The first Book.

THE merit of Virtue is so great, and so glorious with Man, that if Man ow'd not Virtue to God, he would owe less to God than to Virtue. And what benefit would Life be, if Life were no­thing else but a bundle of evils? A good life, said the Moralist, is a greater benefit than life it self. The merit of Virtue (a Treasure [Page 2]we have happily gotten out of the Exchequer of Gods grace) is the thing that hath made Man admir'd many times above all earthly Creatures. And what wonder is it, that an Angel, whose object is so blessed, and whose nature so perfect, should alwayes live burning in the love of that Creator he beholds and enjoyes? A wonder it is, and a wonder for a Deity, that is seated on a Throne of Omnipotency, to see that a worm of the earth, op­press'd with the weight of his carnal desires, wrestling with the distraction of so many flattering objects, and oppos'd by Hells treacheries and power, should be every where invincible, and tri­umphing over all dangers, by a heat of love, mount above the sphear of all corporeal things on the wings of Charity; and flying into the bosome of his Maker, miraculously engraff, and trans­form [Page 3]himself wholly into his Crea­tor. If the reverence (due to the profound depths of heavenly wisdome) commanded not my silence, I should presume to say, that to so rebellious an Angel as Lucifer, a man so pious as he I speak of, should in reason have been Guardian. Perhaps his ex­ample might have kept him in his duty, who hath rear'd with a handfull of Clay, an Altar to his God, to the shame of a noble spirit, whose sacriledges lasted but a while, to make him more emi­nent in his sin, than his nature.

Of such men renowned for Virtue, the Stories of Christian Religion relate many. And be­cause to arrive at the perfection of so holy a state, Virtue is neces­sary, and cannot be better learned than by an Example, I have thought it fit to give the Reader a Pattern, which we by imitation may improve to our advantage.

In the life of Eustachius you will reade the Idea of Perfection. His Heart was Love's Forge; his Bosome a Shop of Martyr­dome. Whatever we believe of all the Unfortunate, we may pity in Eustachius alone. His life made him a Martyr, perhaps too a greater than his death; yea nothing but onely death hath contributed to his rest, among the intollerable and uncessant tor­ments of so painfull a life. Who­soever hath not read his life, knows not yet how God playes at Tennis. Job in the old Testa­ment would have been Envie's subject, if Eustachius had not been born. Eustachius hindred Job from being singular, and Job him from being the first. Who­soever gives not credit to Mira­cles, let him forbear reading this Story; in which it's a Miracle to me, my heart doth not break in running it over, much more in [Page 5]writing it. He that denses Tri­bulation in a good man is a gift of God, shall see by reading here, whether it were possible a man of ill life could suffer, without de­spair, the thousandth part of the disasters of this heart without heart. I call the heart of Eusta­chius a heart without heart, sup­posing Christ did there the office of a heart. And I cannot think it possible, that had not God as­sisted particularly, he could have opposed, much more overcome the power of Hell, so much at li­berty, and set on to ruine him, who being onely flesh, in the end would have shewed his weak­ness.

Of the Father of Eustachius, his Nativity, and Countrey, we have no light at all from Anti­quity; were it that the Writers employ'd about the miracles of his life, had no leisure to celebrate his birth; or were it, that God [Page 6](being alwayes mysterious) would not let him be known to descend from the Earth, whom he had predestin'd to be a great Ornament to his Heaven, and our Law. It's the fate of the famous Rivers, Euphrates and Tygris, to derive their springs from Para­dise.

He was born, and liv'd long in the errours of the Gentiles, and barbarous Infidels: but true it is also, that in the whole car­riage of his life, nothing could be ever observ'd to be barbarous, but his Paganism. He liv'd in Tra­jan's time, God would not per­mit him, or his Prince, to be born in an age of impiety. Trajan de­serv'd to be born in a time when the justice of his Faith must be purg'd, as that of his Govern­ment. But Almighty God, who was pleas'd to try his Church, to make it victorious, design'd that age for Princes, the hardness of [Page 7]whose hearts was to serve for a resemblance with the mines of a rising Faith.

He was called Placidus from his Cradle, perhaps with less ex­pression of his mildness than his happiness. Even his name assur'd him, he should be very accepta­ble to God.

Being born in a Countrey (if we may believe his valour, which perswades us to think he was a Roman) and in an age that re­duced all Virtues to Courage, he went to the Wars, to train up his Youth in the School of Mars. In a short space of time, his Va­lour was so cry'd up by all, that he (like another Leonides) was supposed to have a hairy heart in his breast. In dangers he was greater than dangers, and less onely than his own Gallantry, which was sway'd by his Pru­dence alone. The Souldiers had him alwayes for a object to imi­tate, [Page 8]the Commanders for a sub­ject to commend, and the Enemy for a Thunderbolt to fear.

If he fought, he overcame; and if he conquer'd, he fought not. He never shew'd more valour, than when he had occasion to pardon; and never more gene­rously pardon'd, than when the Enemy despair'd more of Pardon than Victory. He rejoyced in conquering, not in killing; and onely then kill'd, when Clemen­cy was Cruelty, or dangerous. He was not enamour'd of a great, but good report; neither mea­sur'd he his Victories by the space the Dead took up, but that the Suppliants fill'd. To affirm, he had a calm minde; it is enough to say, his minde would never yield to be conquer'd. He that is magnanimous, loves Victories, and not Slaughters. Whosoever spills blood with delight, may well boast of being a valorous [Page 9]Tiger, but cannot be a Soul­dier.

As he went not temerariously to the Wars, but was invited thi­ther by Glory; so his forward spi­rit never engag'd him in their er­rours; who running more impe­tuously than warily after Fame, fall into a thousand precipices. His good service, and prudence, gave him presently the character of a worthy Commander; which the Emperour hearing of, he was not long a Pretender to Employ­ment for the Armies, whose no­blest part he was. His singular Valour more advanc'd him in the end, to the highest Commands, than the favour of his Master. How he warr'd, the Jews can tell, to whom was more terrible the sweet name of Placidus, than were at other times the Chariots of Pharaoh.

As soon as the Wars were at an end, Placidus went to Rome, [Page 10]where by his milde nature, his unblemished deportment, but more by his great charity, in re­leiving all necessitous persons, he made himself so infinitely fa­mous, and was by all the Empire so belov'd, that he made the Po­liticians rule fail, enjoying at once the love of the People, and the favour of the Prince. I might speak something of his inclina­tions, but let this suffice. He was such a man, that albeit an Infi­del, he got the love of God. His house was a very safe refuge to all that were unfortunate. Who­soever was in misery, and came to him for succour, was certain of releif. Whosoever wanted counsel, found him his surest Oracle. His counsels were so wise, that his mouth seem'd to be a womb of wisdome. They were so candid and sincere, that Salomon would have call'd them, the sons of a tongue of [Page 11]choyce silver. They were so use­full, and so wholsome, that with the Holy Ghost we may say, The mouth of the just is a vein of life.

His good disposition was trans­parent through the sweetness of his carriage. Every man knew he was a man, but they who hold intelligence with Heaven, would have taken him for an Angel.

He carry'd himself with a gra­vity that was gracefull, and had nothing of the haughty; neither did his mildness ever lessen his respect, or his rigour his love. He had the majesty, not the pride of his equals. He was like Ni­lus, which onely of all Rivers is not subject to winde. He had the air of a Souldier, both in his de­meanour and countenance: but his sweet disposition and mildness assur'd, he had in his breast ere­cted a Temple to Peace. He re­sembled the propitiatory Cheru­bins, [Page 12]was Gold without, and of Olive wood within; as the Wand which Brutus presented in the Temple of Delphos to Apollo, a Rinde of the Cornel tree, a Soul of pure Gold. In fine, our Pla­cidus was so milde, and so just, that the Publick would have sent none but him to receive the Mo­ther of the Gods, if she again sailing on the Seas, had arriv'd on the Roman Coast.

At length he resolved to marry, perswaded not onely by the plea­sures enjoy'd in Peace, and pre­fermonts by War, but the ordi­dinary inclination of man, to have a Consort for his own con­tent, and the good of the Uni­verse.

And it succeeded well, he e­spousing Trajana, a Gentle­woman of rare chastity; and in her affection and deportment so conformable to her Husband, that her Habitation was a School of [Page 13]Musick, in which, from several voyces, an excellent harmony resulted. They lov'd one another, they mutually submitted, and had a reciprocal compassion, and e­steem for each other. The hus­band beheld with no eyes but his wives, and the wife look'd in no other glass but her husband. She conform'd her self so naturally to his will and disposition, that both in her minde and actions, as it were in a glass, every man saw the solid image of her husband. A prudent woman (sayes Plutarch) will frame her self by Geometri­cal discipline to her husbands af­fections and nature, as the lines and superficies move not alone, but alwayes with the body, so a virtuous woman should move, or be at quiet, will, or not will with her husband, making one single Will of two Understandings.

Of this happy Graff grew two Sprouts, which degenerated in [Page 14]nothing from the antient Stock. Their two little Sons, although young, fairly promis'd to imitate the virtues of Placidus and Tra­jana, living the followers, and dying the companions of their Parents.

In the mean time, Placidus, ordain'd for great things, was in­finitely weary of the idleness of Peace; and because no where better, and more to his genius, he could employ himself, than in War, he spent in hunting the greatest part of his time.

Hunting resembles a War; but resembles it so naturally, that 'tis no absurdity to say, War is a Hunting, and Hunting a War. Does't not happen frequently in a Battail, that the Enemy flyes? in Hunting, that a Beast makes resistance? Because they that run away in a time of War are not Beasts, shall not therefore War be a Hunting? Because all that [Page 15]in Hunting make resistance, are not Men, shall not therefore Hunting be a War? But be it what it will, our gallant Cavalier still employ'd, and diverted him­self in hunting, where his labour, his stratagems, and the combats he had, (though they never pro­duc'd glorious Victories) still exercis'd his body, many times his judgement, and sometimes his courage; and though sometimes they were dangerous to him, and sometimes painfull, yet alwayes they served to entertain and de­light him.

His Huntsman once telling him, he had found at feed a little way off, a great Herd of Stags, he joyfully, (and he could not but be joyfull, if our soul still re­taining some sparks of the Divi­nity, from which it proceeds, presages good luck) rang'd the Hunters into order, distributed the Dogs, had fresh Horses at hand, [Page 16]and sending to watch the leaps, so contriv'd his design, that the hunting might prove as success­full, as he hop'd 'twould be de­lightfull, in respect of the game.

O loving God, by how many, and what wayes, contriv'st thou the salvation of the senseless sin­ner? The Wood hath no retreat in all its dreadfull horrours, and secret lurking holes, where the soul may so lye hid, as God doth not seek it, to beseech it to re­ceive of him Graces, Mercies, Heaven, and Divinity.

In the morning, by break of the day, which was to shew the Sun of Mercies to a Hunter, Pla­cidus well furnish'd with Men and Horses, rode towards the fore mentioned Forrest; where no sooner they arriv'd, but dis­cover'd the Herd they sought. Eve­ry one there fingling out his game, began to pursue the flying Deer, to see who could bear away the [Page 17]Prize; which while they endea­vour'd, a Hart so great, and breath'd, fell to Placidus his share, that it led him amain into so uncouth and remote a place, that (his Horse now beginning to fail him) he was hopeless of the Prey he had promis'd so fairly to himself. Placidus losing the Deer, rode sadly away; but when he was under a cliff, and casually lifted up his head, he spy'd again the Stag, who (leaping ov'r the top of the rock, with his head spreading out with knotty beams, and at bay, being turned towards him, as if he staid there to devour him) stood proudly expecting him.

The Stag (as Saint Jerome and Saint Basil write) draws the Ser­pents by panting out of caves, & destroyes them. 'Twas the work of a Deity to send a Stag to purify his breast, which had been a cave to harbour the Serpent of Idola­try.

Placidus (greatly terrify'd at the stratagems of the fact, and not a little amaz'd) stood musing what to do; but it seeming ab­surd to give the weary Beast any time to take breath, leap'd hastily to the ground, making sure of his game, if he could gain the top of the cliff.

He had scarce begun to go on, but he heard a voyce thunder in his ear, which though weak and sad, carry'd with it, I know not what of horrour, which disorder'd all the blood in his breast, where his troubled spirits strayed out of the way, to meet in the heart.

Casting about his eyes to finde from whence the voyce came, he discover'd (O sight never to be de­sired enough) betwixt the horns of the Hart, a Christ crucify'd, who bath'd with tears, and full of brightness, beheld him with such tenderness, that perhaps he might have dy'd of delight, if [Page 19]the confusion of hearing himself guilty had not qualify'd it. Pla­cidus, ah dear Placidus, why per­secutest thou me? What have I done unto thee? So Christ, who descended from Heaven into the Woods, to make a Sinner a Sera­phin, renewed his instance, weep­ing more than ever, and full of love and zeal for his salvation.

O Lord, ay me, O Lord, no more lest I dye; no more, O sweetness, O sorrow, whatsoever it be, I feel the Hart that strikes me to the heart. Behold me pro­strate at thy feet, wholly peni­tent, and all thine. Dispose of me as thou pleasest. But who, who art thou Lord, that so gently reprehend'st me? So Placidus, who dazled with a heavenly ray of Christs brightness, had been comforted in a moment, illumi­nated, and enflam'd, languishing and lying on the ground, fell into an amorous extasy.

Who am I, dear Placidus? who am I? Does not the sweet­ness thou tastest witness it? Does not the excess of my charity teach thee? Does not the re­morse of thy conscience speak me to thee? Ah, who am I? I am Jesus Christ, who created thee, redeem'd thee, and will save thee, if thou obey me. I am that God, who descending from the Throne of my Glory, dear Placidus, for thy sake have vest­ed my Deity with flesh, it seem­ing too little for my love to con­tribute no more to thy salvation than that pure act of my will, which alone was sufficient to save thee. I desire thou should'st see, that for thy sake I us'd all occasions to suffer my self wil­lingly to be trampled on, and torn in pieces.

Ask but these veins, these ar­teries, these bowels, and they'll tell thee, whether I have in them [Page 21]all one single drop of moysture to keep me alive; what I could not spill, I have vented by sweat; what I could not sweat, I have caus'd to be drawn out by lances from my heart. And thou Pla­cidus, what dost thou for me? what dost thou for thy self?

So answered the Father of Mercies, when Placidus began to cry out, No more, my God, no more Graces, this plenty is too great, a breast of flesh cannot hold a whole Paradise. Ah me, wilt thou bury Beatitude in a vase of Perdition, my dear and sweet God, now indeed that I know thee? But how canst thou endure, and much more love, so wicked a Creature? Why dost not unnail those hands, and pierce this breast, which is not a­shamed to harbour so ingrate­full, wicked, and rebellious a soul?

Then weeping abundantly, [Page 22]like a devout Penitent, he con­sumed himself in the fire of Cha­rity, God Almighty giving him an essay of the unspeakable and incomprehensible sweetness of e­ternal felicity.

Rise Placidus, go hence to the City, and there with thy Wife and children, have recourse to my Priest, and be baptized: then coming back hither, thou shalt here enjoy my presence; where unveiling to thee the deep my­steries of my faith, and telling thee some particulars of thy fu­ture condition, I will again dis­miss thee with comfort and for­titude.

So speaking, vanish'd our most mercifull Father, who, rather upon a Cross, than the shoulders of Seraphins, would appear unto him, to let the World know, that when the salvation of a Sinner is in question, if the Jews will not crucifie him, he will again crucify himself.

Here the new Christian much amaz'd, yet full of confidence and love, was about to complain of God, that he had so soon taken from his sight so sweet an object. But he was reprehended by that light, which had more illumina­ted his minde, than beatified his eyes. Ah no (said he, having re­collected himself) I will not take it ill, no my God. If I had still enjoy'd thy sweet presence, I should have lost that happy time which I owe to the obedience of thy Commandments. My God; thy most holy will be done, I go hence, my dear God. Be pleas'd to give me strength and constancy to serve thee, in order to the will and zeal thou hast given me to desire it.

Speaking thus, and burning with zeal for the service of God, he was even ready to creep on his hands and feet to Rome, in the posture he then found himself. [Page 24]Every thing tends to its center in the most direct line. Placidus had already left all his under­standing in the track of his will, and would out-run himself, to shew his prompt obedience to his God.

This zeal made him think of his Horse, whose natural swift­ness might carry him with more speed to his Baptism. Then leap­ing into the saddle, and spurring him on, he posted towards Rome. His earnest desire of getting thi­ther, made him impatient of de­lay. The memory of the plea­sures he had newly enjoyed, transported him, and his wishes, to get out of the dangerous state of Paganism, were a torment to him. O how many times, re­collecting himself, did he say, Let's moderate this pleasure, my soul, let's look to our selves, lest the Horse by going out of the way with his errours, prolong [Page 25]ours. O let's go hence, let's make hast away, God will direct us. O dear, O sweet, and loving God, and when deserv'd I ever these favours? and how at any time was I worthy of them, who al­wayes, and in all things, and in every place, have been voyd of all justice, and full of all iniqui­ty? Ah dear Wife, what wilt thou say, when I shall inform thee of the favours God does us? what wilt thou say? will thy bosome contain them? canst thou resist this sweetness, and not re­ceive comfort, and be fortified by the rayes, which out of compassi­on, most loving and most merci­full God, and God too late known, I have beheld and ta­sted.

With these, or the like medi­tations, the Christian Actaeon (having seen in the Woods the D [...]ana of Christs Humanity, Si­ster to the Sun of Divinity) rode [Page 26]along, sometimes feeling his heart torn by the barking and biting remembrance of his former of­fences; and at other times, find­ing himself a new man, flew with his soul to the feet of Christ, as the Hart to the fountains of wa­ters, with as much thirst as con­fidence.

Being come at last to the City, lighting off his Horse, and going up to his Wife (who flying, came to meet him with her extended arms) he began. What wilt thou say, my dear Wife, when thou shalt understand the news I bring? When Trajana, weeping through abundance of affection, reply'd; I have great things to tell thee, O Husband come too late, and too long expected.

Having received one another with mutual embraces, and the kindness us'd by persons, who loved each other according to their merit, and reciprocal obli­gation, [Page 27] Placidus (having some­thing in his eyes which look'd like amazement, and resembled a trance) rid himself of his ser­vants officiousness, who employ'd about the service of his person, depriv'd him of his liberty; and departing with his dear Trajana, to impart unto her the wonders he had seen, gave his Wife op­portunity to prevent him in this manner.

And where hast thou been so great a while, my dear Placidus? What toylsome occasion returns thee to me so disorder'd and trou­bled? What sad thoughts have sunk thy eyes? At the time I ex­pected to enjoy with thee those eternal felicities, which even the last night were promis'd me by a Crucified Man, who was cloathed with the Sun. Why dost thou meet me so sad, and so pensive?

Placidus, at the name of Cru­cify'd, (a voyce more pleasing, [Page 28]because little expected) was all on fire; and lifting up his hands to Heaven, with floods of tears falling from his eyes, brake out in this manner.

Ah good God! what! every where graces? every where gra­ces? Go on chearfully, dear Wife, for we have a bountifull God, who is all hands, a God whose torn bosome is replenished with graces, a God all honey to comfort us, and all fire to warm us. Thou hast seen our God, dear Wife, thou hast seen our salvati­on. I was not in trouble, but an extasy of pleasure. The heat that breaks out at mine eyes, my breast was not able to contain. Glory be to God, my dear Wife, that God will be with us; praised be God, my dear Wife, that the God of all truth seeks us for himself. Then as well as his tears would permit him, Placidus informed his Wife of the wonders he had [Page 29]seen in the Wood; in the rela­tion of which, how often these souls were transported, with how many extasies, and how often with a melting affection they now comforted, now commisera­ted one another, good Lord de­clare you, who occasion'd it; I, for my part, can easier desire than describe these delights. I know Trajana (call'd by the Holy Ghost, whom we never more worthily answer, than when we quickly answer) hastned her Pla­cidus, Up quickly, let's away, let's readily consent to so many graces; let the jealousy of losing them be our rule how to love them.

O expressions, that deserve to be sung on the Harp of a Sera­phin, in the hearing of a Deity.

All the Curtains of night be­ing drawn, as if it meant like­wise to contribute to the salvation of this fortunate Couple, securing [Page 30]them under its Mantle, from the injuries, or at least the impedi­ments might rise against their good, but then sharply condemn­ed resolution, taking with them their two little Sons, and two Servants, whom they long had found faithfull and affectionate, they went to the sacred Font, to be baptized.

A good religious man, called John, was chief in Rome over the Sacramental Treasury of the growing Church. He (hearing and admiring the desire, but much more the vocation of the new Believers, and giving God the praises, which a Pastor should do, who saw his Flock every day en­crease) sought, I'le not say to con­firm them, for he knew by their zeal, the Holy Ghost assisted them, but to shew them with what love and pleasure he resent­ed the favours God their Bene­factor had so gratiously conferr'd [Page 31]upon them. The humility with which they approached to the sa­cred Font, together with the tears they let fall, in witness of the comfort they receiv'd, and the love they expressed in their gra­titude to God, were such as might become two Souls, that had spo­ken face to face with a living and loving Deity.

To him that understands these Love-extasies, the Writer is not usefull; and to him that is not capable of them, he is too super­fluous. Yet I'le not omit to re­member, that God showr'd abun­dantly his graces on them, and the treasures overflowing their souls, were sufficient to enrich, and beatifie the best of men.

The good Priest melting in de­votion, was toucht with a gene­rous and spiritual emulation; per­haps desiring more to be their Companion, than rejoycing in the title of Father. They thank'd [Page 32]him for his charity, and he re­commended himself to their de­votion. They besought him, (knowing the ill life they had lead) to pray to God for them, that he would be pleas'd to make them new Creatures; and he in­treated them to sue for his par­don, since having been so antient a Servant in Gods House, he could learn of Children (yet Babes in the state of grace) devotion and wisdome. He lamented his own coldness, and they much rejoyc'd they were come into Gods House, where every thing was fervour. In fine, they here contested a­bout charity, humility, and reve­rence. His was the Victory that lost, and God at the same time was the Cause of it, the Specta­tor, Judge, and Recompence.

Eustachius and Theopista, (who had left in the sacred Font of Baptism the names, as well as the belief of Placidus and Tra­jana) [Page 33]at last took leave of the Priest. They parting thence, and returning homeward full of unspeakable consolation, went kissing their Chiildren; as if they had but newly brought them into the World. O bowels of our bowels (said they) how much are we indebted to God, who even at this time hath bestow'd you on us? Ah! wretches that we are, how long have we kept you, hanging by the small thread of so brittle a life, o're the infernal pre­cipice of a gulph of mortal eter­nity! Ah! blind that we are, who loved you so little! How happy are ye, who being yet innocent, and regenerated by your God, may no sooner use your reason, but begin to do good! Would we had been-so fortunate, who obdurate so often, and so long, have not onely liv'd in sin, but frequently to sin; Courage, dear VVife, said the Husband; Cou­rage [Page 34]dear Husband, said the Wife, since God in his infinite mercy hath pardon'd us; let's think now at last, how to make our selves worthy of the pardon we have had, and operate in that manner, our God repent not he hath pardon'd us. So speaking to themselves, by the virtue of the charity of God, which pos­sessing a breast, turns it all into heart, they resolved not to yield even to the Seraphins them­selves, in loving so bountifull a God. But what said I of Sera­phins? Not to yield to God him­self, in loving God.

He will love (said they) more than we; for being all know­ledge, and all goodness, he can have correspondence with him­self, and condignly love himself: but he shall not surpass us in love, in what we are able, be­cause we will love him with our will; we'll onely desire him, [Page 35]onely covet him, and onely seek him. We'll do so dear Wife, we'll do so dear Husband; and let us declare our resolution to God, that he may be pleas'd to further our desire.

With these, or the like passi­ons, they came home, where Eu­stachius (repairing the forces of his body with meat, and recover­ing himself of the weariness cau­sed by his pains in the VVood, and the restless agitation of his minde, after he had order'd a new hunting the day following) fell asleep: how he rested, you may guess, if you know how one rests who lyes down full of serious thoughts. His sleeping was a watching, he contemplated, slept not, since the meat in his stomack could not send up fumes to cloud and darken his minde, in which the eternal Sun of the Cherubins did shine.

O how happy are they that [Page 36]are capable of this happiness? A good man is a Tabernacle of the grace, and a Theater of the glo­ry of God. Every thing he doth, hath contentment joyn'd to it. He neither eats, drinks, nor sleeps, but with this consolation, that God seasons everything to him. What wonder is it then, that loathing these things of the world, he sometimes leads a life, which fools call Madness? These, these are the souls God loves to converse with: with these, as with some rare work of his hands, he is so well pleas'd, that he hath at other times declar'd by word of mouth, to love them as his de­light, as his Children, and things made according to the rule and contentment of his heart. And is not man mad, if (while he lives here upon Earth, and may con­verse with God) he neglect it? O fools if we know it not, and de­sperate men if we know it!

Eustachius rose early in the morning; Mad man! what said I? at midnight; and before his hea­vy eyes had satisfied the necessity of nature, the enamour'd Eusta­chius left sleeping, and suddenly leaping out of his bed, God grant, said he, with a heart full of sor­row, that I have not slept too long. He goes sollicitous to the window, to spy out the morning, but finds, that the night hath not run yet half its course. Be­ing satisfied that he had not slept too long, he was still im­patient, as unable to sustain an expectation, which was very painfull, by the violence of so earnest and amorous a desire. He supposed Aurora had wrong'd him, in suspending so long the coming of that Sun which was to conduct him to the feet of the Sun of Justice. He thought to have re­turned to his bed, to have slept out the remainder of the night, but his [Page 38]zeal perswaded him it was sacr­ledge to referr to the arbitrement of sleep, a Vision that deserv'd to be long'd for with impatience by the Angels themselves. He would have been glad that sleep had overcome him, to rest with­out offence, and pass away the time, which he knew not how to know without passion. He would have been waking, though it had been with pain, if he could have onely thought on what he should do when his God should appear: but the more he thought on it, the more he perceived his desire and longing to be there, was aug­mented in his heart.

In these sweet afflictions, Eu­stachius enjoyed the time he de­sired to spend; and while he ex­pected this long'd for Vision, he prepared himself so, as not to be made expect any longer, the other he desir'd and sigh'd for in a high­er degree.

At break of day, having di­stributed in fit places his Dogs and Huntsmen, (arm'd with the breastplate of faith) he rode solli­citous towards the VVood; there to arrive, and separate himself from the company, as a Fugi­tive, was the thing he intended. The center of his heart, and ca­reer, was the Paradise of the For­rest, where he thought to finde his Christ. The horrour accompa­nying solitude, increased amaze­ment and terrour in his heart, while he stay'd for that Divinity, whose coming every moment he attended. Each whistling of the air, and noyse of the leaves, he reverently supposed were the An­gels, singing praises to that Dei­ty, whose sacred presence repre­sented the VVood, as a Sanctua­ry to him.

Being come to the cliff, where at first he saw his Christ; and lighting off his Horse, with a [Page 40]breast full of reverence, he pro­strated himself to adore that Di­vinity, whose Vision he atten­ded, with no less fear than con­fidence. A Light, like that of Paradise, brake out of the bo­some of a little cloud, and Eusta­chius was again made partaker of the presence of Christ, who spake in this manner.

Eustachius, thou hast begun well, persevere; for if thou hol­dest on to the end, thou wilt ad­vance my service, and save thy own soul. The favours I have done thee, will be envy'd by Sa­tan, whose temptations, if thou shalt resist valiantly, thou shalt overcome gloriously. I my self, for thy good, will permit him to assault thee; resist, and be victo­rious. I will be sure to help thee, do not waver in thy faith. Thy honours, thy children, thy wife, and thy riches, I have given thee; and 'tis necessary thou make it [Page 41]appear of whom thou dost ac­knowledge them, and with what affection; Thy faith and thy con­stancy must assure me of thy love. I have resolved to try, how much of thy heart thou art willing to give me in thy love, who have, to save thee, spilt my blood and life.

What may we, O Christians, believe he reply'd, whose perfecti­ons we may measure by the love of God to him. I speak not of the love by which God comply'd with his perfections, I mean the love by which he made him perfect. I imagine he answered thus: And why should'st thou give me so a­bundant a knowledge of thy good­ness, most amiable God, but to love thee, and in order to the tribulati­on I must suffer? And what sort of tribulation (able to balance the infinite love I ow thee, and thou dost deserve) can a body of durt, more brittle than glass, be able to support? If thou wilt bestow [Page 42]a love upon me, proportionable to my sufferings, employ, I be­seech thee, all thy power, in in­venting and devising an afflicti­on, as great as the love I bear thee, as the love I beg of thee. But this is not enough, O love of my love, this is not enough, 'tis necessary thou give me a na­ture, which encountring all these evils, will not cry before 'tis hurt. Thou call'st me to affliction, and I run to affliction. And what can I ever endure, that may ex­piate such a multitude of sins, much less return so many favours? And what tribulation can at any time be displeasing to me, if so sweet and so beloved a God, a God of consolation and comfort, will assist me? If I have with me, or rather within me, the vigour, health, and life of all things, what evill will be able to hurt me? what grief make me grieve? If I must do thee service [Page 43]with affliction, I would be affli­cted when I am not in thy ser­vice; for I cannot e're imagine, how that he that serves thee, can suffer affliction. And how wilt thou value the afflictions, which e're they torment, thou asswa­gest? Grant, O my God, grant I conjure thee, by the merits of that infinite love with which thou lov'st thy self, grant I may love thee as well as I desire, and grant I may desire it as much as thou deserv'st it, and then come Hell, and let Men arm themselves together with the Angels, and joyn with thee in putting me to torment, I shall not at all value them. I love a God, too sweet, too dear, and too loving. VVhen he should cast Thunderbolts at me, he comes with his nail'd hands to comfort me. VVhen he will have me suffer, he comes to tell me of it, to animate and en­courage me. And for such a God [Page 44]can I suffer? I may, but I do more desire, than believe it. I believe it, because he tells me so; but I doubt he will not tell it me, to make me please him by consenting to it; and I would by suffering do something that might please so bountifull a God.

With these, or affections of this kinde, he overflow'd, who in the eyes of Christ learnt the most pro­found Divinity that is practis'd in Loves School.

The more scorching and en­flam'd the Earth returns the Sun­beams to the Sun, the more vigo­rously the Sun both waters and makes fruitfull the Earth. God is as the Sun to our soul, the more fervently we return him our love, the more vigorous he is in the heat of his love to Mankinde. They seem to scorch, yet make the soul fruitfull; which the more it is en­flam'd, the more it prevaileth with God, for the oil of his heavenly grace.

So affectionately answer'd Eu­stachius; but Christ more affe­ctionately reply'd: These replyes I should prosecute, but how to comprehend and express them, though I wanted not the force of understanding, I shold want with­out doubt the perfection of virtue.

Gods conceptions onely charity understands, and not reason. To describe them, serves only to desire them, and not to make us fit to comprehend them. God only makes us capable of them; and he that understands them, understands thē by grace & not by speculation.

What Christ did communicate to Eustachius, sure was most true, and I wish we were worthy to par­take of the tendernes of the love he expressed to him. He shew'd him how well he was pleas'd with the zeal of his good will, & instructed him in the most hidden msteries of his faith. He encourag'd & fortify'd him against the fierce temptations [Page 46]of the Devil, and after very many revelations, (which would have been favours in Paradise it self) he promis'd to hasten his Martyr­dome and Crown.

VVhen the Vision was ended, (in the period of which, the faster Christ vanish'd out of sight, the more he ador'd him in his heart) Eustachius, full of inward conso­lation, (having kissed the stones, saluted the trees, and reverenc'd the place, which had been the Altar, the VVitness, and Temple of his happiness) rode again to­wards the City.

Being come to his VVife, who expected him with the anxious solicitude, which is not without hope, while he imparted to her the contents of the past revelati­on, the Holy Ghost communica­ted to her its consolations and sweetness; as if he should say, 'Tis justice thou should'st share in the delights of the Vision, as [Page 47]thou art to share in the torments and afflictions mention'd in it.

The sharp temptations threat­ned, rais'd no fear in this VVo­man, who onely was effeminate in the duties of a Mother.

Ah, God fights not to con­quer; and what glory can a Dei­ty have in the ruine of a VVorm? The stronger his assaults be, the willinger he loses, and with grea­ter glory. Gods trials are accom­panied with his Graces, and his Crucible makes the Gold, tryes it not. Let's comfort our selves, dear Husband, let's comfort our selves; he will lose if we lose; and what can we lose, who have quitted the propriety of our selves? And what will God try in us, if we be strong? That cannot by na­ture be strong, which is naturally weak. If he will have us strong, we shall not be weak; we shall be strong enough, if we be his, yes, yes, his, let's wholly be his; [Page 48]and we shall be so alwayes, and better Voluntiers, because we de­sire it, than because we are so na­turally; and neither the force of opposition, nor the rage of tem­ptation, or the terrour or pain of death, shall ever have the power to make us not his. And now be­ing his in this manner, shall we not be defended by so gratious a God, who when we were his e­nemies, and rebels, protected us?

So said Theopista, in whom the grace of God spake more than her tongue; for 'twas that which inform'd her how such things were to be known and deser­ved.

But having prescribed new laws to their affections, and re­gulated their senses, they study'd that virtue which accustomes men to goodness.

Eustachius thought himself ob­lig'd to reform, in the first place, [Page 49]his House, as he had done his Soul, and in a short time re­duc'd it to that state of perfecti­on, that knowing what was needless, he quickly began to en­joy the tranquillity, which men by living out of necessity, aim at. Humility chas'd out of his House the pride of such Furniture, as makes the Master of it the most inconsiderable thing there. His Table did nourish, not nauseate; for he fed not to stir up an appe­tite, but to satiate hunger. His Cloaths did cover, not adorn him; for the habit is too gaudy, which deserves more respect than the man. His Walls were not beau­tified with Mercury's Thefts, the Adulteries of Jupiter, and the In­famies of Venus. And how can the Soul be held good, whose Bo­dy's not thought happy, if even the Walls themselves, which se­cure its repose, be not wicked? [Page 50]If even the bowls he drinks in, afford not more lasciviousness to gaze on, than wine to please his palate? He was waited on, not idolized, by his Slaves; and his Cup-bearer, by his serving him on the knee, feign'd not to believe he was a Jupiter. Whosoever nam'd him, did not swear with a preface of radiant titles, he sup­pos'd him transform'd into a Star. He receiv'd not into his House that kinde of mad men, called Dancers, (People, all whose learning's in their feet, all whose measure's in their errours) for there was no Feast, but that of a good Conscience; neither Or­pheus, Amphion, or Circe, had any thing to do there; their har­mony was the sighs, with which, from the remembrance of their former transgressions, they pass'd to the hopes of a future felicity. There was no discord, they two [Page 51]agreeing to sing perpetually the mercies of so gratious, and so bountifull a God. No revellings were heard there, nor tumults caus'd by Playes. Nor us'd they there Dice, which while with golden promises they seem to flatter men, do cheat them of their lively hood, and dishonour their death.

In his House they look'd after the manuring of the Soul, not the Garden, where Charity flou­rished, Piety, and Devotion, and not the Anemone of Thessaly, the Musk-flower of Greece, and Granadiglia of Mexico. Good God, how is't possible the intem­perance of man should be so great, as (to please his sense of smelling) to bring fading flowers from the famousest and remotest Eastern Provinces?

And who would e're believe it, that the luxury of a prince (why [Page 52]speak I of a Prince, of a Citizen, and often too necessitous) had caus'd a frail Flower to be brought at his infinite charge o're the Oce­an, through Desarts, and o're Mountains, into a new World, and onely for perfuming the Air for an unfortunate man, who in a whole Hemisphear can finde no smell to please him? He that will venture all his fortune in a Flower-pot of earth, deserves to be ruin'd by each blast of winde.

Now the example of Eusta­chius and his Wife, had corrected in that manner, and reform'd all the rest of the Family, that even out of reverence they forbore to do ill.

His Slaves were rather Scho­lars than Servants, who lov'd their Master out of wonder, not onely out of gratitude, and were us'd like Children, not Enemies. Authority without contempt, Ri­ches [Page 53]without avarice, Honour without ambition, and Splendour without luxury, remain'd within his Walls. In fine, his House was become a Pantheon, where Mo­desty, Temperance, Charity, and each other Heavenly Virtue, were held in great reverence. If a Christian had desir'd to behold the two Tables of stone, where God with his own finger had written and engraven the Precepts of his Law, he could no where finde them better, than in the hearts of Eustachius and Theopista. Each of them was mark'd, as the Plate of Gold on the Miter of Aaron, with Holiness to the Lord. They were in that degree of perfection, that I cannot describe it; the Touch-stone will tell it: but God must touch them, to tell us their worth. And what will that be?

The Loving Husband, and Prudent Wife, &c.
The second Book.

WE have seen already how this valiant Champion was reform'd by the Sovereign Com­mander of the Christian Militia: I must now relate the actions he couragiously perform'd with his Pike in his hand, on the dan­gerousest Frontiers of the Ene­my.

He lost in the first charge, all the lives of his slaves, occasion'd [Page 56]by a violent and contagious di­sease, for which there was no re­medy. All attempts for their health were in vain; and while some endeavour'd to prevent their destruction, and others search'd after the cause of the malady, they were by its effects destroy'd and consum'd themselves: the spectacle of which was so horrid and mise­rable, that the death of the Phy­sician was often lamented by the languishing Patient.

Solitude inherited his House, which his Friends, afraid of death, retreated from, to avoyd the infe­ction, whose Violence made Phy­sick of no use, while it gave them no time to consult what to do.

What sorrow this loss might oc­casion to Eustachius, and how vast a sufferer he was, he can best tell, that knows how great a part of the greatnes and riches of the Ro­manes, the Slaves were.

They sow'd, plow'd, and reap'd. The Yeoman of the Celler, the Barber, Tayler, Groom of the Stable, and often too the Sum­pter-man, were all Slaves. They waited in the Chamber and Hall, and were Sewers and Cup-bear­ers. A Citizen had of them on the rental of his revenue, to the num­ber of a thousand; and Seneca com­plained, that that Age had built Houses like Cities for greatness, and had Families equal to Nati­ons in number.

Flesh and Blood so gall'd in its interest, made Eustachius sensible, that he could not without infinite grief bear so notable a loss.

Of what use will the Ground be without a Tiller? Cattle with­out a Cow-herd? Houses without a House-keeper? and Lords without Servants? In one onely day, with a single and a momentary disaster, as it were, lyes so languishing, [Page 58]and discomfited, all the fortune of his House? And whither shall he run to repair it? Perhaps to Christ, who no sooner was known and adored, but blasted and con­sumed all his Goods. Could he have fared worse, if he had re­fused to adore him? Is this the encouraging of his Servants? This a way to comfort and con­firm them? Ah poor Eustachius, what wilt thou do? What hopes hast thou left in the progress of thy faith, the first entrance into which hath lost thee all thou hadst? To abandon a Jupiter, who made thee glister every where like the Sun, to follow a Christ, who can onely give thee nakedness? Thou never would'st credit this truth, till thou hadst felt the smart of thy errour. Thou too easily hast believed this God, and what God is this that will never suffer thee to be happy, but [Page 59]when thou art his Enemy; nor makes thee unfortunate, but when thou art his Friend? Ah Wretch! return to thy self, re­turn.

So Satan suggested to Eusta­chius, in whom the piercing sense of his sudden calamity could not choose but raise a storm of affli­ction. Fools are insensible of disasters, but wise men bear them valiantly. Nature will have us to resent them, but Reason to ma­nage them. Virtue may restrain our resentment of unhappiness, but cannot so subdue it, but it na­turally will rebel. Valour would decay, if it were not kept in acti­on. We are born to fight thus, and remunerated for so doing. God after the Creation would have plac'd us at first among the Angels, if he had not been wil­ling we should fight for the Vi­ctory our activity aspires to. We [Page 60]might have enjoy'd without op­position the glory of delight, but not of repose and reward.

Eustachius (toss'd up and down, not dejected) acknowledging eve­ry thing from Gods hand, did comfort himself. 'Tis a favour (he said patiently) that the scourge we deserve for so many transgressions, vents its fury on the shoulders of our fortune. Let's think on what remains, since that which is past is irrevocable. Let's be thankfull to God for what he hath left us, and thank him for what he hath ta­ken away. Was he not mercifull to us, in suffering us to enjoy so much time? Who knows, if his depriving us of our Goods, hath not been a greater favour than his giving them to us? How many have lost their lives, by being Masters of so many desperate fel­lows? The name of God be praised, we have still so much [Page 61]left us, that living with much less, we shall live with much more than is necessary. Can we part with less than the lives of a few Slaves, to have an occasion of conforming our selves to Gods will?

While he was thus reasoning with himself, behold a panting Messenger arriv'd, whose wan and sad face usher'd in his dismal news.

It grieves me, my Lord, said he, to relate what will doubtless afflict you. But the loss is as great, as the tidings inevita­table. All your Flocks of Sheep, your Oxen, and Horses, are de­stroy'd by a sudden contagion, and have left us as poor, as con­founded and amaz'd.

When God permits the Devil to command, his Scepter is of fire. He so fears his authority of destroying should be clipt, that [Page 62]he undermines, esteeming the time lost he employes in demo­lishing and battering.

To be poor on the sudden, is a great thing with patience to sup­port, especially for him who is not obliged to Fortune, but ows all he hath to his own virtuous [...]bours.

Nothing in this World we love [...]ore than the fruits of our own labours. We love them, because they are commodious; we love them, because we got them hard­ly; and we love them, because they are our Children: but yet for all this, their loss would be supportable, if we lov'd them not as testimonies and assurances of our virtue.

For this last blow, which ruin'd entirely all the substance, not onely the greatness of Eu­stachius his House, what may we imagine he said, whose onely hope [Page 63]was, the sale of his Cattle, or their profits at least, would have repair'd the loss he had suffered by the death of his Slaves.

He said, Praised, blessed, and thanked be God, who hath eas'd me of the weight of so painfull a care. Whom should I have trusted with the government of this Flock, which onely was left me, after my Serva [...]ts death, to disquiet and tro [...] me? Dear Wife, our God takes from us all impediments, that we being freer, and disengag'd from all affairs, may attend his service, and be thankfull to him. Be he alwayes glorified, and I beseech all the Angels, together with all Crea­tures, to thank him for me, since I cannot perform it of my self. God alone be my patrimony, my treasure, and substance; by virtue of him, my losses will not hurt me, my gains not distract me, not [Page 64]my miseries afflict me. If my God be but with me, what thing can I want?

But what should these poor per­sons do, I should say Lords, if the Pestilence had not kill'd too this title? By selling the best furni­ture of their House, and their Lands, which for want of looking too, were wholly out of order, they both patiently supported, and consum'd too their poor Fa­mily. Their Friends quickly left them, since 'tis a usual fault in the world, to fly away from thence, whence Prosperity is departed.

Many blame Fortune for this, and say, she's so cruel, she would think she had left him too much; whose poverty she hath decreed, if she had not too, depriv'd him of Friends. But wise men do know, this fault is our own, and not the Stars. Man is afraid to touch him whose condition is [Page 65]infected, and cannot give us any thing but contagion; or pretend, but to our Goods.

The not being a good Friend to ones Friend, makes us not count a Friend among our proper Goods; else 'twould be impossible we should think it a misfortune to part with any thing of our own, for his sake, whom we valued as one of the pretiousest Jewels we have. His Followers deserted him, because he wanted means to maintain them; and he that can­not live of himself, stands in need of another. He was not cry'd up, because he was not rich. Accla­mations and splendour go toge­ther; and he that is wealthy, may be prudent, wise, and vali­ant. Every man did pity him, but no man assisted him. All knew he was innocently unfortunate, but woe to him whose Innocence must onely relieve him.

He that could not help him, desir'd it affectionately; and he that could do it, avoyded meeting with him, for fear of being mo­ved to pity. Men fly from the mi­serable, as from the infected with the Plague. And though we all know, what we do is the thing we would not have done to our selves, yet interest so swayes us, we had rather deserve cruelty by our avarice, than purchase mercy by compassion.

Having spent what they had sold, these Noble Persons began to be sensible of the outrages of shame, which alwayes accompa­nies and torments us in adver­sity. He that is unfortunate, thinks every one derides him, objecting his necessities as a pu­nishment for his offences, or ac­cusing him of folly in the ma­nagement of his fortune.

Their Noble Birth likewise re­proach'd [Page 67]them with their present low condition. They griev'd to be a disgrace unto those who had left them so well; and though their new Religion had extin­guish'd all ambition in them, yet they thought it unhandsome to do any thing misbeseeming No­bility, (a gift of Heaven) that swerves not from its principles, of which, the obligation to uphold it with honour and state, is not the least. In fine, their last re­fuge was a firm resolution to re­treat far from Rome, where to be seen living in that manner, was the greatest affliction their po­verty made them suffer. They thought, that going where un­known they could have what was necessary, would be a relinquish­ing the qualities at Rome, which made even things of superfluity but necessary.

If to live in the luster of a [Page 68]Prince, were as easy a thing as to live like an ordinary man, For­tune would not have many Al­tars. Solitude and Poverty they suppos'd would make them most happy.

O God, with what tranquillity shall we enjoy our selves in a sa­cred peace, exempt from the noyse and tumults of Followers, who, by reason of their many necessi­ties, are continually troublesome and importunate? O God, with what freedome may we (being at liberty) dive into the contempla­tion and service of that beloy'd Deity, who seasons so sweetly to us our calamities? And when in the greatness of the world, and honours of the times, were we sensible of the contentment of heart we have now, among so many miseries, which should grieve and afflict us? Now I plainly see (said Eustachius) what [Page 69]terrestrial riches are; they are burthens and impediments, which load, vex, and weary us. And when shall we be in a place, where the opinion of the world will not force us to do homage to unconstant Fortune?

Will the Earth ever be so bar­ren, as not to afford us even pro­digally, nourishment? Shall we ever finde any so inhumane to envy our condition, and ensnare us? Can we probably want at­tendance, if sick, in a place where we shall be four in com­pany, of the same blood, religi­on, and minde? Can our Chil­dren want Masters, while we, who have spoken with God, shall have nothing to do, but to teach them what advantage it is to speak with God.

And though we should have nothing to help us (reply'd Theo­pista) [Page 70]can we ever do amiss in that place, whither we go to per­form the will of God? There, where we may satisfie the debt our many sins have contracted? There, where by our suffering, we may return our thanks unto God, for his infinite favours?

When they had agreed on this, and pack'd up some few necessa­ries, in the night poorly cloath'd, with bundles on their backs, and leading each a Child by the hand, they abandon'd the City, making towards a certain Sea-Town. Who is able to relate the resent­ments of this departure, in so poor an equipage, and never more to see that native soyl, and that be­loved Countrey, where so long and so happily they had liv'd, and with so much respect and renown? Peradventure each concealed his grief, not to aggravate his Com­panions affliction, or blush'd to discover his own.

'Tis true, they left voluntarily their Countrey, they left it too most willingly, I confess: But who hath not a love for himself? And who loves himself, that loves not his Countrey? O God, declare it you, who permitted them to feel the piercing sorrows of disasters, to make them relish better those delights, which made them suffer patiently for your sake.

Theopista, peradventure to chear up her Husband, by shewing him her alacrity, went joyfully before him, and apace. Eustachius edi­fy'd, or rather astonish'd at the zeal of his Wife, perpended how happy God had made him in his Spouse, who alone was equiva­lent to all other sublunary for­tunes.

And what should I do, un­fortunate Man that I am, so he said, without her, who in travel [Page 72]is my comfort, and in prosperity my guide; who, when I am weary, refreshes me, and guards me when I sleep? Pardon me, O Lord, I acknowledge my crime of so great an ingratitude. Am I likewise so unthankfull, to go a­way sad as though I were unfor­tunate, when I go with so religi­ous a Wife, and two such dutifull Children? O dull heart! O heart of earth! When wilt thou leave these earthly thoughts? And what have we lost? Our Herds? Serv'd they otherwise than to fill the Exchequer, which was never yet open'd, but in favour of Pride, Luxury, and Vanity? Our Slaves? And art not thou asham'd, I will not say to grieve thou hast lost them, but not to be sorry thou hast had the rule over them? Ah cruel man! Ah Tyrant! For a man to dispose of another mans life? And why? By what Law? [Page 73]O barbarous Scythian, for thy conveniency, must a hundred men as good as thy self, and often­times better, to foment thy vices, be obliged to thee, depend upon thee, and be chain'd to thy ser­vice? He hath not depriv'd thee of thy Herds, he hath not de­priv'd thee of thy Slaves, he one­ly hath depriv'd thee of the means and occasions of ill, ingratefull man, and art not thou sensible of it? art not glad of it? and art not thou thankfull?

These Noble Pilgrims had scarce left their Countrey, but their House was most treache­rously broken open, and robb'd by certain Rogues; who, though they bear the title of Men, yet live of nothing else but the spoyl. Theeves (still the Enemies and Betrayers of Hu­manity, of which they are rather [Page 74]Moths, than part) entred his House, and sack'd it of the Fur­niture that remain'd, and was ra­ther a reproach than a monument of their decay'd happiness.

In the mean time the day came, which the Romanes us'd gratefully to commemorate for the Conquest of the Parthians.

When the People were assem­bled, the Army in armour, the Theater crown'd, and the Prince on his Throne, nothing was want­ing but the valiant Commander, the Soul of the Camp, the Heart of the Prince, and right hand and Idol of the Common-wealth, and Empire; brave Placidus was absent, who compleated, not onely was the cause of the feli­city they so gloriously remembred. While the People thought the General staid redressing some de­fect, the delay onely serv'd to prolong the applauses of publick [Page 75]consolation. But as soon as the Prince and People understood, the just, magnanimous, and va­liant Pilgrim was departed, (to fly from the shame his poverty might occasion) 'tis hard to re­late with what a congeal'd force all cheeks lost their red, all eyes were cast down, and all tongues turn'd to silence. Many curs'd Fortune, and murmur'd against Providence. It seem'd unsup­portable, not onely unjust, so va­lorous a man, and so good, should not onely be subject to the out­rages of Chance, but suppressed by them. Never any Triumph began with more joy, and ended with more sorrow. But why name I a Triumph? Here they repre­sented and bewail'd an unhappy Catastrophe of Fortune; and the day that was design'd for the joy of the Romanes, for the Victory obtain'd o're the Parthians, serv'd [Page 76]onely to chear up the Parthians for the notable loss the Ro­manes had sustain'd, in the ruine of so valiant a Commander and Warrier.

Trajan (as men use to do) esteeming things more, as they have greater need of them, la­mented the loss of so power­full a Minister. Perhaps he was too, moved at the disaster it self; for though great Persons measure every thing with the compass of their interest, yet Virtue doth not suffer them to deny him compassion, who hath gain'd it by desert, and demands it as unhappy. A di­ligent search after them was com­manded, but the new Christians had too secretly convey'd away themselves, and were far enough off, and secure.

They design'd Egypt as the end of so tedious a peregrination; [Page 77]and being close pursu'd by their unhappiness, they thought they were oblig'd to seek reparation in that Kingdome, where their Christ did trust himself, when he fled away young, and was persecuted by Herod, the worst of the Te­trarchs of Judea.

After many dayes travel, to­gether with their frequent, and daily wants, and the in juries they receiv'd from certain Robbers, they got to the Sea-coast at last, depriv'd of every thing, but the hope they had in God.

They embarqued themselves, to avoyd the incommodities of so tedious a Journey, which afoot to undertake with two such young Children, was too difficult a task.

The winde blew favourably, and the shore they soon lost. The Vessel sail'd so fast, that perpe­tually it was before the winde. [Page 78]All Prosperity seem'd to be at the Helm. But they went not much further, e're they saw, He puts fondly to Sea, who flyes from Mis­fortune. The Sky was serene, yet it blew hard enough to pre­cipitate them into an Ocean of dangers. The winds (which dis­agreeing in appearance, conspir'd to destroy the poor Bark) con­ceal'd in a moment the Sun, turn'd the waves topsy-turvy, and rais'd a storm in the Air. They might look into the Sea, and not cast down their eyes; for being often bury'd between two deep shores of raging billows, they were lower than the waters, and afraid of sailing down to the bottome. 'Twas dreadfull to hear the sad noyse of the shrowds, which beaten by the winde, seem'd hissing to bewail the un­constancy of the waves, and trea­chery of the Sky. Some of the [Page 79]Passengers, by encouraging o­thers, did labour to deceive their own fears; and others, by hiding their faces, said, they fear'd more the visage of death, than his sithe. The Mariners endeavour'd to strike the main-yard, which now would be onely commanded by the winde.

The Pilot lamented the autho­rity he had lost o're the helm, which obey'd nothing now, but the tyrannous Sea. To see light, they were forced to pray it might lighten, and to fear no thunder­bolts; 'twas enough but to think on the devouring waves. In fine, the hope of landing any where; but in the haven of death, was as bold an undertaking, as to ven­ture to Sea without a Boat.

Albeit a sweaty fear congeal'd on the brows of the miserable Passengers, yet every one very earnestly, in order to their several [Page 80]Religions, made vows for his own safety. Theopista (who had never seen such horrible specta­cles on the Land) being af­frighted, and half dead, lay lan­guishing in her dear Husbands arms. He, who more than once had met Death in the face, ap­prehending no otherwise the dan­ger, than not to be insensible of it, spake to her in this man­ner.

Where is your Courage, which boasted of seeking, not onely of enduring the painfullest death we can suffer for God? No leaf falls to the ground without his distinct and particular permissi­on, who hath a care of it; and shall we fools, fear the death he permits, or wickedly go about to avoyd what he appoints? And though these waves were design'd for our Sepulcher, what death can be less grievous than that [Page 81]overwhelms thee? what happier than that does not part thee from thy Husband and Children? and what more fortunate; than that finds thee devot [...]d to the will of thy Creatour, and ad­vancing in his service? Believ'st not, that this Vessel, though split, and weather-beaten, can as well serve to carry thee to the shore of Beatitude, as to the land of Egypt? Ah dear Wife! what fears are these? He cannot fear so much, that loves not ex­cessively himself; and he cannot love excessively himself, that loves his God enough. Go to, go to, Theopista; if God may be calm'd, prayers, not fears will appease him. And if God will be serv'd, shall not we be asham'd to serve him so faintly, and poorly?

When the Devil saw no bat­tery could affright, much less o're­come [Page 82] Eustachius, sounding a re­treat to the tempests, he cleared the Sky to the eyes of this Pas­senger, who still in his heart had the calm of each storm, and all Heaven's serenity.

When the Tempest was over, they sang, and commemorated the daily mercies of their gratious Preserver. Onely Theopista com­pleated not her joy, being a­sham'd and sad she had shew'd so little confidence in so kinde and so mercifull a God. Eusta­chius comforted her, telling her, that her fears had proceeded from the weakness of her sex, and not a want of courage, and that she would not want opportunities of expressing her zeal, which was (for Gods sake) not onely to contest with future disasters, but the memory of their happinesses past. In the mean time, they took pleasure in thinking, in [Page 83]what tender charity, what inno­cent and calm poverty, and what uncouth and free solitude they should leade the residue of their lives, and spend all their affecti­ons, and exhaust all their spirits in the service of their sweet and loving God.

This their daily meditation made them often in an extasy of delight. The Heaven seem'd to them to go faster than the Ship, so great was their longing to be on the shore. All the Passengers and Mariners beheld with admira­tion, the majestick poverty, di­screet affection, and humble no­bility of this Couple, who, even in their adversity, were honour'd, and envy'd. Some wonder'd, how persons so qualify'd, were so poor; but no body could leave wondring, how persons so poor, could be so well qualify'd. Every one was attentive to the words of [Page 84] Eustachius, whose expressions had a certain air of greatness, which made him respected. Eve­ry one beheld with compassion, and delight, the face of Theo­pista, whose poverty had not chang'd her noble mean, nor al­ter'd her complexion, the har­mony of which diffus'd a certain sweetness, forcing their eyes (though barbarous) to adore her. None could, without a­stonishment, behold, with what readiness and humility, a Gene­ral, and Conquerour of Armies, ran uncall'd to all the duties and affairs of the Sails, the Oars, and Helm. He must have wept hear­tily, that had seen with what cha­rity, humility, and curtesy, this most noble of Ladies, aiding all without distinction; now help'd to make clean what belonged to the Mariners and Vessel, now as­sisted in serving them, in dressing [Page 85]their meat, and offices of this kinde, the air of whose coun­tenance had made the Voyage fortunate. Every man, and espe­cially the Master of the Vessel, said he could not choose but envy her Husband for his happiness in her. And who would not think it an incomparable happiness, to have so discreet, so provident, and so loving a Wife?

They sail'd some dayes so pro­sperously, that they quickly made land. At that happy sight, Eu­stachius and Theopista (trans­ported with gladness and grati­tude) kneeling, with their hands rear'd to Heaven, gave thanks un­to God, who at last had brought them safe to the shore; where they trusted they should finde a con­tented life, and quiet death.

The Sea-men were scarce come into the road, when the Pas­sengers grown impatient (as if [Page 86]they had already touch'd the shore) began to seek their goods, take leave of the Sailers, and sa­tisfie the Master for their passage, with money, or merchandise of like value. Some bid the Pilot farewell, and others thank'd their Friends for their company, while the Mariners went about, begging something to drink; onely of Eu­stachius and Theopista (whom they knew were unhappy) they ask'd nothing, but saluted, and saluted them again. They joy­fully taking up their poor bundle, and holding each a Child by the hand, expected with gladness when the Bark (which was near the Land) would strike sail, and cast anchor; which no sooner was done, but the Passengers quickly clearing the Vessel, went ashore, Eustachius excepted, whose departure certain Mariners of set purpose deferr'd.

With eyes seeming big with indignation, and were onely swoln with love, Whither go'st thou, came out roaring the Master of the Ship, whither go'st thou, foul Thief? who shall pay me? How troubled poor Eustachius remain'd at those words, 'twould be too sad a thing to conceive; who quickly foresaw, that to his great prejudice, his departure with the rest was suspended. His threats, superfluous to one dis­arm'd, and miserable, presaged this furious mans guilt; the soli­tude they sought after, bearing witness of their enterprize, that it needed no testimony.

Poor Eustachius reply'd, I go where I hope my necessities will be mercifully supply'd, Heaven will content thee, which is so just, it never suffer'd Charity to go unrewarded, or wickedness un­punished.

Neither Charity, nor Heaven, ever rigg'd yet my Ships, said the Master, or paid my Men their wages. Who's there? seize on his Wife.

Then Eustachius and Theopista fell down on their knees, and en­deavouring with their tears, to pay him at least with compassion, since they could not for the pre­sent pay him otherwise, sought humbly to appease him.

What can this poor man pay, who hath nothing of his own, but the trouble of maintaining with his hands, himself, his Wife, and Children? If this poor Bun­dle will content you, he said, I give it you most willingly: But what will you do with these few rags, which (to preserve us from the injury of the weather) are left us of our fortune, not to ease, but deride us.

Dispatch, reply'd the barbarous [Page 89]Lover. Then going to Theopista, who being now Captive, was led as a Prisoner into the Cabbin; Weep not, he said softly to her, weep not my dear, I claim thee alone as my reward, but not for the service of my Bark, but my heart. Eustachius (whose Valour, which us'd to be victo­rious, was not yet extinguish'd) resolving to dye, or recover his Wife, leap'd with such fury to the ground, that he shew'd what an influence grief often hath on gal­lantry. But what could he do? Those Sea-Tigers threatned with their Swords, their Bows, and Scy­mitars, to kill before his face in an instant his Children; if he spake a word more, or stirr'd a foot further.

At this so sad encounter, Eu­stachius his heart left his bosome, and his courage his heart. But what will be the issue? Ah I cannot penetrate it, and much less describe [Page 90]it. This vast disaster deprived him likewise of the little conso­lation which weeping affords. All grief is contumacious, but this hath so much power, it turns Ty­rant. His breast clasp'd his heart in his breast, being afraid to see it murther'd by sorrow. His legs could not bear him from the ground, for the power that gave them motion (call'd to help where there was greater need) could not do its office in a place so remote from the heart; so as the vital parts disagreeing, me­nac'd ruine to the fabrick of his body. The blood (leaving pale all the members) retir'd altogether in defence of that part the life doth flow from. His soul was all reduc'd into his eyes, for onely by that passage it could finde a way to the languishing heart. He be­gan, and made an end many times, before he had begun to la­ment. [Page 91]Grief that may be vented, is too weak; neither naturally can we lose without torment, what we love to possess. He stood long on the shore, amaz'd, im­moveable, and senseless. Each little distance would have made him thought one of the stones which Ships are fastned to. He spake not at all, but when he now turned his eyes from the Bark to his Children, or from his Children to the Bark.

Woe's me, he seem'd to say, with his eyes ra [...]her querulous, than weeping▪ woe's me, that Vessel is fraught with nothing, but onely our di [...]a [...]ters. O poor young Children, and innocently unfortunate, behold there your life and mine sails away. Ah, I said amiss; God would have her go; Ah, she is forced away. Weep little ones, weep ye, she is forced away; she began to suffer [Page 92]violence, even between our arms. What shall we Wretches do? Is that the Bark which carries her? O too cruel eyes, why shew ye it me? Hitherto I have wept for what I have lost, but now I must begin to bewail what is left me. What shew ye me, O cruel eyes? Dear Wife, whither goest thou? who robs me of thee, the ease onely of my tribulations, and the onely tribulation I resent? Whither goest thou, poor Theopi­sta? whither goest thou Theopista, who to no other end surviv'dst the tempest, but to finde a more dan­gerous haven than shipwrack it self? For what art thou reserv'd? I never thought the time would have come, that I should have de­sir'd (and with pity) to have had thee slain by thunder, and ship­wrack'd. We have lost our Goods, our Slaves, our Herds, and our Countrey, yet none of these losses [Page 93]is so great, as that of not losing our selves among the rocks. And O thou Sea, that only would'st be calm'd with my misery, why didst not drown that Bark, where the Husband in the bosome of his Wife, and the Wife with her arms about the neck of her Husband, (though they had lost their lives) would not now have lost the com­pany of each other. Ah, my cruel fate (to make me more unhappy than any ever was) would have me suffer shipwrack no where else, but on the shore.

So he seem'd to speak, with his eyes full of grief, looking sometimes towards the Vessel, which now was out of sight, and sometimes turning himself to­wards his Children, exposed to want by misfortune, and not any fault of their Mother. But he spake not so couragiously before, resembling Moses at the foot [Page 94]of Sinai, the place of tribulation; who the more it did thunder on the mountain, remain'd the more undaunted, and got the more ground.

Let's go hence children, he said, let's go hence my sons, God is not pleased we shall have any longer the company of dear Theo­pista; his sacred will be done; he takes her away, that gave her to us; and I cannot e're believe, that he, who bestow'd her so just, will let her be corrupted and de­prav'd. Let's wholly and wil­lingly submit to his good pleasure, and then he'll be sure to defend, preserve, and comfort her. Ah heart! too pitifull a heart! why tak'st thou it ill? Desir'st thou what God will not have? I am glad of it, that thou mayst not grieve, because the more sensible thou shalt be of this loss, the more meritorious will be thy content, [Page 95]and this thy oblation more ac­cepted. Would'st not lose wil­lingly thy self for the love of thy God? and why not thy Wife? How know'st thou, God takes her not from thee, to preserve her from the dangers peradventure thou might'st leade her into? Ah dear Theopista, where art thou? whither goest thou? who robs me of thee, O onely Port of all my disasters? who deprives me of thee, O onely consolation of all my afflictions? whither leadst me, wicked sorrow? Yes, yes, 'tis but justice she is taken from me. And how was I worthy of so good a Wife, so religious a Wo­man, that have been wicked, sen­sual, and ingratefull; and having so bountifull a God, have taken up my rest, and confin'd (which is worse) my affections, in the bo­some of a Woman, for my haven and comfort? Yes, yes, my be­loved [Page 96] Theopista, go as far as thou art dear unto me, and I love thee. May I seek no more delight any where, but in thee alone, O dear and loving God, O God, the hope of my hope; O God, the onely delight of my future delights. Farewell Theopista, poor Theo­pista, God will preserve thee, whose holy will alwayes be done. Let's go hence, little Sons, let's go hence; she's gone, be con­tent; God will be our Theopista, and comfort, accompany, and protect us.

So when he had fitted his least Son on the truss at his back, car­rying the other in his bosome, and supporting himself, with the hand he had free, on a poor and mean staff, he follow'd the way that seem'd the most beaten.

O how many times, call'd back by affection, turned he towards the Bark▪ which he could onely [Page 97]see in his minde. Farewell Be­loved, farewell Theopista, this is the last farewell; I no longer call thee mine, for God is not pleas'd to have thee so longer. Thanks be to God for all things. Let's go hence little Sons, poor little Sons; God is not pleas'd Theopista should be lon­ger with us; God will be our Theopista, and be his will done. As soon as we shall finde an Habitation, that is capable of our miseries, I'le act the part of Theopista, I'le provide for you, get ready your meat, and bless it; I'le teach you Gods name, and how to thank and praise him; ye shall not want comfort, let's onely go hence. Farewell Theopista, God will be with thee. 'Tis time Eu­stachius, to begin to disco­ver the best way, in which God direct us, to finde out [Page 98]the place he would have us go to. This way is the directest, let's go here. Ah poor Theopista, God knows how thy heart beats, which is so remote from thy dear­est Eustachius. God knows what thou endurest, and knows what thou fearest. Be confident, be confident God will not forsake thee.

Relying in this manner on God, and offering up often, and suppressing his sorrow, he advan­ced so far, that coming in the night to certain poor houses, he was treated there charitably till the morning. What rest he took that night, let him conceive that knows. The Children cry'd con­tinually, calling on their Mother, but in vain, unless they call'd on her to wound the heart of their poor and disconsolate Father. Imagine what affliction Eusta­chius was in, who with his own [Page 99]disasters, was forc'd to ease others. O God, what condition!

When the day appeared, he re­suming his sad burthen, and thanking his Host for his charity, informed himself of the way, and departed. To lose no time, and free his minde from thoughts, and the thoughts of the difficulty of the way, he sometimes recom­mended Theopista to the pro­tection of Heaven, and sometimes gave God thanks for the benefits he had receiv'd. He sometimes renew'd the oblation and sacri­fice of his will, and sometimes begg'd strength against so many tribulations. He gave God thanks, that he thought him not compo­sed of Plaister, and pray'd he might be worthy of victory. Sometimes his little Sons ask'd him questions, and sometimes begg'd something; and he now with words, now with bread, [Page 100]gave ease to their sufferings. His Childrens vivacity and spirit, was no small consolation to him, who call'd them the staff of his old age, the Companions of his exile, and Asswagers of his cares; and for their education, he de­sign'd them the service of God, to make them share more of his virtue, than fortune. He repos'd many times, & then perhars slept, his weariness, his sorrow, and for­mer watching, inviting him to it.

At last, after many hours tra­vel, they came to a Torrent, which was stony, and made a huge noyse; the space between whose banks was so great, the eye could not measure its distance. Having laid down his burthen, (not finding any one in that solitude to direct him) he resolv'd to sound the Foard; and laying his Sons to rest, who lying on the grass, began to play together, [Page 101]he guided by his staff, descend­ed into the stream, and found the water arriv'd not to his knee, all the danger consisting in the breadth, and not the depth. Be­ing returned to his Sons, he resolv'd to waft them over; but to secure himself, he thought it the best to separate the weight, and carry them over at twice. Having carry'd over one, he came back for the other; but getting up the bank, he had scarce discern'd the shore, when viewing the land with his eyes, he discover'd, ah sight! poor Eustachius discover'd a Lion, who stealing away his little Son, fled apace with the Prey in his mouth, but more peradventure out of greediness than fear, and just then va­nish'd out of his sight. Ah what saw he? Ah what will he do? Let's pass by, O Pen, his affections, too bitter to be re­membred, [Page 102]and too hard to be imitated. There's need of a veil, lest the colours should express an affliction so great.

Eustachius ran faster than the torrent he pass'd. Woe's me, said he, let us make hast, lest the other be likewise in danger. If God will let us have but one Son, one Son is enough; thanks be to God for what he hath left us, and thanks be to him, that his will is perform'd in the loss of the other. O how many men, for one onely son, would call themselves happy? If sons prove a comfort, one one­ly is enough; but if otherwise, one onely is too much. Ah most unfortunate child, to be buried in the belly of a beast? Ah I am unhappy to beget thee for Lions. I thought I should onely have had cause of complaining against Fortune for making me miserable, but I finde I must complain as [Page 103]much of Nature, for making me a Father.

Speaking in this manner, he came to the other bank; and run­ning, and out of breath, when he got to the top, he began to say thus to the top, he began to say thus to his son; We have lost thy little brother, a Lion hath de­vour'd him; when he found, that the Wolves, which likewise had depriv'd him of the other, came howling, to partake of the deli­cate Prey.

At this sad spectacle, what kinde of man may we phansy the childless, afflicted, and de­serted Eustachius? I should have call'd him Father; but cannot be so cruel to remember, he hath no more sons.

Hear ye ages, and wonder! Hear ye the Miracles of that powerfull God, who hath been alwayes wonderfull in his ser­vants. Eustachius, at that lamen­table [Page 104]fight, humbling and pro­strating himself on the ground, began, weeping much, to cry out; O free, O happy state, deserving to be onely acknowledg'd from the hand of a mercifull God; we have nothing else to lose, all our Goods are now secure, and our little Sons (ah little Sons!) got safely to the shore. What matter is't, if by shipwrack, or sailing, they get to the land, provided they get thither with safety. Gods favours should be grate­fully commemorated, and not expos'd to censure. Lets sing, my Soul, let's sing the mercies of so gratious a God. O free, O happy state! We are in so for­tunate, and secure a condition, that we have nothing else to fear or hope for. Fortune can threaten us no longer, she can no longer trouble us, God be blessed and thank'd. O dear, [Page 105]most loving and mercifull God, and when could I ever have imagin'd, being fetter'd with so many snares of the World, the Flesh, and the Devil, I should be so happy, to be free and dis­engag'd from them all, and one­ly depend on my will? On my will, which is now, and ever shall be thee, O my dearly be­loved, the love of my soul, my God? Thou shalt be my Mother, my Wise, my Father, and Children; in thee are to be calm'd my affections, my miseries, and thoughts; thou art to be the object of my un­derstanding, the prey of my will, and the glory of my memory. And since thou hast brought me to this happiness, shall I have so rebelli­ous, so stubborn, and so senseless a heart, to bewail it when it comes? Ah my God, my heart is of flesh, be pleas'd to forgive it; and of stone, [Page 106]be pleas'd to split it; draw from it the water, may set forth thy glory. From thee, in thee, and for thee, I protest for the future, all my thoughts, my affections, and words, shall begin, advance, and terminate. I protest, what­soever hath not thee for its object and center, my Creatour, Re­deemer, and my God, (the name I alwayes finde the most sweet) I will not approve of. I will no longer will any thing, but what thou would'st have me to will; nor love any thing, but what thou would'st have me to love. What is not of God, or for God, Eusta­chius shall not love, or desire.

So raising couragiously him­self, (Ah, good men have affli­ctions without, but consolation within) as if he had endur'd no­thing yet, he went on, beseeching God to begin now at last to exer­cise and try him.

And when, said he, shall we ever have a better occasion? when ever finde a time so oppor­tune, to suffer for Gods sake? Afflictions are no longer impedi­ments, to divert us from the ser­vice of God, to which we are wholly devoted. Where are the tribulations and miseries that were threatned? What hitherto we have suffered, was ill onely out of opinion, and what have we suffered of our own? Goods, Honours, Dignities, Wife, and Children, were no otherwise ours, than as troubles. And must it be call'd and esteem'd a tribulation, to be rid of troubles, subjection, and impediments? Ah my God, and what do I suffer, for thy suf­ferings for me? And what satis­faction do I make thee, for the many offences I so long have committed? When thou wast pleas'd to suffer for me, didst not [Page 108]willingly lose thy Goods, thy Mother, and thy Countrey? Wast not willingly torn in pieces, and crucify'd, and which is more than all, most innocently? And shall I wicked man, in my tribulations and sorrows for my sins, have no­thing to relate, but that I was present at the sufferings of others? If thou sayst I am so weak, I shall be discontented, and like­wise unfortunate, if thou, who canst not erre, hast so low an o­pinion of the love I bear thee. For my own part I confess, that me­thinks I have more courage, and dare perform more. Give me, ah g [...]ve me an affliction deserving the testimony of my love, and let what is past be my penance. Let what I must yet suffer, be consecrated wholly to the love, I consume my self in, for thy sake; for I cannot endure to be a vulgar Servant to God. The [Page 109]favours thou hast done me, op­pose it, and my soul cannot suffer it, which blushes to be one­ly known a Christian, by not worshipping of Idols. Hitherto my Wife hath been a Sufferer, my Children, and Slaves, and 'tis now high time I suffer something for thy sake, for thee, O my dear, most loving, and mercifull God.

With these, and the like en­tertainments, Eustachius went so far, that at last he arriv'd at a Village call'd Badiso, whose re­tiredness and poverty so pleas'd him, he resolv'd to fix there, if he could. The few persons li­ving in that place, made it partly seem no desart, though otherwise it was unfrequented, where they sow'd what was necessary, to keep them alive; and not sell, unless they sold, not because they [Page 110]possess'd, but because they liv'd there. The place was remote e­nough from Rome, to conceal him from fame; and as far from noyse, as necessary to separate the minde from the pleasures of the world. There poverty was no shame, for riches were not known; nor us'd they treache­ries there, for interest commanded not. The men there dissembled not, for there they did not covet; and the women did not set them­selves to sale, for they lov'd not for lust, but to preserve nature. The air was calm, the soyl very fertile, and the Inhabitants sin­cere. Eustachius thought this place was agreeable to the life he had design'd; and therefore re­commending himself unto God, for the illumination of his will, he sought how to live. But he soon was entertain'd, as a Partner in those rural affairs, by a good [Page 111]and poor man, of some little power there; but whether a La­bourer, or Master, I know not, for I know not if the tyrannie of dominion was in force at that time, in a place so retir'd.

Eustachius, giving thanks unto God for this ultimate favour, so willingly and industriously fell to tilling of the ground, that the Owner of the Village, being eas'd of his labour, and glad of his new servant, ascrib'd and imputed to Heavens gentle influence, the arrival of this Pilgrim, to whose care now he committed all his business, and his poor estate.

The Earth return'd so happily Eustachius his labours, that the Master was astonish'd, who thought it impossible so small a spot of ground should abound in that manner. All that beheld it, thought it painted, and not till'd, it pleasing as well the eye, as [Page 112]'twas usefull for man's life. Each Turf brought forth Flowers, eve-Flower Fruit, and all Fruit grew ripe. The Seeds seem'd ranged into order, not scatter'd; and the Trees being lopp'd, shew'd the Husbandman's industry, by their growing the better. The Mea­dows were pleasant, the fallow ground manur'd, and every thing answer'd art, the eye, and expe­ctation, with increase, delight; and Plenty. Ah, O God, the sighs of the Tiller were the South­west-winds, and his tears the dew, which made the soyl as fer­tile, as the Paradise of his soul.

Fifteen years together liv'd Eustachius, in this hard, but happy poverty; in which time he trafficking for eternity, and leading a life that was rather a meditation than life, discover'd to the world, how men may live on Earth, and yet dwell in [Page 113]Heaven. Every thing inform'd him of his Maker, and in every thing he found something to en­cite him to a Virtue. If a little thin Cloud passed by, he reve­renc'd it as a shadow of Gods presence, and contemplated in the Heavens on his Palace, and in the Sun on his Taber­nacle. In each breath of air, he adored the Spirit of God, passing and triumphing on the wings of the winde. He either plow'd, mowed, or sow'd, ne­ver wanting occasion of recol­lecting himself. He grieved, that Man from the Earth, an insensible thing, could pro­mise himself a gratitude for each, though little, labour of his tilling; when he, who had a soul, and was rational, and more oblig'd to God than any other Creature, was cold, slow, and backward in retur­ning [Page 114]him thanks, who cover'd him with the Heavens, warm'd him with the Sun, sustain'd him on a Pavement of Flowers, and nourish'd him with plenty of all things drawn out of the ground. Every Flower put him in minde of a virtue. The whiteness of the Lilly made him blush to think, a Soul redeem'd by Christ, should let a stinking Flower surpass it in purity. In every Rose he found a thorn, piercing his heart, and upbraiding the little charity he express'd for the love of his God, who crown'd and rent with thorns, was torn to save him. The herb Turnsole is never weary in following the tracks of the Sun, Eustachius said, mortifying himself; and wilt thou, O my heart, let a Flower instruct thee, in loving, [...]erving, and contem­plating on thy God? The Hya­cinth, in the opening of his leaves, [Page 115]sends forth sweet and sad notes; and he that bewails not his sins in his heart, bewails them in the leaves. But what doth Eustachi­us perform, who hath been so long, and continually a Sinner? Every green Herb taught him hope, and every fruitfull Tree imi­tation. These Meditations ended in extasies of his minde, which se­ver'd from the body, did run to the feet of his Creatour, to thank him for the fruit he had gather'd, as a benefit receiv'd; and the im­mature fruit, as a benefit expe­cted. Such was the life of Eusta­chius, in that solitude inhabited by Angels, who continually de­scending and ascending, as it were on Jacob's Ladder, beheld and admired the love, which to­wards his Creatour he expressed, whom I cannot call earthly, since he alwayes liv'd in Heaven.

The Loving Husband, and Prudent Wife, &c.
The third Book.

WHosoever is thankfull to God in prosperity, pays his debts; but he that gives him thanks in adversity, turns Creditor. Tribulation, sayes Saint Jerome, is a fruit of the Almond-tree, the rinde of which is bitter, but the kernel very sweet. And the Naturalists ob­serve, when the Almond-tree is full of blossoms, 'tis a sign of a [Page 118]plentifull harvest. Our Eustachi­us makes it good, whose sufferings all know, which have been so great, their billows have petrify'd his heart, and render'd it stony, obdurate, and dead; to passions and affections. Under the bitter Plant of affliction, as Jacob un­der the Turpentine-tree, Eusta­chius hath bury'd the Idols of his affections, his interest, and de­sires. His heart is no longer of flesh, but of Christ; and had it been open'd, the name of Jesus would have been found there, as in that of Ignatius the Martyr. But God would not permit him to continue in this state. Tribu­lations may serve to increase his temptations, but cannot increase the faith of his invincible heart, which can have no addition of courage. The eagerness and va­lour he hath shew'd on all occa­sions, give him worthily the prai­ses [Page 119]and title of a Noble Com­mander, who had been still victo­rious. Here misery made a stand, and Heaven clear'd up to this for­tunate Passenger.

As Eustachius was discoursing one day with certain Husband­men, in order to their rural af­fairs, two Strangers saluting them kindly, approached to them, whose civility the Country People returning, offer'd themselves rea­dily to serve them in what they were able. The Strangers thank­ing them, seem'd most desirous to have information of a Roman, call'd Placidus, who together with his Wife, and two Sons, had been missing fifteen years, and they were in quest of.

Eustachius, who before had been their General, and their in­timate Friend, knew them, but was not known again. And who would e're have thought so pale, [Page 120]so hairy, and so humble a coun­tenance, colour'd onely with mis­fortune, could have been the face of Placidus, who formerly full of majestie, and glittering like the Sun, represented in the Colours of his Banners, the Purple of his Triumphs.

At this their encounter, and demands, Eustachius could not choose but be sensible of the na­tural commotions our frailty oc­casions; so as 'tis no wonder if the memory of himself, his Wife, and his Sons, caused him to re­lent.

The temptation was strong, because too unexpected, and had a too delicate opportunity, and too little suspected. His Friends were the cause, whose affections, incommodity, and charity, (un­less by not concealing them) he could not return. Quickly, but quietly, lest he should have been [Page 121]observ'd, he sadly turn'd his back, and leaving the company, went weeping towards his home. His tears trickl'd down in too great an abundance, and he perceiv'd he wept, with a kind of afflicted sensuality (even tears, said Metro­dorus, have their lust) which he soon was sorry for.

Woe is me, what do I? Men weep not in this manner for the easing of nature, whose sorrows to appease, many tears are not requisite. Men weep in this man­ner, for some unruly passion, ty­rannically subduing their reason. Lets look to our selves, O Eusta­chius, least the Devill circum­vent us, for this violence is too great.

So he spake to himself, when invaded by the memory of his former prosperity, his love to his wife, and his grief for the death of his sons, but conquer'd by his [Page 122]fear, to be seen by his God, too devoted to the world; he besought his sacred Majesty, not to suffer any earthly affection to prevayle in his heart, which dedicated and bequeathed to him, was no other­wise of Eustachius, than as Eu­stachius could not serve without a heart, and love his gracious God.

So with unknown resentments, resembling a trance, which might be thought a punishment for his sorrow, but probably was the sweetness, and fruit of his devo­tion, he fell to the earth, beseech­ing God to moderate so immo­derate a passion. He would have begg'd of God, as he was pleas'd to comfort him with the unex­pected presence of two such dear friends, so he would too be pleas'd (even once before he dy'd) to shew him his beloved Theopista, since he could not hope possibly, [Page 123]to see his little sons (ah little sons) so unfortunately lost, and bewayl'd.

He would have pursu'd his de­sire with devout supplications, and prayers, if he could have been assur'd it was no temptation, he being so confirm'd, and onely in­tense in the will of his Creator, that it seem'd to him a sin to de­sire it. He so passionately was ena­mour'd of God, that he thought, if he lov'd any thing besides him, 'twould decrease his love to God.

These his irresolutions & doubts exprest his devotion and affection to God. Tis one of the happi­nesses of a soul in the state of grace, to see that all his thoughts, affections, and operations are prayers, incenses, and merito­torious.

To these supplications of Eu­stachius, a voyce answer'd plain­ly [Page 124]from Heaven, which spake in this manner. Be of good cheer, dear Eustachius, I do not forget thee; O God, what expressions! O heart too hard, and too deafe! Dost thou hear what God doth to his servants, and yet takest pleasure in rebelling against him? Ah, what unhappiness?

Eustachius encourag'd with this voyce, whose affectionate expres­sions may be easier imagin'd, than describ'd, when he had ador'd, prais'd, and thank'd Almighty God, whose favours we return, when we gratefully acknowledge them, rising from the ground, proceeded on his way. Every pace was a sigh, and every sigh an arrow, which he shot towards Heaven; Arrows not rebelling, but ejaculatory, shot-towards a sweet enemy from an amorous heart, and not to offend, but pro­voke.

The showrs, which fall with thunder, by Plutarch call'd fulgo­ral, are the best to water, and make the earth fruitfull, from whence they are exhal'd.

He no sooner was returned to his work, but his foresaid Com­panions came suddenly upon him, who being still in motion, here only▪ excepted, ended fortunately their pilgrimage in this field, where their own consolation, and Count [...]yes felicity they found green and fl [...]ur [...]shing in the per­son of Eustachius. They relating the marks, and Characters of Pla­cid [...]s and Theopista, enquired of him, if he could peradventure, g [...]ve tydings of them, whom they asked so kindly after: he could not but be mov'd at their cordiall affection, and pity their sufferings, in s [...]eking after him.

Gentlemen, he reply'd, why seek yee him so earnestly, and [Page 126]with such inconveniency to your selves?

Great things, said the strangers, of which our great love is the least, induce us to seek him. He no more conquer'd by the love of his friends than the curiosity of sense, conceal'd still himself; but be­cause he was charitable, & desi­red to oblige them to his power, he sayed he could not satisfy their demand, reply'd in this man­ner.

'Tis now very late, and because in this poor Country you will not find easily lodging, Ile wil­lingly accomodate you this night, if you please to accept it. They receiv'd his most courteous invi­tation, God so directing them, who disposes of our hearts, and subordinates the means to the end. When they came into the house, and his master was withdrawn, he besought him, in relation to his [Page 127]many years service, to lodge the noble strangers for a night. What can we deny to so usefull, and so faithfull a servant? All ceremo­nyes in expressions of kindness, being ended, they sate down to supper, where Eustachius was the Cook, Sewer, Carver, and Cup­bearer, and made them all the Sauces, we can taste, where cha­rity makes the feast.

In the mean time, while the strangers discoursed of Eustachi­us his kindness, and entertain­ment, they thought they saw some­thing extraordinary in his coun­tenance, and behaviour, which they were acquainted with. The more they heard him speak, and partak'd of his Charity, the more clearly they thought his face con­firm'd them he was Placidus, the end of their travaile, and object of their thoughts, whose health they drank, and onely spake of.

God knows, where we may finde him, they said, how he lives, and who shall be so happy to discover him. His sons are now men, and his wife, if she be li­ving▪ must be old. God knows, if we shall know them, if we meet them, and if they' [...] know us.

These sad, and affectionate remembrances made Eustachius now and then shed a teare, and though he did all in his Power to suppress them, the violence he used gave his friends an opportu­tunity to perceive him much con­cern'd, by his labouring so vio­lently to conceal them.

The strangers wonder, and sus­pition perswaded them to doubt (if we doubt what we desire) he was Placidus, so as among them­selves they began in this man­ner.

Dear Antiochus, I take him for Placidus, when the other, [Page 129]call'd Acatius, reply'd, I doubt it very much. His age and stature agree well with Placidus, his voice is the same, and his shape not unlike: But where are his wife, and his sons? why should he conceale himself from us? from us, who have been al­ways his servants, and lovers of his family, and name? But if he be not Placidus, what meane his compassionate looks, and inter­rupted sobs, the greatest signes of love? Ah tis he, the first reply'd quickly, but softly said the second, grant he be the same (but we are not so happy) he cannot be hid from us; Placidus in the nape of his neck, hath the skar of a wound, which, if it be he, will assure us of the truth. Indeed said Antio­chus, you say very well, and therefore let's look there imme­diately. Ah, if we shall not dis­cover it, the pleasure, we receive [Page 130]by this hope, will too soon have an end. So between hope & fear, they went to Eustachius, and loo­king on that part of his neck, which ends in his right shoulder, they found and read the chara­cter of the changes of fortune, re­presented in his life. I know not if they wept, nor can express their sorrow, for tears had no roome in two hearts so full of joy, so as it was necessary to deferre it: Their tears fell in showres, not in drops, two eyes being too few for so sweet an affliction.

Ah long'd for Placidus, and why didst conceale thy self from us? from us, whom so often thou hast call'd the faithfull friends of all thy fortune? By what fault of ours hast thou been induc'd to live in a condition, in which to hide thy self, its usefull to thee, or may procure thy shame to be known unto us?

Can there be so ill a state (when tis for thy advantage to own it) can make us affrayd? Hath for­tune Peradventure, among its Many evills, a disease that kills gratitude and love? Ah Placidus, and what have we done to me­rit this rigour? If thou art desi­rous to conceale thy self from fame, to be known unto us, it re­veales thee not to any. We have found thee, if thou wilt, and if thou wilt not, our discovery of thee shall but serve to this end, that even in this place, we have sought thee. Thou canst not re­fuse to be known unto us, unless thou wilt deny us the reward our paines justly claime for seeking thee so long. This, thy vertue will not suffer us to fear, and our hearts cannot credit, which have always lov'd thee so, that we cannot leave seeking thee, not when thou de­sir'st not, to be found, not when [Page 132]thou thy self think'st thy self in such a state, deserves to be even avoyded by thy self.

These tears were let fall by his courteous cōpanions; to whom Eu­stachius was willing to be known, when he saw he was discover'd.

Friends, he reply'd, the very same affection that causes your sorrow for my solitude, is the thing that occasions, and deserves it. The more dearly ye love me, the more justly ye deserve I should conceale from you the irksome. information of my state. When I could no longer serve you in any thing, but by hindering my cala­mities, to disturb your repose, I retyr'd in this habit, much lesse grievous than my fortune. I thought I was unhappy enough, without taking one me the sorrow of others. For this onely reason I declined your presence, and now beg your Pardon, for being diso­bedient. [Page 133]I was in so low an ebb of fortune, that having nothing left me to lose, but my friends, I thought my love to them o­blig'd me to leave them, to prevent their being taken from me.

K [...]sses interrupted these excuses, by drowning and stifling them in tears and embraces. They were forc't to be silent, because they were forced to weep, and could not find words to express so great a love. But their joyes quickly ended, for no sooner Antiochus, had obtained a truce of his passi­on, but turning to Eustachius, he ask'd him for Trajana, and his two young, and beautifull sons, who, inferiour in nothing but number, to the Graces, were ad­mir'd by the people of Rome, who wisht the Latin Empire might perpetually abound with persons of like valour.

Eustachius recounted all the ac­cidents, which befell Theopista, and his sons, at whose most unfor­tunate, and dreadfull remem­brance, if his two dear compa­nions did not kill themselves with weeping, 'twas by reason of their horrour and amazement at the tragicall relation.

Many of the inhabitants of the village, where the fame was soon spread of Eustachius his quali­ty, brake off their discourses and complements, by their concourse to them, who with gladness, and confusion mix'd together, came to see, and do him homage, and there was none amongst them so rude that relented not, conside­ring in what manner, and how roughly, the bravest souldier li­ving had been depress'd by for­tune.

All of them amaz'd at such strange revolutions, began to be­wayle [Page 135]his departure, as foreseen, and especially they who just came to see him, as the two dear Com­panions related, how Trajan (re­solving to chastize a certain na­tion, for pillaging temerariously, and depopulating the Confines of the Empire) expected only Placi­dus, whose valour alone was sup­posed to paralell the greatness of so dangerous an enterprize. A­catius and Antiochus affirm'd, that Trajan had often been sorry for the distance and misfortune of Placidus, and particularly in this occasion, so as proposing many rewards, and preferments to the bringer of him back, he had sent into all Countrey, to enquire strictly after him,

The good, and honest Peasants were afflicted, when they knew he must depart, who caused Badi­so to be envy'd by the Capitol. They thought when Eustachius [Page 136]departed, serenity would depart from their clime, and fertility from the soyl. Ah, said they, when he is gone from us, who still was so ready to help every one, so kind, and so usefull, whither shall we go for Counsell, assistance, and a pattern?

The better part of night was consum'd in so many, and such different narrations, and conflicts of love, so as they were forc'd to repose.

Eustachius alone indefatigably spent the residue of the night in commending himself to his God, and beseeching him, to guide and protect him to the place, where he might spend his life, and Sacri­fice his death in his service. He rememberd, he had heard from Gods own mouth, he should be restor'd to his former condition, so as knowing 'twas Gods Will (to comport himself always, in every [Page 137]thing to the will of his Creator) he resolv'd to go thence with his friends, to see in what God would employ and command him: when the dawning of the day began to appear in that Heaven, which surpass'd each thing in clearness, but the heart of our gallant Cava­lier, they all rose.

The art the world uses in laughing, and weeping, in order to interest, and not to affection, is the cause, that to describe with how many tears, the departure of Eustachius was accompany'd, will not shew with what sorrow, he was seen to depart, of all the Countrey-people, who flocking to him, embrac'd, attended him, & wept, and he that first return'd, ended first the necessity of leaving him.

By his friends, who were co­piously provided of all things, he was clad in the journey, accor­ding [Page 138]to his quality, where the trouble they had, was not long, for they guided by the soft, and gentle gale of Gods grace, arriv'd in thirty dayes at the haven so desired.

The fame of his coming out­stript him, so as at his arrivall in Rome, he found the City full of acclamations for him, where the joy, and honours he was receiv'd with, unless we'll do them wrong, are incapable of relation. He en­ter'd the City in triumph, if ever any triumph was accompany'd with applauses of that kinde, where every street was a Capitoll, and every voyce a Panegerique. Nor was it at all necessary to ex­hort him against pride, for he went as compos'd, and modest, as be­came a child of Heaven. This was a triumph o're fortune, which conquerd, and suppress'd by his vertue, beheld him pass to glory [Page 139]on a Chariot of hearts, and wills. When they came to the Palace, embraces tyr'd the day, where the the Emperour met him, embraced, and honour'd him, and inform'd of his adversities, could not think of them, but with sorrow. Each ear distill'd into Pitty, that liste­ned to his disasters, whose fortune would have had the name of tra­gedy, if it had not had a gallant Cavalier for the subject.

When the Emperour, and the Orders of the City had receiv'd him with so many, and so glorious expressions of kindness, the inte­rest, and reasons of the war, were imparted to Eustachius by Trajan, in whose Cabinet he learnt, that the happiness of Princes resides altogether in the chamber of Presence, beyond which, the secretest rooms have onely the greatness of troubles, and cares. He found that Trajan, [Page 140]dismayd with the greatness of the conspiracy, the distance of the place, difficulty of provisions, and insufficiency, and infidelity of his ministers of State, prepar'd for a war, which reason represented as dangerous, as necessary, and in­evitable, for the honour of his Crown.

Eustachius particularly inform'd of Trajans designes, so c [...]mmen­ted on them, that the Emperour perceiv'd, Victory is the daugh­ter of Counsell, and where prudence speaks, fortune, tis probable, will cease to be in­constant, and find fixed stati­ons.

Trajan, without making more ado, relying altogether on the Vertue and Courage of Eusta­chius made him publiquely the Generall, and recommending to him the glory of the Latin Empire, remanded him so fraught with his [Page 141]favours, that had it not been ju­stice to advance by all possible means the honour of his Master, gratitude would have put him in minde of returning the benefits of so gracious and generous a Prince.

When Eustachius had muster'd the Army, settled each Command, and provided all sorts of ammuni­tion, he marched towards the ene­my, but the name of the enemy, and how the war was manag'd, antiquity hath not left it so clear­ly to us, as (without doing wrong to the truth of the story) to des­cend [...] particulars. This may be enough, that Eustachius conque­ring the difficulties of a tedious & dangerous way, and often con­testing with the incommodities of hunger, the outrages of ill wea­ther, and ambushes of the adver­sary, discover'd, cop'd, fought with him, and o'rcame him.

When he had subdu'd the re­bell, he secured the Empire to the Emperour, and remustering his souldiers, renown'd by the victo­ry, and enricht with the booty, resolv'd to retreat. But 'twould not be amisse, to relate the affe­ctionate charity, with which he commiserating the unfortunate, moderated the anger of the Con­querours, restrain'd the rapacity of the Covetous, and repressed the fierceness of the lustfull, telling them with arguments, but more efficaciously by his own example, that victories are dishonour'd by acts of injustice, and we make an ill return of Heavens favours, when we do commit cruelties. It would peradventure be conve­nient, and perhaps not unprofi­table, to tell the love, and tears, he devoutly exprest, for the mul­titude of graces from God, but who can describe the conceptions [Page 143]of an Angel? Graces he receiv'd, and was thankfull for them; and was thankfull, because he re­ceiv'd them; and receiv'd them, because he was thankfull. He re­turn'd them so affectionatly, that oftentimes the graces losing the name of graces, became the re­ward of his gratitude; his zeal making him so deserving, that the favours he receiv'd, made him capable of deserving them afresh. O most happy state of a Soul in love with God!

The Army marched, and mar­ched in order, every pace being regular, in respect of their mo­tion, and conveniency of the sta­tions. The Van-guard, Battalia, and Reer-guard, with the Bag­gage, and Provisions, in their place. Light-Horsmen scowr'd the way, though the Countrey was open, and no danger of am­bushes, and the Precursors went [Page 144]for Forrage, as the way was commodious. In every thing they provided against the perils of a War, and enjoy'd in every thing the delights of a Peace. They marched in order, not out of suspicion, but discipline, for their Arms serv'd onely for the cha­racter, and not the defence of the Souldier. At the end of some dayes, Eustachius arriving in a pleasant and fruitfull part of E­gypt, resolved the Army should repose for some time, which, by reason of its hard and toylsome march, was in no good condition. During the sweetness of this rest, the Souldiers allur'd by the plea­santness of the Countrey, went recreating themselves in that Pa­radise of Egypt, whose bosome still enamell'd with a Spring of stan­ding Treasures, invited them with pleasure and tranquillity to lye every where on the ground.

It happened on a time, that two of them declining the heats at noon day, were resting them­selves in a shade of Palm-trees, where a Garden lay conceal'd, which for the delights of the In­habitants, was seated in the most remote part of the House.

They lay solitary on the grass, and talking among themselves; and because the conveniency of the place, and the time unfit for business, gave them the opportu­nity, they passing from one to another discourse, informed each other by turns of the state and condition of their fortunes.

A poor Woman, that was spin­ning behind the hedge of the neighbouring Garden, and re­freshing her self in the shade, heard all their discourse, and things; which not onely caus'd amazement in her heart, but drew tears from her eyes. She toss'd up [Page 146]and down disorder'd, and much troubled; resolves to change the climate, to make use of the ti­dings she received by chance. But how will she be able to do it, since she is so unhappy, that to call her a Woman of small fortune, would detract from her cala­mity?

While these mental tumults la­sted, her minde gave her, happily the General, if she made it her suit, would easily condiscend to her modest desires.

She, who had her heart and her ears replenish'd with the ce­lebrated piety of Eustachius, em­brac'd the suggestion; and arri­ving at the place, where she heard he was quarter'd, continues her request for access, and easily ob­tain'd it of him; who never a­sham'd to have his actions seen, retires to live more quietly, and not to sin more secretly. She found [Page 147]him sitting in the midst of his Champions, the glory of that age, where I might say, he recreated himself, if treating of a Hero, it came not near impiety, not to say, he was at Councel. She first prostrating her eyes, and then kneeling, rather owning the title of a noble and modest Maid, than a mature and beggarly Egyptian, spake to him in this manner.

You see, my Lord, a poor un­happy Creature, who hath lost all that Heaven and Nature could give her. Time and Fortune have robb'd me of my Youth, my Pa­rents, Countrey, Means, Hus­band, and Sonnes. But Heaven be praised, whose decrees should be alwayes held in reverence, nothing else is left me; but the dreggy part of my age, which being vile, infirm, frail, impotent, and painfull, begins now so to trouble me, I am oblig'd to think [Page 148]of my Grave, to prevent my be­ing miserable, even after death. Rome was my Countrey, whi­ther naturall affection calls me, the onely favour I have left me to beg for so wretched a Carcass. I beseech you, Noble Sir, deny not my request, that I may at your charitable charge once again see that soyl, which though it gave me so unfortunate a birth, de­serves my love so well, I never shall remember it, but with tears, and with sighs.

These few, and sweet words, which she utter'd with humility, and a modesty expressing maje­stie, the standers by mov'd with compassion, commended extream­ly.

Eustachius, who never was more happy and contented, than when he had occasion to exercise his piety, approaching to her, who continu'd yet kneeling, re­ply'd; [Page 149]Poor Woman, thou shalt receive comfort. Thy discretion bears thee witness, thy birth is as thou say'st. Rest satisfied, I will take such order, thou shalt be pro­vided of all things in the journey, and go along with us to the place thou desirest.

On the sudden the good Wo­man, when she heard him say so, as if she had been struck to the heart, lifting up her eyes, and fixing them on the countenance of the General, being dismay'd, amaz'd, and pale, with a certain distemper, which some did inter­pret confusion, and others asto­nishment, stood still without mo­tion. Every one admiring the strangeness of the thing, fell a guessing at the cause produced so sudden a passion. But the pale and wan colour in her cheeks, became quickly a fine red; and as soon as her minde had obtain'd [Page 150]some peace to so many perturba­tions, she endeavour'd with her tears to vent her great passion.

Eustachius more amaz'd than the rest, and urging her to tell the sudden cause of so sensible a sor­row, offer'd to assist her more a­bundantly, if she needed, or de­sir'd it.

The issue was thus; when the Woman had calmed her passion, and was confident of the Gene­rals magnanimity, she besought him at last, that dismissing the Company, he would suffer her, for a short space of time, to speak to him alone, about busi­ness concerning her. Eustachius condescended, and all the stan­ders by went away, leaving her shut in, and alone with the Ge­neral; who longing, irresolute, and wavering, by reason of many doubts, guess'd, penetrating with his judgment, what the Beggar [Page 151]would say, who was not, with­out a great mysterie, so grievously, and suddenly afflicted.

They discoursed long together, so as they who were without, were a great while onely curious; but when the length of time be­gan to exceed what they thought in probability was enough to dispatch such mean affairs, a­mazement succeeded.

And what things deserving so tedious a Session, do the tears of a despicable Woman design? What counsels does so valiant and so honoured a Champion im­part, or receive from a Female of no worth? While they mur­mur'd in this manner, a Sergeant, whom the General called, at last enter'd in, who quickly returning with a pale and troubled coun­tenance, obsequiously and hastily shut the door of the Chamber. How amaz'd they were at that, [Page 152]I cannot relate, their wonder even making them dye of fear. Ah, what's the matter? All came about the nimble Messenger, asking him earnestly the cause of his paleness and sollicitude.

Sirs, he reply'd, great things are sure amiss, but what, I could not penetrate: but I found the General weeping, who so often with dry eyes hath seen the doubt­full dangers of Victory, and con­temned and o'recome the horrours of death. I am seeking certain Souldiers he commanded should be brought to him presently, and hinder not his service.

The Souldiers he sought after, were the very same Men whose discourse the same day the poor Woman had heard and observ'd behind the hedge of the Gar­den.

'Twas not long e're he came back, accompanied by the two [Page 153]Souldiers; who hearing with what trouble and impatience the General expected them, were de­jected, and half dead. The pale­ness in their faces was interpreted by the Waiters, as the mark of an ill conscience; and every one look'd strangely upon them, as well because they thought they were guilty of the Generals sad­ness, whom they lov'd, as be­cause, if they were destin'd to ill fortune, 'twas necessary to begin to declare, they had no amity with them. Friendship dyes, when Calamity is born. Even this increas'd the horrour of the Wretches, who the more they were us'd to be respected, as being Lanciers, and sitting at the Ge­neral's Table, bewail'd with grea­ter terrour, the contempt and dis­esteem shew'd to them in this oc­casion. Eustachius inform'd of their arrival, gave order to the [Page 154]Sergeant, to usher them in, who commanded immediately to go out, return'd to his Companions to raise new doubts among them; who perplex'd, panted after the knowledge of such strange and impenetrable nows. Eustachius not long after, cry'd aloud, so as every one, attentive to hear what succeeded, heard resound from the Chamber, though shut, a lamen­table confusion of weeping, and sobs.

They irresolute awhile, con­cluded at last, they were bound to go in, to see if they were able to do their Lord service. But the Chamber being open'd, they a­maz'd, and more disorder'd than before, found, (ah wonder!) found, that their valiant Com­mander, prostrate between two Souldiers, and a despicable Wo­man, lay pitifully weeping, like a drooping little Boy, that had [Page 155]been correctedd for his faults.

Eustachius no sooner beheld them, but rising from the ground, and instantly looking chearfull, cry'd aloud unto them, Come in Brethren, come in; I invite you to behold the unspeakable won­ders of Gods providence and mercies. The joy his words oc­casion'd, which were far more pleasing than they could imagine, surpass'd each affection in the breasts of the Auditors, curiosity excepted. When they were en­ter'd in, he re-spake in this man­ner.

Behold here, O Friends, my Wife, and my Sons, the chances of whose losses will eternally be famous in the Diaries of my Mis­fortunes.

He recounted here particularly to them, how his Wife had long since been violently taken from him by an amorous Robber; and [Page 156]how by the favour of Heaven, she preserv'd undefil'd, surviving the barbarous Fellow, and ex­treamly necessitous, came begging to the service of a Garden, behind whose hedge she had the occasion of re-knowing her Sons, who contracting a friendship, and re­lating the unfortunate accidents of each others fate, were known to be Brothers.

All ran on the sudden by turns, to embrace and do homage unto their new Lords; by whom they were inform'd of the manner, how the one by Shepherds re­cover'd out of the mouth of a Wolf, and the other by Peasants out of the paws of a Lion, had, spending their time in a mean e­ducation, been at last by a Drum recall'd to their natural inclina­tion.

Acclamations soon began, the usual Companions of felicity; [Page 157]each one affirming, he admir'd how 'twas possible they took not before for Placidus his Sons, those valiant young Gentlemen, who were so like their Father in the features of the face, the strength of arm, and magnani­mity of heart. Kinde receptions, praises, and congratulations, would have never had an end, if the General, who most passio­nately desired to thank again his gratious Creatour, had not, ta­king an occasion from the time, (the night now coming on very fast) after his thanks to every one for their kindness, most cour­teously and dexterously dismiss'd them.

After their departure, Eusta­chius left onely with his Wife and his Sons, began to say to them, Ah Wife, ah Sons, as dear to my heart, as all the hope it hath, and all its felicity; and [Page 158]what sense have we of the mul­titude of favours so mercifull a God bestows upon us? Ah dear Theopista, whom so long I have sigh'd for, behold me again in thy arms; I embrace thee by the favour of that most loving Fa­ther, who most gratiously and mercifully depriv'd me of thee, to make me relish pleasure, by re­storing thee to me. And O ye Sons, so principal a part of my bowels, have ye in such disatrous and difficult wayes of hostile vi­cissitudes kept the innocence was due from you by gratitude, not onely by nature, for the many obligations, which more than all men living besides, ye have to so bountifull a God? Embrace ye me, O Sons, O Sons much de­fir'd, and twice born. O how many times have tears drown'd my sleep, when I thought I heard you howling and roaring in the [Page 159]Woods? But glory be to God, we behold one another once again, and shall meet for the fu­ture more happily, for the plenty of so many favours cannot choose but so mollify, and so powerful­ly in the end raise our hearts to correspond with God Almighty, but that this correspondence, en­flaming, and replenishing us with him, must showre on our souls a Paradsie of graces, of glory, and happiness.

Here he made an end, for affe­ction brake the thread of his dis­course; Theopista wept, & his Sons likewise wept. The brother the brother, the husband the wife, the mother the sons, and the sons now their father, now their mother did hug, and embrace, mixing congra­tulations with kisses, and embitte­ring their kisses with tears. Every thing concluded in expressions of kindness, and the mutest were [Page 160]most eloquent. All these love-extasies they ended at the foot of a Crucifix, where what discourses of gratitude, what sense of devo­tion, what affections of affection, and what protestations, and resig­nations they made, I cannot des­cribe. The Angells have done it, who, spectators of so delicate and wonderfull a scene, have registred their Acts in the Annals of eterni­nity, to present them to God, as a pleasing sight to him who is in his own sphear, when he shines among the flames of an enamour'd heart.

They supt, but gaz'd more than they did eat, the communication of their miseryes past refreshing them more, than the delicatest meat, though it had been drest by the skilfullest hand, and with the rarest sauces in the world.

In the morning they went to the Army, which rendevous'd toge­ther, [Page 161]expected them, waving with gladness, acclamations, and such joyfull applause, that it plainly appeared the happiness alone of the Generall, was the soul of that vast body, considering his digni­ty, but the heart, if we consider their affections.

This day they were jocund and joviall, and consumed the next in preparations to be gone, the word being given through the Campe of their future dislodging. Eusta­chius, when the legions, the bag­gage, and prisoners were marcht away, went directly to Rome, in the midway to which he received advice, that Trajan, the just, the valiant, and couragious, was dead, which disturb'd in some sort the contentment of his heart. Something should be said in the praise of his vertue, if the name of Trajan had not been the greatest prayse the memorialls of that age [Page 162]could commemorate. The Gene­rall publisht the news to the Le­gions, who wept not for his death, for at the same time, they heard of the succession of Adrian, not was it lawfull, or at least secure to weep, when tears might mali­ciously be interpreted, and said to be shed, rather for the coronation of the one, than the death of the other. In those tyrannous times, they lookt not, nor spake without counsell, and before they went a­broad, receiv'd information of the interests of the Prince, to know what kind of Countenance they should wear through the City.

Eustachius arriving in Rome, was receiv'd in that manner by the Emperour, that he found no want of Trajan. I relate not the ceremonyes at his meeting, his prayses, the concourses of people, the Images, Crowns, and trium­phall arches, because in each [Page 163]place, where vertue appears, she draggs triumphs after her, and he's much more fortunate than valiant, whose vertue can receive augmentation of glory by a tri­umph.

Adrian embraced, commen­ded, and rewarded him, augmen­ting his titles, his riches, and au­thority. Adrian's whole discourse still concluded with the prudence, the valour, and fortune of Placi­dus. Placidus was the Emperors right hand, the apple of the eye of the Empire, and a patterne for the Lords. All lookt on him, not on­ly as a valiant Commander, but a favorite, He that of Placidus could dispose whose Genius was sup­posed predominant o're Adrians, thought he could command the Prince: Adrian made him often tell the story of his life, and kist, and hugg'd him often in his bo­some, and sometimes was so jea­lous, [Page 164]and sometimes so delighted with him, that he challenging a share in the fortunate successe of so raging a tempest, said, in the health of Placidus, he ow'd his first triumph to the Gods.

Placidus dispatcht all affaires, and calm'd and resolv'd all the Emperours cares, and doubts. But what wonder is't, that vertue should be lov'd, and respected. Placidus never went into the Royall Cabinet, but learning, and truth enterd with him, ne­cessary conditions for the Moses, who is to be there to discourse with his God. His Power never swell'd him at all, and though in so short a space of time, he at­tain'd to such greatness, that his looks and command were held in the same veneration, yet he more humble, and more affable to all than before, then onely shew'd his greatness, when he had an op­portunity [Page 165]to shew his magnani­mity. He had a heart of ashes, and still thought upon his own vileness. As the Bee that the wind should not carry him away, he still carry'd in his hands the base stone of his condition. He had not, like Philotas, need of shoes soal'd with lead, to the end the winde of vanity, should not raise him from the earth. Death, and the Cross, were the Anchor and Mast, which secured this Ship. He knew well the feathers of birds, that were offer'd up in holocausts, were thrown on the dunghill, and that the more the Syren of great­ness allures, the more needfull it is for Ulysses, to be ty'd to the mast, for his own preservation.

The greater his power was, the more stil the followers, or to speak better, the fishers of Fortune ex­tended their netts, and toyl'd for his favour. Every one believ'd, he [Page 166]had stopt the rowling wheele of his fortune, when he thought, he was sure of his power. Every one directed his motions to the splen­dour of this light, which was reve­renc'd by all, as the North Star of this Heaven. O with what ease do our eys deceive themselves!

Whither it be the nature of af­fection, whose heat's the less du­rable, by being the more vehe­ment, or whither it be the nature of nature, which having to every thing prescribed a mutation, re­duces that faster to the center, which she hath with greater vio­lence exalted to the summit, Pla­cidus had a fall.

Confide he in the favour of man, who is a greater favourit, more deserving, and more neces­sary to his master, than Placidus was to Adrian. He fell, but he fell into Paradise. This is a for­tunate precipice, for he fell into [Page 167]the lap of eternall and incompre­hensible felicity, but yet tis a pre­cipice, for a terrible and dread­full example of human mutabi­lity,

That a man for his vertue res­pected, and for his condition most powerfull, well spoken of by all, desir'd by all Nations, and victo­rious in all battailes, whom his Countrey glory'd in, the age he liv'd in honour'd, and in whom the Prince said he was happy, should set in an instant, be exa­min'd by a hangman, unjustly condemn'd and sentenc'd by that mouth, which more than any o­ther carest, kist, and made him re­nown'd, is a thing so full of hor­rour, that I hold the man mad, who after so notorious an exam­ple, will trust in his own prudence, and think it sufficient to support him in the favour of man, be he never so friendly, or oblig'd.

The ancient Roman Emperors, after any remarkable victory gave publiquely thanks to their Gods, which they used to do with that pompe of apparrell, and train of applauses, that many times the altars had occasion to envy their bravery, who offer'd Incense on them, and still he was ador'd more devoutly that discharged the vow, than he that had given the suc­cesse.

The pompe predesign'd for the glory of this sacrifice, receiving the Period expected so long, A­drian with bravery more becoming a magnificent oftentation, than a devout and great gratitude, repay­red to the Temple to give the Gods thanks, for the Empire so great, and victory so glorious they propitiously had given him. He went into the Temple, atten­ded and applauded by all his greatest Princes, beginning his [Page 169]function with the accustomed pie­ty of the fortunate, who usually place all their devotion in the charge they are at in the sacrifice. When the end drew nigh, he loo­king about him, remembred that Placidus was not there, and sighing, quickly feard, lest some sudden distemper might surprize him in that manner, as to hinder him from waiting upon him.

He said to himself, he cannot be ingratefull, to whose only glo­ry the victory we consecrate is due; nor can he be thought irre­ligious, for he is well known and respected, as descended from as holy a man as Heaven hath on earth, and he will not degenerate. The sacrifice no sooner was en­ded, but the Emperour with extra­ordinary kindnes, was extreme­ly desirous to know what had happen'd to his Placidus, who as soon as he came into the Temple (not without a universall asto­nishment) [Page 170]he heard, departed thence in great hast with his sons.

Adrian more doubtfull than before, and more irresolute, gave order, that Placidus should again be sought after, and if he were well, should repaire unto him, who stayd to speak with him, with unspeakable anxiety. The Empe­rour scarce arriv'd at the Palace, when Placidus appeared with his sons, and Adrian soon looking se­renely complained of him, as if it had troubl'd him much, to be so long uncertain of his health whom he loved, and favoured in that manner.

And what could I think (he quickly said to him) but that you were ill, since you were not pre­sent at the sacrifice, we offer'd to the Gods, out of gratitude for a victory, which more for the bene­fit of your glory, than the growth [Page 171]of the Roman Empire, they so prodigally have favour'd, and as­sisted. Surely something of great consequence (to the standers by great scandall) made thee go from the Temple, where the Gods would have hath thee to be grate­fully religious, and exemplar.

Sir, reply'd Placidus, you ac­cuse me of a fault I never commit­ted. If because I was not pre­sent, where cold, mute, and impo­tent stones are ador'd, you think me ingratefull to Christ, who on­ly is the giver of victoryes, you guess very ill.

Adrian at these words, whi­ther amaz'd, or ambiguous, I know not, looking on the ground, and with the forefinger of his right hand, scratching lightly his hair, stood still a little while, like one that thinks on things, and re­solves not what to do, then dying his countenance with his doubts, [Page 172]he blusht, and grew pale, began, and was silent. In the end, he composing himself as well as he could, sent out of his mouth, which express'd indignation, these words, or the like.

Let's be cautious, O Placidus, of speaking against Heaven, for the matter is too nice. Jesting is not good, where simplicity or ma­lignity ill apply'd, may occasion bad examples to the publique. Though the knowledge men have of thy goodness, secures thee from the fear of being reputed irreligi­ous, thou shouldst not bring me into the danger of blame, for too much forbearance, by permitting such things to be spoken in my presence, which cannot be peacea­bly heard, without the blasphemy of the ear.

Sir, reply'd Eustachius, grown red with the holy Ghost, whoso­ever professes his Religion, does [Page 173]jest. For the Victories I have had, I have thank'd the gratious God that bestows them. If I waited not on you where Jupiter and Mars are adored, 'twas onely that I could not endure to see, not onely vainly, but wickedly, the incenses consum'd, which be­long to the Lord of Hell, where Mars and Jupiter themselves are eternally tormented.

O God, what do I hear? Is Placidus so terrible a Blasphemer? Placidus so pertinacious a Chri­stian? A Christian, and Blasphe­mer, even to my face? Fear we so little the Thunderbolts of Hea­ven? Is Adrian's Sword and Justice so slenderly regarded? Souldiers, keep him in hold, his greatness will serve to get For­tune renown. Some violent di­straction of minde hath perhaps overcome him, and therefore give him time and opportunity to re­collect [Page 174]himself. A sacrifice will rectify his errour, and when no hope is left, I'le finde out a way to repair the veneration of the Gods, and save the Law from violence. No greatness of For­tune, prerogative of Valour, or protection of Favour, is security to any that refuses to worship our Gods, during Adrian's reign. Shut him up again, and keep him safe.

Placidus would have answer'd; but the violence of Adrian's pas­sion, which carried him away, made him lose that opportunity. In the mean time, the Souldiers surrounded him, while he full of spirit, began to preach, and pub­lickly profess his belief, detesting the Idols, and preaching the truth of Christs Law to all the Guard of Cesar. Yet none was so bold to approach to offend him; so powerfully the rayes of his Vir­tue, [Page 175]which commanded a respect in each person, were darted by him.

Why delay ye, Fellow-Soul­diers, he mildly spake to them, why do ye delay? Is this the Di­scipline you learnt in my School? Obey ye so slowly your Gene­ral? What respect retards you? Is't perhaps to do me honour? Honour me by imitating the rea­diness with which I have alwayes obey'd my Superiours. A Master's commands should be executed, not examin'd. Approach free'y to me, I defend not my self, I long have aspir'd to these Mani­cles. Behold here are my hands, binde them if you please, I refuse not to be ty'd: He was bound harder, and more ignominiously, for whose sake ignominies shall be glorious to me, and wounds serve for trophyes. In one thing alone ye may gratifie the affecti­on [Page 176]I have alwayes had for you, if ye speedily send to Adrian, and tell him I am Eustachius, not Placidus, a Professor of Chri­stianity, no Idolater; and that if from me, my Wife, or my Sons, he hope for any other confession, he hopes for it in vain. He shall see by our undauntedness, what manner of Gods he serves, who loves his God as heartily as we do love ours: and if he'll deter­mine any thing on our lives, who so firmly persist in our faith, let him speedily do it, to decline the loss of time in his Counsels, and retard not the reward of our Victories.

These words being spoken with a stable and fearless countenance, begat an amazement in the Au­ditors, which turned in the end into pity. Every one was sorry for him; and there was not any person so vile, that would not [Page 177]very willingly have open'd a vein, to avoyd seeing him brought to so ill an end, who was as good as happy, and so happy, that he could desire nothing of Fortune, because she had nothing left to give him.

When the rumour was spread through the City, that Placidus was carry'd to Prison, the People abshed, came running with such tacit confusion, that the streets; though full of Persons, would have been suppos'd a Desart, if they had given credit to their ears, the tumult here making no noyse, and quietness not repo­sing. The silence was such as is usually occasion'd by abundance of fear, or a sorrow incapable of revenge. The cause of this strangeness was both terrible and ambiguous to them, who could not think him impious that was so well known, now excuse a [Page 178]wicked deed of a Prince so much fear'd.

Adrian inform'd with what constancy Eustachius contemn'd both Death, and the Gods, was mad with indignation, and per­haps too with grief, for without extream violence we pass not to hatred from love; so deeply and tacitly this potent affection of af­fection takes root in our hearts. Supposing himself to be vilify'd and despis'd, as he was contriving a revenge, a new information furpriz'd him, that Theopista, with her sons, was as ready to accompany her Husband into Prison, as she did in his Belief. He heard that all four, unani­mously and publickly detesting the Idols, (not without the Peo­ples wonder and attention) stood preaching and extolling the merit of their Religion. He, (over­come by a violent passion) which [Page 179]transported him against them, would precipitously have com­manded their present execution, if some persons of authority, commiserating the sadness of their case, and endeavouring the ap­peasing of his fury, had not made him believe, 'twould be more ad­vantageous to the Empire, and Religion, to conquer Eustachius, than kill him. They represented to Adrian, Eustachius was a Person belov'd of the People, and Armies, and 'twas necessary, not onely commendable, to give him some time, that his contumacy might justifie the punishment, or repentance make glorious his im­prisonment. This, as the best re­solution, was concluded; and therefore the Prisoner was in­form'd, he should prepare himself to make the Gods a sacrifice, or be sacrific'd himself. This com­bate continued three dayes, du­ring [Page 180]which time, all the Christians of the City were not wanting to visit him, to comfort and encou­rage him. His friends us'd all means for his safety, and the Em­perour invaded him by his inti­mate acquaintance. The last temptation was suggested by a Friend, who, though sent by Ce­sar, feign'd he came of himself out of kindness, and an earnest desire to preserve him; insomuch as what Arts the School sels, Dis­sembling can counterfeit, or In­terest devise, he put in execution; and making a mixture of affecti­on, of arguments, offers, and threats, and tempering and infu­sing each thing in commendati­ons, the last and most powerfull enchantment to Persons of Va­lour, labour'd mightily to corrupt him.

Dearest Eustachius, what is become of thy renowned Virtue, [Page 181]the scourge of our Enemies, the prop of our Empire, and glory of our Age? Who hath perswaded thee to make thy self an Enemy to the Gods, by opposing the Re­ligion of thy Ancestors, the Law of thy Prince, and injuring the simplicity of the People, who by thy example will protect the in­juries done to the Gods, which have made thee victorious against all the powers, and triumphant under that space of Heaven they govern and illuminate? Eusta­chius, thou dissentest from thy self, not onely from thy Prince, and out faith. Why leav'st thou the Religion thou so frequently hast defended with thy dangers, so often augmented with victo­ries, and so many times authoriz'd with thy noble and sumptuous sacrifices, even to the exhausting of thy Treasure? Is this the gra­titude thou professest to the Gods, [Page 182]who so often have made thee vi­ctorious, and sharing, as it were, their Divinity with thee, have allow'd men as well to swear by thy happiness, as by their own omnipotency.

Some Devil, and Enemy to the People of Rome, hath perverted thee. The justice of those Gods, who never abandon'd thy pro­tection, till they saw thee their Enemy, make thee see the in­justice of thy cause. Consider, dear Friend, what condition thou art in; from the high way of triumphs, and greatness, thou art faln into Prison, and the danger of thy head; Ah unhappy man, who will assist thee? Will that God peradventure, whose own hands are nail'd? Wilt thou therefore dishonour the glory of thy name, ruine thy state, and the greatness of thy Family, and bury the hopes of thy Country, [Page 183]which promis'd it self, in thy va­lour and prudence, a long and sure prop to its happiness? Wilt thou despise the fortune which offers it self unto thee by the favour of the Prince, who, because he might not see thee destroy'd, exhibites to make thee so great, that thou in all the world shalt have none above thee, he onely excepted, who is second to none that is not a God. All thy friends and alli­ance, with tears and prostrate hearts, beseech thee not to do it. Wilt thou see so many tears shed in vain, and so many friends de­ceiv'd, for a God condemn'd, and punish'd? They have bought thy protection with the sweat of their labours, and have spent, and still passionately desire to spend their blood for the glory of thy Fami­ly and Name; and wilt thou give consent to abandon them? Ah, they may have reason to fear it, [Page 184]if thou tak'st delight in holding them so long in suspence, and go'st about even to abandon the Gods themselves. But who, but who are they, which remov'd not far from thee, groan under the weight of so many Chains, in so dark and so dreadfull a Prison? Ah wretch that I am, whom do I behold? Are they, or are they not the same? Are those thy so valorous Sons, and that thy Wife so chast, whom thou so much lo­vedst? Ah Placidus, and canst finde in thy heart to see them torn in pieces? And why grow'st thou so cruelly perverse on the sudden to thy Friends, thy Wife, thy Sons, thy self, and the Gods of thy Progenitors, of thy Prince, thy Country, and Triumphs?

Eustachius inspired by God, turning himself towards his Sons with a smile, lest his valour might be stain'd if he fell to [Page 185]words, when he had the com­mand of his Sword, spake to them in this manner.

We must now, my Beloved, resolve to do something; and what will ye do? To enjoy a short eternity, will ye disgust the Friends which counsel us so well? For a God, though a Creator and Redeemer, will ye offend a Prince, that hath done you the honour to let you spill so often your blood, to uphold him in his Throne? For a God displeas'd with our loving Dei­ties, though Heaven be his Temple, and by nature he be goodness it self, and virtually omnipotent, shall we leave off offering up Incense to these beau­tifull Statues, where men admire the excellency of Art, and harken to infernal Consultations? If ye'll resolve on this, besides the leave ye'll have of the most gratious [Page 186]Prince, to spill again your blood for his sake; he will too permit you, (since the loss of your souls is inevitable, if ye dye in rebelli­on against the true God) to live at least, and quickly leade a for­tunate life, if it be a happy life, to have many occasions of con­testing with the dangers and mi­series of war, emulation, envy, sickness, and servitude.

So spake he to them; then turning himself to his idolatrous Counsellour, he added; I both excuse and pity thee: Thou dost not comprehend what our souls aspire to; we thirst after favours and lives which are not terrestrial. Report, we do not adore Gods, Deflowrers of Virgins, Incestuous to their Sisters, and Deceivers of Men; Gods that are Parricides, Adulterers, Rapacious, Impo­stors, and Blood-suckers, born to the shame, not protection of the [Page 187]world, and deify'd onely by them, who under the shadow of a Dei­ty, that loves, and does not pu­nish impieties, seek to shelter their consciences. And is't pos­sible a Man of Valour, though no Christian, should not be asham'd to see himself prostrate at the foot of a God, more wicked than wickedness it self? And is't pos­sible he should not know these Incenses are consum'd in vain; and so many, and such charge­able Victims, are to no other end, but to waste our Wealth and Goods? These are Gods which rob us, though dead, and though ador'd. O blindness! That God is not ours, which seeks our perdition; and that God is no God, that knows not how to hinder his own. Let us bestow our incenses where we have our hopes. We hope not in impieties, in wickednesses, and [Page 188]eternal blasphemers of Gods name, by whom they condemn'd, will alwayes feel the punishment of their pride and rebellion.

I can answer you no other­wise, but that you know us not, if you threaten us. And what wouldst thou have us to fear? Shame? And think'st thou that he'll dye of shame, who, a Con­querour of the Devil, and the World, dyes serving, and to serve his Creator? What would'st thou have us fear? Death? A Christian hopes for death, and fears it not. Gods knife, not Adrians, affrights us. A Christian hath his Country, his faith, hope, treasures, and glory in Heaven. He is not a Countrey­man of this life. Whosoever kils him, does not drive him from the Earth, but helps him to get sooner to Heaven, whither he (here a Pil­grim) aspires. O unhappy man, that to live a few days, would lose such [Page 189]a fortunate occasion of eternally beatifying himself. But why nam'd I a few days? If thou canst assure me of a moment of time for sacri­ficing to thy Gods, I am ready to tell thee, I will readily do it: but if that cannot be, (so fading and uncertain is this our frail life) why wouldst thou make me lose an e­ternal felicity for a very short mo­ment of time? for a moment uncer­tain? for a moment, which, if cer­tain, would have howsoever more torment than life? Friend, we will dye, even to fly this so troublesome life, much more to serve our God, that is so full of power. And this life is too vile, too uncertain, and too dependant; and we passionate­ly desire once to dye, to behold our most mercifull God, to whose one­ly presence our souls do aspire and sigh. Ah, O my Sons, shall we ne­ver attain to this happiness? Shall we never get to tast it? O most happy we, if our God will be [Page 190]pleas'd to confer it on us. And what shall we do in that blessed light, which never is eclipsed? In that inexhaustible and incom­prehensible Sea of delights, and consolations? Will these petty disasters we suffer for his sake, prove bitter or sweet, profitable or sad? Ah woe's me, a frail and poor Creature, who love not even so well my God, but that the flesh makes me think of interest, of pleasure, and reward. Be not scandaliz'd my sons, let's fight, let's suffer, and dye for the onely love of God. God alone be our object, our reward, and our in­terest. Though he did not intend to reward us, he deserves to be be­lov'd; and how much for us hath he done? Ah scourges, ah thorns, ah lances, ah nails, and ah cross, ye know very well.

They spake here all together, as expressing the consent of four valiant persons, who animating [Page 191]one another, as they fortify'd themselves, so made the Specta­tors relent. The Orator, confoun­ded, and unable to compass his end, returned to Adrian, relating to him, he had met with a Prison full of Constancy; where he that expected to dye, was more fear­full of the flowness, than the sharpness of his Sword.

Adrian implacably incens'd with this last relation, calling Placidus ingratefull, sacrilegious, and seditious, and invoking par­ticularly each God, extoll'd and exaggerated the merit of his own piety. That he had rather part with a Minister of state, though usefull and glorious to the Em­pire, than that Heaven should be sacrific'd to by his hand. When he with exclamations, complaints, threats, and injuries, had suffici­ently enflam'd and tormented himself, (the authority of the Devil his Counsellor prevailing [Page 192]at last) he resolv'd to blot Pla­cidus out of the book of life; and ask'd by his will, what death they should dye; the Lions, he reply'd, should devour them, who had for that purpose fasted three dayes together.

The innocent Christians were led to the Theater, whither they went with a faith deserving a Theater. The People (who with tears resented their condition) ac­company'd and pitied them with a sorrow and compassion that cannot be express'd. Every one was sorry for the Sons unhappy youth, and every one for the Pa­rents affliction. Some thought the death of the young men was most worthy of pity, because they were cut off in the flower of their age, while others had a greater compassion for the Parents, sup­posing their death to be the more pretious, for by losing themselves, and their Sons, they lost and la­mented [Page 193]more lives. When the Theater was open'd, and the per­sons condemned appear'd, who more cheer'd up themselves in their dangers, no eye was free from tears, especially when they saw, and heard Eustachius speak, who kneeling in the midst of his beloved family, cry'd aloud with his hands rear'd to Heaven.

Though all hell should be let loose, much less a few Lyons, he can have no feare that loves thee, O Lord. Thou art too sweet, and too dear, O sweet and dear Love of our love. Behold us at thy feer, most ready and prepar'd for a sa­crifice, which is not so pure, and immaculate, as thou dost deserve, is what four poor, and miserable sinners can give thee. With thy loving mercyes, make it what thou would'st have it to be for thy glory. What say ye dear Sons? are ye glad of this occasion, to shew your prompt obedience, to [Page 194]our most gracious Father and God. Take ye pleasure that he see, he hath not given so much to you, but that ye are ready to present, and sacrifice more to him, if it lay in your power? Offer up to him, and give him that life, he so often hath bestow'd upon you, preserv'd and made noble. Which way will these Lyons come out? Will they make peradventure to this place? Come valorous Sons, let us bend thither. Ye are well acquainted with Lyons, ye have conquer'd them formerly, when ye were not old enough to distin­guish them: Will ye now be a­fraid of them, when ye fight for Gods sake?

Ah dear husband (his wife in­terrupting him began) wrong not the valour of our Sons. Ye, O my Sons shall stand here together, and I here before: She will lead you out of this life, who brought you into it. Give prayses to God [Page 195]for the victory, and bless and in­voke him. O holy, thrice holy, and a thousand times holy, behold us at the sacrifice, we so often have desir'd. Accept O amorous, accept most loving flame of our breasts, this litte and last, but cordiall oblation of our wish.

When the grates were open'd, the Lyons (very hungry and at li­berty) issu'd forth, whose horrible roaring made all the spectators af­fraid, for they came with that violence and fury, that the holy Martyrs obsequies were lamented by all, e're their death. None could endure to behold this destru­ction, so as with a generous aver­sion, all lookt another way, not now not to pity, but to shun the the first encounter of so sad, and so skreaking a compassion. Now every one, disliking so merciless a spectacle, departed, abhorring and detesting so barbarous a cruelty, [Page 196]when behold a sudden hissing ari­sing, each eye was recall'd to the Theater, and o'recome with the wonder of an accident, which dis­order'd, and terrifi'd each breast, and each conscience.

When the Lyons were un­chain'd, and came furiously to the grate, which was set wide open, they no sooner approached to the prey, but fearfull, harmless, and hungry, retreated, and carrying low their heads, (shewing they were conquer'd by the vertue of men, who though living on earth, were of Heaven) perswaded the people to magnify Gods power, who not onely when he pleases, makes Lyons, but the pillars them­selves, that bear up the Heavens, tremble, totter, and shake.

In the most noble fabrique of the Temple of Solomon, I remem­ber not, that in any of the Chapi­ters, or bases of braffe were figur'd [Page 197]certain knobs, composed of Che­rubins, of Lyons, and Palme-trees. Behold here a mystery verifi'd. Eustachius, Theopistas and their Sons, representing four Cheru­bins, with the branches of Palme­trees adorning their hands, came conquerours out of the midst of those Lyons, whom still with great ease, the servants of God have usually o'recome, as if they were Lambs, and not Lyons. A­drian, to whom the relation of the miracle was brought with all speed, poyson'd with the fury of his vilifi'd Devill, lifting his hands towards Heaven, and feigning he was comforted, that he might not confess he was o'recome. O Eternall Providence, brake forth, even the beasts themselves abhor those ill-bred People, which re­bell'd against the Gods. The Lyon never shew'd his magnanimity more seasonably, than by scorning [Page 198]such wicked, and infamous nou­rishment. But let them not brag, their sacriledges were unpunish'd, for my sword is keen enough, to roote out of the world so pestife­rous a graffe. I must not let the Peoples simplicity be deluded by their incantations, who that they might detract from the glory of our Gods, have made hell protect their impiety. Remove them from the Theater.

The next morning the Tyrant arose by break of day, whose fury would not suffer him to rest. He was very much afflicted, to see his vast Empire inferiour in valour, to the courage of four persons, arm'd with nothing els, but the only name of JESUS.

The ancient Emperors, to mar­tyrize the Christians, kept a huge brazen Bull, the invention I be­lieve of some Devill, who brought a hell on earth, which when 'twas [Page 199]red hot by a vehement fire, af­frighted and terrifi'd whosoeve beheld it.

This machine exposed in pub­lique, which scar'd even him, that went neer to it, the barbarous Tyrant gave command, the four Champions should be put, and enclosed in it's bulke. O number proportion'd to the forme of a ba­sis, whose quadrangular firmeness was most fit, to support the grow­ing Church.

This liker a Devill, than a Bull, was no sooner made hot, but dreadfully at his eyes, his mouth, and his nostrills, breathing smoak, and flames, was sufficient to terri­fy, even heaven it self, much more the poor breast of a man, whom the meer apprehension of d [...]th was enough to deterre and deject. Those breathings, which in eve­ry other creature were the argu­ments of life, were in this infer­nall [Page 200]monster the symptomes of death. While the Machine waxed hot, the matter enflaming it self (which naturally being cold, by how much the more vigorously it resisted the heat, by so much the more violently receiv'd and distri­buted the heat with more paine) I imagine to my self, the prisoner first assaulted by the aire, which with its heat invading his head; did threaten to choake him. That part of the brasse then growing more vehemently hot, which nee­rest the fire, endur'd the first as­saults, the poor tormented crea­ture, beginning first to feele his flesh singe, then fry, and consume, could not choose (grown offensive to himself) but grieve he was forc'd to bewayle with unspea­kable sorrow, the cruelty of that punishment, which making him survive his own flesh, caus'd him [...]o see those limbs, which so cruelly [Page 201](O death even painfull to our phancy) he had both felt die, and was forc'd to lament too when dead.

No sooner the cruell Emperors Command was perform'd, but the fire being lighted, in less than an houre, the Bull (which no longer was of brass, but all fire) threw up horrible sparkles from out of the midst of the ambient flames, with so dolefull a spectacle, that the standers by themselves, felt their bosomes and eyes melt with pity, at the sight of that object, which certainly without griefe, was not to be seen.

Our four couragious Champi­ons were sacrific'd to truth, on this altar of torments, whose affectio­nate death I resolv'd to conceal, since I feel my heart broken to pieces, I would I could say with devotion, but I am so great a sin­ner, I dare not have such thoughts of my self.

I confess I abandon thee, O Reader, in the best of the story, since I should have represented the devotion, with which these holy Martyrs have yielded up the Ghosts, beseeching God to free them at last from these earthly af­flictions, and make beneficiall to the piety of posterity, the memo­ry of these sufferings, of which the first reward, was to hear a voyce speaking from Heaven to them, it shall be, as ye desire, O happy soules.

I confess I should relate, how gloriously Gods omnipotence ap­pear'd, by freeing them from so terrible a burning, where they were rather lulled asleep than consum'd, without the least harm of a hair, much less of their gar­ments or flesh.

I confess, it would redound ve­ry much to our profit, to meditate on the pity (to our own confu­sion) [Page 203]which an unbelieving people afforded by their tears, of which the most wicked commiserated their punishment, and the best their faith did imitate. I confess all this, but what shall I do? my pen can write no more, grown feeble with compassion, as well as with weariness.

I have spent all my affections, it remaines now, O Reader, thou begin to use thine. And when e're again (before it be too late) wilt thou have such a fair opportunity to meditate, to weep, and to lead a better life.