so many oppo­sites and oppositions, as he shall meet with; but in those remote parts, where you have no choice of Examples, there to discover the Idaea, from whence Examples are taken, to breath in an infected Ayre, and full of Errours; and yet reteine still sound opinions; to be continually opposed with extravagant questions, and yet alwayes returne discreet answers; To take pit­tie of silly Buffons, when others admire them; to make a difference between jeasts picked up here and there, and those that come from the Spring it selfe; between wise discourses, and harmonious fooleries; between a sufficiency that is solid, and that which is onely painted; to doe these things Madam, ought to be called even halfe a miracle: and no lesse a raritie in these dayes than in former times, it was to see a white Aethiopian, or a Scythian Philosopher. Our Country may justly be proud of so admira­ble [Page 39] a birth; It is the great worke of her famous faecunditie, and wee may boldly say, there is that found in Saintoigne, which is wanting in the Circle; that which hinders the Court from be­ing compleat, and that which is necessary for the perfecting of Paris it selfe. But as well here as there Madam, if ever you will heare the vowes of those who wish your happinesse, I would thinke it fit, you should not make your selfe a spectacle for the vulgar, nor suffer your enter­tainment to be a recreation for idle persons. It deserves not to be approached unto without preparation; & that they should examine them­selves well, who present themselves before it. All spirits at all times, are not capable of so wor­thy a communication, and therefore, let men say what they will, I account the reservations you make of your selfe, to be very just, and it cannot be thought strange, that being as you are of infinite value, you take some time to possesse your selfe alone, and not to loose your right of reigning; which admits, as no division, so no Company. To use it otherwise Madam, would not be a civilitie, or a courtesie, but indeed an ill husbanding of your spirit, and a wastfull pro­fusion of those singular graces, of which, though it be not fit you should deprive them that ho­nour you, yet it is fit you should give them out by tale, and distribute them by measure. It is much better, to have lesse generall designes, and to propose to ones selfe, a more limited reputa­tion, than to abandon ones spirit to every on [...] that will be talking, and to expose it to the cu­riositie [Page 40] of the people, who leave alwayes a cer­taine taynt of impuritie upon all things they looke upon: by such vitious sufferance, we find dirt and mire carried into Ladies Closets: if there come a busie fellow into the Countrey, presently honest women are besieged, there is thronging to tell them tales in their eares; and all the world thinkes, they have right to torment them: and thus, saving the reverence of their good report, though they be chast, yet they be publike; and though they can spie the feast sul­lying upon their ruffes, yet they willingly suffer a manifest soyling of their noblest part. You have done Madam, a great act, to have kept your selse free from the tyrannnie of custome, and to have so strongly fortified your selfe a­gainst uncivill assay lants; that, whilst the Louver is surprized, your house remaines impregnable. I cannot but magnifie the excellent order, with which you dispose the houres of your life; and I take a pleasure to thinke upon this Sanctuary of yours, by the onely reverence of vertue made inviolable: in which, you use to retyre your selfe, either to enjoy more quietly your repose, or otherwise, to exercise your selfe in the most pleasing action of the world, which is the con­sideration of your selfe. If after this your hap­pie solitnde, you come sometimes and cast your eyes upon the Book I send you, you shall there­in Madam, doe me no great favour: the things you shall have thought, will wrong those you shall reade; and so it shall not be a grace, but an affront I shall receive. I therefore humbly en­treat [Page 41] you, there may be some reasonable inter­mission, between two actions, so much diffe­ring: Goe not streight from your selfe to me, but let the rellish of your owne meditation be a little passed over, before you goe to take re­creation in my worke. To value it to you, as a piece of great price; or otherwise, to vilifie it, as a thing of no value, might justly be thought in me an equall vanity. They who praise them­selves, desire consent, and seeke after others ap­probation; they who blame themselves, seeke after opposition, and desire they may be con­tradicted. This latter humilitie, is no better than the others pride. But to the end, I may not seeme to goe to the same place, by a third way, and desire to be praysed, at least with that in­differency I ascribe to you; I entreat you Ma­dam, that you will not speake the least word, either of the merit of my labour, or in default of merit, of the fashion of language I have u­sed in speaking to you: I meane not to put this Letter upon the score; to speake plainly, I en­treat you to make me no answer to it; so farre I am off, from expecting thankes for it. It is not, Madam, a Present I make you, it is an ho­mage I owe you; and I pretend not to oblige you at all, but onely to acquit my selfe of the first act of veneration, which I conceive I owe you, as I am a reasonable creature, and desiring all my life to be

To Monsieur Balthazar, Coun­cellour of the King, and Treasurer Generall of Navarre. LETTER XIX.

SIR, I never deliberate upon your opinion, nor ever examine any mans merit, when you have once told me what to beleeve. But yet, if I should allow my selfe the libertie to do otherwise, I could but still say, that I find Mon­sieur de—well worthy the account you hold him in, and my selfe well satisfied of him, upon his first acquaintanee. By further conver­sation, I doubt not, but I should yet discover in him more excellent things, but it is no easie matter, ever to bring us together againe: For, he is a Carthusian in his Garrison, and I an Her­mite in the Desart; so as that which in our two lives makes us most like, is that which makes us most unlikely ever to meet: yet I sometimes heare Newes of him; and I can assure you, he is but too vigilant in looking to his Charge; hee hath stood so many Rounds and Sentinells, that it is impossible, he should be without rhumes, at least, till Midsomer. These are, to speake truly, workes of supererogation; for I see no enemy this Province need to feare, unlesse perhaps, the Persian or Tartarian: the very Name of the [Page 43] King, is generally fortification enough, over all his Kingdome; and as things now stand, Vau­girad is a place impregnable; that if Demetrius came againe into the world, he would loose his reputatiō before the meanest village of Beausse: but this is one of your politician subtleties, to make Angoulesme passe for a Frontier Towne, and to give it estimation, that it may be envied. Doubt not, but I shall give you little thankes for this, seeing by this meanes you are cleane gone from us, and I must be faine to make a journey of purpose into Lauguedoc, if I ever meane to enjoy the contentment of embracing you, and of assuring you, that I am

To Monsieur de Serizay. LETTER XX.

SIR, if you were but resident at Paris, I should hope sometimes to heare of your Newes, but now that you are bewitched there, it will be an ungratefull worke for you to reade [...]ine. They are alwayes such as must be pitti­ed. In my way there are as many stones to dash against, as in yours there are flowers: and life it [Page 44] selfe is an evill that I suffer, as it is a good that you enjoy: you left me blind, and may now find me lame; my causes of complaining never cease, they doe but change place; and the favours I receive, are so husbanded, that I cannot recover an eye, but by the losse of a legge. I was yester­day in a great musing upon this, when suddenly a great light shined in my Chamber, and daze­led mine eyes, even as I lay in my bed. And not to hold you long in suspence, the Name of the Angell I meane, was Madam d' Estissac, who thus appeared unto me, and willing to make the world see, how much shee hath profited in Religion, runnes after all occasions, to put her Christian vertues in practise. This somewhat abates the vanity I should otherwise have taken in her visite; for, I see it is rather charitie than courtesie, and I am so much beholding to my in­firmitie for it, that shee made a doubt whether I were sicke enough to merit it; as much as to say, a Paralitick should have had this courtesie from her sooner than I. They must be great miseries that attract her great favours; pittie which tea­cheth the fayrest hands of the world to bury the dead, may well get of the fayrest eyes that ever were, some gracious lookes to comfort the af­flicted. What ere it be, I have found by expe­rience, that no sadnesse is so obstinate and clow­die, but pleasing objects may dissolve & pierce, not any Philosopher so stony and insensible, but may be softned and awaked by their lightest impression. I verily thinke, another of her vi­sits, would have set me on my legges, and made [Page 45] me able to goe: but shee thought me not wor­thy of a whole miracle, and therefore I must content my selfe with this beginning of my cure. I enforme you of these things, as being one that reverenceth their cause, and as one that loves me too well, to make slight of the goods or evills I impart unto him. This last word of my Letter, shall serve, if you please, for a cor­rective to the former, I revoke it as a blasphe­mie, and will never beleeve, that all the Magick in: Paris, is able to make you forget a man, whom you have promised to love, and who passionately is

Another to him: LETTER XXI.

SIR, this is the first opportunitie I could get to write unto you, and to comfort my selfe for your absence by this imperfect way, which is the onely meanes left mee to enjoy you. These are but shadowes and figures of that ture contentment, I received by your presence; b [...] since I cannot be wholly happie, I must take it in good part that I am not wholly mise­rable. [Page 46] I will hasten all I can to finish the busi­nesse I have begun, thereby to put my selfe in state to see you; and if my minde could goe as fast as my will, I should my selfe be with you as soone as my Letter. It is true, there cannot be a more delicate and daintie place, than this where I live banished; and a friend of ours said, that they who are in exile here, are farre hap­pier than Kings in Muscovia: but being sepa­rated from a man so infinitely deere unto mee, I doe not thinke, I could live contented in the Fortunate Islands; and I should be loath to ac­cept of felicitie it selfe, if it were offered me, without your company. Wherefore assure your selfe, that as soone as I can rid my selfe of some importunate visits, which I must necessarily both receive and give, I will not loose one mo­ment of the time, that I have destinated to the accomplishment of—and will travaile much more assiduously than otherwise I should doe, seeing it is the end of my travaile, that one­ly can give me the happinesse of your presence. In the meane time, I am bound, first to tell you, that I have seene here—and then to give you thankes for the good cheare he hath made me. He beleeves upon your word, that I am one of much worth, and gives me Encomiums, which I could not expect from his judgement, but that you have corrupted it, by favouring me too much. I earnestly entreat you, to let mee heare from you, upon all occasions; and to send me by the Post the two books, which I send for to Monsieur—if you have not received [Page 47] them of him already; but above all, I desire you, that we may lay aside all meditation and art in writing our Letters; and that the negligence of our stile, may be one of the marks of the friend­ship between us: and so Sir, I take my leave, and am with all my soule,

Another to him. LETTER XXII.

SIR, eyther you meane to mocke me, or I understand not the termes of your Letter; I come to you in my night gowne, and my night cap upon my head, and you accuse me for be­ing too fine. You take me for a cunning mar­chant, who am the simplest creature in the world: if another should use me thus, I should not take it so patiently; but what ere your de­signe be, I count my selfe happie, to be the sub­ject of your joy, and that I can make you merry, though it be to my cost: when I write to you, I leave my selfe to the conduct of my penne, and neither thinke of the dainties of our Court, nor of the severitie of our Grammar; that if there be any thing in my Letters of any worth, it must needs be, that you have falsified them, [...] so it is you that are the Mountebanke, and [Page 48] will utter your counterfeits for true Diamonds. You know well, that Eloquence is not gotten so good cheape, and that to terme my untoward language, by the name of this qualitie, is a su­perlative to the highest of my Hyperboles. Yet it seemes, you stand in no awe of Father—as though you had a priviledge, to speake with­out controll, things altogether unlikely; for this first time, I am content to pardon you, but if you offend so againe, I will enforme against you, and promise you an honourable place in the third part of Philarchus. The man you wrot of, hath no passions now; but wise and stayed; he hath given over play, and women, and all his delight now, is in his Bookes and vertue. Rejoyce, I pray you, at this happie conversion, and if you be his friend so much, and so much a Poet, as to shew your selfe in publicke, you may doe well to make a Hymne in prayse of Sicknesse; as one hath heretofore done in prayse of Health: for to speake truly, it is his sicknesse that hath healed him, and hath put into him the first meditations of his health: I expect great Newes from you by the next Post, and passionately am

To Monsieur Ogier. LETTER XXIII.

SIR, I cannot but confesse that men in mise­ry, never found a more powerfull Prote­ctour than your selfe; and that you seeme borne to be a defender of oppressed innocency. The Fathers of the Minimme Order, are as much be­holding to you as my selfe; whose right, you have so strongly maintained, that if I did not know you well, I should verily think, the Saint you speake of, had inspired you. And as by his prayers he gaines a jurisdiction over the fruit­fulnesse of Princesses, so by the same prayers he hath contributed assistance to this excellent worke you send mee. After this, it is not to be sufferd you should make shew of distast, and tell me of your sloathfulnesse. When fire shall cease to be active, I will then beleeve, you can be sloathfull; but will never thinke you hate Bookes, untill—shall give over his suits in Law; or if I must needs give credit to your words, I then assure my selfe, this distast could never come unto you, but by your too great fare, nor this wearinesse, but by your too great labour. I am my selfe a witnesse of your assidui­tie in studie; and you know, how early soever I rise in the morning, I alwayes find you in the chamber next to the Meteors; which high regi­on, I conceive you have chosen, that you may [Page 50] be the neerer to take in the inspirations of Hea­ven. I thinke it long till I come and visit you there, to take counsell of your Muses, in a num­ber of difficulties I have to propound unto you. In the meanetime, I have this to say, that the Newes you send me, hath even astonished me, and it seemes to me, a kinde of Enchantment Monsieur—will shew you certaine Let­ters, which I entreat you to consider of, and by which you shall see, that if I be deceived, yet it is not grossely, nor without much cunning used. Make me beholding to you, by opening your minde more particularly in this matter, and by beleeving that I am with all my heart

Another to him. LETTER XXIIII.

SIR, there is no friendship in the world of more use than yours: it is my Buckler in all my battailes, it is my Consolation in all my calamities; but specially, it is my Oracle in all my doubts. That which before. I have your ad­vice, I propose to my selfe with trembling, I soone as once I have your approbation: I make it a Maxime, and an Aphorisme: and when [Page 51] have once consulted with you, never did an Ignoramus take upon him to be some great Doctour better than I doe: You have know­ledge enough to serve your owne turne, and your friends; you are the God that inspires the Sibylle: for my selfe, I am no longer an Au­thour, but an Interpretor, and speake nothing of my selfe, but preach onely your doctrine. I give you a thousand thankes for your great magnificence, in giving me so great a treasure; and for the learned Observations you have been pleased to communicate unto me: Assure your selfe, I will cry them up in good place, & make your Name alledged solemnly for an Authori­tie. Gratefulnesse is the poore mans best ver­tue, and seeing I cannot be liberall, I will endea­vour, at least, not to be unmindfull: And so Sir, I am most perfectly, and more than any other in the world,

To Madam Desloges. LETTER XXV.

MAdam, being in a fit of a Feaver, I heare you are at Oradour, where I should have the honour to see you, if the joy of so good Newes had the power to carry me thither, and [Page 52] were able to give me the health, which it is for­ward to promise me. Being therefore not in case to assure you in person, how sensible I am of your many courtesies; give me leave to te­stifie unto you, that I am not unmindfull of the very last you shewed me, and that I give you thankes for the beginning of my amendment, whereof you are the cause. It is certaine, that when I was burning in a most extreame fire, I received a notable cooling and comfort, to heare you but onely Named; and this, Madam, is the first miracle you have done in this Countrey, if you stay but a while here, I hope we shall see many more and greater, and that you will leave some excellent markes, that you have beene here. Our Desarts shall be no longer rude, or savage, having once been honoured by your presence, the sweet ayre, that breaths on the bankes of the Loyre, shall spread it selfe hither; and I doubt not, but you will change all the choler of Lymousin into Reason, and make our Lyons become men. I doe not thinke, there is any will oppose this truth, unles perhaps—who had the heart to part from you with drie eyes, and could not finde teares to accompany yours. I have told him of it to his shame, before Monsieur de—and both of us agree, that in this occasion, he might honestly enough, have broken the lawes of his Philosophie, & might have lost his gravitie, without any lightnesse. Whilst wee were together, they desired to see a part of my Prince, which as yet I dare not call by so illustrious a Name; for in truth, Madam, [Page 53] he can be but a private person, untill such time as you proclaime him, and that he receive inve­stiture from his Soveraigne: so I call your ap­probation, which is with me in such respect and reverence, that I should preferre it before Rea­son it selfe, if they were two things that could be separated, and that I were allowed to choose which I would have. I would say more here­of, but that methinks, I have done a great worke to say so much; for my head is in such violent agitation, with the heat of my last fit, that all I can doe at this time, is but to set my hand to this Protestation, that I honour you exceedingly, and am as much as any in the world,

Another to her. LETTER XXVI.

MAdam, I am jealous of my Lacquies for­tune, who makes now a second journey to you, and consequently, shall be twice toge­ther twice as happy as I: he should never have this advantage of me, if to a journey to see you, there went nothing but courage, and if the rel­licks of my disease, which prey upon weaknes, did not tyre me more than the extreame vio­lence [Page 54] did, when I had some strength to resist it. By staying in my chamber, I loose all the fayre dayes that shine in the garden; all the riches of the fields are gathered without me; I have no part in the fruits of Autumne, whereof the Spring gave me such sweet hopes; and I am promised health at winter, when I shall see no­thing but a pale Sunne, a thread-bare Earth, and dead sticks, that have brought forth grapes, but not for me to eate. In this miserable estate, I have no comfort, but onely the Letter you did me the honour to write unto me, which is so precious to me Madam, that I even honour it, with a kinde of superstition, and am ready to make a chaine or bracelet of it, to try whether the wearing it about me, may not proove a bet­ter Remedy against my Feaver, than all the other I have used. There is but one word in it that I cannot endure, being not able to conceive why you should call your selfe Unfortunate: are you not afraid, least God should call you to account for this word? and charge you with ungratefulnesse, for making so slight reckoning of his great benefits and Graces? He hath lifted you up above your owne sexe, and ours too, and hath spared nothing to make you compleat; the better part of Europe admires you; and in this poynt, both Religions are agreed, and no contesting betweene Catholike and Protestant; The Popes Nuntio, hath presented our Beliefe even to your person, all perfumed with the complements and civilities of Italie; Princes are your Courtiers, and Doctours your Schol­lers: [Page 55] and is this Madam, that you call to be un­fortunate? and that which you take for a just cause to complaine? I humbly intreat you, to speake hereafter in more proper termes, and to acknowledge Gods favours in a more gratefull manner. I know well, that your loyaltie hath suffered by your brothers Rebellion; and that in the publike miseries you have had some private losses, but so long as you have your noble heart, and your excellent spirit left you, it is not possi­ble, you should be unfortunate; for indeed, in these two parts, the true Madam Desloges is all entire and whole. It is I Madam, that have just cause to say, I am unfortunate, who am never without paine, never without griefe, never without enemies; and even at this very time I write from a house of griefe, where my mother and my sister being sicke on one hand, and my selfe on the other, I seeme to be sicke of three sicknesses at once; yet be not afraid, least this I send you should be infectious, as though I had a designe to poyson you with my Presents: for I have not yet medled with any of the Musque fruits, which I hope you shall eate; I have not durst so much as to come neere them, least I should chance to leave some light impression of my Feaver upon them: They are originally Natives of Languedoc; and have not so dege­nerated from the goodnesse of their auncestors, but that you will find them, I hope, of no un­pleasing taste, and besides Madam, rhey grow in a soyle that is not hated of Heaven, & where I can assure you, your Name is so often rehear­sed, [Page 56] and your vertue so highly esteemed, that there is not an Eccho in all our woods, but knowes you for one of the perfectest things in the world, and that I am

To—LETTER XXVII.

MAdam, see here the first thankes I give you, for you know, that having never done me but displeasures, I have never yet re­turned you but complaints: but now at last you have been pleased to beginne to oblige me, and after so many sentences of death, which you have pronounced against me, and after so many cruelties, which I have suffered, you have be­thought your selfe, ten yeares after, to send me one good Newes, which truly is so pleasing to me, that I must confesse, you had no other way to reconcile your selfe unto me; and I cannot forbeare to blesse the hands that brought mee a Letter from Madam Desloges, though they were dyed in my bloud, and had given me a thousand wounds. The sence of former injuries, hath no competition with so perfect a joy, and of two passions equally just, the more violent is easily [Page 57] overcome of the more sweet. You have haste­ned the approach of my old age, and made gray one halfe of my haire; you have banished mee this Kingdome, and forced me to flie your ty­ranny, by flying into another Country: finally, it is no thanke to you, that I have not broken my owne necke, and made matter for a Trage­die: and yet foure lines of Madam Desloges, have the force to blot out all this long story of my mis-fortunes, and willingly with all my heart, I forget all the displeasures I have received, for this good office you now affoord me. I make you this discourse in our first language, that I may not disobey Monsieur de—who will have me write, but will not have me write in a­ny other stile; for in truth, and to speake seri­ously, now that he leaves me at libertie, I must confesse unto you Madam, that I am exceeding­ly bound unto you, for the continency I have learned by being with you, and for the good examples you have given me: your medicines are bitter, but they heale; you have banished me, but it is from prison: and if my passions be coo­led by the snow of my head, I have then never a white hayre, which I may not count for one of your favours. I therefore recant my former complaints, and confesse my selfe your Debtour of all my vertue. The time I have imployed in your service, hath not been so much the season of my disorderd life, as it hath been an initiating me into a regular life which I meane to leade. Your conversation hath been a schoole of auste­ritie unto me, and you have taught me, never to [Page 58] be either yours, or any others, but onely in our Lord,

To Madam Desloges. LETTER XXVIII.

MAdam, my evill Fortune, gives one com­mon beginning to all my Letters: I am impatient even to death, to have the honour to come and see you: but now that I am well, the ayre is sicke, and all the Countrey drowned: There is no Land to be seene between this and Lymousin; and the mischiefe is, that there is no navigation yet found out, for so dangerous a voyage. This bindes me to waite, till the wa­ters be fallen, and that God be pleased to re­member his Covenant with Noah. As soone as this shall be, I will not fayle to performe my vow, and to come and spend with you the hap­piest day of all my life. In the meane time Ma­dam, give me leave, to tell you, that I am not yet well recovered of the extasie you put me in, by writing unto me such excellent things, that I could not reade them with a quiet minde, nor indeed without a kinde of jealousie. All Fron­tignon would be sufficiently paid with that you [Page 59] write of a dozen paltry Muske-fruits I sent you; & you prayse my writings with words, which have no words worthy of them, but your own. This, of one side makes me envious, and of the other side interessed: and if the honour I receive by your flattering Eloquence, did not sweeten the griefe of being overcome, it would trouble me much that I had no better defended the ad­vantages of our sexe, but should suffer it to loose an honour, which the Greekes and Latines had gotten for it. Yet take heed, you hazard not your judgement too freely, upon the uncer­taintie of humane things: you reckon him a Prince, who is not yet borne, you should have seene his Horoscope from the poynt of his conception, before you should speake of him in so loftie termes. But besides that nothing is lesse assured, than the future; and nothing apter to de­ceive, than hope: Consider, Madam, I beseech you, that you favour an unfortunate man, and that Faction oftentimes carries it away from truth. It will be hard for you, your selfe alone, to withstand an infinite multitude of passionate men: and it may be said to you, as was said to those of Sparta, upon occasion of the great Ar­mic of the Persians, that you can never van­quish as long as they can die. Herein there is no­thing to be feared, but for your selfe; for as for me, I finde in your favour, all I seeke for; and having you of my side, I care not what fame can doe, having once your testimony, I can easily flight hers; and all her tongues put together, can never say any thing for me, that is worth [Page 60] the least lyne of your delicate Letter. It is at this time, the delight and joy of my spirit; I am more in love with it, than ever I was with—and if shee shew you that which I write to her, you shall finde, I make not so much reckoning of my ancient Mistris, as I do of your new mes­senger; and that I desire all the world should know, that I perfectly am,

Another to her. LETTER XXIX.

MAdam, I will not take upon mee to give you thankes, for the good cheare you made mee; for, besides that I have none but Country Civilities, and when I have once said, Your humble servant, and your servant most humble; I am then at the end of my cōplemnts, and can goe no further. It were better yet to let you hold your advantage entire, and owe you that still, which I can never pay. I forbeare to speake of the dainties and abundance of your Table, enough to make one fat, that were in a Consumption; nor I speake not of the delicacy of your perfumes, in which you laid mee to [Page 61] sleepe all night; to the end, that sending up sweet vapours into my braine, I might have in my i­magination, none but pleasing visions. But Ma­dam, what but Heaven can be comparable to the dainties of your Closet, and what can I name to represent sufficiently, those pure and spiritu­all pleasures, which I tasted in your Conversa­tion? It is not my designe, to talke idly, nor to set my stile upon the high straine; you know, I am bound to avoyde Hyperboles, as Mariners to avoyde Sands and Rockes; but this is most true, that with all my heart, I renounce the world, and all its pompes, as long as you please to inhabit the Desart, and if you once determine to stay there still, (though I have sent to Paris to hyre me a lodging) yet I resolve to breake off the bargaine, and meane to build me an Hermi­tage, a hundred paces from your abode: from whence Madam, I shall easily be able to make two journeys a day to the place where you are, and shall yeeld you a subjection, and an assidui­tie of service, as if I were in a manner of your household. There shall I let nothing fall from your mouth, which I shall not carefully gather up, and preserve it in my memory. There you shall doe me the favour, to resolve me when I shall have doubts; set me in the right way, when I goe astray; and when I cannot expresse my selfe in fit termes, you shall cleere my clouds, and give order to my confusednesse. It shall be your eares, upon which I will mea­sure the cadences of my sentences; and upon the different motions of your eyes, I will take no­tice [Page 62] of the strength or weaknesse of my wri­tings. In the heate of the travaile, and amidst the joyes of a mother, that lookes to be happily delivered, I will expose the Infant to the light of your judgement to be tryed, and not hold him for legitimate, till you approve him. Some­times Madam, we will reade your Newes, and the Relations that are sent you from all parts of Christendome: Publike miseries shall passe be­fore our eyes, without troubling our spirits; and the most serious actions of men, shall be our most ridiculous Comaedies. Out of your Clo­set, we shall see below us the tumults and agita­tion of the world, as from the top of the Alpes, we stand and safely see the raine and hayle of Savay. After this, Monsieur de Borstell shall come and reade us Lectures in the Politiques, and Comment upon Messer Nicholo unto us: He shall informe us of the affayres of Europe, with as great certaintie, as a good husband would doe of his Familie. He shall tell us the Causes, the Proceedings, and the Events of the warre in Germany; and therein shall give the lye, a thousand times, to our Gazets, our Mer­curies, and such other fabulous Histories. Wee will agree with him, that the Prince he is so much in love withall, is most worthy of his pas­sion; and that Sweden is no longer able to con­taine so great a vertue: After the fashion of Plutarch, he shall compare together the prime Captaines of our age; alwayes excepting—who admits of no comparison. He shall tell us, which is the better man, the Italian, or the Ger­mane; [Page 63] what meanes may be used to take off the Duke of Saxony from the house of Austria; and what game the Duke of Bavaria playes, when he promiseth to enter into the League; and is alwayes harkening to that which he ne­ver meanes to conclude. From these high and sublime Newes, we will descend to other mea­ner, and more popular subjects. It shall be writ­ten to you, whether the kingdome of Amucant be still in being, and whether there appeare not a rising Sunne, to which all eyes of the Court are turned: Monsier de—shall send you word, whether he persist in his pernicious de­signe, to bring Polygamie into France, and to commit nine Incests at once; I meane, whether he have a good word from those nine Sisters, to all whom he hath solemnly made offer of his service. Wee shall know whether the Baron of—put Divines still to trouble: whether Monsieur da—have his heart still harde­ned against the ungratefulnesse of the time, and whether Monsieur de—continue still in his wilfulnesse to punish mankinde by the sup­pression of his Bookes. By the way of Lymo­ges, wee shall get the devises of Boissiere; the Epigrammes of Mayn [...]d, and other toyes of this nature. The Stationer des Espies Meurs will furnish you plentifully with Romances, and with that they call Belles Choses: and if it come to the worst from the very Cindera of Philar­chus, there will spring up every moneth a new Phaenix of backbiting Eloquence, that will find [...] recreation for one houre at least. And these [Page 64] Madam, are a part of those imployments, in which I fancy in my minde, we may spend our time all the time of the heat; for when the re­turne of Aprill shall bring againe the flowers and fayre dayes, and invite you abroad awalk­ing: we must then looke us out some new plea­sures, and change our recreations: wee will have swannes and other strange Birds, to cover this water at once both quicke and still, which washeth the feet of your Muses: wee will fall a planting of trees, & dressing the allies of your Garden: wee will digge for Springs, and dis­cover treasures, which loose themselves under ground, which yet I value no lesse than veynes of silver, because I judge of them without cove­tousnesse. And finally, Madam, we will fall a­building that famous Bridge, by which to en­ter your enchanted Palace, and wherof the one­ly designe, puts all the neighbouring Nobilitie already into a jealousie. If you like of this course, and of these Propositions, and that my company may not be troublesome to you, there remaines nothing to doe, but that you command mee to come, and I am instantly ready to quit all other affayres in the world, and to come and testifie to you, that I am

Another to her. LETTER XXX.

MAdam, wee receive the Answers of Ora­cles without making reply; perfect de­votion is dumbe, and if you had left me the use of my tongue, I should then have had one part at least, of my spirit free from this universall a­stonishment that hath surprized it. You are al­wayes lifted up above the ordinary condition of humanitie, and the divinenesse of your spirit is no longer an Article in question amongst people that are reasonable; yet I must confesse, you ne­ver shewed it more visibly, than in the last Let­ter you writ unto me, & if at other times I have beene dazeled with some beame, you have now made me starke blind with the fulnesse of your light. Spare Madam, I entreat you, the weak­nesse of my sight, and if you will have me be a­ble to endure your presence, take some more humane forme, and appeare not all at once in the fulnesse of that you are, I were never able to abide such another flash of brightnesse. My eyes are weary with looking upward, and with considering you, as you are a creature, adorable and divine. Hereafter I will not looke upon you, but on that side you are good and gracious, and will not venture to reason with you any more, for feare I should to my owne confusi­on illustrate the advantage of your spirit over [Page 66] mine. You shall have nothing from me here­after, but prayers and thankes; and I will make you confesse, that I sollicite better than I praise. I therefore send you now Madam, divers cros­ses at one time, and persecute you with no lesse than three afflictions at once, I meane, three Letters of recommendation, which I request from you, in behalfe of—I humbly entreat you to deliver them to this messenger, and to write them in such a perswasive style, as might be able to corrupt all the Catoes of Paris; al­though indeed, the cleernesse of our right, hath more need of their integritie, than of their fa­vour. I expect Madam, this new courtesie from your goodnesse, and am alwayes more than any in the world,

Another to her. LETTER XXXI.

MAdam, in the state I am now in, there is none but your selfe could make me speak: and I never did a greater worke in my life than to dictate these foure untoward lynes: my spi­rit is so wholly taken up with the consideration of my misery, and flies all commerce and com­pany, in so violent a manner, that if it concerned [Page 67] me not exceedingly, you should know that—finds himselfe infinitely obliged to your courte­sies, and my selfe no lesse than he; I thinke ve­rily, I should have let—depart, without so much as bidding him Farewell. Pardon Ma­dam, the weaknesse of a vulgar spirit, which feeles no crosses light, and falls flat downe at tho very first blow of adverse Fortune. Perhaps in prosperitie, I should carry my selfe better, and I doe not thinke, that joy could make me inso­lent; but to say the truth, in affliction I am no body, and that which would not so much as leave a scratch upon the skin of a Stoick, pier­ceth me to the very heart, and makes in it most deepe wounds. Griefe dejects me in such sort, and makes me so lazie in doing my dutie, and so unfit for all functions of a civill life, that I won­der no longer at those that were turned into trees and rockes, and lost all sence with onely the sence of griefe. Yet Madam, as often as I call to minde, that I hold some part in your ac­count and love; I am forced to confesse, that my melancholy is unjust, and that I have no good foundation for my sadnesse. This honour ought to be unto me a generall remedy against all sorts of affliction, and the misery that you complaine of, is not so much to be pittied as to be envied. From thence it is, that I draw all the comfort I am capable of, humbly entreating you to beleeve you shall never pitie a man in misery, that will be more gratefull than my selfe, nor that is more passionately, than I am

Another to her. LETTER XXXII.

MAdam, I receive but just now your Letters of the five & twentieth of the last moneth, and though I know not, by whom to send an an­swer, yet I can no longer hold from expressing my joy, nor keepe my words from leaving my heart to fall upon this paper. The last time I writ unto you, I had heard of the unfaithfulnes of a friend of mine, which struck me to the ve­ry heart; since which time, a better report hath somewhat quieted me; but it is you, Madam, that have restored to me the full use of my rea­son; and are a cause that I am contented to live. Although corruption be in a manner universall, and that there is no more any goodnesse to be found amongst men, yet as long as you are in the world, it is not fit to leave it quite, but your ver­tue may well supply all its defects. Besides Ma­dam, if it be true, as you doe me the honour to write unto me, that you account my interests as your owne; this very consideration is enough to make them dearer to me than they were be­fore; and I am therefore bound to preserve my selfe, seeing it seemes, you would be loath to loose me. One gracious word, which I obser­ved in your Letter, hath wonne me to you, in such sort, that I have no longer any power of my selfe, but what you leave me; and in all your [Page 69] Empire, which is neither meane, nor consists of [...] subjects; I can assure you, that you pos­sesse nothing with more soveraigntie, than my will. If your occasions draw you to Aunix this next Spring, I hope to have the honour to see you at Balzac, where I am trimming up—with all the care I can, that it may be a little more worthy of your presence, and that the amusement I shall thereby give you, may keepe you from working the ill cheare you are like to finde in a Country village: My sister is in­finitely bound to you, for the honour you doe her, in remembring her; and I am my selfe, with all my soule

Another to her. LETTER XXXIII.

MAdam, my indisposition hathbin the cause of my silence, and I thought it better to say nothing, than to entertaine you with a trou­blesome discourse: Besides, I was in a continu­all expectation of the performance of your pro­mise; and looked to have the honour, to see you here in May. But seeing you have made my hopes recoyle, and that you make your a­bode [Page 70] in Limousin for some longer time, be plea­sed Madam, that I send—to bring me a true relation of the state of your health; and to tell me, if you use, as you ought, the shade of your woods, and the freshnesse of your foun­taines: For my selfe, who make my harvest at the gathering of Roses and Violets; and who reckon the goodnesse of the yeare, by the abun­dance of these delicate Flowers; Now is the season for my humour, and in one onely sub­ject I finde cause enough, to scorne and slight both the perfumes of the sheet St. Honore, and the pictures of the faire St. Germain. Thus I make my selfe happie, at a very easie rate, and have not so much as a thought of any want. And indeed, to what purpose should I grieve for pleasures that are absent, and curiously hunt af­ter all the defects of my Estate. If my com­merce be onely with dumbe Creatures, at least I am not troubled with the importunitie of Courtiers, nor with the verses of a paltry Poet, nor with the Prose of Messieurs—: These are the inconveniences of Paris, which I count more troublesome, than either the dirt, or the justling of Coaches, and at the worst, if by living in the Desart, I should become a meere savage, yet I am sure to recover the garbe of the world, as soone as I shall but see Madam Destoges, and make my selfe neat and civill, with but one halfe houres conversing with her. This is my wish Madam, and passionately I am

To Monsieur de la Nouve, Counsel­lour of the King in his first Chamber of Enquests. LETTER XXXIIII.

To Madam Desloges. LETTER XXXV.

MAdam, I have not dared now a good while to send you any Letters, for feare you should conceive, they carried an ill ayre about them; nor yet to send you any more Melons, which yet prove excellent good this yeare; for doubt you should suspect them, as comming from a Countrey extreamely disparaged: but since I understand by your Letter, that you are not so much frighted as I was told, and since also, I can protest unto you most religiously, that I write from a place most cleere from any taint of the neighbouring misery, and that hath kept sound in the midst of infection: I am most glad [Page 74] Madam, that I have the libertie to tell you, that I value you more, than all the ancient Ro­manes, and that I have no comfort to thinke of, in the deepest houres of all my solitude, but onely you, and your incomparable merit. What businesse soever I am about, I take plea­sure to let this thought make me a trewant at my travaile; it is a recreation, for which I a­bandon all affayres; and there is neither Morall, nor Politique, Plato nor Aristotle, but I pre­sently give him over as soone as you are once presented to my imagination. I hope I shall need to use no Oaths, to make you beleeve this veritie: you are well enough acquainted with my pride, and know that this Country swayne would not, turne flatteret for an Empresse. There are but three persons, I am resolved to prayse; you Madam, are one; and if you have the leisure to reade that I send you, you will easily guesse, who the other two are; and so I b [...]d you Good [...]orrow, and perfectly am

Another to her: LETTER XXXVI.

MAdam, you shall receive from me no pre­meditated excuses, I had rather confesse my fault ingenuously, than take the paines to justifie it untowardly. Indeed a fatall sluggish­nesse, cousin german to a Lethargie, hath seazed in such sort upon me since my comming hither, that I have not so much as written to my owne mother; so as having fayled in this first poynt, I thought not fit to fayle by halfes; and there­fore never troubled my selfe much in the rest of my dutie. I speake Madam, of this exteriour dutie, and this affection in picture, which is of­tentimes but a false representation of the soule, for as for the true respect, and the passion, which hath residence in the heart: I assure you, I have that in me for you, as pure and entyre as ever, and that he that calls you his Soveraigne, yet honours you not more perfectly, than I doe. Monsieur de—will I doubt not, be my witnesse herein; and will tell you, that what part soever I be forced to play amongst jeasters and merry companions, yet under my players cloathes, there will alwayes be found an honest man. I have beene sensible, Madam, of the losse, which—hath had, and have not bin sparing to speake of his unfortunate vertue; yet I never thought, he needed any comfor­ting [Page 76] for it; for, seeing he sees that God spares not his own Images and that his neerest friends have their disgraces and troubles, he ought not to thinke any thing strange that happens in this inferiour world, and upon inferiour I persons; what consideration soever may otherwise make them dea [...] unto him. If you have vouchsafed to keepe the Letters. I have written to you; I humbly [...] you to send them to me, that I may see what volume II can make for the im­pression that is required of mee: [...] Madam, it shall be if you please upon this condition, that parting with the Letters, you shall never let your memory part with the truthes they con­taine, but hold undoubtedly that I very firmely am, though I doe not very often say I am

Another to her. LETTER XXXVII.

MAdam, my labour is happie, since it is ne­ver from before you, and since I am told, you make it your ordinary entertainment. The end of all fayre Pictures, and good Bookes, is but onely to please your eyes, and to delight your spirit, and the good you have not yet set [Page 77] a price upon, is not yet come to its uttermost perfection. I have therefore all that an ambi­tious man could wish for, I may perhaps have fortune from others, but glory I can have from none but you; and another perhaps may pay me, but none but you can recompense mee. The paines I have hytherto taken, have beene but ill required. I have tilled a ground that brings mee forth but thornes; yet Madam, since they grow for your service, I am conten­ted to be pricked by them; and I love the cause of my disgraces, if they proove a cause of your recreations. The first Newes, you shall heare, will tell you what I meane; and that my pati­ence never makes my persecutours weary. You shall see Madam, that there is no consci­ence made to contradict you, and that, that which you call excellent and admirable, hath yet at Paris found enemies, and at Bruxells hangmen. I will say no more at this time, but that I am

Another to her. LETTER XXXVIII.

MAdam, I writ unto you about six weekes since, but my packet not being delivered where I appointed it, I perceive some curious body hath seazed on it, and sought for secrets, which he could not find. The losse is not great, to loose nothing, but a few untoward words; and small comforting would serve me, for so small a crosse; yet because they were full of the passion I owe to your service, and carried in them the markes of my dutie, I cannot but be troubled, they came not to your hands, and that my mis-fortune, gives you cause to complaine of my negligence. I dare not undertake to cleare my selfe altogether; for though in this I com­mitted no fault, yet I cannot forget some other faults committed before. The truth is Madam, I have been for some time so continually taken up with businesse, that I have beene wanting in the principall obligations of a civill life, and I have drunke besides so many bitter potions, and tasted so many bitter Pills, that I should but have offended you with my complements; which could not choose but carrie with them, at least some tincture of my untoward hu­mour. What pleasure could you have taken, to see a medley of choler and melancholy, powred out vpon paper? and instead of plea­sing [Page 79] Newes, to reade nothing but pittifull Sto­ries, and mortall Predictions? But enough of this unpleasing matter. I expect here within three or foure dayes, my Lord the Bishop of Nantes; and I would to God Madam, you could be here at that time, and that you were at leisure to come and taste the doctrine of this rare personage. I have heard you say hereto­fore, you never saw a more holy countenance than his, and that his very looke, was a Pro­logue of perswasion. This conceit, makes mee hope, that he is the man, whom God hath or­dained to be your Converter, and to bring you into the bosome of our Church. Beleeve mee Madam, and you shall not be deceived; trust that enemy, who wounds not, but onely to draw out the bloud that causes a Feaver, and never make difficultie to commit your selfe to one, that intends your freedome. The triumph which the world makes you feare, is no way injurious to those that be the captives; nor like unto that of which Cleopatra tooke so sadde an apprehension: but in this case, the vanquished are they that are crowned, and all the glory and advantage of the victory rests on their side: I am not out of hope to see so good a dayes worke; and seeing you are rather layd asleepe in the opinion of your mother, than obstinate in a wrong cause: I intreat you, that you will not be frighted with phrases. Wee will not use this hard terme to say, you have abjured your heresie; wee will onely say, you are awaked out of your [...]umber, and if our deare [Page 80] friend, Monsieur du Moulin would doe so too, than would be the time of a great festivall [...] Heaven; and the Angels would rejoyce at the prosperitie of the Church. My zeale Madam, is not out of ostentation: for it is most true, that such a change, is one of my most violent wishes; and to see you say your prayers upon your Beads, I would with all my heart give you a payre made of Diamonds; though I am not rich, yet I hope you doubt not of the truth of these last words, and that I am with all my foule,

Another to her. LETTER XXXIX.

MAdam, it hath beene, as much my shame, as my glory, to reade your Letter, ha­ving so ill deserved it, and the remorse of the fault, I committed, makes mee; that I dare not yet rejoyce in the honour, I received. You [Page 81] are good and gracious, even to the not hating o [...]evill actions; Your delinquents, not onely obteine impunitie, but you allow them recom­pence, and idlenesse hath more respect with you, than diligent service with ordinary Ma­sters. This is the faelicitie of the Golden age, where Plentie had no neede of tilling; and where there was reaping without sowing. Yet Madam, I must not so abandon my cause, that I forbe are to alledge the good it hath in it; it is long since I writ unto you, it is true, but the cause hath beene for that these six moneths, I have every day been upon comming to see you: and according to the saying of the Oratour your acquaintance, I have dispenced with my ordinary dyet, in hope of a great Feast, and to performe my devotion with the more solemni­tie. If Monsieur de—have kept his word with mee, he hath told you, how often he hath found me upon the very poynt of comming; but as many journeys, as I intended to make, so many crosse accidents alwayes happened to hinder them, and the mis-fortune that accom­panies me, makes every dutie, though never so casie to another, impossible to me. Yet Ma­dam, I have never ceased from doing continu­all acts, of the reverence I beare you, and I ne­ver sweare, but by your merit. My braine is drie in any other Argument, and wordes are drawne from me one by one; but when there is occasion to speake of you, then I over­flow in words; upon this onely Text, I take [Page 82] a pleasure to be Preaching; and Monsieur de—to whom I am alwayes before a har­kener; as soone as I beginne discourse of you, becomes my auditour. I can assure you Ma­dam, he honours you exceedingly; and nei­ther his ambassage to Rome, from whence Gentlemen returne not commonly without a certaine conceit of soveraigntie; nor the im­ployments of the State, which make particu­lar men, thinke themselves the Publike, have beene able to make him take upon him, this un­gratefull gravitie, which makes Greatnesse ri­diculous, and even vertue it selfe odious. He hath protested here, before good companie, that hee will never be found other, and that Fortune should have an ill match in hand, to thinke to corrupt him. I used my ordinary rudenesse, and intreated him, to be mindfull of his word, and to be one of our first exam­ples of so rare a moderation: You shall see Madam, in a Letter I send you; that which hereupon I am bound to say of him: and I in­treat you, to maintaine for me, that I am no common prayser: and that, if I were not per­swaded of what I say, it is not all the Canons of the Towne should make mee to say it. It is onely the worth of things, or at least, the opi­nion I have of their worth, that drawes from mee the prayses I give them. If Monsieur de—should returne to be a private person, I should not respect him a jot lesse, than now I doe: and if you should be made Governesse of [Page 83] the Kings house, I should not be a whit more than I am,

Another to her. LETTER XL.

Another to her. LETTER XLI.

MAdam, my eyes are yet dazeled, with the brightnesse of your Cabinet, and I vow unto you, the Night was never so fayre, nor so delicately trimmed up, as lately at your House.

I have shewed our Ladies the Description of this proud and stately Night, and of the rest of your magnificence, which if it were in a seve­rer Common-wealth than ours, would be cal­led a Profusive Wast; they admire you in your house, as well as in your Verses, and agree with mee in this, that Wisedome hath a hand in eve­ry thing, and that, after shee hath discoursed of Princes, and matters of State; shee descends to take care of her Hosts, and lookes what is done in the Kitchin. But from a vertue of their own, they alwayes come to that of yours, asking me continually for Newes of your entertainment, and for Copies of your Letters: and by this meanes, the happinesse which I have from you, is instantly made common to all the neighbour­hood, and yet stayes not there neither, but spreads it selfe both farre and neere, that when you thinke, you write but to one particular man, you write indeed to a whole Province. This is not to write Letters, but rather to set forth Declarations and Edicts; I know Ma­dam, you were able to acquit your selfe per­fectly, in so noble an Imployment; comple­ments are below the dignitie of your style; and if King Elisabett, should come againe into the world (you know of whom this is spoken) no question but he would make you his chiefe [Page 87] Secretary of State. Monsieuer de—ex­tolls you yet in a higher strayne, and is infinite­ly desirous to see you in this Country. Yester­day, of his own accord he made himselfe your Tributary, and hath bound himselfe to send you, every yeare, a reasonable number of his Loaves; if you shall like them, they will grow into more request than the Gloves of the Fran­gipani: but because your people of Lymousin, may take occasion to Equivocate here: I en­treat you to advertize them, that this Perfumer hath thirtie thousand pound rent a yeare; and holds the supremest dignitie of our Province, and that this Glover is a Romane Lord, Mar­shall of the Campe of the Kings Armies, cou­sin to St. Gregory the Great, and that which I value more than all this, one of the honestest men that lives. I am bold to use my accustomed libertie, seeing you allow mee to doe it Ma­dam, having given me your Letters Patents for it, and will beare me out to laugh in graver sub­jects than this is. It may therefore suffice me to say, but most seriously, that I am

Another to her: LETTER XLII.

MAdam, your place is before all other things whatsoever, and therefore no law­full impediment can be alleaged, for sayling in the dutie, that is due unto you. I have these two moneths had great affayres; which in the rigour of your Justice, is as much as to say, I have these two moneths neglected my dutie. Having not written to you, in all this time, I am contented to call it, a Disorder, which o­therwise I should call a Businesse, and I doe not thinke, I could with all the reasons of the world have made you patient, to stay so long, for the thankes I am to give you. Your present hath equally wherewith to content both the cove­tous and the vaine; it hath soliditie no lesse than lustre; the onely sight of it, refutes the mode­stie you use in speaking of it: you are injurious Madam, to so excellent a thing; it deserves the most stately inscription, you could devise to give it, and if I were worth the having of a Cabinet, this should be the prime piece, I would make choice of to adorne it. Because vulgar people have nothing but eyes, there­fore they value nothing but Candlestickes of Crystall, and guilded vermillian dishes, but men of understanding, who see lesse with their eyes them with their spirits, they reflect upon ob­jects, [Page 89] that are more simple and immateriall, and preferre not the peoples errour, and Arti­ficers fingers, before the truth of things, and before the Master-pieces of the workes of rea­son. Hee, to whom you did me the honour to send me, is farre above all the Encomiums I can give him: I have onely this to say Madam, that I have with me here, a famous Authour, who as soone as he hath once read him, is resolved instantly to shut up shop, and give over his Trade. He protests he will never more set hand to Penne, unlesse it be to signe his last Will; and therefore meanes to make you a sacrifice of all his Papers. I shewed him the incompara­ble Sonnet, De L'Amant qui meurt, at every verse, he called you Divine, and made such lowd Exclamations, that he might have beene heard to the great high way: which you know, how very farre it is from my Chamber. Hee sayth, he will maintaine it, even to the sheete Saint Jaques, that Parnassus is fallen upon the Distaffe, and that Racan hath given over the right he pretended in the succession of Mal­ [...]erbe. He speakes in this familiar manner, of these two great Personages; and I never heare him use any meaner style: if I can keepe him with me a while; I will tell you more of him, and promise you a collection of all his Apoph­thegms. I saw yesterday Monsieur de—who is a most just valuer of vertue, and by con­sequent, most perfectly reveres yours. He in­finitely desires you would come amongst us, and that you would make choice of one of his [Page 90] houses for your abode: if you were pleased to doe this, I should have no more journeys to make: I should be the happiest unhappie man that ever was, if I had you here to be my com­forter, and that I might be alwayes telling you, that I alwayes am,

Another to her. LETTER XLIII.

MAdam, you never heard speake of such a diligence, in two moneths your Letter hath gone twelve myles; so as a businesse that required hast, had been this way in a good case: and if therein you had given me advise for sa­ving my life: I might have had good leisure to dio, before your advise came. I have made grievous complaints hereof, to my good kins­woman—who layes the fault of her fault upon a thousand that are innocent; upon her Gentlewoman, her Nurce, three maides, foure men, &c. so as Madam, there have beene great arraignments upon this matter; and never was [Page 91] any crime so long and so rigourously in exami­ning; for my selfe, the joy I take to heare of your health, makes me forget my most just complaints, and sweetens all my choler. I thinke no more of the late receiving it; I con­tent my selfe, that I have received it at last; and I finde enough in your Letter, to make me amends, for the slownesse of your messenger. Besides Madam, I give you to understand, that I have had some few dayes, with mee here, Monsieur Bardyn, as much as to say, The Living Philosophie: or Socrates risen from the dead. You make doubt perhaps, what the subject of our conference hath beene? Indeed Madam, it hath been your selfe, and we have concluded to erect your statue in the most eminent place of his Lycaeum: and if any Stoick come to new build the Particus, and any other to restore the Academie, no doubt but they will honour you with the like respect, and you shall alwayes be reverenced of wise men, next to wisedome it selfe. If you write shortly to—I entreat you Madam, to doe me the favour, to put in your packet the dispatch I send you. It imports me much, to have it beleeved, that—and I doubt not, but you will be content, to use this little fraud for my sake, who am without reser­vation,

Another to her. LETTER XLIIII.

MAdam, I am of your opinion, and can by no meanes approve the ambition of your fayre neighbour: her head is full of state and soveraigntie, and aymes certainly at a Crowne. God loves her too well to second her bad de­sires, and to give her that shee askes: so rare a beautie ought to be the recompence of vertue, and not the prey of Greatnesse: It is fit, that he who possesseth her, should understand, when things be excellent, should know the value of this, and all his life be thankfull to his good for­tune for it: it is fitter to make a Gentleman hap­pie, than to give contentment to a tyrant; fhee might perhaps be some amusement to him, when he were cloyed with killing of men; but withall, shee might be sure to be the next ob­ject of his crueltie, at the next fit of his wicked humour. You know the Story of Mariamne; our Theaters at this day sound forth nothing so much, as the cryes of this poore Princesse: hee that put her to death, loved her above mea­sure, and after her death, kneeled downe a thousand times before her image, praying her to forgive him. Poppea was first the Mistris, afterwards the wife, and alwayes the Gover­nesse of Nero; shee had vanquished this Mon­ster, and made him tame, yet at last he slipt from [Page 93] her, and in an instant of his choler, gave her a kicke upon the belly, which was her death. His unkle Caius dealt not so roughly with Cae­sonia, yet in the greatest heat of his fire, he made love to her in these termes: This fayre head shall be chopt off, as soone as I but speake the word: and told her sometimes, that he had a greater minde to put her on the racke, to make her tell him, why he loved her so much. The meaning Madam, of all this is, that the tamest of all Tygers is a cruell Beast, and that it is a most dangerous thing, to be woo [...]d with talons. I have seene the Booke you write to me of, and finde it not unpleasing; particularly, where speaking of the makers of Pasquius, and of sa [...] tyricall Poets, he sayth, that besides the golden age, the age of silver, of brasse, and of iron, so famous and so much talkt of in their Fables, there is yet behinde to come an age of wood, of which the ancient Poets never dreamt; and in the miseries and calamities whereof, they themselves shall have a greater part than any other. If I goe abroad to morrow, I hope to have the honour to see you: In the meane time, that I may observe good manners, and not be wanting in formalities, I will say I am

To—LETTER XLV.

MY Lord, besides the thankes I owe you for my Head, I have a speciall charge from Madam de—to thanke you from her, and to give you a testimonie of your Coach­mans skill. He is in truth, a great man in his profession; one might well trust him, and slip from hence to Paris: He glides by the brinke of Praecipices, and passeth broken brid­ges with an admirable dexteritie, say what you can of his manners otherwise; Pardon mee, my Lord, if I maintaine that they be no vices, and that you doe him great wrong to reproach him with them in your Letter. Hee doth that by designe, which you thinke hee doth by inclination, and because he hath heard, that a man once overthrew the Common-wealth, when he was sober, he thinkes, that to drinke well, is no ill qualitie to well go­verning: Hee takes otherwise no care for go­ing astray, seeing he hath a God for his guide, and a God that was returned from the Indies before Alexander was come into the world. After so long a voyage, one may well trust Fa­ther Denys, with a short walke; and hee that hath tamed Tygers, may well be allowed to [Page 95] mannage horses. Your Coach-man, my Lord, hath studied thus farre; and if they, who hold in their hands the reynes of the State, (to use the phrase of—) had beene as intelligent and dextrous as he, they would have runne their race with a better fortune, and our age should not have seene the fall of the Duke of—nor of the Earle of—: it is written to me from the Court, that—: These are the onely Newes I received by the last Post; but I send you, in their companie, the Booke you desired, which is as you know, the booke of the wickednesse of the world, and the an­cient originall of all the moderne subtleties. The first Christians endevoured to suppresse it, and called it, Mendacoorum Loquacisse­mum: but men at this day, make it their Ora­cle, and their Gospell: and seeke in it rather for Sejanus and Tygellinus, to corrupt their innocency, than for Corbulo or Thraseus, to instruct them to vertue; at our next meeting wee shall talke more hereof: The great Per­sonage I have praysed, stands in doubt, that his Encomium is at an end, and presseth me to con­clude, that I am

To—LETTER XLVI.

SIR, I am sorry to heare of the continuance of your maladie, though I hope, it be not so great as you make it. These are fruits of this unseasonable time, and I doubt not, but your [...]leame, which overflowes with the rivers, will also with the fall of the rivers, returne a­gaine to its naturall bounds. I have had my part in this inundation, and it would be no small commoditie to me, that things should stay in the state they now are in; for by this meanes, my house being made an Island, I should be lesse troubled, than now I am by people of the firme Land: But seeing upon the abating of the wa­ters, depends the abating of your Rhume, I am contented with all my heart, they shall abate; a [...] above all things desiring your health: yet withall, I must tell you, there is care to be used: you must absteine from all moyst meates, for­beare the good cheare of Paris; and follow the advise of an ancient sage, who counselled a man troubled with your disease, to change the rayne into drowth. You see how bold I am, to send you my praescriptions; I entreat you to follow them, but not to imitate me; for in this mat­ter of Medicines, I confesse my selfe a Pha­risee; I commend a Julippe to others, but [Page 97] I drinke my selfe the Sweetest Wines. But to speake of something else, I cannot imagine, why Monsieur de—should keepe me lan­guishing so long, and having made mee stand waiting three moneths after his time appoin­ted, should now require a further prorogation; and a longer delay. For my part, I verily be­leeve, he spake not in earnest, when he made you this untoward answer, and that it was ra­ther for a tryall of your patience, than for an exercise: He hath the reputation of so honest and just a man, that I can make no doubt of that he hath promised to Monsieur de—and I am perswaded, he accounts himselfe more streightly tyed by his word, than by his bond. Monsieur the—beleeves that I have fin­gred my silver a yeare since, and you know it is a summe provided to stoppe three or foure of my Persecutours mouthes, who will never leave vexing you with their clamours day and night, till they be satisfied. It is therefore your part to use all meanes possible, to content them, at least if you love your libertie; and take not a pleasure to be every morning salu­ted with extreame unpleasing good morrowes. I expect hereupon to heare from you; and am

To—. LETTER XLVII.

SIR, you are too just to desire such duties from a sicke friend, as you would exact from one that were in health. The reasons I can give of my silence, are much juster than I would they were, and me thinkes, three moneths continuing in a Feaver, may well dispense with any obligation whatsoever of a civill life. Yet seeing you will needs have me speake, I cannot but obey you, though I make use of a strangers hand to quarrell with you. I cannot endure the dissimulation you shew, in doubting of my affection, and of the truth of my words. I understand no jeasting on that side; these are Games that I am uncapable to learne, and in matter of friendship, I am of that ten­dernesse, that I am even wounded with that, which is perhaps intended but for a tickling. I perceive I have beene complained upon to you, but I entreat you to beleeve, it hath been upon very false grounds; and I require no bet­ter justifier, than her owne conscience that ac­cuseth mee. Within a few dayes, I will come my selfe in person, and give you an account of all my actions; and will trayne my selfe [Page 99] on to Paris, in hope to enjoy the happinesse of your companie. In the meane time, be care­full to cure the maladie you tell me of, which brings us forth such goodly Sonnets, and makes so well agree the two greatest enemies that are in Nature, I meane, Passion and Judgement: so I bid you Farewell; and am with all my heart,

To Monsieur de Coignet. LETTER XLVIII.

SIR, I am much bound unto you for your writing to me, and for sending me Newes that exceedingly pleaseth mee. You may well thinke, I have no mind to crosse my own good; and to refuse giving my consent to the Earle of Exceters request. To have so illustrious an In­terpreter in England, is morethan a full revenge upon all the petty Scribes that oppose mee in France: it is the crowning and triumph of my writings. I am not therefore so a Philosopher, that I place the honour he doth mee, amongst things indifferent, but rather to tell you plainly, I have perhaps received too sensible a content­ment in it; and upon the poynt of falling againe [Page 100] into my old desire of glory; of which I thought my selfe to have been fully cured: I send you a word, which I entreat you to deliver to him, which shall witnesse for mee, how deare and glorious, the markes he gives mee of his love and account, are unto mee; Otherwise Sir, I doubt not, but I owe a great part of this good fortune to the good opinion you have of me, which is to be seene in every lyne of your Let­ter; and that you have confirmed the English in this Error, which is so much in my favour. Onely I entreat you, never to seeke to free them of this errour, but so to deale with them, that if you convert them from other, it may still be with reservation of this. The truth in question is of so small importance, that it deserves not any curious examination; and in which, to be in a wrong beliefe, makes not a man to be ei­ther lesse honest, or more unfortunate: Never therefore, make scruple to oblige me, seeing you shall oblige a thankfull man, and one who is;

To Monsieur de Neusuic. LETTER XLIX.

SIR, If I were onely blind, I would try to make some answer, to the good words of your Letter; but the paine, which my ill eyes put me to, makes mee uncapable of this plea­sing contention: and I cannot draw from my head, in the state it now is, any thing else but Water and Waxe. And besides the unhappie blindnesse I speake of, I am in such sort over­flowed with Rheumes; that if it were in the time of the old Metamorphoses, I thinke veri­ly, I should be turned into a Fountaine, and be­come the subject of some new Fable. I have lost as well my smelling, as my taste; my Nose can make no difference betweene Spanish Lea­ther, and an old Cowes hide: and I sneeze so continually; that all my conversation, is but to say, I thanke you; to them that say, God helpe you. Being in this estate, doe you not wonder, I write unto you, and have the boldnesse to be sending Letters? In truth, never complement cost me so deare as this, and if I would make use of the priviledge of sicke men, I might ve­ry justly require a Dispensation; but I had not the power, to let your servant goe away, with­out telling you, that you are a very honest Im­postour; and that the Perigurain you send, is the most refined Frenchman that ever ranne [Page 102] afoote to Paris. It must needs be, that the people of your Village is a Colonie of the Louver, that hath preserved the first puritie of their language amidst the corruption of their Neighbours. There never were such fine things written upon the banke of Dordonne; at least, not since the death of Monsieur de Mon­taigne, yet I esteeme them not so much, be­cause they are so fine, as because they come from you, whose I passionately am,

To Madam Desloges. LETTER L.

MAdam, I am alwayes of your minde; and like not Ladies that would be Cavaliers. There are certain bounds that part us, and ma [...] us out our several duties and conditions: which neither you nor we can lawfully passe. And the lawes of Decencie are so ancient, that they seem [Page 103] to be a part of the ancient religion. Moses hath extended the commandements of God, even to the distinction of your apparell, and ours: and you know hee expresly forbids to disguise our selves in one anothers cloathes. Women must be altogether women: the vertues of our sex, are not the vertues of theirs; and the more they seeke to imitate men, the more they de­generate from their owne kinde. We have had some women amongst us, that would ride Spa­nish horses would discharge Pistols, and would be parties in maintaining quarrels. M. the Mar­shall Scomberg shewed mee once a letter which he writ to a Gentleman of—at the end whereof were these words; I kisse the hands of this valiant and pleasing Lady, that is your se­cond in the day, and your wife at night. This La­dy might perhaps bee valiant, but to my hu­mour, she could not be pleasing. If she had had abeard, she could not have had a greater fault. Women that are valiant, are as much to blame, as men that are cowards. And it is as unseemly for Ladies to weare swords by their sides, as for Gentlemen to have glasses hanging at their girdles. I professe my selfe an enemy, Madam, to these usurpations of one sex upon another. It strikes me with a kinde of horrour, when I reade in historie of the ancient women Fen­cers, whom the Romanes beheld with such plea­sure in their Amphitheater; and I account not Amazons in the number of women, but of Monsters and Prodigies. Sweetnesse and ten­dernesse are the qualities that belong to you [Page 104] and will your she Friend give over her claime to these, that is, to the succession of her mo­ther, and the priviledges of her birth? will she not be as well content as you, with the partition which Nature herselfe hath made? I cannot conceive with what face she can goe a hunting amongst such violence & tumults, and how she can run hallowing all day, till shee bee out of breath, after a kennell of Hounds, and a troope of Huntesmen. God made her for the Closet, and not for the Field: and in truth, it is a great sin to distend so handsome a mouth, and to disfigure so comely a face, with blow­ing a horne. To expose such excellent things to all the boughes of the Forrest, and to all the injuries of the weather; and to endanger such pretious colours with winde and raine, with the sunne and dust. And yet, Madam, to see hunting, without being a partie, to goe in Coach, and in Parkes inclosed, where a multi­tude of beasts are kept prisoners, and come to dye at Ladies feet, such a recreation as this, I doe not condemne, being onely entertained with the eyes, and may passe either for a spe­ctacle, or a walke; and is as farre from agita­tion as from rest. But this serves not her turne, she calles these but lazie and sedentarie recrea­tions, and takes no pleasure, but when it is with hazard of her life. But what would be thought Madam, if one should come and tell you, shee is slaine with a fall, by ranke riding, or that shee hath met with a wilde Boare, that was too hard for her? In such cases, ther [...] would not [Page 105] onely be no excuse for her death, but it would bee a blot upon her memory for ever: and to save her honour, there must bee feigned some other accident in her Epitaph. As for that o­ther discoursing Lady you complaine of, and whom I know, she commits not, in truth, such extravagant faults as this doth; yet shee hath her faults too: and I can no more allow of wo­men to bee Doctors, than of women to bee Cavaliers. She should take you for a pateme, and make profit of the good example you give. You know indeed, an infinite number of excellent things; but you make no open profession of your knowledge, as shee doth, and you shew, you have not learned them to keepe a schoole. You speake to her, when shee preacheth to you, and making po­pular answeres to her riddles, and giving di­stinction to her confusion: you doe her at least, this good office, to expound her to her selfe. Neither in the tune of your voyce, nor in the manner of your expressing, is any thing seen in you, but that which is naturall and French: and although your spirit bee of an extreame high clevation, and farre above the ordinarie reach, yet you so accomodate it to the capaci­tie of all that heare you, that whilest the mea­ner sort doe understand you, the more able spirits doe admire you. It is a great matter, Madam, to have gotten the knowledge of such excellent things: but it is a greater matter so to hide them, as if they were stollen, and to call them, as you doe, by the name of your se­cret [Page 106] Truanting [...], Your Canvas, your Silke, your Needles, are seene, but your papers are not seene; and those women that are taken with men that are not their husbands, are not more surprized than you are, when you are found to have an Authour in your hand, that is not French. I know therefore, Madam, you cannot approve of one so contrarie to your selfe, how fairc [...] shew soever you make, nor will ever change the plainnesse of your words, for her learned gyb [...]sh. Pedanterie is not sufferable in a Master of Art, how should it be borne withall in a woman? And what pati­euce: can endure to heare one talke a whole day together, Metamorphosis and Philosophiet to mingle the Id [...]s of Plato, and the Praedi­cables of Perphinic together; to make no com­plyment, that hath not in it; a dozen Hori­zons and Hemispheares and at last, when shee hath no more to say, then to raile upon mee in Greeke, and [...]cuseme me of Hyperbole, and Ca­ [...]eale. These be h [...]rdevises, she will have, in two verses, at least foure full points, she hath [...] designe to set on foot, and bring into use a­gaine, the Strophes and Antistrophes, she gives Rules both of Epick and Dramatick [...]esie, and sayth, she cannot endure a Comedic, that is not within the law of foure and twentie ho [...]es: and this shee is going about to publish through all France. If I had a mortall ene­mie, I would desire no greater revenge of him, than to wish him such a wife. Nothing hath more confirmed not in my desire of solitude, [Page 107] than the example of this Ladie: and I see plain­ly, that a single life is the best thing in the world, seeing it lies in covert, and is free from the cumber of this talking Ladie. I ex­pect by this bearer the Essayes you promised mee, and am

Another to her. LETTER LI.

MAdam, I cannot possibly live a [...]ie longer without hearing from you: but I cannot heare of anie of whom to heare it; and Ley­monsins are as rare in these par [...], as Spaniards since the warre was proclaimed, I must there­fore make use of a messenger, whom you have raised to an Embassadour, to the end hee may informe mee of your health and your friends, My love of you, drawes on a curiositie: for all things that are yours: and my [...] will not be in quiet, till I heare how my masters, your children doe, and what good newes you heare [Page 108] from them. Particularly I desire to know, whe­ther you bee yet a Grand-mother in Holland: and whether my Ladie, your daughter in law, have brought you Captaines or Senatours, at least, Madam, they shall bee children much bound to their mother; seeing, besides their birth, they shall owe her for their libertie, a thing they should not doe to a Fleming of Bruxels. I have seene the Cavalier you have so often spoken of, and I thinke you judge verie rightlie of him. Hee consists wholly of a Pickedevant, and two Mustachoes: and therefore utterly to defeate him, there needes but three clippes of a paire of Cizers. It is not possible to bring one——to bee afraid of him. Hee sayth, that if he wore a Lions skinne, and carried in one hand a Torch, and in the other a Clubbe, yet in such equipage hee would bee more ridiculous than redoubtable. Hee beleeves hee hath cho­ler enough, but beleeves not hee hath any heart; hee reckons him, in the number of beasts that are skittish and resty, but not that are cruell and furious: And when I tell him, he hath been often in the field; hee answeres me, it hath been then, rather to feed, than to fight. You can, if you please, returne mee a hundred fold for this my untoward short re­lation: and it will bee: long of you, if my man come not back laden with histories, which must certainly have been written to you by the [Page 109] last Posts. Take pitty upon the ignorance of your neighbours, and doe me the honour to bel [...]ive I am,

To Madam du Fos. LETTER LII.

MAdam, my deere Cousin; There is no­thing heard in all quarters, but benedi­ctions and prayses, which our poore pleaders give you. They invocate you, as their Redee­mer; and if Themis be the goddesse of good causes, you, it seemes, are the goddesse of good successe. For my selfe, I have knowne a long time, that you are powerfull in perswasion, and never speake without prevayling. This is the cause, why I have promised Monsieur de—, not that you shall sollicite for him, but that you shall speed for him; and I am this day warranted of the Event. I could tell you, to make you respect him the more, that he is a­ble to thanke you, in five or six languages; that [Page 110] hee hath a full Magazine of Astrolabes a [...]d Globes; and that, being but of a meane sta­ture, he hath yet, by his knowledge in the Ma­thematicks, found a meanes to make himselfe as high as Heaven. But I will content my selfe to say, that he is my friend, and your Oratour: that if my commendation, and your own glory be deare unto you, you cannot but very shortly send him backe with full satusfactuib, I pro­mised to send you the two Sonnets, you have heard so much spoken of, but my bad memo­ry, makes me fayle in a part of my promise, and I can send you, but one and a halfe:

The one entyre is this:

[Page 111] The halfe one is this:

The Authour of this last Sonnet, hath made one in Spanish, which in the Court of Spaine, goes under the Name of Lopez de Vega, and another in Italian, which Marino verily be­leeved, he had read in Petrarke; It is a Spirit, that changeth himselfe at pleasure, and trans­formes himselfe into what shape he list: yet he deserves better prayses than this, and his Mo­rall qualities are nothing behinde his Intelle­ctuall: I will tell you his Name, when it shall be lawfull to love him openly, and to make his Encomium without soruple. But first, it is need­full, that Fortune which hath cast him upon an Enemies Countrey, should bring him backe to Paris, where both of us, meane to waite upon you, to make our Court; and from whence I desire not over to returne, but onely to testi­fie to you more carefully, than heretofore I have done, that I am

To Madam de Campagnole. LETTER LIII.

MY most deare Sister, I send you the Book which you required of mee, for my Niece, and I beleeve, that this and her Prayer-Booke, make her whole Librarie: shee shall finde in it, a Devotion that is not too mysticall, nor too much refined; and which hath nothing but Morall and reasonable. I like this popular Divinitie, which meets us halfe way, and stoops a little, that we may not strayne our selves too much. It followes the example of its Authour, who made himselfe familiar with common peo­ple, and put not backe so much as Courtisans and Publicans, farre from making division in families, and withdrawing women from obe­dience to their mothers, and their husbands. It commends this obedience, as their principall verue, and calles it a second worship, and a se­cond religion. I shall be glad to see my Neece make profession of a pietie, so conformable to naturall reason, and so good a counsellour of all other duties. But let her not, I pray, climbe higher, and undertake Meditations of her owne head: Grenada whom I sent her, hath taken this paines for her, and hath meditated for her, and for all other that shall reade his Bookes. There is nothing more dangerous, than to [Page 113] mount up to Heaven without a helper and a guide; and it is a great confidence, one must have in his Spirit, to let it goe so farre, and be assured, it will ever come backe againe. It is not long agoe, there was in a Towne of Spaine, a Societie of devoted persons, who continued in meditation so many houres a day, leaving off all base works, to live, as they sayd, a more heavenly life; but what thinke you, became of it? even a thousand domesticall disorders, and a thousand publike extravagan­cies. The lesse credulous, tooke the pricke of a pinne, for a Saints marke, the more humble, accounted their husbands prophane; the wi­ser sort, spake what came in their heads, and made faces perpetually. In so much, that when in the moneth of May, there did not past three or foure runne madde; it was coun­ted a good yeare. It is fit to stay ones selfe up­on the true vertue, and not to follow the vaine Phantasmes of holinesse. And it is farre safer, to ground ones selfe upon a solid and certaine reading, than to goe wandring in a hollow, and unsteady contemplation. If I had more time, you should have more words; but hee that brings you the letter, calls upon mee for it, and I can no more to it, but that I perfectly am

Another to her. LETTER LIIII.

MY dearest Sister, all the world tells me [...], that my Niece is fayre, and you may be­leeve, I will challenge no man, for saying so. Beautie is in Heaven a qualitie of those glori­ous bodies, and in Earth the most visible marke that comes from Heaven. It is not fit there­fore to slight these gifts of God, nor to make small account of this sparke of the life to come: It is not fit to be of so crosse an humour, to blame that which is generally praysed. Marke when a comely personage comes in place, ha­ving but this advantage of her birth, you shall presently see all that were talking, to hold their peace; and what noyse soever there was be­fore, you shall have all husht, and an univer­sall calme upon a suddaine: you shall see a whole great multitude, all busie in different la­bours, to make presently but one body, and that onely to stand to gaze and wonder: some leave to make up the reckoning they had be­gunne, some curtoll their complements, and cut them off in the midst; every man puts off his conceits to some other time, onely to take a [Page 115] full view, and to contemplate this divine thing that presents it selfe. If it be at a Sermon, they leave hearkening to the Preacher, and they are no longer the auditours of M. de Nantes, but the spectatours of Calista. The fayre can ne­ver be seene without respect, without prayses, without acclamations. They triumph, as often as they appeare, and their youth hath not mor [...] dayes, than their beautie hath Festivalls. But the mischiefe is, my deere Sister, that the Fe­stivals are short, the youth is not lasting, and the fayre at last come to be ill favoured. Queenes and Princesses grow old, and there is no old beautie, but that of God, of the Sunne, and of the Starres. These heads that now have nei­ther skinne, nor flesh, nor hayre; These car­kasses and dry bones have beene in their time, the divinities and wonders of the world: and was heretofore called the Dutchesse of Valen­tinois, the Dutchesse of Beaufort, the Mar­quis of—: Besides there may happen dis­eases, which will doe old ages worke before hand, and are oftentimes more gastly than death it selfe. Wee are frighted sometimes to see the spoyle and ruines of Faces, upon which the foote of sicknesse hath troaden, and there is nothing, in which wee may more observe the lamentable markes of the inconstancie of hu­mane things. From hence I conclude, that beau­tie being a thing so frayle and tender, subject to so many accidents, and so hard to keepe; it is fit wee should seeke after another beautie, [Page 116] that is more firme and permament, that can better withstand corruption, and better defend it selfe against the force of time. Above all, it is not fit, that women should be proud of a qua­litie, that is infamous for the losses and wracks of many poore Consciences, and which as in­nocent and chast as it can be, will yet be a cause to rayse in others, a thousand fowle de­sires, and a thousand unhallowed and wicked thoughts. Say, my Niece hath some thing in her that is pleasing, some thing that is fayre and beautifull, as her friends conceive, yet shee ought alwayes to be afraid of such a good, that is so dangerous for doing hurt to others. I set before her eyes, the sad Picture of that which shee shall be hereafter; to the end, shee may not grow proud of that which shee is now. There is no hurt in meditating a little upon this poynt. But allow her the libertie wee e­ven now tooke from her; yet withall, put her alwayes in minde, that of the foure beauties I have shewed her in my Tasso; there is but one of them, that will be a fit example for her to follow. Shee must leave Armida and Er­minia, for the Gallants of the Court, Clorinda is for the valourous men of Gascoigne, and Pe­rigord; but shee that I propose for her Pat­terne, is Sophronia. And if shee have not courage enough to say to the Tyrant, as shee sayd, It is I that am the Delinquent you looke for; let her at least, have the other conditions, that are necessary to the being her follower, [Page 117] and imitate her in them. This fayre Saint made profession of modestie, and neglected her beautie; shee was alwayes, eyther hidden un­der a veile, or shut up in her Chamber, and all the world might suspect her to be fayre; but there was scarce any at all that knew it but her mother. Shee had no designe to entrappe any mans libertie, and therefore layd not her snares in their way, nor went to Church to see and to be seene. My deare sister, I cannot choose, but take upon me here to be a reformer of corrupt manners, and make my complaint to you, of a Custome, which as well as many other naugh­tie things, the Court hath cast upon us. What reason is there in the world, that women should enter into holy places, of purpose to draw up­on them, the view and attention of the Com­pany? as much as to say, to trouble and disturbe the whole devotion of a Towne, and to doe as bad, or worse, as those buyers and sellers did, whom Christ whipped out of the Temple? By this meanes, good actions become evill, and Pietie comes to have no better odour before the Altaus, than Perfumes that are mustie and corrupted. Women now adayes, are bound to be seene to be at Church; and this very de­sire of being seene there, is the ordinary pro­phanation of the place where they are seene. And in truth, seeing this place is particularly called the House of God, what is it but to vilifie God, even in the highest degree, to come and offend at his owne doores, and as it were to his [Page 118] face? It is even as great an Impudency, as that of the first Angells, who sinned in Paradise. Yet herein certainly, the Italian women are more pardonable than the French; for they indeed, have no other breathing time of their unfortu­nate libertie, being at all other times, kept up as slaves and prisoners: but in France, where women are not denyed the company and visits of honest men, they can have nothing to say, in justification of this incontinency of their eyes, and of this unsufferable vanitie, to seeke to part stakes with God, in mens vowes, and to share with him in his publike Adoration. You little thought this morning to heare a Preacher, and I as little thought to be one, but as you see, the zeale of Gods House, hath brought mee to it; and finding my selfe at leisure, I was desirous to bestow part of it upon you. The Text was gi­ven mee yesterday, by the company that was here; where my Nieces beautie was so much extolled, that, sending you Newes, which are to her so glorious, I thought fit, to send her withall, a cooling, to keepe her glorying in some temper: and so my deare Sister, I take my leave, and am with all my soule,

Another to her. LETTER LV.

MY dearest sister, having both of us but one passion, it makes us alwayes talking of one thing. My Neece is the subject of all our Letters, as she is the object of all our cares. For my owne part, I see not a good or a bad ex­ample, which I make not use of, for her instru­ction, and endevour to imploy it to her profit. You remember a woman the other day, who values nothing, likes of nothing, excuses no­thing; and let her be in the best & most pleasing company that may be, yet she is sureto put them all into dumpes and melancholy. You can come on no side of her, but she pricks and bites: all her coasts are craggie and rockie. And it was not without cause my brother sayd, that if the man you wot of, had married her, there would certainly have nothing come of that marriage, but Teeth and Nayles. It is impossible to live in peace with such a savadge chastitie. I make no more reckoning of it, than of that of the Fu­ries, whom the ancient Poets call virgines, and wonder not, that women of this humour, love no man, seeing they hate the whole world. [Page 120] This sad and sullen poyson taking up all the roome in their soules, leaves no place at all for other passions that are sweet and pleasing. They flye pleasures, rather by having their mouth out of taste, than by having their judge­ment in perfection: and are so continually fretting, that they have no leasure at any time to be merrie. As long as they bee chaste, they thinke they may lawfully bee discourteous, and scratch men, so they doe not kisse them. They have a conceit, that by wanting one vice, they have presently all vertues: and that for a little good fame they gaine to their husbands, they may keepe them under yoake, and affront all mankinde. It is true, the losse of a womans honour is the greatest disgrace she can possibly incurre; and which once lost, shee hath no­thing left her that is worth the keeping: But yet it followes not, that the preserving it, is any such royall act; and I doe not admire any, for not being willing to live in misery and dis­grace. I never heard, that a woman should bee praised, for not falling in the fire, or for not casting her selse downe a rock. We con­demne the memorie of them that kill them­selves; but we give no reward to them that preserve themselves. And so indeed it is, a woman that magnifies her selfe for being chaste, magnifies herselfe for not being dead, and for having a qualitie, without which she were as good bee out of the world, seeing shee stayes not in it, but for a plague to her name, and to [Page 121] see her owne infamie. I say yet more, that shee ought not so much to consider the vice as an evill thing, as to consider it as an inpossible thing, and not to have it so much in detestation, as in ignorance. For indeed, if a woman bee truly vertuous. shee will sooner believe there are Meremaids and Centaures, than that there are any dishonest women: but will rather conceive that the world is given to slandering, and that Fame is a lyer, than that her neigh­bour is false and disloyall to her husband: though with her owne eyes she should see the fault committed, yet it is her part to suspect her eyes mere mistaken, and that it was but an il­lusion which she saw; at least, shee should ne­ver give sentence upon this sort of delinquents, seeing Christ himselfe would not doe it to the adulterous woman. When others wrong a woman, it is her part to be sorrie: and when o­thers say, she hath beene unfaithfull, it may bee enough for her to say, she hath beene unfortu­nate. And yet more than this too, I could wish, if it were possible, that where shee findes most weaknesse, there she should make report of most goodnesse: und I would no [...], that vertue should beget this bad qualitie. It is an enemie to societie, and deserves not to have so good a mother: and one may well flie and blame the vice, so as the flying it, bee with­out oftentation, and the blaming it be without choler. For otherwise, it would bee as much as to require a statue for doing nothing: and in [Page 122] the smart of the punishment, to seeke for the pleasure of revenge. An honest woman re­formes the world by the example of her life, and not by the violence of her spirit. She ought not to proclaime warre against any; not against the most indiscreet and insolent: and if there chance any licentious or uncivill word to be uttered in her hearing, she ought to checke it, either by giving no care, or by falling into some other discourse, or by casting upon the spea­ker a beame of modestie, that may cover his confusion, and pierce his very soule: and thus she shall use a chastising without offending. There is as well a severitie in modestie, as a sweetnesse; and which keeps insolence it selfe in awe: and a woman that carries this excel­lent vertue in her eyes, keepes men within the bounds of their dutie, without ever falling in­to out-rage, or into words of choler. Other vertues are hidden, and have nothing in them that is visible, or that falls under sence. This This vertue hath a body of light, and riseth up into the face, in those pretty straines, which bashfulnesse that is her usher, as Aurora is the Sunnes, sends up: into it. And in truth, the Purple, whereof the Poets speake, which ap­peares at the breake of day, is nothing so rich and glorious, as that which is disclosed in an ho­nestie a little bashfull; the effect whereof in noble tempers is not an over-flowing of blood, but onely one single drop well husbanded. It is not a masse of red, which sets the face on fire. [Page 123] It is onely a first impression, and as it were, a shadow of tincture, that lightly colours it. This honest blush, which is so pleasing a thing in maydens faces, and which I distinguish from that, which is sottish and untoward, is a barre, and sufficient defence against the audacious­nesse of the most impudent; and when it is seen to shine in a womans looke, there is no li­centiousnesse that is not dazeled with it, and is not stopt from daring to proceed. And there­fore there is no necessitie of using any straining of the voyce, any churlishnesse of words, or any agitation of gestures, to doe that, which may better be done by silence, and with quietnesse. And indeed women are bound, if for nothing else, yet for the very interest of their beauty, to shunne a passion, that makes such villanous faces, and sets so many wrinkles upon their countenance. I have heard some of them com­plaine, that the sent of a Rose was too strong, and that Muske made their heads ake, because it had not milde sweetnesse enough: and why then will they not take that sweetnesse into themselves, which they seek for so much in o­ther things? and finde fault with the want of it, in that Art, which proposeth to it selfe no o­ther end? If without this sweetnesse, there grow from the most pretious odours, a certaine qualitie which offends them; and if there bee some Flowers, and some perfumes that please them not, what likelihood is there, that Brim­stone and Salt-peter can please them, and that [Page 124] their humour can have any thing common with these violent substances? It is true perhaps, that sweetnesse and mildnesse have their exces­ses; but yet, even those excesses are more law­full, than the justest temper of shrewishnesse and incivilitie; at least in a woman, they are much more commendable: and it becomes her better to dissemble that shee knowes, than to discover verities that are odious: and better she should be thought to come out of another world, than to carry to a man the first newes of her stinking breath; and teach another to know the infirmitio of her race, which perhaps hee knew not before. These liberties are not suffe­rable in the freest conversations, they draw on other more dangerous liberties; and though your sex be inviodable, and have the priviledge of sanctuarie, yet prophane persons stick not to lay hands on the Saints themselves, and on their Altars, and nothing is so sacred, that can escape the hand of sacriledge. Onely those persons that can revenge offences, may venture to give offences; and a man that will give the lye, must be of a condition to fight a Duell, & maintain it by Armes. My Neece hath no great need of these precepts, nor indeed of any forraigne in­struction; she cannot wander from the right, if she goe not astray from her owne inclination; nor can be troublesome to others, if she borrow not a vice which is none of her owne. I have therefore represented to her, the wo­man of the other day: but after their exam­ple, [Page 125] who shewed their slaves drunke to their children, and that is to make her afrayd of fil­ [...]hy objects, and to make that hatefull to her, which is not in it selfe lovely; to confirme her in the principles which you have taught her, and to draw her out some rules from her own acti­ons: she is (I know) naturally good; but the best natures have need of some method to guide them, and direction doth never any hurt to vertue: she is able to keepe herselfe in termes extreamly obliging, without ever falling into the basenesse of flatterie: She is able to please without colloguing; and though shee call not every thingby the right name, nor bee so very curious to speake in proper termes, yet her stile shall not for that, bee the lesse liked, nor her companie the lesse desired. She may call them wise that want the reputation of beeing valiant; and women that are sad, she may say they are serious. If a man bee not of a quicke spirit, she may say, he is of a good judgement: and if one bee unfortunate in his actions she may say, he hath a good meaning in his counsails. But yet in this there is a measure to bee held, and a choyce must bee made, in laying her colours, that shee seeke not to disguise all sorts of sub­jects: for there are some indeed that are not capable: of disguising. Those that are pale, she may praise for their whitenesse: but those that have a dropsie, she must not praise for their fat­nesse: shee may say, that scruple is a bud of pietie. But shee must not say, that prophane­nesse [Page 126] is an effect of Philosophie. Shee may make a favourable construction of things doubtfull, and sweeten the rigour of parti­cular judgements; but shee must not con­tend against common sence, nor bee oppo­site to verities that are publicke and manifest. Shee must make a difference betweene er­rours and crimes, betweene a docible sim­plicitie and a presumptuous stupiditie, be­tweene sots that are honest, and those that are wicked. And if shee happen to bee in companie, where some weake spirit is op­pressed, as the world is full of such that will triumph over the weake, and take no pit­tie of any, shee must then, by all meanes, bee a protectresse of such a one, and make herselfe a Sanctuarie for all those, whom stronger adversaries would otherwise ruine. This onely is to bee observed, that shee so undertake the maintaining of weake causes, that it may appeare by the tune of her voyce, that it proceedes from excesse of goodnesse, and not from want of knowledge: and that shee compassionates humane infirmities by an act of charitie, makes not herselfe a partie by false perswasion. I am now at the end of my paper; and should have beene a good while since at the end of my letter: but I alwayes forget my selfe when I am with you, and never thinke howres shorter, than those I bestow upon your memorie. And so my [Page 127] deare sister, I bid you farewell, not without great longing to see you: and if you and all your company come not hither the next week, I proclaime it to you, that I am no longer

To my Lord the Cardinall, Duke of Richelieu. LETTER I.

MY Lord, being stayed here by some occasions, I suffer this hard necessitie with a great deale of paine, and account my selfe banished from my Countrey, being so long a time deprived of your presence. I de­ny not, but the victorious and triumphant Newes, that comes continually from the Ar­mie, gives me some resentment of joy, and that [Page 130] the brute of your Name in all quarters, toucheth me very sensibly; but it is no perfect satisfacti­on to me, to learne that by others relating, which I ought to know as an eye-witnesse, and I conceive so great a pleasure to consist, in the sight of your glory, that there is not a common Souldier under your Command, whose hap­pinesse and good fortune, I doe not envie. But my Lord, though I cannot serve you with my bodily actions, yet I revere you day and night, with the thoughts of my minde, and in this so worthy an imployment, I never thinke the no­blest part of my selfe, can doe service enough. Your Lordship, next to the King, is the eternall object of my spirit, I never turne my eyes from the course of your life; and if perhaps, you have Courtiers more officious than my selfe, and such as doe their duties with greater often­tation and shew, yet I am most sure, you have no servant that is more faithfull, and whose af­fection comes more truely from his heart, and is fuller of life and vigour. But to the end, my words may not be thought vaine, and without ground, I send you now a proofe of that I say, by which, you shall perceive, that a man that is himselfe perswaded, hath a great disposition to perswade others, and that a Discourse, foun­ded upon the things themselves, and [...]ated with the truth, both stirres mens spirits with greater force, and also begets a firmer beliefe, than that which is but feigned, and comes but in the nature of Declayming. This, my Lord, [Page 131] is a part drawne out from the whole bodie, and a piece, which I have taken most paines to polysh; which, I freely vow unto you, that all the houres of a calmer leisure than mine, and all the powers of a more elevated spirit than ordinary, would have found worke enough, to bring to perfection. In it, there is handled, Of the vertue, and victories of the King; Of the Justice of his Armes; Of Royaltie and Tyran­nie; Of usurpers and lawfull Princes; Of Re­bellion chastened, and libertie mainteined; but because the Prince I speake of, is a stirrer, and makes no stay any where, and that in following him, I should imbarque my selfe in a world of severall subjects; I have therefore, prescribed to my selfe certaine bounds, which in his acti­ons, I should never have met with: and after the example of Homer, who finished his Ilias with the death of Hector, though that were not the end of the warre; I have thought fit, not to goe further, than the taking of Suze, though this were but the beginning of the won­ders, wee have seene of his. You know my Lord, that this kinde of writing, which I pro­pose to my selfe, is without comparison, the most painfull of all other; and that it is a hard matter, to continue long in an action that must be violent, and to be violent in an action that must continue long. This prayse belongs pro­perly to Oratours, I meane such as know how to perswade, how to please in profiting, and can make the people capable of the secrets of [Page 132] Governning a Common-wealth. For as for Philosophers, that have written of this argu­ment, their discourse is commonly so drie and meager, that it appeares, their intention was rather to instruct, than to reconcile; and besides, their style is so thornie and cumbersome, that it seemes they meant to teach none, but the lear­ned. And in this, there is no more difficultie, than there is in healing of men that be in health. And for a man, to make himselfe obscure, there needs no more, but to stay upon the first notions wee have of truth, which are never, eyther wholly pure, or purely mingled, and which falling from the imagination upon pa­per, leave upon it such a confusion, that it re­sembles rather an informed abortion, than a perfect production. Besides, in the composi­tion of a Historie, especially where the Poli­tiques have to doe, an Authour is carried, and borne out by his matter, and the things being all made to his hand, which case him of the paines of invention, as the order of the time caseth him of the care of disposing; he hath lit­tle to doe for his part, but onely to contribute words, which is by some made so small a mat­ter, that when Menander was pressed by some friends to publish a worke of his, that he had promised: He made answere, it shall present­ly come forth; for it is in a manner all finished and ready, there wants nothing, but to make the words. But in the perswasive kinde of writing, (besides, that there must be a better [Page 133] choice made, and a stricter order used, in pla­cing the words, than in simple Narrations, which for all their lustre and riches of expres­sion, require no more but plainnesse, and fit termes) they which desire to attaine perfecti­on, or indeed to doe any thing at all of worth, endeavour all they can, to put in use, and re­duce to action, the most subtle Idaea's of all Rhetoricke; to rayse up their understanding to the highest poynt of things; to search out, in every matter, the verities lesse exposed to view, and to make them so familiar, that they who perceived them not before, may by their relation come as it were to touch them. Their designe is, to joyne pleasure to profit, to mingle daintinesse and plentie together; and to fight with Armes, not onely firme and strong, but also fayre and glittering. They endeavour to civilize Learning; drawing it from the Col­ledge, and freeing it from the hands of Pe­dants, who marre and sully it in handling: and to say the truth, adulterate and corrupt it, abusing this excellent and delicate thing in the sight of all the world. They seeke not to a­voyde Rockes by turning aside from them, but rather by slyding gently over them, and rather to escape places of danger, than to shunne them. And to make it appeare, that nothing is so sowre or bitter, but that it may be sweetned and al­layed by Discourse. Finally, they suffer them­selves sometimes to be transported with that reasonable fury, which Rhetoricians have well [Page 134] knowne, though it goe beyond their Rules and Precepts: which thrust an; Oratour into such strange and uncouth motions, that they seeme rather inspired, than to be naturall; and with which, Demosthenes and Cicero were so pos­sessed, that the one of them sweares by those that dyed at Marathon, and of his owne autho­ritie makes them Gods: the other, askes que­stions of the Hilles and Forrests of Alba, as if they had eares, and were able to heare him. But if I were one that did come any thing neere so noble an end, (which I neither will nor dare beleeve) and that I were able to make stran­gers see, that all things in France are changed for the better, since the happie Reigne of our King, who no lesse augmenteth our spirits, than he encreaseth our courage: yet it is not I that should merit the glory of this, but I must whol­ly attribute it to the happinesse of my time, and to the force of my object. Howsoever, my Lord, if I cannot be taken into the List of lear­ned and able men, at least, I cannot be denyed a place amongst honest men, and loyall servants; and if my abilities be worthy of no considera­tion with you, at least, my zeale and affection, are better worth, than to be rejected. With which meditation, I am sometimes so ravished, that I doubt not, but my resentments must needs content you; and that it is no unplea­sing recreation to you, to cast your eye upon a Philosopher in choler. And though true love content it selfe with the testimony of its owne [Page 135] Conscience; and that I give you many proofes of my most humble service, which I assure my selfe, will never come to your knowledge; yet for your satisfaction, I desire you might heare me sometimes in the place where you are, and might see, with what advantage, I maintaine the publike cause, in what manner I controll false Newes that runs about, and how I stop their mouthes that will be talking in disparage­ment of our affayres. It is certaine, that it is not possible our State should be more flourish­ing than it is, or that the successe of the Kings Armes should be more glorious than it is, or that the Peace of the People should be more assured than it is, or that your Government should be more judicious than it is; and yet wee meete with certaine spirits, that are troubled with their owne quietnesse, are impatient of their owne felicitie, cannot be held in any good be­liefe, but by prosperities that are supernatu­rall; and longer than they see miracles, give no credit to any thing. If present affayres be in good termes, then they cast out feares of those to come; and when they see, the events prove happie, then they fall affrighting us with Pre­sages. They take an Oath, to esteeme of no per­sons, but forreyners; of no things, but farre fet. They admire Spinola, because he is an Italian, and their enemie; they cannot abide to prayse the King, because he is a Frenchman, and their Master. They will hardly be drawne to con­fesse, that the King hath overcome, though they [Page 136] see before their eyes, an infinite number of Townes taken; of Factions ruinated; eternall Monuments of his Victories: and more easily the King hath gotten the applause of all Eu­rope, than these mens approbation. They would perswade us, if they could, that he had raysed his Siege before Rochell; That he had made a shamefull Peace with the Protestants; and that the Spaniards had made him run away. They doe all they can, to exterminate his History, and to extinguish the greatest light that shall ever shine to posteritie. I doubt not, but they cast a malicious eye upon my Booke; for presenting an image of those things which offend them so much. And they who beleeve Fables and Ro­mances, and are in passion, for an Hercules or an Achilles, who perhaps never were; They who reade with extasie of joy, the actions of Rowland and of Reinold, which were never done, but upon Paper: These men will finde no rellish in a true History, because it gives te­stimonie to the vertue of their naturall King. They can like well enough, that against the cre­dit of all Antiquitie, Xenophon being a Grae­cian, and no Persian, should frame Cyrus a life after his owne fancie, and make him die in his bed, and amongst his Friends; when yet hee dyed in the warres, and overcome by a wo­man: and they can like well enough, that Pli­nie should tell a lye in open Senate, and prayse Trajan for temperance and chastitie, who yet was given to wine, and to another vice so fowle [Page 137] that it cannot honestly be named; but they can by no meanes like, that I, who am the Kings subject born, should say that of him, which no man can deny to be most true, and that being to make a patern for Princes, I should rather make choyce of his life, than either of that of Cyrus, which is fabulous, or that of Trajan, which is not the purest, that I may not speake of that of Caesar Bogia, which is all blacke with licenti­ousnesse and crimes. Heaven it selfe is not able to give this kinde of people a Governour to their minde. Hee that was according to Gods owne heart, should not be according to theirs: They would not thinke Salomon wise enough, nor Alexander valiant enough. They are ge­nerally enemies of all sorts of Masters; and ac­cusers of all things the present time af­foords. They make our heads ake with crying out, that there was no necessitie to make a war in Italy; but if you had stayed still at Paris, they would have cryed out much lowder, that it had not been honest, to suffer our allyes to perish. Because some of our Kings have made unfortunate voyages beyond the mountaines, therefore they will needs have it, that our King, though he follow not their counsels, should yet fall into their misfortunes. They accuse your conduct with old proverbs, because they cannot with sound reasons. They say, Italy is the Church-yard of the French: and being not able to observe the least fault in all your carriage in that countrey, they lay upon you the [Page 138] faults of our aunestors, and charge you with the errour of Charles the eighth. Yet I con­ceive that these mens sinne is rather of infirmi­tie than of malice, that they are rather passionate for their opinions, than Pensioners of our ene­mies; and that they have more need of helpe by Physicke, than of restraint by law. But it is a grievous thing to see, how the busie-bodies of our time, speake the same language, which Re­bels did in times past; and abuse the happinesse of libertie, even against him, who hath procu­red it unto us. They come continually, and tell me, wee are like to receive much prejudice by the discontent of such a Prince, that is gone from our side. And I answere them, it is bet­ter to have a weake enemie that cannot hurt us, than hold a troublesome friend, that would doe us no good. They will by all meanes, that the King at any price, should succour Cazall; and I tell them, that he hath succoured it alreadie, by his conquest of Savoy: and that in the state as things now stand, it cannot bee taken, but to be delivered backe. They are not contented that you performe actions that are extraordina­rie, they looke you should performe some that are impossible: And though there arise some­times such difficulties in things, that they can­not by any possibilitie be encountred; I say not, by defect in the undertaker, but by reason of re­pugnancie in the subject; yet they will not take for payment, such reasons as wise men are satis­fied withall, but they would have the King doe [Page 139] that, which the Turke and Persian joyned to­gether, were not able to doe. These things, my Lord, would put mee extreamly into passion, and I could never bee patient at such ex­cesse of ungratefulnesse, if I did not re­member, that there hath sometimes beene a spirit, so sullen, and so sawcie, that it dared to finde fault with the workes of God himselfe, and was not afrayd to say, that if hee had been of his counsell, as well in the creation as in the government of the world, hee would have given him better advice than hee tooke at first, or than hee now followes. After so immense a folly, you must not thinke it strange, if there be some Extravagants; and the vulgar at all times hath beene found but an unjust Iudge of vertue; and yet for all that, it hath never beene without admirers: and now, if those that have but little instinct, and can doe nothing but murmure, and doe not favour him, it is for us, my Lord, to testifie unto you, that reasonable men, and such as know how to speake, are of the better side.

Another to him. LETTER II.

MY Lord, hearing that Monsieur de—meanes to question mee about the Bene­fice you did mee the honour to give mee: and that by vertue of his dispensation, hee hath sent to take possession, I have conceived no better shelter, to avoyd this storme, than under the greatnesse of your Name; nor any safer defence against the forces of such an ad­versario, than the respect of such a Protector as you are. I require not in this any strayning of your Lordships power; I know you are sparing of it in your owne proper interests, and reserve it for occasions that are publicke and important: I onely require the continuance of your love, and that you would signifie to him that troubles mee, you would bee glad hee would let me bee at quiet. For besides that to stand in suit with a man of his robe, were as much as to fight with a Master of Fence, and to put ones whole right in hazard. It would trouble me, my Lord, though I were assured of successe, to thinke I should owe any part of it to any other besides your selfe, seeing I ac­count [Page 141] it more glorie to receive from you, than to wrest from another. Monsieur de—may doe well, to keepe his dispensation for a better market, and draw much more profit with a little patience. And indeed, I verily be­lieve, hee lookes for nothing to make him sur­cease, but for some demonstration from you, of your desire: and that he rather hath an am­bition to bee intreated by M. the Cardinall, than any designe to take your gift from mee. I humbly intreat your Lordship to give him contentment in this poynt, and not suffer me to fall, at this first step of my Fortune; and that I may not alwayes bee unfortunate, being as I am with all my soule,

Another to him. LETTER III.

MY Lord, I am infinitely bound unto you for the honour you have done me, to re­member [Page 142] me, and for the paines you have ta­ken, to write in my behalfe to Monsieur de——It is true, your paynes hath not had so good successe, as I verily hoped it would: for though hee had given out, that for his satisfaction hee required no more but some small signe, that it was your desire: yet having received that signe, hee continues still in the same termes, and holds the same rigo­rous course he did. It makes mee thinke, my Lord, that hee knowes not of what worth your commendation is: certainly, if it had been imployed for any other but my selfe, it had found all the yeelding and respect it me­riteth: but indeed, I cast unfortunatenesse up­on all matters I deale in: my evill Fortune suffers mee not to make benefit of your love; you have no sooner a thought to doe me good, but presently a thousand impediments arise to hinder it. You give mee presents, and I doe not receive them: You command I should be payd my pension, and your command is not obeyed. Not yours, my Lord, of which one might say, Est fatum quodeunque voles. You have read my booke with pleasure, and spo­ken of it with commendation; and yet I suf­fer persecution for making it, as much as to say, for being a true Frenchman, and a lover of publick liberty. For as for the objections they make against mee, they certainly are but co­lours and pretences: If my words be not lear­ned, or eloquent, they are yet found, and full [Page 143] of truth. There is not one to bee found in all my worke, which a meane Advocate were not able to defend before the severest Tribu­nall in the world. The makers of libels, who condemne them, are the men of all other, that first corrupt them. I begin my Lord, to bee wearie of this long and obstinate injustice; my Philosophie beginnes to faile mee in this case: and I should bee cleane and alto­gether out of heart, if I had not your good­nesse to relye upon. For this, at this day, is the common refuge of all oppressed inno­cents, and no man invocates it in vaine. I therefore make my selfe believe, that it will at last send mee also some faire dayes, after so many stormes and tempests raysed against mee by mine enemies: and that after you have saved Nations, and set Princes in their Thrones, it will bee no hard matter to re­lieve a poore private man who adores you, and whom calumnie seekes to ruine. I know some my Lord, whom you have made happy, and yet scarce knew their names; when you did mee the honour to give mee your good word, and yet fare never the better for it. And some I have knowne advanced by you, that lay hidden in the throng, when your selfe drew mee out, and placed mee amongst the few, yet what get I by it? For in truth I could never make any use of this advantage, be­cause indeed I could never serve you with [Page 144] such care and subjection, as the forwardnesse of your favours obliged me to doe. My indisposi­tion hath alwayes hindred my good designes; I have alwayes combated with weaknesse of body, and never durst venture to begin a life, which I was not assured I were able to hold out. This hath forced me, my Lord, to court you in a new fashion; and to seeke to doe you service by my absence and ease, and not trouble you with unseasonable officiousnesse, and with many low curtsies to no purpose. I am able to say, unworthy as I am, that I was the first man that preached the wonders of your life unto the people, exhorted all Frenchmen to doe their duties; have in mine owne person given good example in the Provinces, and have healed ma­ny spirits that were sicke, and ill perswaded of the present government. I am not so well knowne by my name, as by my forwardnesse in your service. And when the spitefull rumour ran abroad of late, many persons of qualitie can tell, how generally I tooke it: and how I resol­ved to follow you to the worlds end, if so bee the unfortunatenesse of France should remove you from the Court. Yet I am not troubled, that I make you not these proofes of my Fide­litie, though they would be lesse difficult to me, than to entertaine you, as now I doe, with my interests; which to say true, is a cruell torture I put my selfe to. It is not my desire, you should have misfortunes, to the end I might make use [Page 145] of my consolations: nor is it my wish, there should be disorders in my countrey, and dis­grace to my master, to the end I might the bet­ter shew my selse a good Frenchman, and a loyall servant. But yet my Lord, why may I not be of some use in a calme, and have a place as well in the joy, as in the sorrow? You alone are the authour of your victorie; but you alone cannot furnish your tryumph, but must have many Artificers to worke about it. I have ma­terials enough to make many large Fabrickes; but to undertake the worke, I must entre at your Lordship I may have a little contentment, or at least, a little quiet. The splendor of your per­son is so great, that it sends forth beams of light to your remotest servants: and the power which heaven hath given you, is so redoubtable to all sorts of tyrants, that to give a period to my persecution, there needs no more, but that you give some signe you meane to protect me; which favour I perswade my selfe you will not deny me: for besides the common cause of being op­pressed, you have knowne a long time, that I make a speciall profession to be

To Monsieur Cytois, Physitian to M. the Cardinall. LETTER V.

SIR, my curiofitie were undiscreet, if I should aske you newes of occurrents in the Armie; but you cannot take it ill, that I aske you newes of my Lord the Cardinals health. I learne the progresse of his glorious actions by the mouth of Fame: but I must learn from you how he fares in his continual a­gitation; and whether the temper of his bo­die feele no alteration by the violent moti­ons of his spirit. I conceive that God doubles his force when there is need; and that hee hath regard to the necessitie of so many people that cannot misse him: but I know also, that hee makes use of the second causes, and that your cares and industrie concurre with his pro­vidence. The services you doe to one particu­lar man, are obligations to all the world. Ne­ver had any Science a more worthie or more profitable imployment than yours hath: And if the Romanes erected a statue to Antonius Musa, for healing of him who oppressed their libertie, why may not you justly expect a pub­licke [Page 147] acknowledgement for preserving of him, who makes us all both free and happie? I send him the discourses which——I hum­bly entreat you to take care they may come to no other hands but his: and therefore that you will keep them in your custodie, that they may be safe untill I come my selfe to Paris. I expect this courtesie from that good will you have al­wayes promised mee: and here I make you this solemne protestation, that you can never honour any man that is more passionately than I am

To Monsieur de Chastelet Counsel­lour of the King in his Counsell of State. LETTER V.

SIR, it is great worke of memorie to bee mindfull of mee at the Court: but it is an [Page 148] effect of a divine goodnesse to make it raine dainties in the desart: Since Manna, there was never seene there, such a thing as you sent me; and if you were bound to furnish mee with such fare, fortie yeares of banishment at this diet, would be to me fortie yeares of feli­citie. To speake in plaine tearmes, your pre­sent is unvaluable: and to helpe my selfe in speaking of it, I have beene forced to fetch comparisons from heaven, because inferiour things are never able to expresse it. You doe it wrong to give it the name of a Preface: but what may we expect from the worke it selfe, before which such a preface is set? If the out­side be so rich, and there bee so great magnifi­cence in the Gate-house, what will bee in the Galleries, and Cabinets? and what will the Pa­lace be that is worthie of such an entrance? I see indeed that it is a mark of greatnesse, but I feare withall, that it is a want of proportion, and being not possible the rest should equall the the beginning, you will bee accused for di­sturbing the order of things, and for putting perfection out of its place, which should not come in but at the last. See here an accusati­on that is verie nice, and whereof it is a glorie to bee convinced. In this there is lesse account to be made of vertue than of vice; and the dis­order which makes a magnificence, is more worth than the method which retaines a po­vertie: Blame not sir, the event of this dis­pute: Beautie begets the prize in all causes [Page 149] where the eyes are judges: and they who blame you for adorning too much your refu­tation of the Bookes of Flanders, blame you for having your Armour too much guilded, and that in striking you dazle their eyes. It seemes they know not that the Lacedemoni­ans never tricked up themselves, but when they went to fight; and that Caesar made his vaunt, hee wanne battailes with perfumed Souldiers. The pompe of your stile arrests not the sight without profit: It is pleasing to the Reader; but withall it is fatall to slander. In it there is to bee seene the luster and braverie of Tournaments; but withall, there is to bee seene in it the force and terriblenesse of warre. The onely pittie is, you had not a competent Enemie to fight withall, and that so much force and valour should bee spent upon a fee­ble furie, and which is now at the last drop of its poyson. The wretched man you pursue, and who dyes blaspheming; was not wor­thie of so noble a Resentment as yours, ha­ving nothing considerable in him, but that you vouchsafe to speake of him: you make him of some worth by alledging him so often. In undoing him, you make him famous, and his objections will one day not be found, but in your answeres. It is five and twentie yeares since hee was a fugitive from his order, and should have had his triall before the Generall of the Iesuites. And if these good Fathers did not deale too gently with delinquents, and [Page 150] change imprisonment into banishment, hee had from that time beene suppressed, with all the filthy bookes hee hath made ever since. But it was necessarie, that (to crowne his inconstancie) after hee had abandoned above a dozen sides, hee should now for his last prize, become a parasite to the Spaniards, and a Secretarie to those bad French that are at their Court. Let it never trouble us Sir, that hee calles us Flatterers: Atheists call honest men su­perstitious. Catiline called them all slaves that would not be parracides; and it hath alwayes been impossible, to be vertuous with approba­tion of the wicked. They are delinquents them­selves, that find fault with our innocency, & they are idle fellows, who prostrate themselves eve­ry day before a Don Dego, or a Don Roderigo, and yet thinke much wee should doe any re­verence to M. the Cardinall Richlieu. But it is fit they should be taught, that here is the true worship, at Bruxells but Idolatrie; and that to adore a forreigne Power, and such a one that doth mischiefe to the whole earth, is not, at least an action so truely French, as to revere a vertue, that is native of France, and that doth good to all the world. Seeing they abuse our tongue, in praysing their Tyrants, and ju­stifying our Rebells; It cannot be denyed us, to bring it backe to its naturall and proper use, and in more honest subjects, to purifie and make cleane those words and phrases, which they have prostituted to the conceits of the Marquis [Page 151] of Aytona, or made to serve the passion of Spaine. If tyrannie were more to be feared than it is, and that the unfortunatenesse of France should make it reach hither; yet it should never make mee to unsay the proposi­tions I hold, and it shall be all my life a most pleasing object to mee, to see my selfe enrol­led in the Catalogue of Authours, condemned by the enemies of my Countrey. I thinke, I may boldly say, I was one of the first maintei­ners of the truth, and he perhaps that layd o­pen the field, where so many Oratours and Poets finde themselves exercise: It is time now, that I leave it to younger men, and such as are more able than I am. Yet I intreat you to remember Sir, that I give place without run­ning away; and that it is the coldnesse of my bloud, and the abatement of my strength, that forceth mee, [...] not any want of courage or change of will. Never thinke I will ever fayle in these: I alwayes preserve in my heart, the principles of good actions, I meane, good de­sires; and when I can no longer be a runner in the Race, yet I will be one of the most ear­nest Spectatours, and fight at Cuffes, when I can doe nothing else. In the meane time, to the end, that a good part of my ancient travaile may not be lost, and that I may not make that an unprofitable secret, betweene my Muses and mee, which may perhaps serve for some edification to the Publicke: I thinke fit, to make you account of certaine things I have [Page 152] heretofore conceived; and to shew you, that in actions of my dutie, I oftentimes content my selfe with the testimony of my owne Consci­ence. These are Pieces that were wrought be­fore the second voyage into Italie, and before the lamentable Divisions of the Royall Familie. In the puritic of publick joy, amidst the ap­plauses of all the Kings subjects; and even of those who have since lost their loyaltie, and now lye rayling upon us at Bruxells. I send you some sheets, as I first light upon them, and I send them Sir, rather to doe you Homage by laying my Compositions at your feete, than to make a Challenge, as opposing them to yours, rather to acknowledge the superioritie of your Eloquence, and to goe in your Lyve­rie, than to make my selfe your Competitor, and seeke to brave you, with so rash a Compa­rison. If you finde any rellish in Discourses so farre short of the force and merit of yours; and if you thinke they may give my Masters of the Universitie, any the least contentment, I ear­nestly entreate you, to present them a Copie; and withall, my humble submission to their judgement. I know, this Societie is at this day the supreme Tribunall that Censures all workes of the Braine, and gives Rules to all other Tribunalls of France. I neither doubt of the susficiencie, nor suspect the integritie of the Judges that praeside there: Moreover, I confesse Sir, it could never have a more hap­pie Conception, seeing your selfe was the first [Page 153] that spake it, nor a more illustrious birth, see­ing M. the Cardinall was a Patron to it; and therefore, borne in Purple, as were those Prin­ces in Constantinople, whom I would call, Porphyrogenetes, if the Academie had Natu­ralised this Forreigne word. The honour it hath done me, to make me a member of their body, without binding me to part from hence, and the place it hath given mee, without taking away my libertie, are two singular favours I received from it, both at one time. And to say the truth, it is no small benefit to a man of the wildernesse, that turnes his face sometimes to­wards the world, and is not altogether deve­sted of humane affections, that hee may injoy together, both the repose of solitude, and yet flatter his imagination with the glory of so pleasing a Societie. This I cannot doe with­out thanking you for so great a favour; and if they understand not of my Resentment by your mouth, they may have just cause to condemne me for one of little Gratefulnesse. Lend mee therefore, I beseech you Sir, some five or six words, I would aske you more, but I know they are of that worth, and so high in their ac­count, that these few will be enow, not onely to satisfie for the complement I owe; but for the Oration also, it is expected I should make them. You will not, I hope, denie mee the te­stimonie of your love, and I require it of you by the memory of the other Obligations I owe [Page] [...] [Page] [...] [Page] [...] [Page] [...] [Page 154] you. At (que) per inceptes promissum mu [...] Jam­bos: you know my meaning, and that I have a long time beene, and am

To Monsieur de Bois Robert. LETTER VI.

To Monsieur Favereau, Councel­lour of the King in his Court of Aydes. LETTER VII.

SIR, He whose Verses you commended, beleeves upon your word, that hee is a great Poet: but I told him, that your words are alwayes favourable, and that hee should not flatter himselfe with an approbation which you never denyed to any. He hath, since that, shewed mee other Verses, which hee made for M. the Cardinall, and intreated mee, to shew you some of the places, which I thought the most accomplished, but upon this conditi­on Sir, that at least for this once, you shall be a conscionable Judge, and shall tell us upon your Oath, whether you thinke this good, or that bad:

I have some conceit, this last Description will not dislike you, and having heard say, as well as I, that the Kingdome of Naples is a Paradise inhabited by Devills; you will finde some [...]ollish in the fiction of the [...] Nymphe, and not be troubled with the Enco­miums which our Friend affoords the Spany­ards. Naturally he doth not much love them; but since the warre hath beene proclaimed, and that all traffique with them is forbidden, now his nature is turned into Reason, and now he sayth, Hee should not thinke [...], a true French-man, or a good Citizen, if hee [Page 163] should hold intelligence, so much as with Se­neca; much lesse (as you may perceive by the Character of his phrase) with [...]; whom Scaliger hath handled so hardly, or with ano­ther of that Countrey, of whom he is continu­ally repeating these words, which I thinke fit to let you heare: Hispani Poetae & Romani Sermonis Elegantiam contaminarunt, & cum instatum quoddam & [...]dum, & Gentis suae morib [...] congruens inve [...]issent Orationis genus, [...] Exemplo suo caeteros, a recta ill a & in qua, praecipua Poetarum sita [...] est, i­mitation [...] naturae. Ita (que) fore post Augusti tem­pora, ut quis (que) max [...] versum instaverat, sen­ [...] [...] cont [...]rferat, eo deni (que) modo lo­cutus fuerat, quo nemo serio soleret loqui, it a in pretio haberi caepit. Quinetiam fucatus ille splendor, & adulterina Eloquentiae species, ita nonnullorum qui verae Eloquentiae gustum non habent, [...]vit animos, ut his quo (que) tempori­bus extiterint Hispani Duo, quorum alter, Lu­canum Virgilio, alter Martialem Catullo, anteponere veritus non est. Quorum abutro (que) ita diss [...], & siquis Deus potestatem mihi optionem (que) faciat &c. You see by this, that the Spanyards have marred all in the world, and have alwayes beene the corrupters of all good things. It is not the Politicks onely, that they have spoyled, making it an Art of wickednesse, and a science of Piracie; but they have done as much hurt to other inferiour knowledges, and have [...] no kindlier with the servants, than [Page 164] with the Mistris. It is they that brought in the first haerefie, and the first novelties in the La­tin Eloquence. It is they that have pi [...] quar­rels with Cicero and Virgill; that have made Bookes with nothing but Antitheses, and as one should make Feasts with nothing but Salt and Vineger. I make you report of a Poets opi­nion, who requires yours upon the fragments I send you, where his desire is, to come as neere as might be to that ancient grace, which was to be seene in the Romane writings, till such time as the plaster and dawbings of the Spany­ards, had marred their puritie. I intreat you to send him your judgement of it; and in the meane time, will assure you, that he is as much as I can be

Another to him. LETTER VIII.

SIR, I am your vexation in ordinary, and because you have not rejected my first im­portunities, you have given me encouragement to continue them still. Hee that brings you this Letter, beleeves that my commendation would doe him no hurt with you; and I beleeve so too; and seeing his interests are very deare un­to mee, I earnestly intreat you, to let him finde that our common beliefe is not ill grounded. The savours you doe mee, are so much the more pure, in that they looke for no requitall, and that you have no friends that have suits at Balzac. You therefore may worke, as your cu­stome is, by the onely motions of your vertue; and as it is fit, you should be more ambitious than I, so you must be content, to leave me all the profit of our friendship, and keepe for your selfe all the glory. I expect an answer out of Holland, where, I doubt not, but your worke is in high esteeme, as well for the merit of the [Page 166] matter, as for the excellencie of the forme: I meane, as well for that it is the Production of a great Poet, as for that it is the action of a good Citizen. As soone as I heare newes from thence, I will acquaint you with it; and in­treat this favour from you, that you will beleeve I passionately am,

To Monsieur Girard, Secretary to M. the Duke D'Espernon. LETTER IX.

SIR, your last Letters have exceedingly comforted mee, and you have such things for me, that they make me forgetfull of all my [Page 167] miseries. With such a friendship, I can mocke at ill fortune, and it makes mee taste content­ments, which good fortune knowes not of. It is true, that your absence is a perpetuall coo­ling Card to my joy; and possessing you but in spirit, it requires a very strong imagination, to desire nothing else. Shall wee never come to be Citizens of one Citie? Never to be Her­mits in the same Desart? Shall my Counsayle be alwayes twenty myles from me? and must I be alwayes forced to passe two Seas to fetch it when I need it? I hope your justice will doe me reason, and that Heaven will at last heare the most ardent of all my prayers; but in the meane time, whilst I stay waiting for so perfect a contentment, I would be glad to have of it, now and then, some little taste: which, if it be not in your power to give mee; at least lend it mee for some few dayes, and come and sit as supreme President, over both my French, and Latin. I promise you, I will never appeale from you to any other; onely for this once, give mee leave to tell you, that the word Lu­dovix, which you blame as too new, seemes to me a more Poeticall and pleasing word, than either the Aloysius of the Italians, or our Lu­dovicus; and besides, It savours of the Anti­quitie of our Nation; and of the first language of the Gaules; witnesse these words, Ambio­rix, Eporedorix, Orgetorix, Vercingetorix, &c. In which you see the Analogie to be plaine; yet more than this, I have an Authoritie, which [Page 168] I am sure, you will make difficultie to allow: you know Monsieur Guyet, is a great Master in this Art; but perhaps you know not that hee hath used this very word Ludovix, before I u­sed it; for I tooke it from excellent Verses of his:

For other matters Sir, you may adde to that which was last alledged in the cause of Ma­dam Gourney, this passage out of the divine Je­rusalem, where Aladin calles Clorinda the In­tercessour of Sophronia, and of her lover,

I kisse the hands of that faire creature you love, and am with all my soule.

To my Lord the Earle of Port. LETTER X.

SIR, I have received a letter from you since your being in England, but not being able to read the Gentlemans hand that writ it to me, for want of a decipherer, I have been forced to bee uncivill till now, and have therefore not answered you; because indeed I know not whom to answer: but now, that this Gen­tleman (whose name is a mysterie in his let­ters) is by good fortune, come againe into this countrey, I can by no meanes suffer him to part without some testimonie of the account I make of your favour, and the desire I have to pre­serve it, by all the possible meanes I can. I will make you Sir, no studied Protestations, nor send complements to a man that is borne in the Countrey of good words, I will onely say, there are many respects that make your per­son dea [...] unto mee: and that besides the con­sideration of your vertue, which gives mee just cause to honour you, that also of the name you beare, and of the ranke you hold, are things that exceed the value of indifferen­cie. [Page 170] I love all them that love France, and wish well to our great Prince, of whom in truth I have heard you speake so worthily, that as often as I remember it, it stirres mee up to doing my dutie, and to profit by so good an example. If hee had been seconded in I­taly, wee should have seene all we could have hoped. But God himselfe saves none but such as contribute themselves to their salvation. Saguntum was taken while the Senatours were deliberating: and a wisedome that is too scru­pulous, commonly doth nothing for feare of doing ill. The most part of Italians are them­selves the workmen, to make their owne fet­ters: they lend the Spaniard their blood, and their heares, to make a slave of their countrey, and are the particides of their mother, of whom they might have been the redeemers. But of all this, wee shall talke more at Paris, if you come thither this Winter, as I am put in hope you will. In the means time doe mee the ho­nor to let me have your love, and to believe mee, there is none in the world more truely than I,

To my Lord the Bishop of Nantes. LETTER XI.

MY Lord, the joy I take in the recoverie of your health, is not yet so pure, but that it alwayes represents unto me a terrible Image of your last sicknesse. The imagination of a dan­ger, thogh past & gone, yet makes my momorie afraid, I looke upon it rather in safetie, than with assurance. We missed the loosing you but very narrowly: and you were upon the poynt to leave us Orphans. I speake it seri­ously, and without any flattery at all, all the vi­ctories we have gotten, or shall get, would ne­ver be able to make us amends for such a losse: you would have made our conquest turne to mourning: M. the Cardinall would have found something to complaine of in his great felicitie, and would have watred his triumph with his teares. Let it not be Gods will to lay this crosse upon our time: and if it be a crosse in­evitable, yet let it be deferred to our posteritie. It is necessarie the Pho [...]nix should live out her [Page 172] age, and that the world should be allowed time for enjoying the possession, and so profitable and sweet a life as yours. It is true, the world is not worthy of you; but, my Lord, the world hath need of you: your vertue indeed should long since have beene crowned, but that your example is still necessarie: and the more hap­pie ones there be in heaven, the fewer honest ones will be left upon earth. Love therefore your selfe a little for our sakes; begin now at last to studie your health, which hitherto you have neglected, and make a difference here­after between cold and heate, betweene good and bad aire; between meates that are sweet, and those that are bitter. Though you take no care of your health for your owne sake, yet you must take care of it for the common good: For, I beseech you my Lord, tell me, what should become of the cause of the poore? what of the desolation of widowes? what of the innocencie of men oppressed? I speak not of the hope of such as hope for preferment by you: for though I write to you my Father, and call you Monsieur,——yet I am none of that number. I desire nothing from you at this time, but that which you may give me with­out asking it of another; your love and good will is the onely object of my present passion. I renounce with all my heart, all other things in the world, so I may keepe but this, and shall never complaine of my shipwracke, if it leave me so solid a planke as this to rest upon. Be [...] [Page 173] pleased to doe me the honour to believe it, and that I am with all my soule,

To Monsieur Senne, Theologall of the Church of Saints LETTER XII.

SIR, I have been in extasie to heare of your health, and that you keepe your bodie in that reasonable fulnesse of flesh, which con­tributes something to your gravitie, and addes nothing to your weight. I would not wish you to seeke to abate it, nor long to be like the city and tawnie skinnes of the first Christi­ans. For all Tertullians saying, all Saints have not been leane and melancholick. The last that wee have seene, were of your colour [Page 174] and [...]; and you doe an honour to Di­vinitie, to preach it with a bright visage, re­presenting in some sort the state of future glo­rie you speake of the people. Monsieur de—made me so rich a description of your health, that I could not choose but be­gin my letter with this complement. I have seene since Monsieur de—who delivered me one from you, and with-it, our friends booke, for which I thanke you with all my heart, I have yet perused onely some Tracts, which in truth seeme verie learned, and are as intelligible as the obscuritie of the matter would well beare. It is true, the Ti­tle deceived me; and seeing you will have me speake freely what I thinke, I must tell you, I thinke they are nothing lesse than Orations, and that they are [...] [...] be [...] read upon a Ioyne stoole, than pronounced at a Tribunall. I had thought to have found in them the per­swasive motives of Oratours, in the highest straine of their stile, and I finde nothing but the dry doctrine of Philosophers, and of them neither, nothing but the ordinarie language of their precepts: that it makes me think of these new Companies of souldiers which are levied under the name of Horse, but are put to serve on foote, when they come to the Armie. I say not, it is necessarie to handle schoole [...] with all the pompe and force of [...], I onely say, that such discourses ought not to bee called Panag [...]rickes, or [...], & that there is [Page 175] either craft or rashnesse in this proud ins [...]ipti­on, which promiseth more than a Philoso­pher can performe. Cicero [...] it of im­proprietie, as you shall see at the end of this Letter: and you cannot but confesse unto mee, that our friend hath mistaken himselfe two wayes: First, to believe hee ought to play the Oratour in Divinitie: and scondly, to ima­gine, that to make Orations with successe, hee need but to draw forth some [...] out of Plutarchs; lives, and to alledge the so famous Bucephalus, that was broken by [...] the great. These are ornaments so vulgar and so stale, that to use them at this day, is rather a marke of Clo [...]nishnesse, than of neatnesse. When fashions are left off in the Citie, they are then taken up in the Countrey; and there are none now but poore Gentlemen, that will offer to weare the massiest silver lace, when it is once fitterd, or the richest Plush, when it is once growne thred bare, Both the one and the other have been in fashion, but they are not so now. They were heretofore novelties, but are now but Rellickes. The first comparison that was made of the burning of Dianaes Tem­ple, was excellent: all other since have beene but idle. And it is not enough, that the spring from whence water is drawne, be it selfe cleare, but to draw that which is cleare, it is necessarie also that Lawndresses and Passengers have not [...] it. I make no doubt Sir, but that which you will shew mee, shall bee very choyce and [Page 176] perfect. You are I know, of too dainty a taste to bee contented with every sawce. I am very impatient till I see those rare productions: and I should ere this have seene them, but that your promises are as deceitfull as the Titles of your Booke; which notwithstanding is o­therwise full of [...] discourse, and pro­found knowledge. It is now foure moneths that I have wayted for you, and you have still continued to wrong me, in continuing to breake your word: yet as much wronged as I am, I leave not to be

The Opinion of Cicero concerning the stile which Philosophers use intheir Writings.

LOquuntur Philosophi cum doctis, quorum se­dare animos malunt, quam incitare. Siquidem de rebus pacatis ac minime turbulentis docend can­sa, non capiendi loquuntur, ut in eo ipso, quod de­lectationem aliquam dicendo aucupentur, plus nonnullis quam necesse sit, facere videantur. Mollis ergo est eorum or atio & umbratilis, neque nervos & aculeos oratorios habet. Nec sententijs est, nec verbis instruct a popularibus, nec junct a numer [...], sed soluta liberius. Nihil iratum habet, nihil a­trox, nihil mirabile, nihil astutum; Casta, vere­cunda, incorrupta quodammodo virga Itaque sermo potius quam oratio dicitur. Quanquam enim omnis locutio oratio est; tamen unius orationis loc [...]tio hoc proprio signata nomine est.

To Mounsieur Granier. LETTER. XIII.

SIR, my persecution should be sweete unto me, if in suffering it, I might have the hap­pinesse to see you; but your absence makes it insupportable: and it were as good for mee to [Page 178] goe and be killed in the place where you are, as to come hither and die with languishing Being here against my minde, I finde nothing that pleaseth me: and the objects which I be­held before, as the riches of Nature, I cannot now looke upon but with horrour, and count them but as the moveables of a Prison. I sigh continually after your Cabinet, which hath so often served for a haven to my tossed spirit: and from whence I have so often fetcht Armes and courage to defend me against For­tune. I am not out of hope to see it once againe, and to sit mee downe in that greene chaire, where you know I have used to be inspired, and foretell things to come, as Sibil did from her Tryvet. In the meane time I must let the unhappy co [...]stellation passe away; and must give place to the choler of heaven. So long Sir, as you vouchsafe to remember me, and to hold me in the favour of Messieurs du Puy; I shall not want a good portion of consolation. These are persons that without wearing purple, or bearing office, are yet illustrious and in Autho­ritie, at least in the reasonable world, and a­mongst men, that can rightly judge of things. No imployment is so honourable as their Lei­sure: no ambition so worthily at worke, as their vertue takes it rest. You shall doe mee a singular favour, to let them know from me, in how greet [...] I hold them both: and that [...] [...] the Gallery of Moun­s [...] [...] [...] better perswaded than I am of their inco [...]: merit, I will sometimes [Page 179] expect to heare from you; and will alwayes be with all my heart,

To Mounsieur de Brye. LETTER XIV.

SIR, My deare Cousin, I have received three of your Letters, within these [...] moneths: the other you speake of, are not yet come to my hands, of which losse. I am ve­ry sensible: for being deprived of your conver­sation I cannot but exceedingly esteeme of that which [...] it to me. I here often­times told you, that you are naturally eloquent; but yet I must confesse you have gotten new graces, by being in Ciceroes country, and the Aire of Rome seemes to have purged your spirit, of all vulgar conceits. Monsieur de—is in this of my opinion: and you have written to us such excellent things, that they were able to comfort us for your absence, if we loved you but a little; but in truth, no Copie can be so good, as the Originall; and if you come not backe very shortly, I could finde in [...] heart, to goe as farre as Navona, to have your company. Your last Letter renues in me [Page 180] my old loves, and makes me with so much plea­sure, remember the sweetest part of the earth, that I even die with longing, till I see it againe. It is a long time that Italy hath had my heart, and that I sigh after that happy cowardice, with which the valiant reproach the wise. If I could have lived, as I would my selfe, I had beene a citizen of Rome ever since the yeare 1620. and should now injoy that happinesse in possession, which you but onely make mee see in Picture, but my ill fortune would not suffer me: shee keepes mee in France, to be a continuall object of persecution: and though it be now foure yeares since I left the world, and lost the use of my tongue; yet hatred and en­vie follow me in to the woods to trouble my silence; and pursue mee even in Dennes and Caves. I must therefore be [...] to goe beyond the Alpes to seeke a s [...]ctuary, where I shall be sure to finde, at least my old comforter, who will be pleased to [...], that I am more than any other in the world,

To Mounsieur de Silhon. LETTER XVI.

SIR, I have word sent mee from Paris, that you make complaints against me: but be­ing well assured, you have no just cause, I ima­gine, it is not done in earnest, but that you take pleasure to give mee a false Alarum. Yet I must confesse, this cooling word, I heare spo­ken, puts me to no little paine: for though it make me not doubt of the firmenesse of your affection, yet it makes me challenge the malice of my Fortune. I have beeue for some time so unfortunate in friendshippe; that it seemes there needes nothing but pretences to ridde me of them; the sweetest natures grow soure and bitter against mee; and if this sit hold, I shall have much adoe to keepe my owne brother of my side. I would like as well, to be a keeper of the Lyons, as of such harsh friends; for though I were more faithfull than Pylades and Aca­tes put together; yet they would finde matter of discontentment; and my fidelitie should be called dissimulation. I cannot beleeve that you are of this number; but if you be, it is time for me to go hide my self in the desarts of Thebai [...], and never seeke conversation with men any more. It is my griefe and indignation that write these last words; for my patience is mo­ved with the consideration of the wrong [Page 182] is done me: and if you should deale as hardly with me as others have done: It were fit, I should resolve to live no longer in a world, where goodnesse and innocencie are so cruel­ly persecuted. These sixe moneths, I have re­ceived from you, but onely one Letter; to which, I made no answer, because it was de­livered me, but in Aprill: at which time, you sent me word you should be in France. Since therefore by your owne account, you were gone from thence, before the time I could write unto you; would you, I should have writ­ten into Italy, to Mounsieu [...] de Silhon; that was not there? And that I should have directed my Letters to a name, without either hands or [...] [...] receive and reade them? You are too wise to deale so unreasonably with me; and I should call your former justice in question, if you take it ill, that I did not guesse, or rather [...] of the stay of your voyage: & yet af­ [...] a [...] examination of my conscience, I can [...] no other ground for your complaints, [...] onely this: [...] I am ashamed to charge so [...] a spirit as yours with [...] weake a cōceit [...] I must have had a [...]will at command to send of my [...], and to deliver you my Letters, be­ing so uncertaine [...], of the pla [...] of your [...], and in truth, if I had had such a messen­ger, I had soo [...] thanked you, then I doe, for your excellent [...]: and should not all thi [...] while, have kept within the secret of my heart, the just [...] it des [...]rves. It hath taugh [...] mee Sir, an [...] number of good [Page 183] Maximes; the stile pleaseth me exceedingly, and I see in it both force and beauty, thorough all the passages, even that passage which did not so fully please me, yet hath as fully satisfied me, as the rest of the worke: and though of my selfe I be blinde in the knowledge of holy things, yet the lustre of your expressing, and the facilitie of your method illuminate my [...]ight. When my health shall give me leave to goe from hence, I will then for your gold bring you copper, and will receive your corrections and advise, with as much reverence and sub­mission, as any Novice: but in the meane time, I cannot chuse but put my hand to my wound, and require you to give a reason of your doing. I know not from whence should come this coldnesse in you; seeing for my selfe, I am all on fire: nor how, you, with your great wise­dome should be altered and growne another than, seeing I continue still the same, with no­thing but my common sence. Great spirits are above these petty suspitions which move the vulgar: and I wonder you could conceive ill of my affection, knowing how well you had pre­served your owne. If it be the jealousse of eloquence that provokes you; I am willing with all my heart, to leave you all the preten­sions I can have to it; and if you please, I will make you a Surrender before witnesse. Con­sider me therefore, rather as your [...]ower, who is willing to [...] your troope, then as your rivall to strive [...] prece [...]ence. Give mee leave to live: a man that cannot be lost, what [Page 184] neligence be used in keeping me; and remem­ber that the least respected of all my friends is much dearer to me, than all Sciences or all Bookes. Yet such is my unhappinesse, that few of them returne me the like, but seeme rather they would make a benefit, of my paines and sorrowes. Because they see I am persecuted, they will make every the least courtesie they doe me to be of great value, and set an exces­sive price upon their friendshippe, because they know I stand in neede of it. But I desire them, and you also to take notice, that my friendship was never grounded upon any interest; but my love is ever without any mercenary designe, or hope of benefit. If they be not willing to em­broile themselves in my affaires, I would have them know, I am as unwilling as they, they should: and if they be not strong enough, to defend the truth in publike; and when it is op­posed; at least let them not disavow it, when they are in place of safety; let them not deny their friend when the storme is over, and that there is no longer any danger in confessing him. You saw my heart, the first time you saw my face; you were at that time my Confessour; and I have not a sinne that is hidden from you. I conceive you are too generous to make ad­vantage of this excesse of freenesse you finde in me; and I doe not thinke you so subtle, that you would make a shew of discontent, for feare least I should beginne first. These are subtilties indeede of the country from whence you come: but in my opinion very remote from your na­turall [Page 185] disposition: and you neede not make complaints of me, to prevent the complaints I might else make of you. It is certaine, that if I had not equitie enough to excuse my friends for things they were not able to performe; I might then perhappes have colour to com­plaine they performed not their promise: but I am one, that know there happen a thousand impediments which hinder a man from keep­ing his word, and that every thing that is pro­mised and not done, is not presently a viola­ting of fa [...]th, or a breaking of promise. Some have laboured to perswade me, that—: but I never beleeved any such thing, and I could never imagine that you would goe about to build your reputation upon the ruines of the reputation of your friend. If any shall make use of such like artifices, to doe ill offices betweene you and me: I earnestly intreate you to make use of the like remedies, to preserve your opi­nions sound, and not to suffer your judgement to be corrupted. I take God to witnesse, there is nothing in the world more deare unto mee then your friendship; I make publike and open profession of honouring you: I highly esteeme a number of eminent qualities in you, both Mo­rall and Intellectuall; I have oftentimes shedde teares, when I read in your Letters of your griefes; all this, me thinkes should deserve a little affection, and make the Fathers them­selves that are my adversaries, not take it ill that you should love me; especially when they shall know, that I passionately am,

To Mounsieur de Sainte Marte. LETTER XVII.

SIR, I am paid for my paines before hand, and looke for no greater recompence than you have already made mee. My ambi­tion should be very excessive, if it were not fully satisfied with your excellent Verses: and if I did not thinke my selfe happie to be honou­red by a hand, which crownes none but Sove­raigne heads, and travells not, but about tri­umphall Arcks, and publicke Monuments. I have long since knowne, that all excellent things grow in your Garden; and that the La­tine eloquence, which is but borrowed by o­thers; and a stranger every where else; ought with you to be accounted as your patrimony: but I knew not till now, that this rare quality, is accompanied with so perfit a courtesie; and that a man so worthy of his name, and that addes new glory to that of the great Scavola, could admire any other mens wonders, besides his owne. I will doe all that possibly I can, to deserve this your favourable judgement, and not to make you sorry for being deceived to my advantage: but howsoever, if I be not able to preserve your good opinion by my merit; I hope at least to merit your favour by my affe­ction, and to make you see that I truely am,

To Mounsieur D'Argenton Coun­sellor of the King, and Master of Requests in Ordinary. LETTER XVIII.

SIR, having taken the paines that I have done, I cannot altogether disvalue my worke; yet I am not a little glad to be confir­med in my opinion by a man of your worth: and that my labour is not unpleasing to the soundest judgements. The second censure you make of it, assures me of the integritie of the first; seeing I should be too presumptuous to beleeve, you could be deceived twice toge­ther. But let us stay there, I beseech you; and thinke not, I will ever entertaine the vanitie you put upon me. I neither pretend to instruct the world, nor take upon me to teach you, in any thing: it is enough for me, that I can finde wisemen some recreation; & can lay things be­foreyour eyes, which you know already better than my selfe. I may perhaps be some helpe to your memorie, and refresh your old Ideas; but to adde any thing to your knowledge, and im­part to you any new Doctrine, this requires qualities that are not to be found in me. I ra­ther hope to be much bettered in knowledge by you; and make account, to account you here­after, for one of my Oracles. Prepare your [Page 188] selfe therefore to be persecuted with Questi­ons, and looke to receive importunities from me in ordinary. Thus I use my friends when they are abler men than my selfe; and this ad­vantage which is not great, is accompanied with this inconvenience, which is not small. You shall beginne to finde it, at our next mee­ting: but in the meane time, I intreate you to beleeve, that what badde designe soever I have against you, yet I remaine perfectly to be,

To the most Reverend Father, Leon, Preacher of the Carmelites. LETTER XIX.

SIR, you do me too much good at once: your friendship is of great worth being alone; and you send it to me accompanied. It brings with it an infinite number of excellent things, and resembles that happy River which leaves plenty in all places where it passeth. The Pre­sent I have received, comes from such a fruite­full Vine: it is not a vaine shew of magnifi­cence, [Page 189] which gives onely a light satisfaction to the eyes; but I finde it essentiall and solid; and any spirit that is capable of speculation, may well finde nourishment enough in the juyce onely of your Preface. I will not take upon me any more, though you sollicite mee to doe it; and instead of giving my advice, would have me, I should pronounce a Decree. Take heede my good Father, what you say; and consider what a goodly thing it would be to raise my Village into a Parliament, and make appeales, from Paris to Balzac. Though you had humi­litie enough to submit to an unlawfull Magi­strate: yet I have not presumption enough to intrude upon an unlawfull charge: Remember your selfe besides, that your Booke is dated from Mount Carmell, which is to say, out of our jurisdiction, and that Decrees are of no force, where time out of minde, there have beene Oracles. You know what Suetonius saith of it, in the life of Uespatian, he makes no bones to make a God of a Mountaine. I like not the boldnesse of such Metamorphoses: yet I am not ignorant, how farre the force of pletie may reach; and knowing it hath right to re­move Mountaines, I doubt not but Carmell at this day may be in France; and that upon a place so holy and so high, there may descend more grace and light from heaven, than there ascends ignorance and vapours from the earth. Accept from me this true confession I make un­to you, and dispence with mee for that sove­raigne judgement you require of me: Though [Page 190] I am not willing to be your President, yet I am not the lesse,

To Mounsieur Chaplain. LETTER XX.

SIR, I have now these three weekēs taken mine ease, in spight of my selfe; and one of my feete, which I have not very free, keepes me in my bed, with more inconvenience than paine. Heretofore it hath put mee to torture; and therefore I count it now a favour, that it onely keepes me in prison, which I sweeten as well as I can, with my. Bookes and my friends. You thinke you contribute nothing to the comfort I receive; but I assure you, the best part of it comes from you: and nothing comforts me so much for the faire dayes I lose, as that excellent Ode you sent me: I am e­ven ravished with every part of it; the choice and marshalling of the words; the structure and harmony of the composition; the modest greatnesse of the conceits; the force which sa­voursnot of any violence; all these are worthy to be ranked with the best Antiquitie. In some [Page 191] places you doe not onely touch me, but touch me to the quicke: the agitation of the Poet, is transferred upon the reader; and no Trumpe [...] makes so loude, and silver a sound, as your Harpe doth:

Either I know not my selfe in Verse; or cer­tainely these Verses will live to the [...] [Page 192] posteritie: they will be alledged for proofe and testimony in the counsells of the last Kings that shall reigne upon earth; and perhaps too, they shall serve for a Law, and for a Decree, as well as Homers Verses did; by the authority whereof a great warre that was kindling be­tweene the Seigneury of Megara and Athens was reconciled. I know for my selfe, I shall never stay till your death, for putting you in the number of my Authours: and as often as in my presence, there shall be speaking of the siege of Rochell; of the forcing of Suza; of the taking and keeping of Pigneroll; so often shall I al­leadge the divine Verses you have written of them: and these also, which I lay not lesse carefully up in my memorie,

And these other, which to him, to whom you addresse them are as much worth as a tri­umpha [...] Ar [...]h:

And these other that are so sage and morall.

And these other that are so noble and so Po­eticall;

And now after all this; tell me, if I have not profited by my reading, & have not made good use of your presents. I should quickly grow rich, if you would send me such presents often; but this is too inordinate a desire, I must be con­tent with one croppe in a yeare; and I may ve­ry well entertaine my selfe a long time, with that you have already sent mee, for which I thanke you with all my heart, and am,

To Mounsieur Bonnaud, Coun­sellor in Ordinary to my Lord the Prince. LETTER XXI.

SIR, I acknowledge nothing in your Ver­ses due to me but only my name, all the rest belongs to some body else; and is unfitter for me, than a Crowne for a private man. I can­not therefore value my selfe the more, for ha­ving a thing I cannot use; nor is it fit I should put on Ornaments, which being as unfit for me, as in themselves they are rich, would disguise me rather, than adorne me. A courtier would complaine that you mocke him; Et que vous en faites une piece, A Doctour would say, you un­dertake a Paradox, and trie the strength of your wit, upon the noveltie of an irregular subject. I thinke, I must my selfe be of this opinion; and charge you Sir, with abusing Poetry; and for chusing an incredible thing to make it be­leeved. Neverthelesse, seeing the Philosopher Favorinus tooke upon him to praise a fea­vour: and the Romanes adored it: I won­der not at your designe; for I perceive, there is nothing so bad of which may not be spoken some good; and whereof, Quelques vus n'ayent Chaumé le feste. After this extravagant Enco­mium, and this ridiculous Temple; you might [Page 195] doe well to take my miseries too, and conse­crate them in your stances, and take me too, and make me a thing adoreable and divine: for they are but the sports of your wit; which delight, though they doe not perswade and amuse with pleasure, because they are witty; but doe not deceive me because I know their craft. For the assurance you give me by your Letter of your friendship: I am infinitely beholding to you, and make account to reape no small bene­fit by it, for having a soule as you have, full of vertue, you make me a Present that is invalua­ble, to bring mee in to so worthy a possession: and whilest you offer me [...]eenesse and fi [...]elity, you offer me the two greatest rarities this age affords. I beleeve you speake more seriously in Prose than you doe in Verse; and that you are content to be a Poet, but have no meaning to be a Sophister. I likewise entreare you to be­leeve, that the least word I speake, is accom­panied with a Religion, which I never violate; and that there is nothing more true, than the promise I here seale you, most perfectly to be,

To Mounsieur Souchote. LETTER XXII.

SIR, by your reckoning you have written to me thrice for nothing, when indeede I knew not of your first Letters, but by your last: if I had received them, you may be sure I should have answered them; for though I be not very regular in observing compliments, yet I am not so negligent of necessary duties, that I should commit so many faults together. How profound soever my slumber be; yet I a­wake presently, assoone as I am once stirred; and specially when it is by so deare a name, and by so pleasing a voyce as yours is. Never there­fore require me to give it in charge to some o­ther, to let you heare from me; such a request would be an offence to our friendshippe, an action fitter for a Tyrant than a Citizen: it were to take me for the great Mogull, who speakes to none but by an Interpreter. I like not this savage statelinesse; it is farre from me to use so little civilitie towards men of your worth: when it is I, that am beholding to you; I pray let it not be my groome that shall thanke you for it. I will take the paines my selfe to assure you I am wholly yours; and whereas, I did not bid you farewell at my going from Pari [...]; you must not take it for an argument of slighting your person; but for an effect of the libertie I [Page 197] presume of, and of the renouncing I have vowed to all vaine ceremonies. They that are my friends give me this leave; and you are too well acquainted with the soliditie of things, to ground your judgement upon apparances; nei­ther doe I thinke you will require them of me, who am as bad a courtier, as I truely am,

To Mounsieur Tissandier. LETTER XXIII.

SIR, you shall receive by this bearer the rest of the workes of—: or to speake more properly, the continuation of his Follies. They are now as publike; as those Du grand preuost diuin, que vous auez visite autres fois dans les fame uses petites maisons. Hee useth me still with the same pride and insolencie he was wont: and you would thinke that hee were at the toppe of the Empyriall heaven, and I at the bottome of hell; so farre he takes himselfe to be above mee: but I doubt not, ere long, his pride shall be abated, and his insolencie morti­fied. He shall shortly be made to see, that he is not so great a man as he thinkes himselfe; and [Page 198] if hee have in him but one sparke of naturall justice; hee shall confesse he hath triumphed without cause, and must be faine to give up all the glory he hath gotten unlawfully:

Mounsieur de—, is still your perfect friend, and he never writes to me, but hee speakes of you. He is at this present at Venice, where he meditates quietly the agitation of all the world besides; and where he enjoyes the honest plea­sures which Italy affoords to speculative Philo­sophers. But Sir, what meane you by speaking of your teares; and of the request you make unto me? Doe you not mocke mee, when you pray me to comfort you for the death of your Grandfather; who had lived to see so many Families, so many Sects, so many Nations, both to be borne and die: a man as old as Here­ [...] it selfe: the League was younger than hee; which when the Cardinall of Lorraine first conceived; hee caused a Booke to be printed, wherein hee advertized France of the concep­tion of this Monster. You weepe therefore for the losses of another age; it is Anchyses or La­ertes you weepe for; at least it is for a man who did but suffer life, and was in a continuall com­bate with death. He should long agoe have bin one of the Church Triumphant, and therefore you ought to have beene prepared for either the losse, or the gaine that you have made? [Page 190] Mounsieur [...] was not of your humour; I send you one of his Letters, where you shall see, hee was as much troubled to comfort him­selfe for the life of two Grandmothers that would not die, as hee was for the death of a brother that died too soone. I commend your good nature; but I like not your Lamentations; which should indeede, do him you sorrow for, great wrong, if they should raise him againe to be in the state in which you lost him. It may suffice to tell you, that he is much happier than I; for he sleepes, and I wake; and he hath no more commerce with men unreasonable and inhumane, and that are but Wolfes to one an­other. You know I have cause enough to speake thus; but out of this number, I except certaine choise persons; and particularly your selfe, whom I know to be vertuous; and whose I am,

The Letter of Peter Bembo, to Hercules Strotius.

AVias ambas meas, effoetas deplorat as que fae­minas, & jam prope centum annorun mulie­res, [Page 200] mihifata reliquerunt; unicum fratrem me­um, juvenem ac florentem abstulerunt, spem & solatiamea. Quamobrem, quo in [...]rore sim, fa­cilè potes existimare. Heu me miserum: Vale;

Id. Ian. 1504. Venetijs.

Another to him. LETTER XXIV.

SIR, if it had not beene for the indisposi­tion of my body; I had not stayed so many dayes from thanking you for your many cour­tesies; but for these two moneths I have not stirred from my bed; so cruelly handled with the Sciatica, that it hath taken from me all the functions of my spirit, and made mee utterly uncapeable of any cenversation: otherwise you may be sure I should not voluntarily have deprived my selfe of the greatest contentment I can have, when I have not your companie: and that I should not have received three Let­ters from you, without making you three An­swers. Now that I have gotten some quiet mo­ments from the violence of my torture; and that my paine is turned into lamenesse: I can­not chuse but take you in hand, and tell you, in the first place, that you are an ungratefull man, to leave our Muses, and follow some of their sisters, that are neither so faire, nor so worthy of your affection. I intreate you to beleeve, it [Page 201] is a temptation your evil Angell hath cast upon you; and that you ought to reject it, as the counsell of an enemie. Things are not now to beginne; it is no time now to deliberate; you are gone too farre in the good way to looke backe, and to be unwilling to finish that little which remaines. To leave eloquence for the Mathematickes; is to refuse a Mistris of eighteene yeare old, and to fall in love with an old woman. God keepe you from this unhap­pinesse, and inspire you with better thoughts, than those that have carried you to this desire of change. It would be a disloyaltie, I should never pardon you; but should blame you for it as long as I live. For making that reckoning of you as I doe; and expecting great matters from you: it were an infinite wrong you should doe, to make me lose the most pleasing of all my hopes. I therefore by all meanes in­treate you to persevere in your first designe, and to resolve upon a voyage of 3. months, to come and be reconciled to her whom you have offended, and to make her a publike satisfacti­on by the edition of your writings, by which it will plainely enough be seene, the great favours she hath done you. And for my part, I promise you a chamber, where you shall have the pro­spect of a garden twelve miles long; and so you shall be at once, both in the citie, and in the country. Besides, I binde my selfe to set be­fore your Booke an Advertisement to the Rea­der, to the end that no man may be ignorant of the part I beare, in that which concernes you. [Page 202] Consider whether you like of these conditions, and whether you have courage enough to come and lodge Au Pre aux Clerks: where I will waite for you, without any designe of know­ing, either what you meane, or what you meane to doe. You shall be sure Sir, to have there ad­mirable visions, and shall meditate nothing but with successe. And in truth, seeing the least motion of your spirit, puts mee into extasie; what will it be, when you shall employ your whole forces? And if your conceits be so just, and so well governed, in the midst of confu­sion, and unseasonable disturbances: what a man will you be, when you shall be at leasure, and have the libertie which now you want? Take my word for it, you neede not feare the censure of the world; Ile undertake, you shall have the approbation of all honest peoples pro­vided, that you make a truce with your Mathe­maticks, and never intricate your braines with that melancholicke and doting Science, which cost Archimedes his life; at least, before you cast your selfe upon such high and sublime specula­tions, it is fit you should get you credit by ex­ercises that are more sweete and popular. And now Sir, this is all you are like to have at this time, from my Sciatica, that I am,

Another to him. LETTER XXV.

SIR, I doe but now receive your Letter of the twelfth of this Moneth, which con­firmes mee in the opinion I have alwayes had; that my interests are as deare unto you as your owne. To compliment with you for this, would be to thanke you for being good, as much as to say for being your selfe; It is much better to returne you friendship for friendship, then to pay you with unprofitable words. In a word Sir, I make profession to bee an honest man, and therefore all the thankefulnesse that can be desired from a person obliged you may expect from me. As concerning——I as­sure you I wish him no ill, because I conceive he hath done me none; it is sufficient for mee that my friends have no good opinion of his opinions; and that his owne friends beginne to take notice of his false dealing. In all this there is nothing eyther new or strange; I am not the first innocent that have beene persecuted in the world, and if I could not beare detraction and slander, I should be more dainty then Princes, and their principall officers are, who forbeare not to doe well, though for their well doing they be evill spoken of; the best and soundest part is of my side, I want no protector eyther Males or Females, and if I would make use of [Page 204] all my advantages, I could oppose Doctour to Doctour, and Gowne to Gowne;

But it is fit sometimes to make spare of ones forces, and to restraine resentment within lesse bounds then justice allowes. The Prince you desire to heare of, is yet in the Idea of the king his father, farre from comming as yet to Paris or Thoulouze; for my selfe I am alwayes block­ed up by my 'Sciatica, and I thinke all the stormes of the middle region of the ayre fall downe upon my unhappy legges; but it is you that will bring mee health and faire weather, and your presence will worke that miracle which I expect from Mounsieur de L'orme; come therefore I intreat you speedily, and suf­fer not a man to die for want of succour, who passionately is,

To my Lord, the Duke of Valette. LETTER XXVI.

SIR, it greeves me much that the first Letter you see of mine, should not be pure and free [Page 205] from all my interests, & that in stead of intertai­ning you with matters of weight & proportio­nable to your spirit, I should bring it downe to the petty affaires of a private man; yet I can­not beleeve that you being all gracious and all generous as you are, will thinke any occasion of doing good unworthy of you, but that your ver­tue in this doth imitate the supreme, which is never so busie in governing of heaven & the o­ther nobler parts of the world, but that he takes care as wel for governing the meanest of all his creatures. I humbly beseech your Lordship to consider me in this last qualitie; and if it bee no incivilitie to make such a request, that you will undertake the businesse I present unto you, but as a disburthening you of some more weighty; if it be not that my unfortunatenesse makes the easiest that are become unpossible, I see no reason you neede to imploy your whole forces about this matter; there needs no more but onely the motion of your will, and a light impression of your credit, with——to give it all the soliditie and lustre I desire. I should not seeme to understand the tearmes of the last Letter he did mee the honour to write unto mee; if I had not yet some little hope left, and a kinde of satisfaction in my owne conscience. Yet I alledge to him no merit of my part, but much generousnesse of his, nor speake of any services of mine to recompense him, but of his goodnesse that prevents them, and subjects not it selfe to the rigours of ordi­nary justice; This my Lord is all the right I [Page 206] alledge for my selfe, and all the title upon which I ground my pretensions; but now I leave following it my selfe, and put it wholly into your hands; a place perhaps to which my ill fortune her selfe will beare a respect; but if shee shall be opposite to your desire, and pre­vaile above your favour, yet at least I shal there­by know the force of destinie to which all other forces give place, and which cannot be mastered by any force, nor corrected by any industrie; but yet it shall not hinder me from resting well satisfied, seeing I shall in this re­ceive much more from you then I am denied by him, if I hold any part in your grace and favour, which is already my comfort against whatsoever ill successe can happen. It suffi­ceth me to bee happy with this kind of happi­nesse, which is more deare to mee than all the happinesse the Court can give me, being a man no more ambitious then I am,

To my Lord, the Bishop of Poitiers. LETTER XXVII.

MY Lord, although Mounsieur de—hath promised me to give you assurance of the continuation of my service, yet I cannot forbeare to adde these few lines to his testimo­ny, and to tell you that which I tell to all the world that your vertue is a transcendent farre above the abilities and cariage of our age. It is a match for antiquitie in its greatest pure­nesse and severitie. When the Camilli and the Scipioes were not in imployment, they repo­sed themselves and tooke their ease as you doe; and when I consider sometimes the sweetē life you leade at Dissay, I conclude that all the imployments of the Pallace, and all the intrica­cies of the Court are not worth one moment of a wise mans idlenesse. It is well knowne that from your childhood you have despised vani­tie even in her kingdome, and that in an ayre where shee had attractives able to draw the oldest and most reluctant spirits. All the pompe of Rome hath not so much as given you one temptation; and you are so confirmed in a ge­nerous contempt, that if good Fortune her selfe should come to looke you out, you would scarce goe out of your Closet to meete her in your Chamber. This is that I make such recko­ning [Page 208] of in your Lordship, and which I prefer before all your other qualities; for those how great soever they be, are yet but such as are common with many base and mercenarie Doctors, where as this force and courage are things that cannot bee acquired in the noyse and dust of Schooles. You found not these ex­cellent qualities in the Vatican Library, nor yet got them by reading of old Manuscripts; you owe them indeede to Mounsieur your de­ceased father, that true Knight without spot or wrinckle; equally skilfull in the art of warre, and in affaires of peace, and that was the Heros of Muret, of Scaliger, and of Saint Mart. I propose not a lesse object for my worship then they did, neither indeede is it lesse, or lesse religious then theirs was; and though you did not love mee as you doe, and though you should denounce warre against me, and become head of a faction to seeke my ruine, yet I should not for all that forbeare to revere so rare a vertue as yours is, but should stil remaine,

To Mounsieur Guyet. LETTER XXVIII.

SIR, I feare not much to lose a thing I esteem but little, but holding your friendship in that account I doe, if I should not have it, I should never see day of comfort more; you must not therefore thinke it strange that I was mooved with the Alarum that was given mee, for though I know my selfe to be innocent, yet my unfortunatenesse is such that I conceive any bad newes to bee no more then my due. Now that Mounsieur de——hath qui­eted the agitation of my minde, and hath assu­red me of your love, I cannot forbeare to sig­nifie unto you the joy I take, telling you wit t­all that so I may preserve a friend of your me­rit and worth, I doe not greatly care for lo­sing him that will leave me. There is litle to be seene amongst men but malice & weaknesse, and even of good men the greatest part is scarce sound; there is a cause why a firme and constant spirit as yours is, is of wonderfull use in societie, 'and it is no small benefit to them that are wearied & overtoyled as I am, to have a person to rest upon, that cannot fall. There is neede of courage to maintaine a friendship, and indeede of prudence to performe the meanest duty of life; tis nothing worth to have a sound will, if the understanding bee [Page 210] defective, our—does a great matter, to make vowes and sacrifices: Nil veta furen­tem, Nil delubrajuvant, hee complaines with­out cause upon his tax and other inferiour mat­ters, this is to accuse innocents: the evill no doubt comes from a higher place, and it is the braine that is cause of all the disorder. The knowledge I have hereof makes mee have compassion of him, and excuse in a Doctor of three score yeares old, those base shifting tricks that are not pardonable in a Schollar of eigh­teene. Any man but my selfe would call his action a cowardice and a treason; but I love to sweeten my griefe as much as I can. I can­not become an enemy at an instant, and passe from one extremity to another, without making a little stay by the way. I honour still the memory of our former friendship, & can­not wish ill to a man to whom I have once wisht well; but this is too much, I to com­plaine and you to quarrell; doe me this favour I bese [...] you to make choyse of something in your studie for a consolation of my solitude. I have already the [...] of Mounsieur the Admirall de la Volet, but I would faine have the Epitaph of my Lady the Dutchesse of Esper [...], and those admirable Elegies you shewed mee once; In quibus [...] es Tibullo [...]milis quam Tubullus sibi; I intreate you to deliver them to Mounsieur—who will see them safely delivered to mee; if you please we will use him hereafter as our com­mon correspondent, who knowing me to the [Page 211] very bottome of my heart, will, I doubt not most willingly adde his testimony to my pro­testations, that I truly am,

To Mounsieur de L'orme, Physitian in ordinary to the King, and Treasurer of France at Burdeaux. LETTER XXIX.

SIR, it is not now onely that I make a bene­fit of your friendship, I have had profit by it a long time, and you have often bin my advo­cate with so great force, and so good successe, that they who had before condemned me, were glad to revoke their sentence as soone as they heard you speake yet all this while you did but onely speake well of me, now you begin to doe well for me; it is you whom this yeare I may thanke for my pension. Without you Sir my warrant would never have perswaded my partner, it would presently have beene rejected, and he still have continued einexo­rable. But it must bee confessed there is no wilde beast but you can tame, no matter so bad but you can make good; as you heale ma­ladies that are incurable, so you prevaile in [Page 212] causes that are desperate, and if you finde ne­ver so little life and common sence in a man, you are able to restore him to perfect health, & make him become a reasonable man. I desire not to have the matter in any better termes then you have set it, I am glad I shall not need to invocate M. the Cardinall for my dispatch, and that Mounsieur—hath promised not to faile to pay me in September. If he should pay it sooner, I should bee faine to desire you this favour, to keepe it for mee till that time. Now I onely intreat you, to draw from him a valuable assurance of it, and for so many fa­vour's and courtesies done me, I shall present you with something not altogether so bad as those I have already shewed you; and seeing one cannot bee called valiant for having the better of a coward, neither can I bee accused of vanitie, for saying I have exceeded my selfe. I am therefore bold to let my Letter tell you thus much, that if my false Pearles, and my counterfeit Diamonds have heretofore de­ceived you, I doe not thinke that the shew I shall make you of my new wares will use you any better. Yet my meaning is not to preoc­cupate your judgement, who neither of my felfe not of my writings will have any other opinion then what you shall please to allow me. Since the time I have wanted the ho­nour of seeing you; I have made a great progresse in the vertue of humilitie, for I am now proud of nothing but of my friends affections; Let mee therefore never want [Page 213] yours, I entreate you, as you may beleeve, I will all my life, most passionately be,

To my Lord——LETTER XXX.

MY Lord, I hope you will not take it ill, that I put you in minde of a man, to whom you have heretofore made demon­stration of your love; and that after a long intermission of these petty duties which are then troublesome when they are frequent, you will give mee leave to tell you, that I have indeede omitted them, but more by discretion than by negligence. I know Sir, you have no time to lose; and to put you to the reading of unprofitable words, what were it; but to shew an ignorance, how much the King imployes you, and how much the State needes you? It is therefore the respect I beare to your continuall imployments, that hath caused my [...]lence; and I should be very absurd, if in the assiduitie of your cares, I should pre­sent you with little pleasing amusements; and should looke for an answer to some poore com­pliment, [Page 214] when you have so many commande­ments of importance: and so many orders of necessitie to deliver forth. It is enough for me that you doe me the honour to cast your eyes upon the protestation I make you; that in all the extent of your command, there is not a soule more submisse, nor more desirous to beare your yoake, then mine is; and that as much, as any in the world, I am,

To Mounsieur Senne, Theologall of the Church of Saints. LETTER XXXI.

SIR, you neede not wonder to see your name in the Booke I fond you: Lovers you know, leave markes of their passion; and if they were able, would fill the whole earth with their Cyphers and devises. It is a custome as ancient as the world, for with that beganne writing also [...] and at first, for want of paper, men graved the names of those they lo­ved, upon the ba [...] of tree [...]. If any man won­der, I should be in love with a Preacher; why wonders hee not at that Romane, of whom a [Page 215] Grecian said, that he was not onely in love with Cato, but was enchanted with him? You have done as much to other [...] in this country; and I have as many Rivalls as you have auditors. Yet there is not the same Object of all our af­fections: they runne after your words, and hang at your mouth: but I goe further, and dis­cover in your heart, that which is better than your eloquence. I could easily resist your Fi­gures and your Arguments; but your goodnesse and your freenesse take me captive presently: I therefere give you the title of a perfect friend in your Encomium: because I account this, a more worthy qualitie, than to be a perfect Ora­tour: and because I make most reckoning of that vertue in a man, which humane societie hath most neeede of. For other matters, Re­member your selfe, in what termes I speake of the businesse you write of; and that onely to obey you. I have beene contented to alter my opinion. I was well assured, the enterprise would never take effect; but I thought it better to faile by consenting than by obsti [...]acie, and rather to take a repulse, than not to take your counsell. I have known along time that fortune meanes me no good, and the experience I have of her hath cured me of the malady of hope and ambition. Make mee not fall into a relapse of these troublesome diseases, I beseech you; but come and confirme my health: you Sir that are a soveraigne Physition of soules, and who are able to see in mine, that I perfectly am,

To Mounsieur de Piles Cleremont. LETTER XXXII.

SIR, having heard of the favourable words you used of me at the Court; I cannot any longer forbeare to give you thanks; nor stay till our next meeting from telling you, how highly I esteeme this favour, I cannot but con­fesse, I did not looke to finde so great a graci­ousnesse in the country of maliciousnesse; and seeing, that the greatest part, eveu of honest men, have so much love for them­selves, that they have but little or none left for strangers; I thought with my selfe, that the in­fection of the world had but lightly touched you; and that either you had no passions in you at all; or at least, but very coole and moderate: but I see n [...]w, that you have more generous­nesse in you than is fit to have, amongst men that are interessed; and that you put in practise the Maximes of our Ancestours, and the Rules of your Epictetus. It is I that am for this, ex­ceedingly bound unto you; seeing it is I that re­ceive the benefit of it, & that am the Object of your vertue You may then beleeve, I have not so unworthy a heart, as not to feele a resent­ment answerable to so great an Obligation; at least Sir, I hope to shew you, that the Picture mine enemies have made of me, is not drawne after the life; and that their colours disfigure [Page 217] me rather then represent me. I have nothing in me Heroicall and great, I confesse: but I have something that is humane and indifferent. If I be not of the number of the vertuous; I am at least of their side. I applaud them whom I cannot follow, and admire that I cannot imi­tate. I am glad if I can be praised, not onely of the judicious and wise, such as you, and our Mounsieur de Boissat are, but even of the simpler sort that are honestly minded, such as—I know Sir, how to love in perfection, and when you shall know me better, you shall con­fesse there is none that can be more than I,

To Mounsieur de Uoyture. LETTER XXXIII.

SIR, If I did not rely upon your goodnesse, I should take more care than I doe in pre­serving your favour: and I should not let a messenger goe from hence, by whom I should not persecute you with my Letters. But know­ing, you are no rigorous exactor of that which is your due; much lesse expect I should give you more; I have conceived, I might be negli­gent without offence; and that having an abso­lute power over mee as you have; you would [Page 218] use it upon me, with the moderation of good Soveraignes. And I should still continue to fol­low mine owne inclination, which findes a sweetenesse in idlenesse; if I did not thinke it necessary to advertise you that I am in the world; least you should thinke all your courte­sies lost, that you have done me. I would have beene glad I could have loved you all my life long without any kinde of interest, or tempo­rall consideration; yet it troubles me not to give honour to my friend, by giving him mat­ter for his vertue to worke upon. I am content you shall hold the higher part in our friendship, which is to doe good, but then I looke to hold the lover and lesse noble part, which is to ac­knowledge; and this is so setled in my heart; that a greator cannot be desired from a man ex­ceedingly sensibly, and exceedingly obliged. But though it were so, that you had no tie upon me; and that without ungratefulnesse, I might for­beare to love you; yet I intreate you to beleeve, that the knowledge I have of your worth and merit; would never give me leave to do it; but that the naturall respect we owe to things that are perfect, would alwayes binde me infinitely to honour you, and to be with all my soule, as I am,

Another to him. LETTER XXXIV.

SIR, you are welcome from Flanders, from England and from Spaine. I am not onely glad for your returne; but I refresh my selfe after your voyages. For if you know it not, I must tell you, that my spirit hath gone these voyages with you; & you never passed the sea, that I was not neare a shipwracke. They that knew what it is to love; will not mislike the noveltie of this compliment, I have borne my part in all the fits of your Feavour: I have drunke part of all your potions; I have accom­panied you in all your strange adventures. It is therefore great reason I should give you thankes, for giving my friendship rest, and that by fiuishing your travell, you have finished my unquietnesse. It is better Sir to be a private man at home, where there is courtesie and free­nesse, than to be a Lord Ambassadour among publique enemies; and if the Iewes said well, that the Graves of Judea were more beautifull than the Pallaces of Babylon; why may not we be bold to say, that the Dirt of Paris, is better than the Marble of Madrill? It is a juster thing to adore M. the Cardinall, than to put off ones hat to the President Rose, or to the Marquesse of Aitona; and it would have beene a newes no lesse shamefull than lamentable, if we had [Page 220] come to reade in the Gazets these pittifull words; A Sonne of France was waiting for the King of Spaines rising up;

Thankes be to God, the face of things is chan­ged, and a great Princes libertie hath cost but the life of a good Horse. At our next meeting, you shall tell me all the fortunes you have pas­sed; and in requitall thereof, I will tell you newes out of the Wildernesse: and it shall be at Mounsieur de Ch [...] Chamber, that our conference shall be; at least if you care any thing for it; and that I be in his favour still. How soever, this I am sure, he can never love any man that honours him more perfectly than I doe, or that hath a greater opinion of the beautie and noblenesse of his minde. Hee is al­wayes one of the deere objects of my thoughts; and I still take him for one of those true Knights, which are no where to be found now, but in the History of France. I want such an example before my eyes; tostirre up the faint­nesse I feele in my duty; and to thrust me for­ward in the love of Vertue. The least of his words makes my spirit but higher and greater, the onely sound of his voyce gives the both life and strength; and I doubt not but I should be twice as good as I am; if I could but see him once a moneth, and make a third in your excel­lent [Page 221] conferences. But this is a happinesse which is at home with you, but farre off from mee, though I have a designe to come nearer to it; you injoy it to the full, and leave to others onely a desire of it and a jealousie, and jealous indeede I should be if I did not love you more then I love my selfe, and if being bound to you for a thousand favours I did not acknowledge my selfe more bound to take a contentment in your good fortune. Enjoy then your happi­nesse, sir and never feare I will oppose it, seeing I shall alwayes preferre your contentments be­fore my owne, and shall be all my life,

To Mounsieur Mestivier, Physitian to my Lord the Duke D'Espernon. LETTER XXXV.

SIR, I am a thirst for the waters of Uya, ever since I heard you thinke them to be whole­some; the reputation you give them hath made me to send for them, to try whether this Drug will do me any more good then others; I am apt to beleeve for the satisfaction of my taste, that there are no better medicines then those that, are least compounded, and which come ready [Page 222] made from the bosome of our common mo­ther; but specially I have a confidence in na­ture when shee comes authorized by your judgement, and hath the warrant of so estee­med a name as yours, and by this meanes Sir you have saved mee a voyage into Italy; For so but for you I was taking a journey of two hundred and fifty Leagues upon the word of an antient Poet, to the end I might be of those happy ones, of whom he writes these verses,

I have since received your learned Letter, wherein you prescribe mee the order I must hold in using this wholesome disorder, and teach me to drinke with art; in truth you have more care of mee then I am worthy of, my health is no matter of any such importance that it should be managed with such curiositie. It is not worth the paines you have taken in treating of it so learnedly, and writing these two leafes of paper you have sent me. The publik w ^ch you will have to be interessed in it will acknowledge no such matter, it hath no use in these turbulent times of contemplative Doctors. The active life is that defends th [...] frontiers, and repells the enemy, and the lea [...] musket in the armie of M. the Cardinall of Va lette is at this time of more use then all th [...] [Page 223] Peripatetiks and Stoiks of this kingdome; wee may therefore thinke that the publicke you talke off dreames not of me, nor is engaged to preserve my idlenesse, but it is you that love me, and would therefore make mee of more worth then I am, thereby to have the more colour for your loving me. I am much bound [...]nto you for this favour, yet I doubt whilst you set me at so high a price, there is none will take me for such as you would vent me; but I re­gard it not, I bound my reputation by your account, and desire no other Theater nor other world but you; It sufficeth mee that in your spirit I enjoy the glory you give mee, and sweetly possesse my good fortune, which I know I merit not if you weigh it in the Skales of Scrupulous justice, but which you will yet preserve to me, if you have regard to the pas­sion with which I testifie unto you, that I am,

To Mounsieur de Mesmes D'Avaur, Ambassadour to the King at Venice. LETTER. XXXVI.

SIR, if the persecut [...]on continue, I shall bee forced to give place to envie, and to goe [Page 224] waite in the place where you are for a change to time, which in this kingdome is so adverse unto me. It is indeede my adversaries designe to make all sorts of governments my enemies, and not to suffer me to breath at liberty, either in Monarchie, Aristocracie, or Democracie. You have seene his manifests printed, which have flowne beyond the Alpes; you know the cunning he useth to draw the publike state upon me, and to make mee ill thought of, as well by the Kings Allies as by his Subjects. He goes about to banish mee out of all states, to shut all places against me that are open even to fugitives, and not to leave my innocencie one corner of the earth to be in safety; yet Sir let him doe his worst, and practise what hee can, I hope you will beare me out to say, that he shall never hinder me from having a place in your heart; nor be able to take from mee this pleasing refuge. And besides that Ambas­sadors houses enjoy the priviledges of the anti­ent Sanctuaries, and that there is neither justice nor violence but hath respect unto them; I assure my selfe your onely affection will interesse it selfe for my safety, without a­ny other publique consideration, and that you will defend me as a thing deare unto you; though the defence of a man afflicted were not otherwise in it selfe, a thing worthy the dignitie of an Ambassadour, and wheresoever you shall have power to speake, I shall be sure of a strong protection, being as I am assured of your good word, and this eloquent mouth, which per­swades [Page 225] the wise, and makes that appeare which is just, shall gaine no doubt a good opinion of my cause to the undertaker, and a favourable censure of those judges at least that I acknow­ledge. I expect this issue from your almighty Rhetoricke, and hope Sir that in these trouble­some incounters you will double your love and your good offices unto mee. Though I should be worse intreated of the world, and of fortune then I am, and should have nothing before my eyes, but lamentable successes, and deadly pre­sages, yet you would remember how that Cato stood firme upon ruins, and held himselfe constant to a side which the gods themselves had abandoned. I doe not thinke my case is yet in this extremitie, it hath yet subsistence and foundation; and as it is not so badde but that an honest man may maintaine it with a good conscience; so neither is it so weake but that a meane courage may undertake it without feare. The Gentleman that brings you this Letter hath promised to make you a more am­plē relation hereof, and to informe you of my whole story. I humbly intreat you to give him audience, untill I come and crave it my selfe; and that I assure you in your Pallace amongst your other Courtiers, that I truly am [...]

To Mounsieur de Thure, Doctor of the Sorbone, and Chanon of the Church of Paris. LETTER XXXVII.

SIR, my deare Cousin, the newes you sent me surprized me not, I am so accustomed to receive disgraces, that I finde in this nothing extraordinary; it is true I am a little more sen­sible of it then of the former, and the place from whence it comes makes mee take it a lit­tle more to heart; yet seeing you seeme to compassionate my miserie, I finde my selfe comforted of one halfe of it; and having you for my Champion, I feare not what my perse­cutors can doe against mee. Suffer mee to call them so, that sollicite your Colledge against me; and make it lesse favourable to me, then I had good right to hope for. It is not their zeale of Religion, nor interest of the publike that sets them on worke; it is an old spight they beare mee, which I could never master with all my long patience, it is the hate of a dead man which lives still in his Tombe; it is his rellicks that warre upon me; and whereof some ill disposed French doe serve themselves to disgrace a worke which hath no other end but the honour and service of the King. I never doubted of your good nature, and I know if neede were, your charitie would [Page 227] cover the multitude of my faults; but in this ease I thinke I have reason rather to aske ju­stice at your hands, and to tell you, that if you take the paines to consider my words as I meant them, and not as my enemies corrupt them, you will easily grant they containe no­thing contrary to the orthodox doctrine, or that is not maintaineable in all the Schooles of Christendome. This being so my deare Cousin, I doubt not but you will strongly defend my cause, at least my person, and will be pleased to assure my Masters of your fraternitie; that ha­ving alwayes accounted their Colledge as the Oracle of true Doctrine, and as the interpretor of the Church in this kingdome; I could not wish a more sweet or glorious fruit of my tra­vailes then to see them entertained by so lear­ned and holy personages, that my greatest am­bition is but to merit their good acceptance, and to deserve their favourable censure, and if for obtaining of this I have not either happi­nesse enough, or not enough sufficiencie, I have at least Docible [...]esse enough to learne of them that which I know not, and to confesse that in their learned conferences they possesse the secret and certaintie of all holy points, where­of wee in our private meditations have but suspitions and conjectures, that if I were as­saulted by strangers I could perhaps make a shift to resist, and that with successe, but that I preferre obedience which I owe before a victory which I might get; that I desire not to contest with my fathers, nor pretend to have [Page 228] reason against their authority, to which I sub­mit my selfe in such sort, that I am resolved to assure my selfe of nothing, but upon their word and credit, and from hence forth to acknow­ledge no truth, but that which they shall please to teach me: I leave it to you to augment, to reforme, or embellish this compliment, as you shall thinke fit; I make you Master of the whole businesse: and never meane to disavow any thing you shall doe, being absolutely,

To Mounsieur de Uougelas, Gen­tleman in Ordinary to my Lord, the Kings onely Brother. LETTER XXXVIII.

SIR, I humbly intreate you to take for your selfe, all the excuses you make to mee; and to beleeve that I have alwayes a love answera­ble to your vertue: though I say it not so often, as by the lawes of Civilitie I am bound to doe. Since the comming hither of Mounsieur de—: you have beene the most ordinary and most pleasing subject of all our conference; and I am [Page 229] much more curious to heare of your studies, than to heare all the newes of the great world. Yet I intend not hereby to aske it of you with importunitie; and to engage you in a Com­merce of unprofitable words, which would but wrong your necessary imploiments: I am well enough satisfied with the assurance I have of your love; and am well contented you should keepe your compliments for those you love not so well, when I shall finde my selfe to stand in neede of you: I am not growne so bashfull, but that I can use the libertie, I have long used; and yet doe you no inconvenience by my free­nesse. Hitherto it hath afforded you nothing but trouble; and it was your evill Angell that in­spired you with a desire at first to be acquain­ted with me. But one day perhappes I shall be mure happy; and for so many and great fa­vours you have done me, it may be you may draw from me some small argument of ac­knowledgement. In the meane time Sir, I de­sire you, not to cast upon mee a reputation, which I am not able to maintaine; make no more mockes at my pratling; and hide the shame of your friend, which your other friend hath published. Hee onely is guilty of the fault that was done; and you may well thinke, I was not so impudent to send false Latin to the Vniversitie of Paris, as much as to deliver false money to the Mint; and thinke to make Mint­men take it for currant. It shall suffice mee, that you approve of the French, I meane to bring you; or at least, that you make it worthy [Page 230] of your approving, by making it new, with your corrections. If Mounsieur Far [...]t be re­turned from Brescia, you shall make me behol­ding to you, to assure him from me, of the continuation of my service, I make infinite ac­count of him, and am with all my soule,

To Mounsieur Gerard Officiall of the Church of Angaulesme. LETTER XXXIX.

SIR, my last Letters, are great Bookes; and I have nothing to adde, but only that I intreate you to t [...]ke the paines to reade them over again, and to draw them into heads for the helpe of your memory, which though I know to be very excellent, yet I know also, it is ex­tremely full of businesse, and that I am but the five and twentieth of your Clients I set downe nothing so precisely, but that I leave you li­berty to change my orders, if you finde them not fit; and to saile with the winde. Nothing but good successe can be expected from your sterning [...]; you will so manage, I assure my selfe, [Page 231] my resentments with Mounsieur de—, and make him see so much respect and modestie in my griefe [...], that he will perhappes be sorry he ever disobliged me. I assure my selfe also, that when you fall upon my Chapter, where I treate with Mounsieur—that you will not carry your selfe, as onely my instrument, and as one that hath charge of me; but that you will doe as an honest man should, that is per­swaded to it by the truth, and interessed in the cause of oppressed innocencie. Concerning the perfumes I desired of you, I could wish you would bring me a shopfull; but you must use some body else to chuse them for you, for you know them not your selfe, but onely by name; and you may perhaps have the oyle of Nuts gi­ven you for the oyle of Iasmin; Et du pain d'espi­ce, pour des pastilles. So it is that petty things are unknowne of great personages: you would thinke you should doe your selfe wrong to descend to such pedling wares, and of an Am­bassadour, and a Philosopher, become a Mer­chant and an Apothecary; yet Aristipp [...]s would be dealing in things, that you thinke scorne of, and said, that he and the King of Persia, were the two unfortunate Ones, whom Diog [...] ­nes pitied. You send me word, that Mounsieur de—hath great Designes in the Common­wealth of Letters; and that he is resolved to be an Authour and a Preacher both at once. If you remove him not from so dangerous a reso­lution, you shall see Bookes that will be the Funeralls of common sence; and let but the [Page 232] name be changed, and it will besaid of his Sermons, as an excellent man of our time, said of the Sermons of Fryer Lazarus;

As much as to say; that though the Clocke hath beene long a striking, and that hee hath beene talking a long houre, yet so little heëde is taken of him, that none will beleeve there is any man in the Pulpit. Before he comes to the Ave Maria, all his Auditors are out of the Church, and hee may call them Apostataes from the word of God, and Fugitives from the Church; yet with all he can say, he shall never make one of them to come backe. I have not these two yeares written thus much, with my owne hand; it is to me, as one of Hercules la­bours: and can you then doubt, how much I would be willing to doe, to doe you service? I kisse the hands of all the Family, which you see; and which I honour exceedingly; and am,

Another to him. LETTER XL.

SIR, I love you better than I thought, since you parted from hence, I have had a number of Alarums for you: and though I stand in convert yet that keepes mee not from the foule weather of your voyage. But I hope by this time you are upon returning; and that shortly, we shall sit by the fires side, and heare you tell your adventures of Beausse, and of Mantelan. Whatsoever Mounsieur de—have said unto you, when you tooke leave of him; I doe not thinke, that in all the whole Discourse, there can one passage be found, that is subject to any badde interpretation: if it be considered as a member depending upon the body, and not as a piece that is broken off. There may perhappes be found some propositi­on, a little bold, but never to goe so farre as rashnesse: the Antecedents and the Conse­quents so temper it, that if a man will not be too witty in another mans intentions, hee can never make any doubt of mine. It was never intended, you know, but onely to prove a Monarchie to be the best forme of governe­ment, and the Catholike Church to be the onely Spouse of Christ, Neither yet doe I write so negligently, but that I am ready to give a reason of that I write; and am able to [Page 234] defend my opinions against those particular persons that oppugne them; for as for the so­veraigne authority, you can witnesse for me with what humility I submit my selfe unto it. The day after your departure Mounsieur de——came to Balzac, whom I kept with me three whole dayes; I never saw man lesse in­teressed, lesse ambitions, lesse dazeled with the splendour of the Court; and to speake gene­rally, better cured of all popular disea­ses. By this I come to know the noblenesse, and even the soveraigntie of reason, when it is well schooled and instructed, we neede not mount up to heaven to finde cause of scorne in the littlenesse of the earth, the study of wise­dome will teach it as well: A wise man counts all things to bee below him; Pallaces to him appeare but Cottages, and Scepters but baubles, it pitties him to see that which is called the greatnesse and fortune of Princes, and from the heighth of his spirit,

I have at last found the Letter you required of me, which I now send you by this Post; our good father hath taken a coppie of it, and saith it is fit to be kept for an eternall monument in our house; and addes moreover that Erasmus never had so much honour done him by the Sorbone, which instead of condemning my [Page 235] divinitie hath given a faire testimony in praise of my eloquence; for so hee pleaseth to call the little ability I have in writing; for it is his cu­stome to make choyce of very noble termes for expressing of very vulgar qualities. For your selfe Sir, you know it very well, and I intreate you to advertise our other friends that know it not, that all this testimony and all this honour that is done me, is happened to mee by a meare mistaking. I had satisfied the desire of the Sor­bone long before it, if I had understood they desired any satisfaction from me; but two Edi­tions of my booke comming forth at one time, my charitable neighbours in my absence deli­vered the Sorbone the lesse corrected Copy, in which indeede my proposition was not so fully cleared & unfoulded as was fit, but never told them that in the other Copy I had cleane taken away all colour of wrangling, and justi­fied before hand, that wherein I imagined they could finde any thing to say against mee; I expect to heare by the next messenger of your comming to Paris, and am with all my heart,

Clarissimo Balzacio, Facultas Theologiae Parisiensis, S.

REdditae sunt nobis ad Calendas Aprilis abs te Litterae, vir clarissime, omnibus quidem gra­tissimae, non eo solum nomine, quod multam in ordinem nostrum observantiam praese ferrent; sed etiam vel maxime, quod propensissimam tuam voluntatem, immutandi ea quae in Principe t [...]o, offendere mentes Christianas possent. Hunc in li­brum inquirendi, Fama quae nec te latere potuit, non tam occasionem nobis, quam necessitatem attu­lit. In quo sane uti nulla nisi disertissimo, sic in­cogitanti quaedam excidisse deprehensa sunt, ex eorum relatione quibus recensendi ejusdem dele­gata provincia fuerat. Praecipua eaque maxime instituti nostri huic Epistolae subnectemus; quae & si judicabantur, minus ad orthodoxa doctrine a nussim quadrare, aequum tamen pro Christiana charitate ac dignitate tua duximus, ut omnem judicij aequitatem amicae monitionis humanitas praecederet, quo tu ipse operi tuo emendando qua­qua operam dares. Istud vero quam pro voto no­stro succ [...]sserit, vel ex eo intelleximus, ipse quod tua sponte in idem consilium conspiraveris docilitatem facultati nostrae, ad id tua Epistola pollicitus. Quod & maxime tibi gratulamur, neque velimus tamen in Illud incumbas, ordinis nostri duntaxat authoritate motus, uti benevole recipis, sed ipsius veritatis: cui nunquam faelicius triumphant inge­ [...]ia, quam dum cedunt, summissis praesertim per [Page 237] religionis obsequium armis, quorum usus quan­tum subsidii, ad decertandum conferret, tantum non posset non affere Impedimento, ad victoriam; siquidem, hoc in genere, Uincere nisi victi non poss [...]mus. Nae tu etiam talem deinceps debebis Modestie tuae gloriam, Cujus laude, non minor in­ter Christianos audies, quam inter mortales Fa­cundia audiisti hactenus; ejusdem merito, luben­tissimos laudatores habebis, quos àlias multa ur­gente querimonia, off [...]oii ratio coegisset velinvitos esse Censores.

Another to him. LETTER XLI.

SIR, my Philosophy is not of so little huma­nity, but that I grieved exceedingly at the reading of your Letter, and was touched to the very quicke, for the death of—yet seeing he is happier then they that mourne for him; and that he hath left the world, in an age when he yet knew it not; I thinke it no wise­dome, to be obstinate in an ill grounded sor­row, [Page 238] or to account that an evill to another, which is the greatest good, could have happen­ed to my selfe. Christianity will not let me say, Optimum non nasci, Bonum vero quam citissime interire: but it hinders me not to believe, that one day of life, with Baptisme, is better then a whole age of iniquity. I write this letter to you from—whether I am come to lodge, after I had entertained my Lord—untill n [...]ght. I conceived, there was some ne­cessity, to deliver him your Letter with all speede; and therefore I exposed my person to all the injuries of an incensed sky; and ventu­red to make a voyage, that would have frighted a stouter man then my selfe. By this you may know that I count nothing difficult, which re­flects upon any interest of yours; or which con­cernes your contentment; and I love you so much, that I should not say so much, if I had more craft in me then I have. But my good Nature exceedes al other considerations of vul­gar Prudence; and I would not keepe you from knowing what great power you have over me, though I knew before hand, you would abuse this power. For other things, I am very glad to heare, you beginne to grow sensible of the charmes of musicke, and that Consorts are in reputation with you. Yet I have seene the time, when your eares were no learneder then mine, and when you made no great difference be­tweene the sound of Lutes, and the noyse of Bells. See what it is to frequent good compa­ny; and to live in a Country of neatenesse. I [Page 239] that stirre not from the Village, know no other musicke, but that of Birds; and if sometimes I heare a more silver sound; it comes from those noble Animals, which Mounsieur Hein­sius praiseth so much: and which by Lucians saying, serve for Trumpets in the Kingdome of the Moone. I give you a thousand thankes for your newes; but specially for the last: it is certaine, that the choice of Mounsieur de Be­lieure to be Ambassadour for Italy, is a thing will be generally well liked; men talke won­ders already of his beginnings: of the readinesse and Vivacitie of his Spirit, of the force and stay­ [...]dnesse of his Iudgement, besides some other excellent qualities of his Age, from which we may hope for much. And for my selfe, who am one, that love my Countrie exceedingly; I cannot but exceedingly rejoyce, in this new fruitefulnesse which comes upon him, at the latter end of his old age. It doth me good to see famous deceased men, to live againe in their excellent posteritie; and I doubt not of the good successe of a Negotiation, where a Belieure, a Thou, or a Sillery, is imployed. These were our Heroes of the long Robe; and the Princes of our Senate: and now their children (that I may continue to speake Latine, in French) are the Princes of our youth, at least they are names more happy, and that portend more good to France, then the name of—and no doubt, she will have cause to thanke M. the Cardinall, for respecting races, that are so deere unto her: and for stirring up in the Kings [Page 240] the old inclinations, of the Deceased King his Father. I fall a sleepe alwaies, when I am tal­king with you, and am rather in case to make ill dreames, then good discourses: and so I take my leave of you, my deare and perfect friend, as I also am to you, as much as possibly can be,

To Mounsieur Talon; Secretary to my Lord the Cardinall De la Ualette. LETTER XLII.

SIR, I tooke infinite pleasure, to see my selfe in one of your Letters; and Mounsieur——who imparted it to mee, can witnesse for me, with what greedinesse I read that pas­sage which concerned me. I cannot say, that he is here, though it be true, that he is not in Gascognie; for we enjoy nothing of him here but his Image; he is so married, that he would thinke it a disloyalty to his wife, if hee should dare to laugh when shee is not by. All his so­ciable humour he hath left with her, and hath brought nothing to us, but his Melancholy. [Page 241] When I would make him merry, he tels me, I goe about to corrupt him. All visites he makes in her absence, though it be to covents, and Hospitals, yet he calls them De bauches. So as Sir, you never saw man better satisfied with his present estate; nor a greater enemy to single life. He is not contented to pitty you and me, and to lament our solitude; but he reproacheth us outragiously, and cals us unprofitable mem­bers of the Common-wealth, and such as are fit to be cut off. As for me, I make no defence for my selfe, but your example; I tell him, let him perswade you to it first, and he shall soone finde me ready to follow his counsell. I hope we shall meete together ere long; and then we shall not neede to feare his being too strong for us, in our conferences, when we two shall be against him alone. Provide therefore Solutions for his Arguments; but withall deny me not your assistance in other encounters, where it may stand me instead. You can never doe cour­tesies to a man more capable of acknowledge­ment; nor that is more truely, then I,

Another to him. LETTER XLIII.

SIR, I am exceedingly well satisfied with the newes you send me; and with the assu­rance you give me by your Letter of the con­tinuation of your Friendship. Not that I was afraid, I should lose it, but because it is a plea­sure, to heare ones selfe called happy; and that one cannot have too many titles for a possessi­on, which can never be too much valued. I take not upon me to contend with you in Com­pliments; or to dispute of civility with you, who live in the light of the world; and have whole Magasins of good words. For be­sides, that I never had any skill of the Cou [...]; it is now so long I have beene a countriman, that it were a miracle, if I had not cleane for­got it all. Pardon therefore a rudenesse which I cannot avoide, and seeing I am not able to answer you; give me leave to assaile you, and require you to give a reason of the present state of things: What can you say Sir, of these wretched Flemmins, who shut their Gates a­gainst good Fortune when she would come in to them? and are in love with their Fetters, and their Keepers? I doe not thinke there be truer slaves in all Asia: and I doe not wonder our Armes can doe no good in their Country, seeing it is a hard matter to take a yoake from [Page 243] mens heads, who preferre it before a Crowne: and Soveraigntie when it is offered them. Sicke men are then to be despaired of, when they throw their medicines on the ground, and account of Potions as of Poysonings. It is not therefore our fault if they be not cured: wee have active power enough to worke, but it must upon a matter that is apt and disposed. I expect hereupon a Decree from your politi­cian; and remaine,

To Mounsieur D'Espernon, Mar­shall of the Kings Armies. LETTER XLIV.

SIR, my compliments are very rare; and I take no great care for preserving your friendship. I account you so true of your word, that I cannot doubt of having your love, seeing you have done me the honour to let mee have your promise. It is to no purpose to sol­licite Judges that cannot be corrupted; It is enough for procuring their favour, that the cause be good. You see therefore, I doe not much trouble my selfe to commend mine unto you, and I present my selfe so seldome before [Page 244] you; that if you had not an excellent memory, you had certainely forgot mee long agoe. I pray you not, to doe me good offices: for knowing that you let slippe no occasion of do­ing good: I may be sure to have my part of your good deedes, though you have none of my prayers. Your new Acquests at the Court; make you not leave that you have on this side the Loyre: your friends that are alwayes with you; take not up all your heart: there is some place left for your friends farther of: of which number I am one; and more in love Sir, with the comtemplative life, than ever. I am al­wayes under ground and buried with my trees; and they must be very strong cords, and very vi­olent cōmandements that should remove me: yet I am contented to give my thoughts a liber­tie: and my spirit is often in the place where you are; and my absence is not so idly bestowed, but that I can make you a reckoning of it. I speake to you in this manner, because I know you are no hater of delightfull knowledges, and have an excellent taste to judge of things. Though by profession you be a Souldier; yet I refuse you not for a judge, in our peaceable difference; being well assured, there are not many Doctours, more accomplisht, or of a founder judgement than your selfe. This qua­litie is no opposite to true valour; the Romanes, whose discipline you seeke to reestablish; used to leade with them the Muses to warre; and in the tumult of their Armies, left alwayes place for these quiet exercises. Brutus read Polybius, [Page 245] the night before the battell at Philippi; and his Vncle was at his Booke the very houre before he meant to die. Never therefore feare doing ill, when you follow the example of such ex­cellent Authours: none will ever blame you for imitating the Romanes, unlesse perhappes the Crabates or other enemies, as well of Hu­manitie as of France. But to be thus blamed by Barbarians, is an infallible marke of merit; for they know no points of vertue, but such as are wilde and savage; and imagine, that roaring and being furious, are farre more noble things, than speaking and reasoning. I leave them to their goodly imaginations; and come to tell you, that though your Letter to my Sister, be dated from the Army in Germany; yet it is e­loquent enough to come from the Academy of M. the Cardinall; it neither smells of Gun­powder, nor of Le pais de adieu pas; I know by certain markes, I have observed in it, that your Bookes, are part of your Baggage; and I finde nothing in it, that is worthy of blame, but one­ly the excessive praises you bestow upon mee; and if you were not a stout champion, and able to maintaine it with your sword, you would certainely ere this, have had the lie given you a thousand times for praising me so. I should be verry sorry to be a cause of so many petty quarrells; and so unworthy of your courage; a forraigne warre hath neede of your spirit; make not therefore any Civill, for my sake; I desire no such violent proofes of your affection: it serves my turne, that you love me quietly; and [Page 246] if you so please secretly too; to the end, that our friendshippe being hidden, may lie in covert from; injuries; and that possessing it without pompe, I may enjoy it without envie. I reckon it alwayes amongst my solidest goods, and will be sure never to lose it, if perfit faith­fulnesse will serve to keepe it; and if it will suffice to be; as I most passionately am,

To Mounsieur de Roussines. LETTER XLV.

MY deare brother, I have upon this last occasion, received nothing from you, but the offices I expected; I know you to be just and generous, and one that will alwayes reli­giously pay whatsoever you owe, either to Bloud or friendship, yet this hinders me not from being obliged to you, and to your good Birth for it. This hath bestowed a friend upon me, which I never tooke paines, either to looke out, or to make; It is a present of Na­ture, which I should have taken, if shee had given me my choise. I desire you to beleeve, that I never stood lesse in neede of comfort than now; Loppose nothing against the rage of a [Page 247] thousand adversaries, but my scorne: I am Ar­mour of proofe against all the tales from the Suburbs St. Honoré; and from all the Libells of the streete St. Iaques. They encrease daily in sight, and if the heate of their spirits doe not abate, there will shortly be a little Library of follies written against me. But you never yet heard, of such a gravitie as I haue, nor of a mind that could take such rest in the midst of stormes and tempests as I do, and this I owe to Philoso­phie, under whose covert I shelter my selfe: it is not onely, higher than mountaines, where we see it raine and haile below us: but it is stronger also than a Fortresse, where wee may stand out of danger, and make mouthes at our enemies. All that hurts me in the warre of——; is that, which concernes the interest of o­thers: it grieves me extremely, that his crueltie should leave me, and fall upon my friends. I wish I could have bought out the three lives, that touch the honour of—with a third Volume of injuries done to my selfe, and where no body else, should have any part: and I may truely say, that this is the onely blow, which that perfidious enemie hath given mee, that goes to my heart; and the onely of all his offenses that I have felt. I intreate you to let my friend know of my griefe; and to make sure unto me this rare personage by all the cares and good offices your courtesie can de­vise. His Vertue ought to be inviolable to de traction, but drtraction will not spare Vertue it selfe, but takes a delight in violating the [Page 248] best things. I have reason to place him in this ranke, and considering him as one of the most accomplisht worke of Nature; I must needes consider withall, that Nature it selfe, is some­times calumniated. Madame de—enquires often after you, and hath a great opinion of your heart and spirit. You may be sure, I say nothing in opposition to the account, she holds you in; but am rather glad to see my judge­ment confirmed by so infallible an authoritie: see, you be alwayes good; and alwayes lay hold upon our antient Maximes; and be assu­red, I am and alwayes will be

To Mounsieur Breton, LETTER XLVI.

SIR, you are a man of yourword, and some­thing more. You promise [...] lesse than you performe, having undertaken to furnish me but with Gazets; you extend your largesse to large volumes of Bookes. This Jonnius, whose Verses you sent me is no ordinary man. The boldnesse, and beautie of his phrase, comes ve­ri neare the greatnesse and magnificence of [Page 249] Horace. Hee chuseth and placeth his words with the same precisenesse, and care; he speakes alwayes loftily, and if in all things there be bounds and limits; hee sometimes seemes to goe beyond them. For example, upon the Canonization of Ignatius, made by Pope Gre­gory the fifteenth;

A Pagan Poet could have said no more of the deifying of Iulius Cesar, yet in saying so much, he should have said too much: there being great difference betweene consecrating the memory of a mortall man, or the giving him a Divinitie, between the declaring, or the making a God; between being Augustus, or being Iupiter. I know not also, why speaking of Protestant Ministers; he stands so punctually to descant up­on the word, which of all cōceits is the poorest;

I should thinke, that this descanting, makēs not much for the honour of Princes chiefe counsellours; and it seemes, the Poet in this place, forgot M. the Cardinall; who guides the publike fortune and governs the world under this name of Minister. There is no great recko­ning to be made, no great matter to be built up­on three or foure little syllables, which signifie [Page 250] nothing, but what custome, without any reason pleaseth, & are of no more value than use gives them. This word Vates, is taken sometimes for a foole, sometimes for a sor [...]erer, sometimes for a Prophet: and the word Prophet it selfe, is some­times taken for a Juggler; witnesse the Greek; Proverbe [...]: Will you upon this goe raile upon Prophets, and send them with their name to the Grave, or shut them up Dans le petites maisas? and yet further to en­deere this subtilty of Ionicus, you may say that Ministers at all times have beene enemies of Christ, and prove it by this, because a Mini­ster was one of those that stroke him on the face in presence of the high Priest; as it is sayd, U [...]us ex Ministris Caiphae, &c. The ground upon which such Figures are built is so weake and ruinous, that there is no meanes to make it stand firme: our adversaries may make use of it as well as wee, and to be even with you for your Text of the Minister of Caiphas, they will I doubt not bring you another Text where our Saviour himselfe is sayd to be a Minister, come to execute in the world the decrees of him that sent him, and to doe the eternall will of his Father. This is called triumphing for syllables and words, and running after Phantasmes. If the antient Rome had used to play in this fa­shion, Bishops called by them Pontifices would have beene but makers or Bridges, nor Dicta­tors any more then Schoolemasters. Poc [...]e Brutus would have beene the Butt for all the arrowes of his time. The Assinu, the Porc [...] [Page 251] the Beshie would not have had one day of rest, they would have beene forced to get them­selves adopted into some other Families, and to change their names, thereby to save them­selves from the opprobrious Figures of Ora­teurs and Poets. I meant to have written but two or three lines, and I am come to the bot­tome of my Paper; this is the pleasure to bee talking with you that deceives mee thus, and makes me thinke that we are walking together and conferring about our Bookes and Studies. After all that hath beene sayd, I conclude that your Poet is a great Lyricke Poet, and would have had a Pension of Augustus, and have sate at Table with Mecoenas. I bid you good night, and am,

Another to him. LETTER XLVII.

SIR, I am at leasure for no body but you, and though I am pestred with a multitude of small affaires, yet I quit them all to come and tell you, that I have received your last dispatch, and finde my selfe infinitely ob­liged to Mounsieur de—seeing you put [Page 252] me in hope that hee will spend this winter at Paris, I purpose at that time to bee a daily waiter upon him, and try what I can doe to mend my fortune. I am told that you are growne friends with the graces, and will no longer be any enemy to honest pleasures. Hold you firme I beseech you in this resolution, and never give it over if you meane well to your life. There is no danger in refreshing your selfe sometimes with pleasing companie, that so you may returne more fresh and vigorous to your learned exercises. It is better to bee innocently merry at the Inne in Venice, then to goe kill ones selfe in the vaute of the Church, as the poore—I lament him in truth as a man dead and miserable, and it greeves mee he had not time to bethinke him of his soules health, and to aske pardon of God; but to concerve that by his death a great light is ex­tinguished, and that the world hath lost a great man; I knew him too well to have any such opinion. Hee was to say true a man of mettall, and [...] d [...]ine [...] of wit that were not unpleasant so long as they were not biting; but who would endure him to be enrol­led amongst moderne Authors, or give hisverse a place amongst the Poets of this time? yet he him selfe counted his courage and his military vertues as nothing in comparison of his elo­quence and excellent gift of speaking & wri­ting, wherein he was so highly conceited of himselfe, that onely for telling him one day of it he never loved me after, and is dead I assure [Page 253] my selfe with a heartburning against me for it. They that reproove me for writing Non­velles. Victorienses in my first Letter to M. the Cardinall, make it appeare they are no farre travellours in the Latin Country, and never come to discover Victrices literas, Laureatas literas, Nuntiam laurum, &c. Malice is a very unjust thing, but ignorance much more; Ho­mine imperito, you know the rest. And never take offence that there bee some will not so much as allow mee for a Grammar Scholler, and perhaps have reason. Wee oftentimes thinke our selves to bee the true owners of things, of which indeede wee are but usurpers; there is nothing secure against wrangling, eve­ry thing is matter of suite in this wretched world, yet I meane not so easily to yeeld and give up my right, for if I were not able to write according to the rules of Art, I must certainly be one of a most dull capacitie, and altogether uncapable of all discipline. For did I learne nothing by seeing the Cardinall Perron? nothing by being a Schollar in the French tongue under Master Nicholas Coeffe­teau? nothing by a thousand conferences with the good man Malherbe? and lastly nothing by lodging with father Baudoin? Vel in Bici­piti somniasse Parnasso? for one is as much as the other, as you know well. This man in truth is no ordinary father, his conceptions and pro­ductions are without intermission; he fills our studies with his bookes; he amends, reformes, embellishes the bookes of others; hee smells a [Page 254] Barbarisme or an incongruitie seaven miles off; hee hath counted by tale all the improprieties that are in——: hee is admirable in the knowledge and use of all particles, and I am sure he loves me not so little to hide any secret or mysterie of all his knowledge from me; I in­treat you to kisse his hands for me, and to be­leeve that I am most truly,

Another to him. LETTER XLVIII.

SIR, three dayes since I imparted my melan­choly and my unquietnes unto you, and how much I was mooved at the crueltie of—I have since received your Letter of the ninth of this present, which doth not indeede take all my paine from me, because it declares not what is done against me, but yet asswageth it a little, because it declares that nothing is done against mee that is deadly. However I must put on a resolution for all events; and com­fort my selfe with Philosophie, and with you; you that are my true and faithfull friend, and that stand betweene mee and all the stones my enemies throw at mee. Your affection is no small helpe to me in these troublesome encoun­ters, [Page 255] and the tendernesse you shew to have of me, bindes me in a very sensible obligation to you. Concerning the ill will of—it can doe me no great hurt, and pardon me if I doe not thinke my honour is ingaged to make so bloody a warre upon him as you would have me. The lesse shew is made of resenting petty injuries, the bet [...]er and the more readily they are repelled; if I should thinke upon answe­ring him, I should but mak a comment upon his gibrish, for them that understand him not; and thereby bring his folly into the more credit and request. When time and place serves we will handle him as hee deserves, and doubt not but his lightnesse shall light heavily upon him; one­ly doe you collect some common places upon this matter, and remember your selfe of all that hath passed betweene—to the end the history may not be lost. I have had speech with the man whose whole life is nothing but a continuall meditation of death; I never found him so austere, nor so great an enemy of bra­very as now; his devotion respects neither right of nations, nor lawes of civillitie. I have not beene able to get him to write to that per­son that loves him so dearely, and complaines to you so often about it. All the answer he re­turnes to his long Letters, are but these three words of the Gospell, Noli amplius peccare, which in sweeter and more courtly termes is as much as to say,

[Page 256] I received the other day a most elegant and gentle Letter from one Mounsieur Ytterius, a Lawyer of Antwerpe; but I know not by what meanes it came to my hands, nor by what direction to returne an answer. Pray enquire af­ter him, and let our friends know that in spight of the Marquesse of Aytona, I have adherents in Flanders, and therefore hee neede not make his bragges for having burnt my booke at Bruxells. Scilicet illo igne, vocem omnium Gen­tium, & libertatem Europae, & conscientiam ge­neris humani abolere arbitrabatur. By the next Post I will write to Mounsieur Hottoman, and will give Mounsieur de la Pigeonnerio thankes for the verses you had of him to send me. Wee have read them here in good companie, both of Males and Females, and they all agree that the Fathers my adversaries are none of those Christian Ulysseses, hee speakes of, that have nailed their Passions to the crosse of Christ. I forgot to aske you of Mounsieur Seton, and to desire you to call to him for the papers hee promised me. I regard him as one of the great Doctours of our age, and make use of the ri­ches of his Spirit with so great privacie that hee seemes to be but as it were my Treasurer. I know not how to make an end, nor yet am willing to say more, because I must reserve something for Monday next. I therefore take my leave, assuring you there is none more tru­ly then I,

To Mounsieur Girard, Officiall of the Church of Angoulesme. LETTER. XLIX.

To Mounsieur de Gues. LETTER L.

SIR, my most deare Father, you have ob­liged me exceedingly unto you; for impar­ting unto me the good newes that is come, and for communicating with me, the joy you take, in the happy successe of the Kings Army. I doe not thinke he hath a better subject in all his kingdome, then your selfe; never servant was more zealous for his Masters greatnesse; never Persian more religiously adored Monar­chy. You love your children, I know infinite­ly, yet this is but your second love; that of the State, and of the Publicke, goes farre before it, and I feare me, you would give us all for the poorest Frontier Towne of Flanders, or for any paltry Fort of Millan. That which I read in the Postscript of your Letter, did not so ve­ry well please me, the good opinion, which Mounsieur de—hath of me, is more a burthen to me, then an honour: and I could wish, he would make lesse reckoning of me, so he would let me be more at quiet. You have a strange friend of him; to take me for his com­mon places, and to thinke that I am an Index. for finding out conceits and figures. In the mat­ter, you propounded to me on his behalfe; I can say no more then what I have said already, [Page 262] but if he please to take the paines to Translatē my French into Latine, he may easily doe it in such sort, that he shall be taken for the Author, and I but for the Translatour. I have told you, of the Dignity of the Language, in which he meanes to write, and what great advantage it hath over ours; it is certaine, that it elevates and raiseth up the low thoughts of the Au­thours; and gives much more to them, then it receives from them. Whereas ours contrari­wise, hath no beauty, but as the Authours em­bellish it and set it out; It hath no subsistence: but by the matter, no force, but from the sub­jects that are handled. I have made choice of some, which I thought fittest for his purpose; if he finde them for his turne, hee may make use of them: and better them much, by putting them into Ciceroes stile and phrase: and these are they. Good men ought to desire great Dig­nities, as a necessary meanes to performe great atchievements; which if they performe not; both God will call them to account, for his graces, no better employed, and the world will justly complaine, it is left a prey to the wicked; and that the desire of their owne private quiet, makes them abandon all care of the publike. This is to tell you my Lord, that you ought to reserve your humility, for actions that passe be­tweene God and you; but that for other mat­ters, you cannot have too much credit, nor too much greatnesse, seeing it is fit that wisedome should be obeyed, and that there are some ver­tues which cannot be acted by those that are [Page 263] poore, &c. Though we be not so out of the world, but that we heare newes of it; yet it passeth through so many places, that it cannot chuse but receive divers impressions; and can never come to us in purity, seeing it gathers [...]dde, in comming but from the Louure. Yet I have come to know, and fame hath sounded in our desart, the great battles that have beene fought for the honour of Fance, and how you have vanquished the spirits of strangers; which is a greater victory, then to vanquish their for­ces. I have come to know, that Italy hath rigged up all subtilties, and imployed them to deceive us, and yet could not, and that these Spirits which thought to raigne in all assemblies, and to be the Masters of reason, have not beene a­ble to defend themselves against you, but with spight and choller, Nor to complaine of any thing, but that you perswaded them to that, which they came resolved never to doe, so as they which called us Barbarians; and got al­waies as much by their Treaties, as they lost by our Victories, have found at last, that there is wisdome on this side the Alpes, as well as be­yond: and are driven to acknowledge, that we had a man amongst us now, able to hinder them from deceiving us as they had done. They wondred to see a servant, that could not endure there should be a greater Master then his owne, that felt the least evils of his Country, as if they were his proper wounds, and thought it a hurt to himselfe, if there were but an offer made, to touch the Dignity of this Crowne, but when [Page 264] they saw that you: applyed remedies upon the suddaine, to all inconveniencies which they thought you could never have avoyded, that you not onely answered all objections they made, but prevented all they intended to make, that you dived into their soules, and tooke hold of their intentions there, and at the first con­ference, made answer to that which they reser­ved for the second, then in truth their fleame turned into choller, and then you quite rooted all their humane Prudence, and all their poli­ticke Maximes, &c. I am not able to dissemble the joy I take, to heare that your good servi­ces are acknowledged, that when divers coun­sels had beene tryed, yet yours at last was still faine to be followed, and that in guiding the fortune of France, you are no lesse President of all affaires of Europe. It is true, that of all ex­ternall contentments, I have none so sensible to me as this, but on the other side, when I heare that your health, is continually assaulted, or at least threatned by some accident or other; that the rest which the quietnes of your Conscience ought to afford you, keepes you not from ha­ving unquiet Nights, and that in the midst of all your glory, and good successes, yet you of­tentimes are as it were weary of your life, then in deede, &c. And can it not be, that you should come to heare the publicke acclamations, but in the unquietnesse of your watchings? nor of your praises, but in your paines: Must the Sense suffer, and the Spirit rejoyce? Must you be up­on the Rocke, when you are in your Triumphs? [Page 265] Must you doe two contrary workes at once, and at the same time, have neede both of mo­deration, and of Patience: if vertue could be miserable, and that the sect which accounts no­thing evill but paine, nothing good but pleasure, were not universally condemned. Certainely the divine Providence, would at this day be complained upon, by all places of this King­dome: and all honest men, would in your be­halfe finde something amisse, in the worlds go­vernement. But my Lord, you know better then I, that it is the happinesse of beasts onely, of which we must beleeve the body, for as for ours, which resides in our highest part, it is as little sensible of disorders that are below her, as they which are in Heaven are uncapable of of­fences by stormes of the aire, or by vapours of the earth. And this being so, God forbid, that I should judge of your condition, by the state of your health; and not thinke him perfectly happy, whosoever is perfectly wise. Doe but imagine with your selfe, that you have made a division of the infirmities of humane nature, with other men, and then you shall finde the advantage is on your side, seeing there is in you, but a small portion of paine, for infinite passions and defects that are in others. Yet I cannot but thinke, that the tearme of your pa­tience is neere expired, and that the time to come, is preparing contentments for you that are wholy pure, and wil make you young again after the time, as before the time you have made your selfe old. The King that hath need [Page 266] of your long life makes no wishes in vaine, and heaven heares not the prayers of the enemies of our state. Wee know of no successour fit to undertake what you leave unfinished, and if it be true that our Armies are but the armes of your head, and that God hath chosen your counsaile for establishing the affaires of this age; why should we feare a losse which hath no right to come but to our posteritie? he will not in this only point leave imperfect the hap­pinesse he hath promised us; he loves men too well to deprive them of that good which you are borne to doe them. When Armies are de­feated there may new be levied, and a second Fleet may be set forth when the first is lost; but if you my Lord should faile us, &c. It shall be in your time that people oppressed shall come from the worlds end to seeke the protection of this crowne; that by your meanes our Al­lies shall bee well payed for their losses, that the Spanyards shall be no conquerours, but the Fronch shall be the f [...]rs of all the earth. It shall be in your time that the holy seate shall have her opinions free; that the inspirations of the holy Ghost shall be no more oppugned by the cunning of our adversaries, and that there shall be raised up couragious hearts, worthy of the antient Italia, and able to defend the com­mon cause. Finally my Lord it shall be by your wis [...]dome that there shall be no more tyrannie in Christendome, nor rebellion in this king­dome: That the people shall leave in their su­periours hands both liberty and religion; and [Page 267] that from this legall government, and from this perfect obedience there shal arise that hap­pinesse which Polititians seeke for, and which is the end of all civill societies. My hope is that all these things shall come to passe tho­rough your wise government, and that after you have made sure our peace and our neigh­bours, you shall your selfe enjoy the benefit of your good deeds with pleasure and at your case, and shall see the state of things continue flourishing, whereof none but your selfe have beene the Author. I earnestly entreate you so to deale with Mounsieur de—that he may rest contented with this; and dispense with me for any new meditation which would re­quire more leasure then I am like to have. This bearer will deliver you the History of Queene Elizabeth, which may serve you for a recrea­tion till the end of the weeke, and then I shall come and aske your opinion, and desire you to give me some light of that time out, of the great experience you have of many things. I desire of God with all my heart that he will be pleased to afford you yet some great matter to exercise your selfe in, and that this wise old age of yours which wee so much admire may long continue to be a strength and ornament to your family. These are my earnest wishes, and withall, to make you by a perfect acknow­ledgement of your favours, a perfect proofe that I am,

To Mounsieur de Boisrobert. LETTER LI.

SIR, the Muses never favoured man as they doe you; you are the onely man that neede neither retr [...]ite nor leasure for your meditati­ons; In the troubles of the world you possesse your spirit in peace, and seeing the bruite of the court diverts not your attention, neither can the Sea and all its waves hinder your com­positions. It is no small advantage to finde that solitude in ones selfe, which others seeke for in the Desart, and not to bee bound to goe out of the world for setching in of sound opinions and perswasive words. If the merit of yours take place, we shall shortly see at Comaedies as many long Cassocks as short robes, and the most austere Philosophers will have their hands and eyes in the recreations of the people, and so Sir of a mischiefe you shall make a remedy; you shall set timourous spi­rits at liberty, and shall free us from two ter­rible monsters, scrupulousnesse, and vitious bashfulnesse. You make mee long to beare a part in this action, and in this sort to defend the Theater; to take the field after you is not so much to fight as to pursue the victory, and I thinke it no wrong to vertue to justifie an innocent pleasure, and that which is onely worthy of her; this we owe to Iason, to Ma­sinissa, [Page 269] to Brutus, and to other worthy men, who live at this day in the person of the man you so much commend, and whom I admire as often as I heare. It is certaine that the grace with which he pronounceth verses gives them a degree of goodnesse which the Poets could not. They are more beholding to him that pronounceth them, then to him that made them, and this second father (if I may so speake) purgeth by his adoption all the vices of their birth; the tune of his voyce accompani­ed with the dignitie of his gestures gives a kind of noblenesse to the most vulgar and base conceits. No soule is so strongly fortified a­gainst the objects of sence which he forcethnot; No judgement so wary and so well prepared, which is not caught with the imposture of his words in such sort, that if in this world there be any happinesse for verses, it is certainly in his mouth, and in his pronouncing, by which as evill things get the colour of good; so good things get the uttermost of their perfection. Let me know Sir whither I hit right upon your inclinations, and in the meane time I give you many thankes for your many favours, parti­cularly for the Letter of my Lord you tooke the paines to send me. Hee writes indeede in the stile of a Conquerour, and these words Accepi, legi, probavi, savour much of these, Veni, vidi, vici, of Iulius Caesar, and of these [...], of another Caesar that was afterwards. Though I should never receive other marke of his love but this, yet were this [Page 270] a full recompence for all the passion I owe to his service; yet I must tell you, I cannot for­get the honour he hath done mee, in procuring me a promise that I shall be payd of——I have done all possibly I could to blot this thought out of my minde, but I confesse unto you that my imaginative part is a little strong. I could never hitherto satisfie my selfe herein, and what bad answer soever I receive from men yet still I relie upon this word of God, who commands me to hope well, and there­fore I waite still for the accomplishment of the Oracle. All our world is extremely bound un­to you for remembring it, and I am my selfe more then all the world together,