IT chanced vs to walke in the Temple of Saturne, where among many o­ther gyftes and oblacions, that we sawe, a Table was hanged vp, for an offryng. In the whi­che was a picture very strange, conteinyng in it certaine fables and stories. The which we coud neyther coniecte whereof they were, nor of what tyme they were. For that that was pein­cted, nother semed to vs to be a citie, nor a fortresse, but there was in it one great circle or cō ­passe, [Page] conteinyng within it two other circles, the one more, and the other lesse. There was also a gate in the fyrst circle, and in the gate there seemed to vs a great compaigny to stand: And within the closure there appea­red a multitude of women. In the entryng of the first poarche and circuite there stode an olde man, whiche seemed as though he commaunded somewhat to the companie, that entred in.

A fatherly man standyng by vs, and seyng vs muse & doubt of this picture long time among our selues, saied vnto vs: You straungers, bee not asshamed, though ye doubt what this py­cture is. For there be many, that dwell in this citie, that wot full [Page] litel what the inuencion of this Table betokeneth. For, for to saie trouth, none of this Citee offered it, but a certaine straun­ger in tyme paste came hither, a wyse man and a noble philoso­pher, folowyng both in woorde and deede the lyfe of Pythago­ras and Parmenides: who dyd builde this temple in the honor of Saturne, and also did offer vp to the same this picture. Did you euer, saied I, knowe that same man by sight? Yea, saied he, and had hym long tyme in great reuerence. For all be it he was but younge, yet did he de­bate, and dispute, many thyngꝭ cunnyngly. And I haue hearde him talkyng often of the inuen­cion of this picture. For goddis [Page] sake than, quoth I, excepte ye haue some other great busines, declare it vnto vs. For we greatly couet to know, what this fa­ble signifieth. With good wyll freendes, quoth he, but ye muste vnderstand, that the declaraci­on of it is perillous. Howe so quoth I? For, quod he, if ye at­tentifly herken and vnderstand that that is said, ye shal be both wyse and happie. If ye do not, ye shall be made bothe vnwyse, vnhappie, heauy and rude, and leade all your life after misera­bly. For this tale is like the rid­dell of Spinx, that she purposed to folke: the whiche if any body vnderstode, he was safe, if he vnderstode it not, he was slaine of Spinx. The same maner is [Page] in this tale. For folie is to mē a Spinx. And she also purposeth to folke, what is good, what is yll, what is not good, what is not yll in this lyfe. These thyn­ges except a man vnderstand, he is slayne of folie: But not vt­terly, as he that is deuoured of Spinx, but a littell and a littell in al the whole life is cōsumed, lyke as they that be delyuered continually to be tourmented. But if a man vnderstand these thynges contrariewyse, folie is lost, the man is saued and made blisfull and happy al his life af­ter. Wherfore attend ye diligēt­ly and myshere me not. O good lord, into what a greedie desire hast thou brought vs, if those thynges be as thou saiest? And [Page] I (quoth he) ensure you they be so. Well thou shalt not preuent vs in tellyng: For we will her­ken diligently, seyng the penal­tie is suche.

He toke then a rod, and poin­cted to the picture. See you not, quoth he, this circuite. We see it. This ye must first know, that this place is called life: And the great companie, that standeth before the doore, be those that shall enter into lyfe. The olde man, that standeth aboue, ha­uyng in his one hande a paper, and with the other, as it were shewyng somewhat, is called Genius, He commaundeth the entrers, what they muste dooe, if they wyll be kepte safe in the lyfe. What waie doeth he bidde [Page] them go, and how, ꝙ I? Seest thou not (quoth he) hard by the gate, a certaine seate, set in the place, where the great compa­ny entreth: in the whiche there sitteth a woman goodly of ma­ners, with a fayre luryng coun­tinance, and hauyng in hir hād a cuppe? I see hir, but what is she, quoth I? She is called Dis­ceite, quoth he, mysleader of all folke. Than what dooeth she? She compelleth them, that come into the lyfe to drinke as muche of hir cuppe as she can. What drinke? It is, quoth he, errour and ignoraunce. What than? Whan they haue droncke that drinke they enter into lyfe. whe­ther than do all folke drinke er­ror or no? All drinke (quoth he) [Page] but some more, some lesse. Fur­thermore, seest thou not within the gate a great sort of women, hauyng diuers horishe tatches? I see them. Those be called opi­nions, desires, and lustes. As soone as the companie entreth, those leape foorth and embrace euerie one of theim, and after­ward conuey them away. whi­ther do thei bryng them? Some bryng theim, quoth he, to saue­garde, and some to destruction by Disceit. O marueilous god, what a strāge drink tellest thou of. But al these forsaid women, quoth he, do promise, as though they would leade the entrers to the best thingꝭ, and also to a life happie, profitable, and commo­dious: the entrers then through [Page] the Ignoraunce and Erroure, that thei dronke by Deceite, can not fynde, whiche is the trewe way in the life, but wander vn­aduisedly: as thou seest theim that came in first, the whiche seme to wander thither, as those women poinct them. I see that, quod I, but that woman, what is she, the whiche seemeth as it were one blind and madde: and standeth vpon a rounde stone? She is called, quod he, Fortune she is not only blynde, but also madde and deaffe. What doeth she? She walketh euery where, quoth he, and from some she ta­keth rychesse: to some other she geueth: and from them by and by she taketh agayne that, that she gaue them before, and dely­uereth [Page] it to some other, bothe without cause, without aduise­ment, & inconstantly. And ther­fore that token declareth well hir nature. what token is that, quoth I, that she standeth vpon a round stone? what betokeneth that? Marie that hir geftes be bothe vncertaine and vnstable. Wherfore they that truste vnto hir, suffer sharpe and greuouse troubles. But what meaneth the great companie that stande about hir, and what be thei cal­led? Certainly thei be called folk without iudgement or conside­racion. For euery one of theim dooeth aske those thynges, that be bothe transitorie and vanis­shyng. Wherfore than doe they not looke all a lyke, but some of [Page] them do seme to reioice, and som of them be sorowfull, heuy, and castyng abroade their handes? Those which seme (quoth he) to reioyce and laughe, be of them, the whiche haue receiued some­what of Fortune, and those cal hir good Fortune: But those, whiche seme to weepe and cast out their handes, bee of theim, from whom she hath takē that the whiche she gaue them before: And those call hir yll Fortune. What thynges bee those than, the whiche she geueth them, see­yng that the receiuours reioyce so muche in receiuyng of theim, and the loasers dooe so muche droupe and mourne for the losse of them? Those thynges (quoth he) the whiche many folkes call [Page] goodes. Ye but whiche be they? Richesse, quoth he, and glorie, and nobilitee, and children, and lordshyp, and kyngdomes, and other suche lyke. Why be not those thynges good in deede? As of that (quoth he) we shall dispute an other tyme: but now let vs go foorth with this tale. Be it so.

¶Se ye not then, after ye haue passed this gate, another higher compace, and women standyng without the same circuite ap­poincted lyke harlottes? Ye ve­raie well. The one of those is called Incontinence, an other Riot, an other Couetise, an o­ther Flattery. Why dooe they than stande here? They await duely vpon theim, the whiche [Page] haue receiued any thing of For­tune. What than? Than they skippe forth and imbrace them, and flatter, and praie theim to abide with theim, seeyng, that thei so doyng shall haue a plea­saunt life without any labour, griefe or trouble. Than if any of theim be perswaded by those women to enter into pleasure, so longe as that conuersacion tyckleth and delyteth hym, so longe he shall thincke it sweete, but afterward it is not so. For as soone as he calleth him selfe home, he shal well perceiue, that he hath not eaten pleasure, but that he hath been by pleasure bothe eaten and wronged. For when he hath consumed al that Fortune gaue hym, he is com­pelled [Page] to be those womēs slaue, and to suffer al thynges, and to be filthy, and for their sakes to leaue none vngracioꝰ dede vn­doen: As to take mens goodes from theim, to committe sacri­lege, to forsweare and periure them selfe, to betraie, to robbe and roue, and to dooe all other suche lyke myscheuous deedes: But whan all thynges doe fayle theim, than are they deliuered to peyne and tourment. What peyne and tourment is that?

Seest thou not behynde yonder women (quoth he) as it were a littell mouthe of a caue, and a certain straict and darke place: and also there semeth to ve wo­men foule and sluttish, and their clothes all baudie, ragged, and [Page] beggerly? I see it well. Of these (ꝙ he) she that hath the whippe in hir hande, is called Punish­ment: Shee that hath hir head betwene hir knees, is Heauines: she that plucketh hir own heare, is Sorowe. But what missha­pen, leane, and naked felowe is he, that standeth by theim: and also an other fowle and leane woman lyke vnto hym? The man is called (quoth he) Wai­lyng, and she his sister is called Sluggishnesse, or lacke of cou­rage. And so to those persons he is delyuered, and with theim he liueth in continuall turment. Than agayne from hence he is throwen into an other house of euill happe: and there he passeth foorth the rest of his lyfe in all [Page] misery and wretchednes, except Repentance come to hym from Fortune. Why, what shall she dooe? Marie if Repentaunce come to hym, she deliuereth him from all euyles: and imprinteth in hym, an other opinion and desyre, that should leade him to true lernyng, and also to that, the whiche is called the vntrue learnyng. Than what is doen more? If he receyue (quoth he) the opinion, the whiche guideth him to true lernyng, by that he is purged: and made safe and blessed, and shall be happie all his life after, except he be again deceyued by false opinion. O good lord, what an other great peryll is this? But what ma­ner of thing, quod I, is the vn­true [Page] learnyng? Seest thou not yonder other Compasse? Very well, quoth I. Also without the circuite aboute the entre, there standeth a woman, the whiche seemeth to be veraie nette, and pure, and to be well manered. I see hir veraie well. Hir (quoth he) many foolishe folke call ler­nyng, but shee is none other in deede, than vntrue learnyng. And whan thei, that are wholly made safe, wyll aduance them selfe to true lernyng, they come hyther first. Is there than none other waie but this, to come to true learnyng? Yes, quoth he. But those folkes within the cir­cuite that go downward, what be they? Those be, quoth he, the louers of vntrue learnyng, men [Page] deceiued, and wenyng that thei be very familiare with true ler­nyng. What bee they called? Some poetes, quoth he, some o­ratours, some Logiciens, some Musiciens, some Arithmetrici­ens, some Geometriciens, some Astronomers, some of Epicu­res secte, some of the Peripate­tike secte, some of the secte Cri­tike, and all other suche lyke. The women, the whiche seeme to renne aboute, lyke to those we sawe first, among whom thou dydst saie, there was In­continence, and other with thē, what be they? The selfe same, quoth he. Why come they in hyther than? yea by Iupiter e­uen hither: but that is seldome, and not as they doe in the first [Page] compasse. And what, bee not those opinions likewyse? yes, quod he. Moreouer there remai­neth in these folke the draughte that they dranke of Deceit both Ignoraunce, and with hir also foolishnesse: And they shall ne­uer be deliuered of opinion, nor of other malyce, till suche tyme as they haue forgotten the vn­true learnyng, and bee entered into the true waie, and drincke there a pourgeyng vertue, and caste awaie all the euylles they had before, both opinions, Ig­norance, and all other vngraci­ousnesse. Than vnder this faci­on thei shall be made whole. But these, the whiche remaine styll with false lernyng, shal neuer be quitte of their naughtinesse: nor [Page] thei shall neuer be without some euill, for these studies sake. But which is this way, that leadeth a man to true learnyng? Seest thou, quoth he, yonder aboue, a place, in the whiche no bodie dwelleth, but it semeth to be de­serte? I see it. Moreouer there is a littell gate, and a waie be­fore the gate, the whiche is not very muche haunted, very fewe folke vse it, for because it see­meth harde to clymme to it: and it is bothe rough and stonie? I see it very well, quoth I. There appereth also a littell high hill, and the ascendyng vp is veraie straict, and hath deepe pitchlin­ges here and there, where one may lightly fall down hedlyng. I see it. This is the way, quoth [Page] he, that leadeth vnto true lear­nyng: and truely to loke to, it seemeth an vneasy waie. Seest thou not also aboue about the hyll top a great high stone, very stiepe vp on euery side? I see it, quoth I. Seest thou also two goodly women standyng vpon the stone with good proporcion of body, and how thei put forth their handes redy and gladly? I see them, but howe, quoth I, be thei called? The one, quod he is called Continence, the other Sufferaunce, they bee systers. Why put thei out their handes so gladly? They doe, quoth he, exhorte the commers towarde that place to truste, and not to feare, tellyng theim they muste take a littell pacience and suffre [Page] a littell whyle more, and than they shall come into the good waie. Tell me this, whan they come to the stone, how geat thei vp thereon, for I see no waie, that bringeth theim vp? These women come downe from the stiepe clyffes, and drawe theim vp: and there they bidde theim rest: and within a whyle after they geue theim strength, cou­rage, and boldenesse: and they promise to stablish them in true learnyng: and they shewe them the waie, howe fayre, playne, and passable it is, and pure and cleane from all lettes or stop­pes, as thou seest. They shewe theim in deede. Seest thou not also, quoth he, before this same woodde a certayne place, the [Page] whiche seemeth to be very faire, somewhat lyke a meddow, and shinyng with muche lyght and brightnesse? Very well Dooest thou also take heede in the mid­des of the meddow of an other compasse, and an other gate? It is so, but what is this place called? The habitacion of bles­sed folke (quoth he.) For here dwell all vertues and felicitee. It must needes than be a fayre place, quoth I. Than thou seest at the gate a certayne woman, the whiche is veraie fayre, and of a constant face and behaue­our, in hir middel and lusly age, and hauyng hir apparell and garmentes symple: She stan­deth not vpon a rounde stoane, but on a square, surely set and [Page] fixed: and with hir there be two other, thei seme to be hir dough­ters? It appereth so. Of these, the myddelmoste is Learnyng, the other Trouth, the other per­swasion. But why standeth this woman vpon a square stoane? It is a token, quoth he, that the way, that leadeth folke to hir, is to theim bothe fyrme and sure: and the gyft of those thynges, that she geueth, is to the receiuours sure and stable. And what thynges be thei, that she geueth? Boldnes and Assu­rednes without feare, quoth he. what be thei? Knowlage, quoth he, to suffer nothyng greuously in this lyfe. By God, quoth I, these bee goodly gyftes: But why stādeth she so without the [Page] compasse? To the intent, quoth he, she may heale those, the whi­che come thyther, and maketh theim to drincke a pourgacion. Whan they be pourged, from thence shee bringeth theim into the vertues. How is this, quoth I? I vnderstand it not well yet. But thou shalt vnderstande it, quoth he. In lykewyse as if a man, the whiche is very sicke, cōmeth to a phisicion, the phisi­cion doth first by purgacion ex­pell all those thynges, that cau­sed the sicknes: And so after re­storeth the pacient to his reco­uery and helth again. If the pa­cient do not obey to those thin­ges, the which the phisicion cō ­maundeth he should, not with­out a cause he is caste vp of the [Page] physicion, and vndooen by the sickenesse. This I vnderstand (quoth I.) Euen in the same maner, quoth he, it is, whan a man commeth to Learnyng, she cureth hym, and maketh hym drinke hir vertue, first to purge hym, and to caste awaie all the euyls, the whiche he had, whan he came to hir. What be those? Ignoraunce and Errour, the whiche he drancke of Deceyte, and pryde also and arrogance, concupiscence, intemperaunce, furie, couetousenesse, and all o­ther, with whiche he was reple­nished in the first cōpasse. Then whan he is pourged, whyther doeth she sende hym? In (quoth he) to knowlage, and to other vertues. To what vertues? [Page] Dooest thou not see (quoth he) within the gate, a companie of women, the whiche seeme to be of good disposiciō and well or­dred, hauyng their apparell not gaie, but symple, nor thei be not so trymme, nor so pickedly atti­red, as the other be? I see them (quoth I) but what be they cal­led? The first (quoth he) is cal­led Knowlage, the other be hir systers, Strength of minde, Iu­stice, Goodnesse, Temperance, So bernesse, Liberalitee, Conti­nence, and Mekenesse. O these be maruelous goodly, quoth I, In howe great an hope be we nowe? yea if ye vnderstande, quoth he, and wyll roote in you by practise those thynges, the which you heare. we shall assaie [Page] as diligently as we can, quoth I. Than you shall bee safe, quoth he.

Whan these women haue re­ceiued one, whyther dooe they bryng hym? To their mother, quoth he. Who is shee? Feli­citee, quoth he. Who is that? Thou seest the waie, that goeth vp to that high place, the whi­che is the toppe of all the other compasses. I see it. There is also in the porche a woman of a good grace and fauor, and sit­teth in an high throne, dressed gentill womanlyke, and not to trymme, coroned with a veraie faire and flourishyng garland? She semeth to be so. The same is Felicitee, quoth he. Whan one commeth thither, what doth [Page] he there? Felicitee, quoth he, with hir power crowneth hym, and so doe all the other vertues lykewyse, as a man the whi­che hath ouercome marueilouse great battailes. What battay­les hath he ouercome, quoth I? Very great, quoth he, and great wylde beastes, the whiche afore dyd deuour and vexe hym, and made hym their slaue, all these hath he ouercome, and expelled from hym: and now he is lorde ouer hym selfe. Wherfore now they serue hym: as he did theim before. I would gladly know, whiche be those wylde beastes thou speakest of? First, quoth he, Ignoraunce and Deceyte, doe not these seme to thee wyld beastes? ye and very yll wylde [Page] beastes (quoth I.) Secondely, Sorowe, wailyng, Couetouse­nesse, Intemperance, and all o­ther mischiefe: all those he doeth nowe rule, and is not gouerned nor commaunded by theim, as he was before. O (quoth I) these bee goodly actes and dee­des, and a victorie moste good­ly: but tell me this, what is the power and vertue of the corone, with the whiche shee coroneth hym? It is, yonge man, a ver­tue and a myght, that maketh a man welfull. For he that is co­roned with this power and ver­tue, is made therby happie and welfull, and hath not the trust nor hope of his felicitie in other thynges, than in hym selfe. O what a goodly victorie tellest [Page] thou. But whan he is coroned, what doeth he, or whither goeth he? The vertues take hym, and leade hym thyther, whence he came before, and shew hym how euyll and how wretchedly they liue, the whiche dwell still there, and in what great daunger and peryll they liue, and howe they erre and wander, and are ledde, as it were by their ennemies: Some by Intemperance, some by Pryde, some by Couetouse­nesse, some by Vaynglorie, and some by other euylles, from the whiche myschiefes, to whom they were bounde, they can not vnlose theim selfe, to come hy­ther to be made whole: but liue in trouble all their lyfe: This they suffre, because thei can not [Page] find the waie, that would bring them hyther. For they haue for­gotten that that was comman­ded them by Genius.

Me seemeth thou saiest trouth, but yet in this I doubt againe. Why dooe the vertues shewe hym the place, from whence he came firste? He dyd not tho­roughly knowe (quoth he) nor vnderstoode any of those thyn­ges, that were there, but he was in doubte. And thorough Ig­noraunce and Errour, that he dranke, he esteemed those thyn­ges to be good, whiche were not good: and those thynges, to be euyll, whiche be not euill: And therfore he him self liued naugh­tily, as the other doe, that there dwell and abide. Now he hath [Page] atteined knowlage of all profi­table thynges, he him self liueth well, and dooeth behold other, the whiche liue euyll. Whan he hath looked ouer all, what dooeth he, or whither goeth he? Whither so euer he will (quoth he.) For euerie where he is in suertee, as he that dwelleth in the denne of Corycus. And whi­ther so euer he goeth, in all thin­ges he shall lyue well, with all suertee. And euerie bodie shall receiue hym gladly, as the sicke folkes dooe the physicion. But doth not he yet feare those wo­men, the whiche thou dyddest call beastes, lest he should suf­fer somewhat of theim? No­thyng at all. He nothyng shall be troubled with Sorowe, nor [Page] with Heauinesse, nor with In­temperance, nor with Couetise, nor with Pouertee, nor with a­ny other euyll. For he shall be lord ouer them all: and be safe from all those thynges, the whi­che before dyd hurte or trouble hym, as they be, that are bitten with a serpent called Vipera. For without doubt wylde bea­stes, the whiche hurte all other folke to the death, will not hurt nor trouble theim, for because they haue by this bityng a re­medie to resist all other: So in lyke wyse nothyng troubleth this man, because he hath a re­medie present. Me seemeth thou saiest verie well: but yet tell me this, what be they, the whiche seeme to come yonder from the [Page] hyll? Of the which these that be crouned, seeme to reioyce and be merie: and those that be vncrou­ned, as it were men in dispaire, seme to knocke their heades and legges: they are also withhol­den by certaine women. Those that be crouned be thei, the whi­che are made safe by learnyng, and they reioyce, that they haue atteyned hir: But those that be vncrouned are they, whiche be­cause they did dispayre, came a­waie from lernyng, made ther­by euyll and wretched. but yet those without feare wente to Sufferaunce, and thence tour­ned backe again, and erred, and myssed the waie. But the wo­men that folowe after theim, what be they? Heuinesse, quoth [Page] he, and Sorowes, and Vexaci­ons, and Shames, and Igno­rancies. And it be, as thou saist, all the euylles in the worlde fo­lowe theim. It is true by Iupi­ter (quoth he) that they folowe theim. Whan these folke are come agayne to the firste com­passe, to Luste and Inconti­nence, they do not accuse them self, but streight they speake e­uyll bothe of Learnyng, and al­so of them that goe to hir: sai­yng, that those are wretched, myserable, and vnhappie, the whiche leauyng the life that thei haue, dooe liue euyll, and haue not the fruiciō nor vse of those good thynges, that they haue. What doe they call good thin­ges? Riot and Intemperaunce [Page] to speake shortely. For, for to eate and drincke lyke beastes, they esteme to be the fruicion of the best thynges in this world. But the other women, the whi­che go thither merie and laugh­yng, what be they called? Opi­nions (quoth he) the whiche af­ter they haue broughte folke to Lernyng, and that they be gone into the vertues, they goe their wayes to fetche other, and to shewe, that those are made hap­pie and welfull, the which they brought before. But dooe not, quoth I, those opinions com in to the vertues? No (quoth he.) For Opinion may not come in to knowlage: but Opinions delyuer theim that come vnto Learnyng. And whan Lear­nyng [Page] hath once receiued theim, then do these opinions go backe againe to fetche other, lyke as shippes that are dyscharged of their frought go again and are fylled with other stuffe. These thynges me seemeth (quoth I) thou hast very well expouned: but yet thou haste not declared vnto vs, what Geniꝰ doth com­mand thentrers into lyfe to do. To truste well and haue good courage (quoth he) and therfore haue ye good corage. For I wil expoune all, and leaue nothyng. Thou sayeh well (quoth I.)

¶Then he put forth his hande again. Ye see (quoth he) the wo­man, whiche semeth to be blind, and to stande vpon a rounde stone, The whiche I tolde you [Page] euen now, is called Fortune? We see hir. Genius comman­deth, quoth he, that folke shuld not trust this woman, nor be­leue that any thyng, that a bo­dy doth receiue of hir, is either fyrme and stable, or maie haue and kepe it sure and safely: nor to esteme it as his owne. For nothyng can lette hir to take a­way those thynges againe, and to delyuer theim to some other body: And she is wont often so to doe. And for this cause Ge­nius dooeth commaunde, that hir giftes shoulde be littell sette by: And nother to reioice, whan she geueth theim: nor to be so­ry, when she taketh them away: and nother to disprayse nor to prayse hir. For she dooeth no­thyng [Page] by reason, but all thyn­ges rasshely withoute aduyse­ment, and as it happeneth, as I haue tolde you before. For these consideracions he com­maundeth, that folke shold not esteme, nor haue in admiracion that, the whiche she doeth. Nor to be lyke the euill marchauntes bankers. For they, whan they haue receiued money of a man, dooe reioyce, and thincke it is their owne: but whan it is as­ked theim againe, they are mys­content, and thinke thei be euill handled, and dooe not remem­ber, that they dyd receiue, that that was truste in their han­des, for this intent, that whan so euer the owner lyste, there should bee none obstacle, but [Page] that he myght take it awaie a­gaine. Vnder suche maner Ge­nius commaundeth folke not to be affectionate to Fortunes gef­tes, and to remembre, that shee hath suche a nature to take a­waie and to transferre those thinges she gaue, and by and by again to geue manyfolde thyn­ges. Somtyme also she dooeth not only take awaie those thin­ges shee gaue alone, but also those thynges that were had be­fore. Therefore Genius com­mandeth to take of those thyn­ges she geueth, and he that hath them to goe his waie shortly to the ferme and sure gefte. What gefte is that, (quoth I?) The gefte that folke take of Lear­nyng, yf they bee made whole [Page] there. Yea and what is that? The true knowlage (quoth he) of profitable thynges, bothe a sure, and a stable, and an immutable gefte. Moreouer he com­maundeth to flee faste towarde this knowlage. And whan they come to those women, the whi­che as I saied before, are called Incontinence and pleasure, he commaundeth them not to trust those women in any wyse, nor to tarie till thei come to vntrue Learnyng: There he comman­deth theim to tarie a whyle and abyde, and to take what so e­uer they wyll of hir, as a helpe or ayde to a further iourneie. Than from thence to goe anon to true Learnyng. These bee the thynges, that Genius com­maundeth. [Page] Who so euer besyde these thynges, either dooeth a­ny thyng, or misheareth any thyng, dooeth naught lyke him selfe perishe naughtily.

¶So now freendes the storie, that is in the table, is suche as I haue tolde you. Yet if ye lyst to enquire of any of these thyn­ges particularly, without dis­deigne I shall tell it to you.

Thou saiest well, quoth I. But what doeth Genius commaund theim to take of vntrue Lear­nyng? Those thynges that are woorthie & meete to be vsed and occupied. What be those? Let­ters (quoth he) and other scien­ces, the whiche, Plato saieth, are to yonge folke in steede of a Brydle, to reine them from tur­nyng, [Page] to other thynges. But whether is it necessary for a bo­die, if he wyll goe to true Lear­nyng, to take those thynges or no? Necessitee truely, quoth he, there is none. Yet neuerthelesse they be profitable, but to make folke the better, therto can they nothyng helpe. Thou sayest than, that these thynges be not so profitable, that by them men maie be made better, for with­out theim a bodie maie come to goodnesse: Yet neuer the lesse they bee not vnprofytable. If I haue perceyued you well, ye meane this, that without the knowlage of those liberall sci­ences, men maie atteyne to ver­tue and goodnes: in like maner as we may vnderstand a thyng [Page] spoken in a strange language, without the knowlage of that same tongue, by a spokesman, that can interprete it vnto vs. Yet neuer the lesse, it were not vnprofytable for vs, to vnder­stand our selfe the language, in the whiche it was firste spoken in. Haue not men learned in these sciences, preheminence to be better than other men? How can they excell or haue prehemi­nence, whan men maie see them deceiued in the opinion of good and euyll, as other folke bee: and also bounde and tangled with all vngraciousnesse? For knowlage of letters, nor vnder­standyng of other sciences, doe nothyng let, but that a bodie maie be also droncke, intempe­rate, [Page] couetouse, vniuste, a tray­tour, and fynallie a foole. For­soth a man maie see many such. Than how (quoth he) haue thei preheminence, by reson of those sciences, to be made the better men? it seemeth not by this rea­son. But what (quoth I) is the cause? Because (quoth he) they dwell styll in the seconde Com­passe, as it were men approa­chyng toward true Learnyng. And what helpeth that (ꝙ I,) when we maie see many times, they come out of the first com­passe from Incōtinence and o­ther vngraciousnes, to the third compasse, to true Learnyng, the whiche dooe passe by these lear­ned men. And howe can men learned onely in these lyberall [Page] sciences excell other, whan they be more obstinate, and more vn­able to bee taught, than other folke be? Howe is that (quoth I?) For (quoth he) in the se­conde compasse that thyng that they knowe not, they doe feigne theim selfe to knowe. If there were none other thyng but this, as long as they haue this opi­nion, they must needes be vna­ble to be steered to come to true Learnyng. Moreouer, seest thou not an other thyng, that the opinions out of the firste compasse, come also into them? Wherfore these be no whit bet­ter, than those of the first com­passe: excepte they dooe repent, and be perswaded that thei haue not the true knowlage, but the [Page] vntrue Lernyng, by whom they be deceyued. And thincke, that as long as they remayne in the contrarie opinion, that thei can neuer be made safe and whole. Nor you nother frendes, except you so doe, and that these sai­ynges remain stedfastly in your remembraunce, tyll suche tyme as ye haue ingendred in you by practyse, an habite or custome. Wherfore ye must consyder these saiynges continually, and not by startes, and thinke all o­ther thynges pertayne nothyng to your pourpose. If ye dooe not so, of these thynges, that ye haue nowe harde, ye shall haue no profitte. We shall dooe, as ye teache vs: But expoune this vnto vs; Why be not those [Page] thynges, the whiche folke dooe receiue of Fortune, good thyn­ges? as to liue, to be whole, to be riche, to haue glorie, to haue children, to conquere and ouer­come, and all other thynges like these? Or againe, why be not their contraries euyll? For thy saiyng seemeth to vs incre­dible, and very farre from our opinion. Come of (quoth he than) and endeuour your selfe to aunswere as ye thynke best, to those thynges, the whiche I shall aske you. That shall I doe (quoth I.) Than (quoth he) if a body liue euill, is it good to hym to lyue? I thincke no, but rather euill (quoth I.) For how (ꝙ he) can it be good to lyue, whan it is to the liuer euyll? [Page] Certainely (quoth I) to theim, the which liue nought, me thin­keth lyfe is an euyll thyng: but to theim, the whiche liue well, lyfe is a good thyng. Than (quoth he) thou saiest, that lyfe is bothe a good thyng, and an euyll. Ye truely. Speake not so incrediblie and so far out of the waie: For it is impossible, one thyng to be both good and euyll. For so the self same thyng should be bothe profitable and noysome. And one selfe thyng alwaies to be woorthie to be e­lected, and at the same one time also to bee eschewed: me thinc­keth this farre from reason. But howe foloweth it, that though that euill be in him that lyueth euyll, that therfore lyfe [Page] selfe should be an euyll thyng? But (quoth he) it is not all one, to liue, and to liue euyll. Doth it not seeme also so to the? Yes. For I dooe not thincke theim both one. Then life selfe (quoth he) is not an euill thyng: for if it wer an euill thyng, then thei, the which do liue well, had in thē an euill thyng. For thei haue in thē life, the which wer an euil thing. Me semeth ye say trouth: for be­cause that life hapneth to both, as well to the liuers well, as to the liuers euill. Therfore life can nother be a good thyng, nor an euyll. No more than cuttyng or seryng is in them, whiche are diseased, either a sicke thyng or a whole. Consider than this, whether had ye leauer to liue e­uill, [Page] or to die well and nobully? I had rather (quoth I) to die well. Than, to die it is none euyll thyng, seeyng that many times death is rather to be cho­sen than lyfe. It is so. The selfe same reason maie be made of helth and syckenes. For of­ten tymes is not profitable to be in health, but the contrarie is to be preferred. Suche cir­cumstances there maie be, thou saiest trouth. Come of nowe than let vs considre in like ma­ner of riches. Maie we not see (as it chaunceth often to see) a man to haue muche riches, and yet to liue naught and wretchedly? yea verie many of that sort. Than ryches helpeth nothyng these men to lyue well? It se­meth [Page] so: For they them selfe be naught. Than rychesse cau­seth not men to bee good, but that dooeth high and perfecte knowlage. Your saiyng see­meth true. Than by this rea­son how can richesse be a good thyng, whan it helpeth not to make his possessours to be bet­ter. Me seemeth ye saie trouth. And to some folke also it is not profitable to be ryche, if they knowe not howe to vse ry­chesse. It is true. Howe can that thyng be iudged good of a­ny man, the whiche it is no pro­fitte to haue? It can not.

Therfore if a man knowe how to vse rychesse well, and as it should be, he shall lyue well: If he can not, he shall liue naugh­tily. [Page] There can nothyng be tru­er than this. And for a fynall conclusion, to repute and esteme these thynges, as though they were good thynges, orels reiect or despise the same, as euil thin­ges, is the cause, that vexeth or troubleth the moste part of peo­ple: when thei honour these for­saied thynges, and thincke by them onely to obteigne felicitee and welfulnesse. For, for to get them, they leaue nothyng vndo­en, be it neuer so vngracious. All these thynges they do onely because they knowe not, what is the true goodnesse.

I PER­ceyue my frend, that thou haste choasen a right plea­sant kynde of liuyng, voyde of businesses of the cōmon welth, wherin neuerthelesse thou doest to the common welth much pro­fitte: beyng vnto all them that come vnto thee, and eke to them [Page] that kepe thee companie, bothe compenable and pleasaunt.

¶But sence it is so, that we maie finde some countrey, that wanteth wylde and hurtefull beastes, as it is saied by Creta: But yet no common welth hath been found, that hath not nou­rished within it selfe, enuie, dis­deigne, and stryfe: of whiche moste commonly enmitees dooe growe, ye and if there were no­thyng els, frendship it selfe tur­neth vs to enmitee, whiche the wyse man Chion perceiuyng, asked one that vaūted him selfe to haue none enmie, if he had also no freende. Me thinketh than it were meete for a man of auctoritee, and that medleth in the rule of the common wealth, [Page] that amonge other businesse he shoulde haue also consideraci­on of his enemies, and to take good heede, that this was not spoken for nought of Xeno­phon: It is a substanciall wise mans part, to take profytte of his enemies. Therfore I haue gathered together those thinges that came in my mynde now of late, as I reasoned on this mattier. And I haue written theim vnto the, in as few wordes, ta­kyng hede, as nere as I coulde, that I touche nothyng of those that I wrote afore, in the prece­ptes of good maner, for I see that booke oft in thy hande.

¶To men of the old worlde it suffised, if they toke no hurt of diuers beastes, and in that time [Page] they fought with hurtefull bea­stes onely for that purpose. But they that are of later tyme, fin­dyng the waie how to vse wilde beastes, are not onely not hurt, but also they take profitte of theim, feedyng theim with their fleshe, clothyng them with their flecis, makyng of their mylke and galles, medicines for disea­ses, and armyng theim and de­fendyng them with their skyns: in so muche that now it is to be doubted, that if beastes wanted vnto man, mans lyfe should be but beastely, wylde, and nedie. So likewyse sence it suffyseth vnto other, to take no hurte of their ennemies: and that Xeno­phon saieth, profite maie be ta­ken of ennemies. Belefe is not [Page] to bee taken from suche an au­ctour, but rather the maner and waie muste be sought, whereby this profitte maie be gotten by theim, that maie not liue with­out enmitees.

¶The husbande man can not take from euery tree the wylde nature: nor the hunter can not make euery wylde beast gentyll and tame: so that the waie hath been found, that for other vses, both vnfruitfull trees and wild beastes haue been profitable.

¶The Sea water is vnmeete to drinke, and vnpleasaunt, but it nourisheth fysshes, it carieth vs from place to place, and it serueth in bringyng in and bea­ryng out wares.

¶But Satyrus the first tyme [Page] that he sawe fier, when he wold haue taken it and kyssed it: Ho, quoth Promotheꝰ, thou rough knaue, if thou take not heede, it wyll make thy lyppes smarte: for it burneth, if it be touched, it serueth not for that purpose: but it geueth light and hete, and is the instrument of all craftes, if one can vse it.

¶It must be seene therfore, if also an ennemie, that elles were hurtfull and daungerous, maie be touched any other waie, and geue som particular vse of hym selfe, and do vs very great pro­fite. For there are many thyngꝭ hateful and greuoꝰ vnto them, to whom thei happen: out of the whiche neuerthelesse some vse maie be taken. For thou seest [Page] many vse some disease of the body, for occasion of quiet and rest. Againe, labours and tra­uayles, that haue commen by chance, haue made many mans helth more perfect by exercyse. Besides this, there hath beene many, to whom outlawrie and losse of money hath bene forde­raunce to studie and learnyng, as to Diogenes and Crates. And zenon whan he heard that his ship was drowned: Thou doest very well Fortune (quoth he) in driuyng me to my studi­yng mantyll.

¶For like as some loue thyn­ges, that are good in digesting, and helefull for the body, if thei eate serpentes and scorpions, thei digest theim: yea and there [Page] are some, they are nouryshed with stones and shelles, by rea­son of the force and heate of the spirites, that tourne these thyn­ges into nourishement: where as these, that been tendre and sickly, can not awaie with bred and wyne. So fooles marre and also loose freendships, but they that are wyse, can profita­blie vse enmitees.

¶First therefore that that in enmitee is most hurtfull, semeth vnto me to dooe great profitte, if one take heede to it. What is that saist thou? Truely an ene­mie alwaie watchyng, marketh what thou doest, and in sekyng occasion of sclander, prieth and pereth alway on thy liuyng, per­cing with his sight like a Lynx, [Page] not onely the tymber, the coue­ryng, and the walles of thy house, but also thy freende, thy seruant, and whom so euer ke­peth thee companie, that as nere as he maie, he wyll know what thou dooest, pearcyng and tri­yng all thy secretes. Where as our freendes by our delaie and negligence, oft tymes are bothe sicke, and dye withoute our knowlage. And of our enemies well nere we marke their drea­mes. So that the diseases, the dettes, the skoldynges with their wyues, shall rather be vn­knowen of thē, whose they are, then of their enemies. So chief­ly dooeth be marke fautes, and aboue all thyng, them he seketh. Euen like as these Grypes, that [Page] Priam and his children mighte be glad to haue had suche enne­mies, wherby they toke heede to theim selfes, and were renow­med: truely it shall withdrawe, restreigne, and leade them from suche thynges, that should bee pleasure and laughter for their enemies.

¶We see also these musiciens oft times slake & not very hede­full, as ofte as they syng in au­dience alone: But if there hap­pen any dysdeigne, and stryfe with other: than they dooe not only applie their mindes better, but dresse their instrumentes more diligently, chose theirstrin­ges, tune theim more precysely, in assaiyng often their accorde: So who that perceyueth, that [Page] he hath a disdeigner, bothe of his name and of his liuyng, ta­keth better hede to hym selfe, he examineth all his deedes, and redresseth all his lyfe. For of trouthe naughtinesse hath this propertee, that in offendyng, it feareth more enemies then fren­des. Therfore Scipio, whan some thought Rome to be in a suertie, because Carthage was destroied, and the Grekes ouer­come: ye but now (quoth he) we are in greatest peryll, sence now we haue none, whom we dreade or feare.

¶Take with this the answere of Diogenes very excellent and mete for a philosopher: To one that asked hym, whiche waie he might be reuenged on his enne­mie: [Page] If thou make (quoth he) thy selfe an honest and a good man.

¶Most part of men are sory, whan thei see the fayre horse, or wel praised doggꝭ of their ene­mies: And againe they are so­ry, if they see theyr lande well housebanded, or theyr gardeyne fayre and goodly. What tro­west thou than they wyll dooe, if thou shew thy selfe an vp­right man, wise, good, and thriftie, excellent in wel saiyng, pure and vncorrupt in mattiers of charge: In temperaunce of thy liuyng, sobre and mesurable, v­syng to plow a deepe forow in a wyse breast, whens out dooe spryng goodly and fayre coun­sayles?

[Page]¶They that are ouer come, saieth Pyndarus, haue their tongue teyed, that thei dare not once hysce. But that is not a­pliable properly in euery one, that is ouercomen of their ene­mies. But in them onely, that see them self ouercomen of their ennemies, in diligence, in wyse­dome, in greatnesse of the mind, in gentylnesse, and lyberalitee. These thynges dooe folde vp a tonge, as saieth Demonsthenes, these dooe shutte and cloase vp the mouth, these dooe stoppe the throte, these cause sylence, these cause the, that, as saith Pynda­rus, thou darste not once hysce. Therefore endeuour thou thy selfe, sence thou maiest, to seeme better then they that be naught. [Page] ¶Therfore yf thou desire to grieue thine ennemie, doe it not this waie, to call hym leude, or dronckerd, knaue, or nygarde, or sluttishe or slouen, but rather endeuour thou thy selfe to be an honest man, endeuour thy selfe to be sobre, and measurable, to be true, and to intreate theim gentilly and indifferently, that kepe company and meddle with thee. But if it so happen, that thou fall to chidyng and reui­lyng, take heede, that thou bee clene without those fautes, for whiche thou rebukest an other. Retourne thy selfe into thyne owne breast, looke into thyne owne bosome, and marke well, if there be any thyng fylthie or subiecte to vice: Lest peraduen­ture [Page] some yll tongue haue occa­sion to cast this in thy teeth: He [...]alueth other, and is hym selfe full of botches.

¶But if he call the vnlearned, applie thou thy selfe to studie, and quicken thy endeuour: if he call the coward, steere thy cou­rage, and the readinesse of thy minde: if he call the vnchast and vicious, chase out of thy minde the desire of luste, if any suche printe, vnware to thee, sticke in thee. For there is nothyng fou­ler than suche rebuke, that re­boundeth to the rebuker. And there is nothyng more greuous or sharper. For lyke as the re­flection of lighte dooeth moste hurt to sore eies, so doe yll wor­des, whiche trouthe retourneth [Page] thyther as they came fro.

¶Truely lyke as the Northe [...] wind draweth cloudes toward it, so doeth yll liuyng drawe yll speakyng vnto it. Therfore Plato, as ofte as he sawe anie doe vncomely, to him selfe was woonte to saie: Am I suche in any case?

¶Furthermore, he that hath skolded with an other, yf he forthwith behold his owne-life, and redresse it, chaungeyng it in to the contrary, and correctyng it: truely he shall take great pro­fitte by skoldyng, and other­wyse it is bothe taken, and also is a veraie foolyshe thyng. For so commonly men are wonte to laughe at hym, that is balde or croked, and blameth an other [Page] for the same vyces. But it is most of all to be laught at, one to cast a rebuke to another, whiche maie haue some rebuke tur­ned to hym selfe. As Leo of By­zantia, whan a foule croked fe­lowe cast vnto hym the sorenes of his eies: It is natural (quoth he.) But thou dooest cary thine owne rebuke vpon thy backe.

¶Therfore beware that thou cast not adulterie in ones teeth, if thou vse a more fylthie flesh­ly luste: nor attwyte not one of waste, if thou be a nygard.

¶Alcmeon laied it to Adra­stus, that he was cousine to a woman, that slewe hir mother. But what saied he againe? He tayed to hym agayne not an o­thers faute, but his owne, sai­yng: [Page] Thou slewest thy mother thine owne handes.

¶Domitius iested with Cras­sus on this wise: Diddest thou not weepe, whan thy Lampraie was dead, whiche thou haddest kepte in thy stewe? But Cras­sus retourned the checke on this facion: Didst thou wepe at all, whan thou buriedst .iii. wiues?

¶He that should checke an o­ther, maie not bee a iester, or a skolder, or a foole: But he must be such one, on whom no checke nor faute maie cleue. For it see­meth that god cōmaunded this. (Know thyself) to no man more than to him, that should blame and checke an other: Least, if they saie what they wyll, they here that that they would not. [Page] For it is wont to be as Sopho­cles saieth: Whan thou haste powred out wordes foolishlie, and saied theim with thy good wyll, againe thou shalt here the same against thy wyll.

¶And that is the profitte and commoditee, that maie be taken of chidyng with ennemies: and no lesse profite cometh of the to­ther, that is, if one be yll spoken of, and rebuked of his enemies. whervpon it was well and tru­ly spoken of Antisthenes: It be­houeth a man for the safegarde of his welth and prosperitee, ei­ther to haue sure trustie frendes, or sharpe enemies, because they in warning, tother in rebuking, refreigne hym from vyces.

¶But truely because that now [Page] a daies frendship hath loste hir speche to speake frely, and flat­tery hath tongue enough, war­nyng is domme: it remayneth therfore, that we must here the trouthe of our ennemies. For lyke as Telephus could not be healed of his wound by no sur­gion of his owne felowes, and was healed by an other wound that Achilles his ennemie gaue hym in the same place: so they that haue no freendly warner, muste suffer the woordes of an yll willyng enemie, wherby they maie correct and amende their fautes. In whiche tyme the thyng it selfe ought to be consi­dered, and not the mynde of the yll speaker. For lyke as he that thought to haue slaine Promo­theus [Page] of Thessaly, by chaunce strake so a wenne that he had, that he saued the man, and by breakyng the wenne ridde hym of the peryll: so it is not seldom seene, that a rebuke caste out by enmitee and hatered, healeth a sore of the minde, that was per­aduenture vnknowen, orels vnregarded.

¶But many that are touched with a rebuke, dooe not consi­der this, whether they be gyltie of the shame that is laied to thē, but they looke rather, if he that laied it, haue any thyng in him, that maie be caste against hym, And lyke as wrastelers in the wrastlyng place, do not brusshe away the dust, but one arayeth an other: so with rebukes when [Page] they meete together, one of them shameth an other. But it were more accordyng, that he that hath had a checke of his enne­mie, shall take that awaie, that is laied against him, rather then a spotte that one sheweth hym in his gowne.

¶Ye and also if one laie to thy charge a faut, that thou art not gyltie in, yet it is to be sought, vpon what causes that yl spea­kyng dyd growe: and than it ought to be taken heede of and feared, lest that vnware we doe any thyng like that, that is lay­ed against vs. As Lacides kyng of Argi [...]e, for his trimme bushe, and a lyttell more pyked appa­raile, was sklaundered among the common sort, as tender and [Page] womannishe.

¶The same hapned to Pom­peie, because he skratched his head with one finger, although he was farre enough from ten­dernesse and wantonnesse.

¶So also it did happen vnto Crassus, whiche to by a proper ferme, oft tymes resorted to a woman of religion, for to wyn hir good wyll.

¶Truely Posthumia, by rea­son of hir liberall laughyng and talkyng with men, was so sclaundered, that she was accu­sed of adultry, although it was founde, that the faute was not true: Yet the byshoppe Spuri­us Minutius at hir departyng warned hir, that she shold talke with as great dreade of shame, [Page] as she dyd lyue.

¶And Themistocles whan he offended nothyng, yet he gatte by Pausanias to be suspect of treason, because he vsed hym so familiarly, and sent him daiely letters and messangers. Ther­fore whan there is any thyng saied agaynst the, that is not true, thou oughtest not therfore, because it is false, to let it passe. But trie with thy selfe, if thou haue saied or dooen any thyng, or assaied any thynge, or if amonge thy familiars there hath any thing bene, that hath geuen hym prouable occasion: and if thou fynde it, take heede and a­voyde it.

¶Truely if harde happe, that cometh by chāce teacheth some, [Page] what is best to dooe, as Meto­pa speaketh in a plaie: Fortune in takyng away that, that was moste deere vnto me, hath made me wyse to my cost. Why shold we not as well vse our ennemie for a teacher lesse costely, that maie profitte vs, and teacheth vs some thyng, that we knewe not afore? For truely manie thynges an ennemie perceyueth better than a freende, because that loue blyndeth in the thyng that is loued, as saieth Plato. But vnto hate is ioigned bothe buisie searche and bablyng.

¶Whan Hieron had his stin­kyng breth caste against hym of his ennemie, he came home and chode his wyfe, saiyng: Why diddest not thou shewe me this [Page] faute? But she that was chast and symple, aunswered: I had wente (quoth she) that all men had sauoured on the same fa­cion. So that, whiche maie be sensiblely perceiued, and those thynges that bee in the bodie seene of euery man, thou shalte sooner knowe theim of thine e­nemies, than of thy freendes or felowes.

¶Put to this, that where it is no small part of vertue to haue a sobre tongue, alwaies obedi­ent to reason: that thou canste not haue, without thou by mu­che exercyse, heede, and studie, subdue the yll mocions of thy mynde, of whiche sorte angre is one. For as from fooles woor­des dooe skape out, and as Ho­mere [Page] saieth: The fleeyng voice forsaketh the cloasure of the mouth. So it is moste wont to happen to vnexercysed mindes, that slyppe and slide, by vnmo­derate anger, by vntemperate­nesse of mynde, and by small heede of liuyng.

Moreouer, as saieth the god­ly Plato, the lightest thyng that is, bothe god and man punishe with greattest peyne. But a to­ther syde, sylence, where as it is alwaie gyltlesse, and not onely not hurtfull, it hath besydes in chidyng, a sauour of Socrates constance, or of Hercules force rather, for he also toke lesse hede of greuous wordes, then he did of flies.

Surely where as there is no­thing [Page] more graue or fairer, than whan thy ennemy chydeth, to holde thy peace, as one that sai­leth by a greatte rocke, so also doeth suche an exercyse spread further. For if thou vse to suf­fre thyne enemies chidyng, hol­dyng thy peace, thou shalt verie easely suffre thy wyues scol­dyng, whan she is angry, and beare without trouble the cri­yng of thy frende, and the com­bre of thy brother. For of thy father and thy mother thou wilt suffre knockes and strokes, and be not moued with angre.

¶And Socrates dydde suffre Xantippa his wyfe at home to chyde and combre him, the more easely to kepe company with o­ther, if he vsed to forbeare hir. [Page] But it is muche better in beyng exercised with checkes, rebukes, and hatredes of enemies, to vse to subdue anger, & not to chafe whan thou art yll spoken to.

Therefore on this wyse one ought to vse sobrenesse and suf­feraunce in enmitees. But sym­plenesse, great mynde, and gen­tylnesse is more accordyng in freendships. For it is not so ho­nest to deserue well of a freend, as it is shame not to dooe it, as ofte as neede requireth. But yet it is taken for gentylnesse, when chaunce geueth occasion, to let passe and not to be reuen­ged on thyne ennemie.

¶But he that receiueth not his good wyll, and praiseth not his gentilnes, that soroweth the of­fence [Page] of his enemie, and helpeth hym, if he desyre it, and taketh some heede to his children, or to his house, that is in peril, truly he hath an hert of a diamant, or els of yron.

¶Whan Cesar had comman­ded the images of Pompei, that were cast downe, to be sette vp againe: Thou hast (quoth M. Tullius) set vp Pompeis ima­ges, and stablished thine owne. Wherfore an enemie is not to be dispraised, nor to be deceiued of his honour, whiche is to be praised, and woorthy, for be­cause a greatter preyse theron cometh vnto theim that so doe praise. Beside that, he that prei­seth one, that deserueth it, is better beleued, whan he bla­meth, [Page] as one that hateth not the man, but that aloweth not his deede.

¶And that that is most godly of all, and most profitable, he shall in no wise enuy his fortu­nate frendes, nor his familiars, whan thei doe any thyng praise woorthie, who so euer vseth to praise his ennemies, and not to gnawe nor byte at their good fortunes. Is there any thyng that bredeth suche profite in vs, or that ingendreth in our myn­des a better vse, than that that taketh from vs dysdeigne and enuie? For as in a common wealth there are many thynges necessarie and yet naught, whi­che sence they bee comen in cu­stom, and gotten the strengthes [Page] of a law, yet shall thei, to whom they be hurtfull or greuous, not lyghtlie dooe theim awaie: So enmitee bringeth with it many vyces, as angre, suspection, re­ioisyng of others harm, remem­brance of wronges, and leaueth the printes of these in the mind.

¶Besides that many thynges, whiche if thou do them to thine ennemie, seeme neyther yll nor wrongefull, so remaine they in vs, that skant they can be put awaie, as is craftinesse, deceite, and subtyltees. Whereby oft tymes by the custome, we shall vse theim to our freendes, if we be not ware howe to vse theim to our enemies. Therfore Py­thagoras commaunded veraie well, whan he moued men from [Page] takyng of fowle, and of fisshe, and forbadde the killyng of all gentyll beastes, to the ende that in beastes we should vse to tem­per our selfes from crueltee and rauenyng. But it is muche more goodly, in beeyng a gentyll, a iust, and symple ennemie, in de­bates and stryfes against men, to chastise the foule and deceit­full affections of the minde, and to subdue them, to the ende that in medlyng with freendes men maie vtterly forbeare them.

¶Scaurꝰ was at debate with Domitius, and sewed hym: so a seruaunt of Domitius, afore the mattier was pleaded, came vnto Scaurus, and aduertised hym, that he had a secrete thyng to tell hym: but he would not suf­fre [Page] the felow to speake, but toke him and sent him to his master.

¶Cato, whan Murena dyd sewe hym, and sought together argumentes of the accusacion, there folowed hym (as was the custome) they that awayted, what should be dooen, and thee ofte tymes woulde aske hym, if that daie he woulde dooe any thyng, that myght perteyne to his accusyng: and if he denyed it, they beleued hym and wente their waie. And truly that was a great token, that they had a good opinion of Cato.

¶But this is the fairest of all, that once when we are accusto­med to doe vprightly and iust­ly with our ennemies, we shall neuer meddle deceitfully or fals­ly [Page] with our freendes and fami­liars. But because it muste ne­des be, that euerye kocke haue his combe, and euery mynde of man of him selfe bredeth stryfe, suspect, and enuie: it were not vnprofitable, among freendes that haue but holow mindes, as saieth Pyndarus, if a manne poure out the purgyng of suche fautes vpon his ennemies, and to leat it renne as into a synke, farre of from his frendes or fa­miliars. Whiche me thincketh Onomademus an honest man perceiued, whiche was in Chio, whan there was a mutenyng there, on that part that had the better, and warned them of his syde, not to chase them all out, that were of the contrary syde, [Page] lest (quoth he) that we begynne to fall out with our frendes, if we wante enmies. And if those vyces on this wyse should bee consumed on enmies, they shall the lesse greue freendes.

¶For truely the potter should not enuie the potter, nor the sin­ger the synger, as Hesiodus saieth: and it is not meete, that a man should disdein his neigh­bour, or his cosyn, or his bro­ther, if he waxe riche, and haue good fortune. But if there be none other waie to rydde thy selfe from strife, enuie and dis­deigne, than vse thy selfe to be sorie for thyne ennemies good fortune, and sharpen the edge of anger against theim. For as these connyng gardiners thinke [Page] to make roses and violettes the better, if thei sow oynions and garlyke nere by them, that what so euer sower sauour be in thē, it maie bee purged in to the to­ther: so an ennemie receiuyng into hym, our enuy and waie­wardnes, shall make vs better and lesse greuous to our fren­des, that haue good fortune.

Wherfore agaynst theim must be exercised the stryfe of glory, of rule, and of good gaynyng, but not so muche, that we shuld tourment our selfe, though they haue more thanne we: But to marke al thinges by what mea­nes they passe vs, and lette vs endeuour vs to passe theim in diligence, endeuour, sobrenesse, and warenes: As Themistocles [Page] was wont to saie, that he could not slepe for Myltiades victory at Maratho.

¶For he that is brought to so lowe mynde, and faintyng for enuie, because he thinketh hym self passed of his enemie, in go­uernaunce, or in obteignyng of causes, or in fauour, or aucto­ritee with frendes, or with no­ble men, and not rather ende­uoureth and assaieth something in despite of hym, truely he is holden with a foolyshe and a vayne enuie. But he whom hate blyndeth not so, but that he maie iudge him, whom he ha­teth, and also maie looke with indifferent eies, both vpon his life, and his maners, his woor­des, and his deedes: of a suer­tie [Page] he shall perceiue manie of those thynges, that he enuyeth, to come vnto the tother by dili­gence, prouision, and of deedes well dooen. And therewithall by exercise sharpyng the takyng heede of passyng hym, and the studie of honour, he shall shake of all idilnesse and false herte. So that if we see that thei haue gotten in the court or in the cō ­monwelth, any vnhonest or vn­deserued power, either by flat­terie, or by deceipte, or by false iudgement, or by mede, it shall not be greuous vnto vs, but ra­ther pleasure, in laiyng together our vpright liuyng with their naughtinesse. For truely all the golde that is eyther aboue the earth or vnder the earth, is not [Page] to be compared with vertue, as saieth Plato. It is meete also to haue alwaie in remembrance that woorde of Solon: We wyll not saieth he, chaunge the richesse of vertue, neither for the largesse that is cried by a great nombre, hyred for meat, nor for honours, nor for the chefe place among the wyues and concu­bines of dukes and princes. For there is nothyng to be wondred at, or notable, that groweth of dishonestee. But the louer is blinde in that that he loueth, as saieth Plato, and better we per­ceiue if our ennemies dooe any thyng vncomely. Yet maie we not, though they dooe naughti­ly take an vnprofitable glad­nesse, or and if they doe well, be [Page] moued with an idell griefe, but in eche of this is to be thought, that in beeyng ware of the tone we maie be letter then they, and folowyng the tother, that we be no woorse.

TO fil vp the padges, that elles wolde haue been voyde, I thoughte it shold no­ther hurte nor displease, to adde herevnto a fewe saiynges, howe a man shoulde choose and cherishe a freend. Cicero saieth, that Sci­pio complayned greatly, that men were more diligent in all thynges, than in freendshippe: euery man knoweth how manie [Page] gotes and shepe he hath, but no man can tell howe many freen­des he hath: And in the gettyng of other thynges, men vse great care and diligence, but in choo­syng of freendes they be veraie negligent, nor they haue not as it were markes and tokens, by the whiche they maie deme those that are feete to be receiued into freendeship. The booke saieth, haue not frendship with an yre full man, nor with a foole: but as Cicero saith, men firme, and stable, and constaunt, should be taken into freendeship. Of the whiche sorte is great scarsitee and lacke, and to iudge whiche they bee, is a very harde thyng, excepte we make a profe, and we can not make a profe therof [Page] till we be entred into frendship. So, freendshippe goeth before iudgement.

¶Some there be, that a small summe of money shal shew how sure freendes they bee. Some there are, whiche a littell thyng can not remoue, and yet they be knowen in a great neede.

¶And if we happe to fynde a freende, that deemeth it a foule and a shamefull thyng to sette more by money than by freend­ship, yet where shall we fynde them, that will not more esteme honours, rowmes, lordshippes, powers, and abundaunce of ri­chesse, than freendship? But as the same Cicero saieth, nother profites, honours, riches, plea­sures, nor none other suche like [Page] thynges, should be more set by than frendship. But yet he that is a good man, shall dooe no­thyng for his frendes sake, that is eyther againste the common welth, or els against his othe or fidelitee. For the offence is not excusable, to saie, thou dyddest it for thy frendes sake. And yet the same Cicero, as Gellius do­eth recite his woordes, saieth, that where our freend standeth in ieopardie, either of his lyfe or of his good renoume, we maie somewhat swarue asyde out of the waie. But in other places he expoundeth him self shewyng plainely, that we should require nothyng of our freend, but that that is honest.

¶And nowe concernyng the [Page] trust that we ought to haue the our freend, Seneca saieth: He that estemeth any mā his frend, the whiche he can not truste so muche as hym selfe, dooeth de­ceyue hym selfe. And he that maketh and proueth his freend with feastyng at the table, doth fayle. It is vertue, saieth Ci­cero, the whiche both wynneth and entertaineth freendes. A man shoulde reason and debate all thynges with his freend, but first he shoulde debate and rea­son with hym, whether he bee a freend or no. No man needeth to mistrust freendshyp, but first lear hym examyne and deeme, whether it be freendship or not. ¶They dooe agaynst the pre­ceptes of Theophrast, the whi­che [Page] loue before they iudge, and not after thei haue demed▪ thou shouldest a longe time considre, whether thou shuldest take any into thy frendship: and whan it liketh the so to do, than receiue him with al thy very hert, & talk as boldly with hym, as though thou were alone. But yet lyue thou after such faciō, that thou cōmit nothyng to hym, but that thou woldest commyt to an en­mie. But for because ther be cer­taine businesses, the whiche cu­stome maketh secrete, make thy frend priuy to all thy cares and thoughtes. Thou shalt do thus if thou suppose hym to be sure & faithfull. For many shew the maner & waie to deceiue, while they feare to be deceiued. And [Page] some tell theim that they meete by the waie, and blowe in euery mans eare, it that shold only be opened and shewed to frendes. Again, some also dreade so mu­che the conscience of their moste dere freendes, that if they maie, they wyll kepe close within thē all their secretes, because they wyll not put theim in trust ther­with. None of these two waies is to be taken, for eche of theim bothe is naught, to truste euery body, and to truste no man. Of whiche two fautes the firste is the more honest, and the other the more sure. And though the wyse man be content with hym selfe, yet wyll he haue a freend, and it be for none other cause, but to exercise freendshippe, lest [Page] so great a vertue should lye a­syde. Not for that that Epi­cure saieth, that he maie haue one to tende hym whan he is sicke, or els that maie succour hym, if he be caste in prison, or be poore and nedie, but that he maie haue one, whom sicke and diseased he may tend vpon, and whom he maie delyuer oute of warde, if he happe to come in his ennemies handes. He that regardeth him selfe, and for his owne sake seeketh frendshyp, he intendeth euyll: and lyke as he beginneth, so shall he ende. He thincketh he hath got a freende to helpe him out of prison, whi­che whan he heareth the chaines rattell, goeth his waie. These freendeshyppes, as the people [Page] saieth, dure for a tyme. He that is receiued into freendeship for loue of profitte, as longe as he is profitable, he pleaseth. It is nedeful that the beginnyng and endyng of freendshippe, should agree. He that beginneth to be a freend, because it is expedient for hym, some price shall please hym against freendship, if there bee anie pryce in it, that maie please hym aboue freendeshyp. Thou saiest: To what intent should I prepare a freende? I answere, that thou maiest haue one, whom thou maiest accom­panie, whan he is banished, for whom thou maiest put thy selfe in daunger of death. For the tother is rather a chapmanship than a frendship, whiche hath a [Page] respecte to profitte, and consi­dereth, what auayle he maie get therby. There is nothyng, that so muche deliteth the mynde, as faithfull freendship. And he is well happie, that fyndeth a true freende, saieth the booke. O howe great is the goodnesse, whan the breastes be prepared readie, into the whiche all se­cretes maie surely be powred, whose conscience thou dreadest lesse than thyne owne, whose talkyng easeth the grefe and he­uinesse of thy hert, the sentence geueth readie and quicke coun­sayle, the cheere dassheth the in­warde sorowe, and the very re­gard and beholdyng delyteth? And because the vse of freende­ship is variable and manifold, [Page] and there be many causes geuen of suspection and offence, the whiche is a wyse mannes parte to eschue, to helpe, and to suffre. Frendes must oft be monished, and rebuked, and that muste be taken freendly, whan it is doen of good wyll. But for so mu­che as Terence saieth, Trouthe bredeth hate, whiche is as a poy­son to freendship, we must take heede, that our monicion be not sowre, and that the rebuke be without vyle wordes. For vyle rebukes, as the booke saieth, fordoeth freendship.

HOwe bit­ter & howe greuouse a woūd per­ceth youre Fatherlye hert for the deathe of your most goodly child, I light­ly coniect by mine owne sorow. And therfore I were right mu­che vncourtoys, if that I in so sorowful a chance wold warne you his father to make lamen­tacion, [Page] whan I that am but a straunger can not choose but weepe and wayle. Ye mighte well thincke me rude and vn­taught, if I would goe aboute to heale your grefe, whan I my selfe had nede of a phisicion: if I woulde leat you his father to weepe, whan the teares styll a­bundantly trykell downe from myne eien. And all be it, that the ylke stroke of fortune ought deeper to pearce your fatherly breast: yet your great wisedome was wont so to rule you (in all your deedes) that ye not onely with a strong and a slout mind, but also with a glad and a me­ry chere, would suffre and passe ouer all suche chaunces as hap to mankynde. Wherefore ye [Page] ought so to settel your self, that if ye can not as yet put awaie cleane the sorowe of your herte (for no man can denie but that ye haue right good cause to bee heauy) yet at the least wise some what suppresse and moderate the same dolour. And for what cause should ye not cleane for­geat it? Seeyng that the space of a fewe daies wyll cause ide­ottes so to do, me thinketh rea­son should perswade an excel­lent wyse man. For what seelie mother dooeth so extremely be­waile the death of hir child, but that in shorte space of tyme hir sorow somwhat asslaketh, and at length is cleane forgotten? To haue alway a stedfast mind is a token of a perfecte wyse [Page] man. But for those chaunces, vnto the whiche we all equally (both more and lesse) be subiect to sorow out of measure, me thinketh it extreme foolyshnes. For who is not ware (except he that myndeth nothyng) that he is borne vnder suche a condici­on, that whan so euer god wyll call hym: he must foorth with nedes depart hence? So than what other thyng (I pray you) dooeth he, that bewayleth ones death, than lamentably com­playne, that he is mortall? Or why shoulde we rather sorow the departyng hence, than the entryng into this worlde, con­syderyng that bothe ar equally naturall? Euen in like case as though one shoulde geue great [Page] thanckes for to bee called to a great feast or dyner, and would lamente and demeane great so­rowe, whan he should departe awaie thence.

¶If that a manne, as it were from an high lookyng place, wold aduise well the condicion and life of all mankind: might he not well recken hym selfe a nyce felow, if he among so ma­nyfolde exaumples of priuaci­on, and among so thicke buri­als of yonge and old, would be greuousely vexed in his mynde, as though vnto him onely were chaunced some newe and great euyll: and as though he onely beyng happie aboue other, wold desire and looke to stand with­out the common lot? For whi­the [Page] consideracion the excellent wise men that found and made lawes in old tyme, to the entent that they wolde some what in­clyne to the affections of paren­tes, and to the ende they woulde not be seene to exclude euery bo­dy from that passion, beyng al­so condemned of some of the stoicke philosophers: they ly­mytted vnto theim a certayne tyme to mourne, the whiche en­dured not very longe: Eyther because that they well vnder­stoode and knew, that in those maner of chaunces, the whiche are both commune to al folkes, and also dooe not hap through any iniurie of Fortune, but are induced by the very course and ordynance of Nature, shorte [Page] mournyng should suffice: yea vnto theim that were not able to moderate all affections: con­sideryng that Natures selfe by littell and littell soupleth the wound that she made, and wea­reth awaie the scarre: Or elles because they diligently marked, that mournyng was not onely vnprofytable vnto theim that were bemoned, but also hurtful to theim that made suche mone, and greuouse and vnquiette to their freendes, acquaintaunce, and companie.

¶But nowe yf a man would consider the matter a right, do­eth it not seme a poinct of mad­nesse, willyngly of one harme to make twayne, and whan ye can not by no maner reason re­couer [Page] your predestinate losse, yet wilfully to annoy and hurte your owne selfe? In lyke ma­ner as though a man that his enemies hath spoyled of part of his goodes, wolde in his an­ger throw all that euer remay­ned into the see: and than wold saie, how he by that meane dyd bewayle his losse.

¶If we wyll regarde the no­ble Mimus, whose saiyng may beseeme any Phylosophier to speake: Thou must paciently suffre, and grutch not at it that can not be amended: Let vs cal to mynde the muche goodly ex­aumple of the ryght excellent kyng Dauid, the which so sone as tidynges was brought hym, that his sonne, that he so tender­ly [Page] loued, was dead: he foorth­with rose vp from the grounde, and shaked and brusshed of the duste, he threwe awaie his shert of heare, and so whan he had wasshed and annoincted, with a glad countenaunce and a me­ry chere he wente to dyner. And because his freendes marueyled thereat, he saied to theim: For what entent should I kyll my selfe with wo and sorowe? For vnto this tyme some hope I had, that god being moued with my lamentacion, would haue saued my childe a liue: but now all our weepyng teares can not restore hym againe to vs alyue: we shall shortely spede vs hence after hym. Who is so fonde to crouche and pray him, whom [Page] he knoweth wel, wyll incline to no praiers? There in nothyng more vntreatable than death, nothyng is more deffe, nor no­thyng more rigorous. By craf­tie handling the sauage beastes, yea the most wyld of theim all, are made tame: There is a waie to breake the harde Marbull stone: and a meane to mollifie the diamante: but there is no­thyng, wherwith death wyll be appeased or ouercome. It nei­ther spareth beautie, riches, age, nor dignitee. And therefore it ought to greue vs muche the lesse, eyther because it can not be eschewed, or els because it is equally commune to vs all.

¶What needeth me to goe a­boute to reherse to you here the [Page] manifolde examples of the gen­tyles, the whiche with a noble and a constaunt courage toke well in worth the death of their dere frendes? In whiche con­stauntnes of mynde, is it not a great rebuke for vs that be chri­stiens, to be of theim ouer com­men? Call nowe to your re­membraunce thilke saiyng (well woorthy to be enrolled in wri­tyng) of Telamon and Anaxa­goras: I wist well I begotte a mortall creature.

¶Thynke vpon Pericles the Duke of Athenes, the whiche is no lesse renowmed for his elo­quence, than he is for his force and manlynes: all be it that he within .iiii. daies space lost his ii. sonnes, that were endewed [Page] with right noble qualitees, he not onely neuer chaunged his chere, but also he, beyng crow­ned (as was the guyse than) spake and reasoned among the people of mattiers concernyng their common wealth.

¶Haue in mynde also Xeno­phon the worthie scoler of So­crates: to whom tidynges was brought as he was doyng sacri­fice, that his sonne was deade: he made no more to doe but put of his crowne, and foorthwith dyd put it on againe, as soone as he vnderstode that his sonne was manly slayne in battayle. ¶Remembre Dion of Syra­cuse, the whiche on a tyme (as he was secretely talkyng with his freendes) sodainely heard a [Page] great noise and rumbling in his house: And whan he had enque­red what the mattier ment, and was enfourmed that his sonne had fallen from on hygh, and was deade: he beyng therwith nothyng amoued, commaunded the corps (as the maner was) to be deliuered to women to bury. For he saied, he wold not leaue of his pretensed pourpose for that mattier.

¶Whom Demosthenes folo­wing, the .vii. daie after the deth of his onely and moste entierly beloued daughter, beyng crow­ned and araied in a fayre white garment, he came foorth abrode amonge the people. Of whiche deede the accusacion of his foe Aeschynes, both confirmeth the [Page] trouth, & setteth out the glorie. ¶Thinke also vpon the kyng Antigonus, the whiche when he heard tidynges, that his owne sonne was slain in a disordred skyrmisshe: pausyng a littell, and beholdyng theim well that brought him the tidynges, with a stoute and a constante mynde he saied: O Alcynonen (that was his sons name) all to late thou perishest, that wouldest so foolishely caste thy selfe awaie among thy fooes, nothyng re­gardyng thine owne health nor my monicions and woordes.

¶If ye delite more to heare the examples of Romains, beholde Puluillꝰ Horace, to whom (as he was dedicatyng the capitol) tidynges was broughte, that [Page] his sonne was dead: he neyther drew away his hande from the poste, nor tourned not his chere from religion to priuate sorow. ¶Consydre how Paulus Ae­milius, whan he had within the space of .vii. daies lost his .ii. sonnes, he came foorth abrode amonge the people of Rome, and there shewed theim, that he was very glad, that by the la­mentacion of his householde (whiche was but a priuate so­row) he had redeemed the enuie of Fortune bent toward thē al. ¶Thinke also how Q. Fabi­us Maximus (whan he was consull) and had lost his sonne, that was than a man in hygh rowme and dignitee, and greatly renowned for his noble a­ctes [Page] he came foorth abroade a­mong the people gathered to­gether, and there to theim he re­cited the commendacion of his sonne.

¶Thinke on also whan Cato Censorius his eldest sonne died, the whiche was a yonge manne of singular witte and high pro­wesse, and therto elect and cho­sen to be Mayer: yet was he nothyng so amoued with that chaunce, that he would in any thyng more slackely endeuour hym selfe about the needes and businesse of the common welth. ¶Ye should remembre Mar­cius, whose surname wasking, whan his sonne of right noble disposicion, and that stode high­ly in the fauour and good opi­nion [Page] of the people, and therto beyng his onely son, was dead, he toke the losse of hym with so constaunt a minde, that foorth­with euen from the buryall of hym he caused the Senatours to assemble together to ordeyne lawes concernyng theyr com­mon welth.

¶Ye should not forget Lucius Sylla, whose valiant and most fierce courage toward his ene­mies, the death of his son could nothyng abate, nor cause that he should seeme falsely to haue vsurped or taken vpon hym to be called by this surname felix, that is to saie, lucky or welthy. ¶Whan Caius Caesar (that was Sylla his felow in row­meth) had inuaded Britaine, [Page] and hadde tidynges that his daughter was dead: yet er thre daies were fully ended, he went about his impery all buisinesse. ¶Whan Marcus Crassus (in the warre that he made a­gainst the Parthiens) behelde his sonnes head, the whiche his ennemies in skorne and derisi­on had set vpon a morispykes end, and the more to exasperate and augment his calamitee, thei approached neere to his armie, and with woordes of reproche and blame, they shewed it vp: he tooke in woorth all that do­yng with so constant a mynde, that sodainely he rode forby all his battailes, and said to them with a lowde voyce, that that was his own priuate harm, but [Page] the health and saluacion of the common weale stode in the saue­gard of them his men of warre. ¶But nowe to ouerpasse the manifolde examples of Galba, Pyso, Scaeuola, Metellus, Scaurus, Marcellus, and Au­fidius: remembre whan Clau­dius Caesar had lost him, whom he bothe begotte, and moste en­tierly loued: yet for all that he (his owne selfe) in the common pulpit lauded and praysed his sonne, the corps beyng present, all onely couered with a littell veyle: and whan all the people of Rome wepte and bewayled his sonnes death, he his father wept not a teare.

¶And suerly lyke as it is a right goodly thyng to folowe [Page] and dooe as these men dyd: e­uen so were it a right shamefull thyng, if menne should not be found as stedfast and as stout­ly minded as women haue been in suche case.

¶Cornelia sawe and hehelde hir two sonnes (Titus Graccꝰ, and Caius Graccus) slain and vnburied: and whan hir freen­des comforted hir and saied, she had a wretched chaunce: I will neuer saie (quoth she) that I am vnluckie or vnfortunate, that haue borne suche two children. ¶But whereto dooe we nowe repete these examples out of an­cient chronicles: as though we sawe not daiely before our face sufficient exaumples? Beholde your neighbours, beholde your [Page] kynsfolke and alies: howe ma­ny, yea seely women, shall ye finde, the whiche veraie mode­rately take in good woorth the death of their children? This mattier is so plaine, that there nedeth no great helpe of philo­sophie therto. For he that wold consider well in his minde, how wretched on all sydes this our lyfe is, to howe many perils, to howe many sickenesses, to how many chaunces, to howe many cares, to howe many incommo­ditees, to how many vices, and to howe many iniuries it is en­dangered: how littell and how small a porcion therof we passe foorth (I will not saie in plea­sure) that is not attached with some maner griefe and displea­sure? [Page] and than further to con­sider howe swiftly it vanisheth and rolleth awaie, that we maie in maner reioyce and be glad of them that been departed out of this world in their youth.

¶The shortnes of our life Eu­ripides sadly expresseth, whiche calleth the lyfe of mortall crea­tures one littell daie. But Pha­lereus Demetrius doeth better, whiche correctyng the saiyng of Euripides saieth, that the lyfe of man should rather be called the Minute of an howre. But Pyndarus sayeth best of all, whiche calleth the lyfe of man the dreame of a shaddowe. He ioigneth twoo speciall thynges of nothyng together, to the en­tent that he would declare how [Page] vaine a thyng this lyfe is.

Now how wretched and mi­serable the same life is on euery behalfe, the auncient poetes se­med to perceiue it passyng well: the whiche deemed, that a man coude not more truely nor more better name mortall creatures, than surname theim veraie my­serable wretches. For the first age or formoste parte of mans lyfe (the whiche is reckened the best) is ignorant: The middell parte of the life is assailed with trouble and care of manyfolde businesses: and yet al this while I speake but of theim that bee moste luckie and fortunate.

Therfore who is he, whiche of veraie right will not approue the saiyng of Silenus: the best [Page] is neuer to be borne, the next is most swiftly to be clene extinct. ¶Who will not allow the or­dinaunce of the Thraciens, the which customably vse to receiue theim that bee borne in to this worlde, with lamentacion and mournyng: and againe whan they depart hence, they be very glad and demeane great ioye? And he that by hym selfe consi­dereth inwardly those thynges, that Hegesias was wont to de­clare to his hearers, he woulde rather desyre his owne death than abhorre it: and wolde far more indifferently take inworth the death of his freendes. But now your fatherly sorow com­meth forth and saieth: He died ere his daie, he died in his child­hode, [Page] he died so passyng a good childe, ye and so towardly dis­posed vnto vertue, that he was worthy to haue lyued many ye­res: your fatherly sorowe com­plaineth, that the course of na­ture is subuerted, seing that you his father an olde man, should ouer lyue your sonne a younge man. But I praie you for the loue of god tell me, what ye call before his daie: as though eue­ry daie of a mans life could not be his laste daie? One before he come into this worlde, and whan vnneth it hath any shape of a creature reasonable, is strangled and dieth, euen vnder the handes of nature, workyng and formyng of it. An other dy­eth in the byrth. An other criyng [Page] in the cradell is snatched awaie by death. An other in the flow­ryng youth dieth, whan scarse­ly as yet it hath any tast of the lyfe: Of so many thousandes of people, to how few is it ge­uen (as Horace nameth it) to steppe vpon the gryce of olde age? Without doubt god hath vnder suche a law constituted the soule in the garrison of this littell body, that what so euer moment he wyll commaunde it to depart thence, it must by and by nedes goe. Nor there is none that can of ryght thynke hym selfe to be called foorth before his daie, consideryng that there is no man that hath a daie cer­taine to hym appoyncted: but that onely is his lawfull daie, [Page] whiche so euer he our soueraine capitaine wolde shoulde be his last daie. If we will worke wisely, we should so abide eue­ry day, as it were our very last. I praie you, what maketh it matter, seyng the life is so short and fugitiue, whether we die be­times, or tary somwhat longer. For it skilleth no more than it dooeth, whan many be brought to execucion, whiche of theim shoulde bee fyrst heeded or han­ged: It is all one, whiche is the firste, the third, or the eyght.

And what other thing els is the lyfe it selfe, but a certaine per­petuall course vnto death? Sa­uing that their chaunce is more commodiouse, the whiche from so laborious an exercyse of the [Page] lyfe are dispatched betymes, But as it is a touch of a brain­les felow to depart awaie from the armie and breake the arraie, without the Capitaynes com­mandement: So it is a foolishe poincte and great ingratitude, whan leaue is quickly geuen of the capitain, not gladly to take it: And most specially, if he that hath nowe lycence to goe, maie departe his waie home with laude and praise, and to him no rebuke nor shame. Nor it is not conuenient, that one should sit and recken howe many yeares he hath lyued. The age should be estemed accordyng to the no­ble deedes: And he (as Homere saieth) is not reputed to haue lyued, that hath poystered the [Page] earth, and made a noumbre: but he the whiche sadde and so­brely passyng foorth his lyfe, leaueth behynde hym an honest remembrance to them that come after.

¶Doe ye complayne, that god sent you foorthewith suche a chylde, as ye woulde desyre to haue had many yeres to come? What, pardie your sonne died not so soone, he was now come to the age of twentie yeres: at the which age (after myne opi­nion) it is best for to die, for so muche as than lyfe is mooste sweete. Now was he to his countrey verie bountifull, now was he to his father verie low­ly and gentyll, now was he a­monge his felowes a verie me­ry [Page] compaignion, and nowe had he a good and a perfecte mynde to godward. He decessed igno­rant of vices, and whan he had not tasted but littell of the ca­lamitees and miseries of this worlde. But what he should haue knowen and haue felte if he had lyued longer, it is vncer­taine. No doubte we see veraie often tymes, that the latter age dooeth bothe infecte the cleane conuersacion of yong age with more greuous vyces, and spot­teth, and defileth the felicitee of youth with manifolde misera­ble grefes. From all these euyls and perils, death quickely with­drewe hym. Nowe maie you safe and surely reioyce and be gladde, that you haue had so [Page] good and so vertuous a sonne, ye or rather haue. But be it, as you doe suppose, that you had hym, and that now ye be depri­ued and haue loste hym. Whe­ther of veraie right oughte you rather to tourment and vexe your selfe for that ye haue for­gone hym: orels reioyce and be glad that ye had suche a sonne? Take you heede that it be not a poincte of vnkindnesse, that ye should remembre the request of the gefte to be restored againe, and nothyng to minde the geft. No doubte a chylde of a good disposicion is a great geft: but yet he is so geuen, that ye should take and haue pleasure with hym for a tyme, and not that he should be yours for euer. You [Page] that be a perfect wyse man, con­sider this by your selfe, yea let vs bothe together consider on this wyse.

¶If a great prince should lend vs a table of an excedyng great price, and of an excellent work­manshippe, to passe our tyme with: whether ought we, whan so euer pleaseth him to demand or call for it, with a glad chere, ye and moreouer gentilly than­kyng hym, to deliuer it agayne, orels with heuie and sorowfull countenance shall we complain to hym on this wyse? O cruell prince, of how precious a gefte haste thou spoyled vs? Howe great a pleasure hast thou be­raft and taken from vs? How soone hast thou taken from vs, [Page] contrary to our opinion this so excellent a thyng? Might not he of veraie right to our so vn­kynde complaintes answere on this wise? Haue I this reward for my gentyll and courteyse deede? Remembre ye nothyng, saue onely that, that ye haue forgone the moste fayre table? Haue ye forgot, that I of myne owne good wyll and freely lent it you? And that ye haue nowe so long while, of my gentilnesse and sufferaunce fedde your eies and delyted your mynde. It was of my liberalitee and free­dome that I lente it you: and now whan I require it againe, I doe but right: pardie ye haue had by me some aduauntage, ye lost nothyng, saue that through [Page] your folie, ye feigned that thyng to be your owne, that was but lent you. And so ye esteme it to be loste, that is restored to the owner againe. But the more precious and delectable that the thyng was that I lent and leat you haue at your pleasure, the more a great deale ye oughte to haue thanked me. Nor ye ought not to thincke it to bee to soone required again, the whiche with out any iniurie or wrong might haue been kept from you.

¶If this reason can not bee proued false by no meane of ar­gumentacion: then thinke how much more iustly Nature, with suche maner woordes, might re­proue bothe our lamentacion and sorowfull complainynges. [Page] And vndoubted by these maner of reasons our sorow ought to bee swaged, yea if it were so, that a man were vtterly extinct by death, and there remained no­thyng of vs after the buriall.

¶Now if we at the least geue credence to it, whereof Socra­tes in Plato, doubted nothyng at all, that is to witte: the ve­raie manne to be the soule, and this bodie to be nothyng els but the pype or littell howse of the soule: Or els to saie trouth, it maie be called the burial or pri­son of the sowle: and whan it escapeth out therof, than at the last it commeth to libertie to liue muche more welthily than it did before. Wherfore than should we sorowfully blame death, se­yng [Page] that he that dieth, dooeth not peryshe, but than he semeth rather to bee borne. And we oughte to reioyce in the soule (whiche we can not with our eies decerne) as much and none otherwyse, than we be wont to reioice and take pleasure in our frendes that bene absent. And I doubt whether is more dele­ctable and reioysyng to vs, whan they bene present, or els whan they bene absent: for so muche as the corporall liuyng together is wonte to minyster to vs matter of displeasure, and the muche beyng in company to gether dooeth somewhat abate the ioyfulnesse of frendship. If ye desyre an exaumple of this thyng, be not the apostles a suf­ficient [Page] argument, the whiche than began to take veraie frui­cion in Christe, and truely to loue him, after the corporal pre­sence was taken from theim? On the same wyse is the frend­shippe of them that be good, the whiche stedfastely perseuere in couplyng and knittyng toge­ther of the mindes, and not of the bodies. And there is no vio­lence, no space of tyme, nor no distāce of places, that can seuer or deuide the couplyng of myn­des. So that me thinke it a very childishe poinct, to thinke that a freende were cleane loste and gone, so soone as he were out of sight. You maie (as ofte as ye will) haue your son present, bothe in your thoughte and in [Page] your woordes: And he (on the other side) remembreth you, and perceiueth the tender affections of your mynde, ye and other whyle in your slepe both your soules embrace eche other, and talke together of some secrete thynges. What thyng letteth, that ye may not euen very now imagine to liue with him, with whom sone after ye ar in poinct to lyue? I praie you, how briefe and short is all the whole tyme that we lyue here?

¶Hitherto haue I vsed the re­medies, the whiche I might wel vse, if I had to doe with a pai­nyme. Now leat vs briefely consyder, what godlynesse and christen faieth ought to require of vs.

[Page]¶First and formoste, if it were so, that death were a thyng most miserable: yet it behoueth vs to take it in good woorth, seeyng that there is none other remedie. And more ouer, if death should clene extinguishe man, that no­thyng after shoulde remayne: yet we should therewith be con­tent, for as muche as it maketh an end of many calamitees and griefes, whiche we suffre in this lyfe. But seeyng that death de­liuereth the soule (beyng of ethe­riall beginnyng) out of the don­geon of the ponderous and hea­uy bodie: in a maner we ought to reioyce and be glad of theim that bee departed hence out of this wretched world: and that they be retourned home againe [Page] to that welthie libertee, from whence they came. Now than consideryng that death (with­out any doubt) conueieth the good deuoute soules out of the stormes of this troublous lyfe vnto the port or hauen of life perdurable, and that not so muche as a heare of a mans head shall perysshe (for the bodies also at length shall be called to enioye the same lyfe euerlastyng.) I praie you, whether ought we to mourne and weepe, or els to be glad and reioyce in hym, whom death in due tyme taketh out of this most troublous sea of the lyfe, and carieth hym into that quiete and sure restyng place of euerlastyng lyfe? Goe to now a lyttell while, and laie together [Page] the foule enormitees, the payn­full labours, and the perils and daungers of this lyfe, if it maie be called a lyfe. And on the o­ther syde, recken and cast what commoditees and pleasures, (of that other life) are alreadie pre­pared for the godly creatures that bee plucked hence awaie: And than ye shall soone per­ceiue, that no man can do more vnrighteously than he, the whi­che lamentablie bewaileth that high goodnesse, vnto the which onely we be both borne and or­deyned, euen as though it were a right great and greuoꝰ harm. Ye crie out, because ye bee left comfortlesse alone without chil­dren, whan ye haue begotte a sonne to inhabite heauen: the [Page] holy remembraunce of whom, as it were of a dyuine thyng, ye may reuerence, the whiche a­boue in heauen beyng carefull for you, maie greatly further the prosperous successe of your busynesse here. For he is no­ther ignorant of mortall folkes busines, nor hath not forgone with the body the lowly reue­rence and tender loue, which he was wont to beare to you his father. No doubte he lyueth, beleue me he liueth, and perad­uenture is present with vs, and heareth, and perceiueth this our communicacion, and laugheth and damneth this our lamenta­cion. And if the grossenes of our bodies letted not, perchance we shoulde heare him blamyng [Page] vs for our wepyng with those maner of wordes. What doe ye? wyll ye abridge your daies, and finishe your olde age with this vnprofitable, ye I maye well saie pinyshe lamentacion? Wherefore dooe you with so vniust complaintes accuse and blame destenie, Fortune and death? Haue you enuie at me because I am delyuered from the euylles of that lyfe, and am brought to this felicitee that I am in? But bee it, that your fatherly goodnesse and pure a­mitee dooeth not enuy me. Yet what other thyng meaneth this sorowfull complainyng?

Thinke you this woorthy to be lamented, that I am deduct and brought from thraldome to li­bertee, [Page] from peyne and care to pleasure and felicitee, frō dark­nesse vnto light, from perill and daunger vnto sure safetee, from death vnto lyfe, from sickenes­ses and diseases vnto immor­talitee, from so many euilles to so high goodnesse, from thyn­ges caduke and transitorie to the euerlastyng, from thynges earthly to celestiall, and finally from the corrupt and vncleane company of all people to the fe­lowship of aungels? Tell me, I praie you, for the great loue and kyndnesse that ye beare me, If it laie in your power to re­leue me againe, would ye releue me? Than what offence haue I doen, to deserue so great ha­tred of you? If ye would not [Page] relieue me again, than for what purpose seruen all these lamen­tacions, the whiche, as I haue saied, are not onely vnprofita­ble, but also vngodly? But ne were it so, that immortalitee had a while agone cleane depri­ued me of all sorow, I woulde lykewyse with weapyng teares bewayle your sorowfull mour­nyng, and sore haue rewed v­pon thilke grosse & darke clou­dinesse of your mynde. But ye say, that you on your part wepe and make lamentacion. For soth therin ye dooe not lyke lo­uers: but lyke vnto theim that haue a respect to theim selfe warde, and that wyll, to others discommoditee, see to their own busines. Now goe to, tell me, [Page] what losse is it, that ye susteyne by my death? Is it, because ye can not haue me in your sight? Pardie ye maie neuer the lesse, at your owne pleasure remem­bre me the meane time, ye and so much the more welthily, in how muche I am in sure safetee. For looke that ye esteeme me nowe delyuered from all the euylles, what so euer they bee that maie bechaunce a mortall man in his lyfe: yf whiche your longe and robustous life, for a great part, hath experience. And though that I bee not with you, with lowely obeysaunce to dooe you seruice, yet maie I be a sure and an effectuall aduocate for you before the high maiestee of god. And finally, how small a thyng [Page] is it, that deuideth our conuer­sacion and familiaritee? Now loke that you so endeuour your self, that whan ye haue wel and vertuously passed the course of your life, that ye may thā at the houre of death be founde wor­thy to be conueied hither.

If that your sonne, I say, shuld saie these wordes to vs: myght we not well be ashamed thus to lament and mourne as we doe? ¶With these maner of resons I am wont to ease the griefe of myne owne mind: of the whiche I wold that you shuld be parte taker, not all only that ye haue any great neede of those reme­dies: but I demed it agreable, that ye shuld be partaker of my consolacion, of whose sorow, I [Page] was partener. But briefely to conclude, all that hath been at length reasoned: by this maner mean, ye shal asswage the smar­tyng sorowe of your mynde.

¶My sonne is dead, ye begot a mortall creature. I haue loste a great iewell: ye haue yelded it again to hym that frely gaue it you. It is a right greuoꝰ thyng to be thus destitude: It shold be the lighter born, that maie be re­dressed by some meane. He hath left me his father alone comfort lesse. What doeth it auayle to weepe and wayle for that that can not bee remedied? Or why mourne you for that, the whiche chaunceth to so many thousan­des as well as to you? Alas I can not choose but wepe for the [Page] death of my son: ye but he that dieth well, doeth in no wyse pe­ryshe. But he died to soone: He that dieth well, dyeth not to soone. He died long before his daie was come: there is no man that hath a daie certein appoin­cted vnto him. He decessed in his flouryng youth: It is than best to die whan to lyue it is moste swete. He died a very yonge man: so is he withdrawen from the mo euyls & troubles of this life. I haue lost the best childe that any man coulde haue: Be glad that ye had suche one. He departed out of this worlde an innocent: No death should be more desired and lesse bewailed. Ye but it is not lefull for me the meane whyle to haue fruicion [...]