of apprehending, but in the uncertainty of the object. Words are vocal interpreters of the mind, actions real; and therefore, however both should speak according to the truth of what is in the heart, yet words do more belie the heart, than actions. I care not what words I hear, when I see deeds. I am sure what a man doth, he thinketh; not so always, what he speaketh. Though I will not be so severe a censor, that for some few evil acts I should condemn a man of false-heartedness, yet in common course of life, I need not be so mopish, as not to believe rather the language of the hand, than of the tongue. He that says well and doth well, is without exception commendable, but if one of these must be severed from the other, I like him well that doth well and saith nothing.

LII. That which they say of the pelican, that when the shepherds, in desire to catch her, lay fire not far from her nest, which she finding, and fearing the danger of her young, seeks to blow out with her wings so long till she burns herself, and makes herself a prey in an unwise pity to her young; I see morally verified in experience, of those who indiscreetly meddling with the flame of dissention kindled in the church, rather increase, than quench it; rather fire their own wings, than help others. I would rather bewail the fire afar off, than stir in the coals of it. I would not grudge my ashes to it, if those might abate the burning; but since I see it is daily increased with partaking, I will behold it with sorrow; and meddle no otherwise, than by prayers to God and entreaties to men; seeking my own safety and the peace of the church, in the freedom of my thought and silence of my tongue.

LIII. That which is said of Lucilla's faction, that anger bred it, pride fostered it, and covetousness confirmed it, is true of all schisms, though with some inversion; for the most are bred through pride, while men, upon a high conceit of themselves, scorn to go in the common road, and affect singularity in opinion; are confirmed through anger, while they stomach and grudge any contradiction; and are nourished through covetousness, while they seek ability to bear out their part. In some others, again,

covetousness obtains the first place; anger, the second; pride, the last. Herein therefore I have been always wont to commend and admire the humility of those great and profound wits, whom depth of knowledge hath not led to by-paths in judgment; but, walking in the beaten path of the church, have bent all their forces to the establishment of received truths; accounting it greater glory to confirm an ancient verity, than to devise a new opinion, though never so profitable, unknown to their predecessors. I will not reject a truth for mere novelty; old truths may come newly to light; neither is God tied to times, for the gift of his illumination: but I will suspect a novel opinion of untruth, and not entertain it, unless it may be deduced from ancient grounds.

LIV. The ear and the eye are the mind's receivers ; but the tongue is only busied in expending the treasure received. If therefore the revenues of the mind be uttered as fast or faster than they are received, it cannot be but that the mind must needs be held bare, and can never lay up for purchase: but if the receivers take in still with no utterance, the mind may soon grow a burden to itself, and unprofitable to others. I will not lay up too much and utter nothing, lest I be covetous; nor spend much and store up little, lest I be prodigal and

poor.

LV. It is a vain-glorious flattery for a man to praise himself; an envious wrong, to detract from others. I will speak no ill of others, no good of myself.

LVI. That which is the misery of travellers, to find many hosts and few friends, is the estate of Christians in their pilgrimage to a better life. Good friends may not therefore be easily forgone: neither must they be used as suits of apparel, which, when we have worn threadbare, we cast off and call for new. Nothing, but death or villainy, shall divorce me from an old friend; but still I will follow him so far as is either possible or honest; and then I will leave him with sorrow.

LVII. True friendship necessarily requires patience; for there is no man in whom I shall not mislike somewhat, and who shall not, as justly, mislike somewhat in me. My friend's faults therefore, if little, I will swallow and

digest; if great, I will smother them: however I will wink at them to others, but lovingly notify them to himself.

LVIII. Injuries hurt not more in the receiving, than in the remembrance. A small injury shall go as it comes; a great injury may dine or sup with me: but none at all shall lodge with me. Why should I vex myself, because another hath vexed me?

LIX. It is good dealing with that, over which we have the most power. If my estate will not be framed to my mind, I will labour to frame my mind to my estate.

LX. It is a great misery to be either always or never alone. Society of men hath not so much gain as distraction. In greatest company, I will be alone to myself; in greatest privacy, in company with God.

LXI. Grief for things past that cannot be remedied, and care for things to come that cannot be prevented, may easily hurt, can never benefit me. I will therefore commit myself to God in both, and enjoy the present.

LXII. Let my estate be never so mean, I will ever keep myself rather beneath, than either level, or above it. A man may rise, when he will, with honour; but cannot fall, without shame.

LXIII. Nothing doth so befool a man, as extreme passion. This doth both make them fools, who otherwise are not; and shew them to be fools, that are so. Violent passions, if I cannot tame them that they may yield to my ease, I will at least smother by concealment, that they may not appear to my shame.

LXIV. The mind of man, though infinite in desire, yet is finite in capacity. Since I cannot hope to know all things, I will labour first to know what I needs must, for their use; next, what I best may, for their convenience.

LXV. Though time be precious to me, as all irrevocable good things deserve to be, and of all other things I would not be lavish of it; yet I will account no time lost, that is either lent to or bestowed upon my friend.

LXVI. The practices of the best men are more subject to error, than their speculations. I will honour good examples, but I will live by good precepts.

LXVII. As charity requires forgetfulness of evil deeds,

so patience requires forgetfulness of evil accidents. I will remember evils past, to humble me, not to vex me.

LXVIII. It is both a misery and a shame for a man to be a bankrupt in love which he may easily pay, and be never the more impoverished. I will be in no man's debt for good will; but will, at least, return every man his own measure, if not with usury. It is much better to be a creditor, than a debtor, in any thing, but especially of this; yet of this I will be so content to be a debtor, that I will always be paying it where I owe it, and yet never will have so paid it, that I shall not owe it more.

LXIX. The Spanish proverb is too true, "Dead men and absent find no friends." All mouths are boldly opened, with a conceit of impunity. My ear shall be no grave to bury my friend's good name. But, as I will be my present friend's self, so will I be my absent friend's deputy, to say for him what he would and cannot speak for himself.

LXX. The loss of my friend, as it shall moderately grieve me, so it shall, another way, much benefit me, in recompence of his want; for it shall make me think more often and seriously of earth and of heaven; of earth, for his body which is reposed in it; of heaven, for his soul which possesseth it before me; of earth, to put me in mind of my like frailty and mortality; of heaven, to make me desire and, after a sort, emulate his happiness and glory. LXXI. Variety of objects is wont to cause distraction; when, again, a little one, laid close to the eye, if but of a penny breadth, wholly takes up the sight, which could else see the whole half heaven at once. I will have the eyes of my mind ever forestalled and filled with these two objects, the shortness of my life, eternity after death.

LXXII. I see that he is more happy, that hath nothing to lose, than he that loseth that which he hath. I will therefore neither hope for riches, nor fear poverty.

LXXIII. I care not so much in any thing for multitude, as for choice. Books and friends I will not have many. I would rather seriously converse with a few, than wander amongst many.

LXXIV. The wicked man is a very coward, and is afraid of every thing; of God, because he is his enemy; of Satan,

because he is his tormentor; of God's creatures, because they, joining with their Maker, fight against him; of himself, because he bears about him his own accuser and executioner. The godly man, contrarily, is afraid of nothing; not of God, because he knows him his best friend, and therefore will not hurt him; not of Satan, because he cannot hurt him; not of afflictions, because he knows they proceed from a loving God, and end to his own good; not of the creatures, since the very stones of the field are in league with him; not of himself, since his conscience is at peace. A wicked man may be secure, because he knows not what he hath to fear; or desperate through extremity of fear; but truly courageous he cannot be. Faithlessness cannot choose but be false-hearted. I will ever by my courage take trial of my faith. By how much more I fear, by so much less I believe.

LXXV. The godly man lives hardly, and, like the ant, toils here during the summer of his peace, holding himself short of his pleasures, as looking to provide for a hard winter, which, when it comes, he is able to wear out comfortably whereas the wicked man doth prodigally lash out all his joys in the time of his prosperity, and, like the grasshopper, singing merrily all summer, is starved in winter. I will so enjoy the present, that I will lay up more for hereafter.

LXXVI. I have wondered oft, and blushed for shame, to read in mere philosophers, who had no other mistress but nature, such strange resolution in the contempt of both fortunes, as they call them; such notable precepts for a constant settledness and tranquillity of mind: and to compare it with my own disposition and practice; whom I have found too much drooping and dejected under small crosses, and easily again carried away with little prosperity to see such courage and strength to contemn death, in those who thought they wholly perished in death; and to find such faint-heartedness in myself, at the first conceit of death, who yet am thoroughly persuaded of the future happiness of my soul. I have the benefit of nature, as well as they, besides infinite more helps that they wanted. O the dulness and blindness of us unworthy Christians, that suffer heathens, by the dim candle-light of nature, to