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A

Discourse of Life

_and Death_.

Written in French by _Ph.

Mornay_.

Antonius,

_A Tragoedie written also in French_

by _Ro. Garnier_.

Both done in English by the

_Countesse of Pembroke_.

[Illustration: publisher's device]

AT LONDON,

Printed for _William Ponsonby_.

1592.

[Illustration: Emblem]

[Decoration]

A Discourse of Life and Death,

Written in French by _Ph. Mornay_.

_Sieur du Plessis Marly_.

It seemes to mee strange, and a thing much to be marueiled, that

the laborer to repose himselfe hasteneth as it were the course

of the Sunne: that the Mariner rowes with all force to attayne

the porte, and with a ioyfull crye salutes the descryed land:

that the traueiler is neuer quiet nor content till he be at the

ende of his voyage: and that wee in the meane while tied in this

world to a perpetuall taske, tossed with continuall tempest,

tyred with a rough and combersome way, cannot yet see the ende

of our labour but with griefe, nor behold our porte but with

teares, nor approch our home and quiet abode but with horrour

and trembling. This life is but a _Penelopes_ web, wherein we

are alwayes doing and vndoing: a sea open to all windes, which

sometime within, sometime without neuer cease to torment vs:

a weary iorney through extreame heates, and coldes, ouer high

mountaynes, steepe rockes, and theeuish deserts. And so we terme

it in weauing at this web, in rowing at this oare, in passing

this miserable way. Yet loe when death comes to ende our worke,

when she stretcheth out her armes to pull vs into the porte,

when after so many dangerous passages, and lothsome lodgings she

would conduct vs to our true home and resting place: in steede

of reioycing at the ende of our labour, of taking comfort at the

sight of our land, of singing at the approch of our happie

mansion, we would faine, (who would beleeue it?) retake our

worke in hand, we would againe hoise saile to the winde, and

willinglie vndertake our iourney anew. No more then remember we

our paines, our shipwracks and dangers are forgotten: we feare

no more the trauailes nor the theeues. Contrarywise, we

apprehende death as an extreame payne, we doubt it as a rocke,

we flye it as a theefe. We doe as litle children, who all the

day complayne, and when the medicine is brought them, are no

longer sicke: as they who all the weeke long runne vp and downe

the streetes with payne of the teeth, and seeing the Barber

comming to pull them out, feele no more payne: as those tender

and delicate bodyes, who in a pricking pleurisie complaine, crie

out, and cannot stay for a Surgion, and when they see him

whetting his Launcet to cut the throate of the disease, pull in

their armes, and hide them in the bed, as, if he were come to

kill them. We feare more the cure then the disease, the surgion

then the paine, the stroke then the impostume. We haue more

sence of the medicins bitternes soone gone, then of a bitter

languishing long continued: more feeling of death the end of our

miseries, then the endlesse misery of our life. And whence

proceedeth this folly and simplicitie? we neyther knowe life,

nor death. We feare that we ought to hope for, and wish for that

we ought to feare. We call life a continuall death: and death

the issue of a liuing death, and the entrance of a neuer dying

life. Now what good, I pray you, is there in life, that we

should so much pursue it? or what euill is there in death, that

we should so much eschue it? Nay what euill is there not in

life? and what good is there not in death? Consider all the

periods of this life. We enter it in teares; we passe it in

sweate, we ende it in sorow. Great and litle, ritch and poore,

not one in the whole world, that can pleade immunitie from this

condition. Man in this point worse then all other creatures, is

borne vnable to support himselfe: neither receyuing in his first

yeeres any pleasure, nor giuing to others but annoy and

displeasure, and before the age of discretion passing infinite

dangers. Only herein lesse vnhappy then in other ages, that he

hath no sence nor apprehension of his vnhappines. Now is there

any so weake minded, that if it were graunted him to liue

alwayes a childe, would make accompt of such a life? So then it

is euident that not simplie to liue is a good, but well and

happilie to liue. But proceede. Growes he? with him growe his

trauailes. Scarcely is he come out of his nurses hands, scarcely

knowes he what it is to play, but he falleth into the subiection

of some Schoolemaister: I speake but of those which are best and

most precisely brought vp. Studies he? it is euer with repining.

Playes he? neuer but with feare. This whole age while he is

vnder the charge of an other, is vnto him but as a prison. He

only thinks, and only aspires to that time when freed from the

mastership of another, he may become maister of himselfe:

pushing onward (as much as in him lies) his age with his

shoulder, that soone he may enioy his hoped libertie. In short,

he desires nothing more then the ende of this base age, and the

beginning of his youth. And what else I pray you is the

beginning of youth, but the death of infancy? the beginning of

manhood, but the death of youth? the beginning of to morow, but

the death of to day? In this sort then desires he his death, and

iudgeth his life miserable: and so cannot be reputed in any

happines or contentment. Behold him now, according to his wish,

at libertie: in that age, wherein _Hercules_ had the choise, to

take the way of vertue or of vice, reason or passion for his

guide, and of these two must take one. His passion entertains

him with a thousand delights, prepares for him a thousand

baites, presents him with a thousand worldly pleasures to

surprize him: and fewe there are that are not beguiled. But at

the reconings ende what pleasures are they? pleasures full of

vice which hold him still in a restles feauer: pleasures subiect

to repentance, like sweete meates of hard disgestion: pleasures

bought with paine and perill, spent and past in a moment, and

followed with a long and lothsome remorse of conscience. And

this is the very nature (if they be well examined) of all the

pleasures of this world. There is in none so much sweetenes, but

there is more bitternes: none so pleasant to the mouth, but

leaues an vnsauery after taste and lothsome disdaine: none

(which is worse) so moderated but hath his corosiue, and caries

his punishment in it selfe. I will not heere speake of the

displeasures confessed by all, as quarells, debates, woundes,

murthers, banishments, sicknes, perils, whereinto sometimes the

incontinencie, sometimes the insolencie of this ill guided age

conductes him. But if those that seem pleasures, be nothing else

but displeasures: if the sweetnes thereof be as an infusion of

wormewood: it is plaine enough what the displeasure is they

feele, and how great the bitternes that they taste. Behold in

summe the life of a yong man, who rid of the gouernment of his

parents and maisters, abandons himselfe to all libertie or

rather bondage of his passion: which right like an vncleane

spirit possessing him, casts him now into the water, now into

the fire: sometimes caries him cleane ouer a rocke, and sometime

flings him headlong to the bottome. Now if he take and followe

reason for his guide, beholde on the other part wonderfull

difficulties: he must resolue to fight in euery part of the

field: at euery step to be in conflict, and at handstrokes, as

hauing his enemy in front, in flanke, and on the reareward,

neuer leauing to assaile him. And what enemy? all that can

delight him, all that he sees neere, or farre off: briefly the

greatest enemy of the world, the world it selfe. But which is

worse, a thousand treacherous and dangerous intelligences among

his owne forces, and his passion within himselfe desperate:

which in that age growne to the highest, awaits but time, houre,

and occasion to surprize him, and cast him into all viciousnes.

God only and none other, can make him choose this way: God only

can hold him in it to the ende: God only can make him victorious

in all his combats. And well we see how fewe they are that enter

into it, and of those fewe, how many that retire againe. Follow

the one way, or follow the other, he must either subiect

himselfe to a tyrannicall passion, or vndertake a weery and

continuall combate, willingly cast himselfe to destruction, or

fetter himselfe as it were in stockes, easily sincke with the

course of the water, or painefully swimme against the streame.

Loe here the young man, who in his youth hath drunke his full

draught of the worlds vaine and deceiuable pleasures, ouertaken

by them with such a dull heauines, and astonishment, as

drunkards the morow after a feast: either so out of taste, that

he will no more, or so glutted, that he can no more: not able

without griefe to speake, or thinke of them. Loe him that

stoutly hath made resistance: he feeles himselfe so weery, and

with this continuall conflict so brused and broken, that either

he is vpon the point to yeeld himselfe, or content to dye, and

so acquit himselfe. And this is all the good, all the

contentment of this florishing age, by children so earnestlie

desired, and by old folkes so hartely lamented. Now commeth that

which is called perfit age, in the which men haue no other

thoughts, but to purchase themselues wisedome and rest. Perfit

in deede, but herein only perfit, that all imperfections of

humane nature, hidden before vnder the simplicitie of childhood,

or the lightnes of youth, appeere at this age in their

perfection. We speake of none in this place but such as are

esteemed the wisest, and most happie in the conceit of the

world. We played as you haue seene in feare: our short pleasures

were attended on with long repentance. Behold, now present

themselues to vs auarice, and ambition, promising if wee will

adore them, perfect contentm[en]t of the goods and honors of this

world. And surely there are none, but the true children of the

Lord, who by the faire illusions of the one or the other cast

not themselues headlong from the top of the pinnacle. But in the

ende, what is all this contentment? The couetous man makes a

thousand voiages by sea and by lande: runnes a thousand

fortunes: escapes a thousand shipwrackes in perpetuall feare and

trauell: and many times he either looseth his time, or gaineth

nothing but sicknesses, goutes, and oppilations for the time to

come. In the purchase of this goodly repose, he bestoweth his

true rest: and to gaine wealth looseth his life. Suppose he hath

gained in good quantitie: that he hath spoiled the whole East of

pearles, and drawen dry all the mines of the West: will he

therefore be setled in quiet? can he say that he is content? All

charges and iourneys past, by his passed paines he heapeth vp

but future disquietnes both of minde and body: from one trauell

falling into another, neuer ending, but changing his miseries.

He desired to haue them, and now feares to loose them: he got

them with burning ardour, and possesseth in trembling colde: he

aduentured among theeues to seeke them, and hauing found them,

theeues and robbers on all sides, runne mainely on him: he

laboured to dig them out of the earth, and now is enforced to

redig, and rehide them. Finally comming from all his voiages he

comes into a prison: and for an ende of his bodely trauels, is

taken with endlesse trauails of the minde. And what at length

hath this poore soule attained after so many miseries? This

Deuill of couetise by his illusions, and enchantments, beares

him in hand that he hath some rare and singuler thing: and so it

fareth with him, as with those seely creatures, whome the Deuill

seduceth vnder couler of releeuing their pouertie, who finde

their hands full of leaues, supposing to finde them full of

crownes. He possesseth or rather is possessed by a thing,

wherein is neither force nor vertue: more vnprofitable, and more

base, then the least hearbe of the earth. Yet hath he heaped

togither this vile excrement, and so brutish is growne, as

therewith to crowne his head, which naturally he should tread

vnder his feete. But howsoeuer it be, is he therewith content?

Nay contrarywise lesse now, then euer. We commend most those

drinks that breede an alteration, and soonest extinguish thyrst:

and those meates, which in least quantitie do longest resist

hunger. Now hereof the more a man drinkes, the more he is a

thirst, the more he eates, the more an hungred: It is a dropsie,

(and as they tearme it) the dogs hunger: sooner may he burst

then be satisfied. And which is worse, so strange in some is

this thyrst, that it maketh them dig the pits, and painefully

drawe the water, and after will not suffer them to drinke. In

the middest of a riuer they are dry with thirst: and on a heape

of corne cry out of famine: they haue goodes and dare not vse

them: they haue ioyes it seemes, and do not enioy them: they

neither haue for themselues, nor for another: but of all they

haue, they haue nothing: and yet haue want of all they haue not.

Let vs then returne to that, that the attaining of all these

deceiuable goods is nothing else but weerines of body, and the

possession for the most part, but weerines of the minde: which

certenly is so much the greater, as is more sensible, more

subtile, and more tender the soule then the body. But the heape

of all misery is when they come to loose them: when either

shipwracke, or sacking, or inuasion, or fire, or such like

calamities, to which these fraile things are subiect, doth take

and cary them from them. Then fall they to cry, to weepe, and to

torment themselues, as little children that haue lost their

play-game, which notwithstanding is nothing worth. One cannot

perswade them, that mortall men haue any other good in this

world, but that which is mortall. They are in their owne

conceits not only spoyled, but altogither flayed. And for asmuch

as in these vaine things they haue fixed all their hope, hauing

lost them, they fall into despaire, out of the which commonly

they cannot be withdrawen. And which is more, all that they haue

not gained according to the accompts they made, they esteeme

lost: all that which turnes them not to great and extraordinary

profit, they accompt as damage: whereby we see some fall into

such despaire, as they cast away themselues. In short, the

recompence that Couetise yeelds those that haue serued it all

their life, is oftentimes like that of the Deuill: whereof the

ende is, that after a small time hauing gratified his disciples,

either he giues them ouer to a hangman, or himselfe breakes

their neckes. I will not heere discourse of the wickednes and

mischiefes wherevnto the couetous men subiect themselues to

attaine to these goodes, whereby their conscience is filled with

a perpetuall remorse, which neuer leaues them in quiet:

sufficeth that in this ouer vehement exercise, which busieth and

abuseth the greatest part of the world, the body is slaine, the

minde is weakened, the soule is lost without any pleasure or

contentment.

Come we to ambition, which by a greedines of honor fondly

holdeth occupied the greatest persons. Thinke we there to finde

more? nay rather lesse. As the one deceiueth vs, geuing vs for

all our trauaile, but a vile excrement of the earth: so the

other repayes vs, but with smoke and winde: the rewards of this

being as vaine, as those of that were grosse. Both in the one

and the other, we fall into a bottomles pit; but into this the

fall by so much the more dangerous, as at the first shewe, the

water is more pleasant and cleare. Of those that geue themselues

to courte ambition, some are great about Princes, others

commanders of Armies: both sorts according to their degree, you

see saluted, reuerenced, and adored of those that are vnder

them. You see them appareled in purple, in scarlet, and in cloth

of gould: it seemes at first sight there is no contentment in

the world but theirs. But men knowe not how heauy an ounce of

that vaine honor weighes, what those reuerences cost them, and

how dearely they pay for an ell of those rich stuffes: who knewe

them well, would neuer buy them at the price. The one hath

attained to this degree, after a long and painefull seruice

hazarding his life vpon euery occasion, with losse ofttimes of a

legge or an arme, and that at the pleasure of a Prince, that

more regards a hundred perches of ground on his neighbours

frontiers, then the liues of a hundred thousand such as he:

vnfortunate to serue who loues him not: and foolish to thinke

himselfe in honor with him, that makes so litle reckening to

loose him for a thing of no worth. Others growe vp by flattering

a Prince, and long submitting their toongs and hands to say and

doe without difference whatsoeuer they will haue them: wherevnto

a good minde can neuer commaund it selfe. They shall haue

indured a thousand iniuries, receiued a thousand disgraces, and

as neere as they seeme about the Prince, they are neuertheles

alwayes as the Lions keeper, who by long patience, a thousand

feedings and a thousand clawings hath made a fierce Lion

familiar, yet geues him neuer meate, but with pulling backe his

hand, alwayes in feare least he should catch him: and if once in

a yere he bites him, he sets it so close, that he is paid for a

long time after. Such is the ende of all princes fauorites. When

a Prince after long breathings hath raised a man to great

height, he makes it his pastime, at what time he seemes to be at

the top of his trauaile, to cast him downe at an instant: when

he hath filled him with all wealth, he wrings him after as a

sponge: louing none but himself, and thinking euery one made,

but to serue, and please him. These blinde courtiers make

themselues beleeue, that they haue freends, and many that honor

them: neuer considering that as they make semblance to loue, and

honor euery body, so others do by them. Their superiors disdaine

them, and neuer but with scorne do so much as salute them. Their

inferiors salute them because they haue neede of them (I meane

of their fortune, of their foode, of their apparell, not of

their person) and for their equalls betweene whome commonly

friendship consistes, they enuy each other, accuse each other,

crosse each other; continually greeued either at their owne

harme, or at others good. Nowe what greater hell is there, what

greater torment, then enuie? which in truth is nought else but a

feauer _Hectique_ of the mind: so they are vtterly frustrate of

all frendship, euer iudged by the wisest the chiefe and

soueraigne good among men. Will you see it more clearely? Let

but fortune turne her backe, euery man turnes from them: let her

frowne; euery man lookes aside on them: let them once be

disroabed of their triumphall garment, no body will any more

knowe them. Againe, let there be apparelled in it the most

vnworthie, and infamous whatsoeuer: euen he without difficultie

by vertue of his robe, shall inherit all the honours the other

had done him. In the meane time they are puffed vp, and growe

proude, as the Asse which caried the image of _Isis_ was for the

honors done to the Goddesse, and regard not that it is the

fortune they carry which is honored, not themselues, on whome as

on Asses, many times she will be caried. But you will say: At

least so long as that fortune endured, they were at ease, and

had their contentment, and who hath three or foure or more

yeeres of happy time, hath not bin all his life vnhappie. True,

if this be to be at ease continually to feare to be cast downe

from that degree, wherevnto they are raised: and dayly to desire

with great trauaile to clime yet higher. Those (my friend) whome

thou takest so well at their ease, because thou seest them but

without, are within farre otherwise. They are faire built

prisons, full within of deepe ditches, and dungeons: full of

darkenes, serpents and torments. Thou supposest them lodged at

large, and they thinke their lodgings straite. Thou thinkest

them very high, and they thinke themselues very lowe. Now as

sicke is he, and many times more sicke, who thinkes himselfe so,

then who in deed is. Suppose them to be Kings: if they thinke

themselues slaues, they are no better: for what are we but by

opinion? you see them well followed and attended: and euen those

whome they haue chosen for their guard, they distrust. Alone or

in company euer they are in feare. Alone they looke behinde

them: in company they haue an eye on euery side of them. They

drinke in gould and siluer; but in those, not in earth or glasse

is poison prepared and dronke. They haue their beds soft and

well made: when they lay them to sleepe you shall not heare a

mouse stur in the chamber: not so much as a flie shall come

neere their faces. Yet neuertheles, where the countreyman

sleepes at the fall of a great riuer, at the noise of a market,

hauing no other bed but the earth, nor couering but the heauens,

these in the middest of all this silence and delicacie, do

nothing but turne from side to side, it seemes still that they

heare some body, there rest it selfe is without rest. Lastly,

will you knowe what the diuersitie is betwene the most hardly

intreated prisoners and them? both are inchained, both loaden

with fetters, but that the one hath them of iron, the other of

gould, and that the one is tied but by the body, the other by

the mind. The prisoner drawes his fetters after him, the

courtier weareth his vpon him. The prisoners minde sometimes

comforts the paine of his body, and sings in the midst of his

miseries: the courtier tormented in minde weerieth incessantly

his body, and can neuer giue it rest. And as for the contentment

you imagine they haue, you are therein yet more deceiued. You

iudge and esteeme them great, because they are raised high: but

as fondly, as who should iudge a dwarfe great, for being set on

a tower, or on the top of a mountaine. You measure (so good a

Geometrician you are) the image with his base, which were

conuenient, to knowe his true height, to be measured by itselfe:

whereas you regard not the height of the image, but the height

of the place it stands vpon. You deeme them great (if in this

earth there can be greatnes, which in respect of the whole

heauens is but a point.) But could you enter into their mindes,

you would iudge, that neither they are great, true greatnes

consisting in contempt of those vaine greatnesses, wherevnto

they are slaues: nor seeme vnto themselues so, seeing dayly they

are aspiring higher, and neuer where they would be. Some one

sets downe a bound in his minde. Could I attaine to such a

degree, loe, I were content: I would then rest my selfe. Hath he

attained it? he geues himselfe not so much as a breathing: he

would yet ascend higher. That which is beneath he counts a toy:

it is in his opinion but one step. He reputes himselfe lowe,

because there is some one higher, in stead of reputing himselfe

high, because there are a million lower. And so high he climes

at last, that either his breath failes him by the way, or he

slides from the top to the bottome. Or if he get vp by all his

trauaile, it is but as to finde himselfe on the top of the

Alpes: not aboue the cloudes, windes and stormes: but rather at

the deuotion of lightnings, and tempests, and whatsoeuer else

horrible, and dangerous is engendred, and conceiued in the aire:

which most commonly taketh pleasure to thunderbolt and dash into

pouder that proude height of theirs. It may be herein you will

agree with me, by reason of the examples wherewith both

histories, and mens memories are full. But say you, such at

least whome nature hath sent into the world with crownes on

their heads, and scepters in their hands: such as from their

birth she hath set in that height, as they neede take no paine

to ascend: seeme without controuersie exempt from all these

iniuries, and by consequence may call themselues happie. It may

be in deed they feele lesse such incommodities, hauing bene

borne, bred and brought vp among them: as one borne neere the

downfalls of _Nilus_ becomes deafe to the sound: in prison,

laments not the want of libertie: among the _Cimmerians_ in

perpetuall night, wisheth not for day: on the top of the Alpes,

thinks not straunge of the mistes, the tempests, the snowes, and

the stormes. Yet free doubtles they are not wh[en] the lightening

often blasteth a flowre of their crownes, or breakes their

scepter in their handes: when a drift of snowe ouerwhelmes them;

when a miste of heauines, and griefe continually blindeth their

wit, and vnderstanding. Crowned they are in deede, but with a

crowne of thornes. They beare a scepter: but it is of a reede,

more then any thing in the world pliable, and obedient to all

windes: it being so far off that such a crowne can cure the

maigrims of the minde, and such a scepter keepe off and fray

away the griefs and cares which houer about them: that it is

contrariwise the crowne that brings them, and the scepter which

from all partes attracts them. O crowne, said the Persian

Monarch, who knewe howe heauy thou sittest on the head, would

not vouchsafe to take thee vp, though he found thee in his way.

This Prince it seemed gaue fortune to the whole world,

distributed vnto men haps and mishaps at his pleasure: could in

show make euery man content: himselfe in the meane while freely

confessing, that in the whole world, which he held in his hand

there was nothing but griefe, and vnhappines. And what will all

the rest tell vs, if they list to vtter what they found? We will

not aske them who haue concluded a miserable life with a

dishonorable death: who haue beheld their kingdomes buried

before them, and haue in great misery long ouerliued their

greatnes. Not of _Dionyse_ of _Sicill_, more content with a

handfull of twigs to whip little children of _Corinth_ in a

schoole, then with the scepter, where with he had beaten all

_Sicill_: nor of _Sylla_, who hauing robbed the whole state of

_Rome_, which had before robbed the whole world, neuer found

meanes of rest in himselfe, but by robbing himselfe of his owne

estate, with incredible hazard both of his power and authoritie.

But demaund we the opinion of King _Salomon_, a man indued with

singuler gifts of God, rich and welthie of all things: who

sought for treasure from the Iles. He will teach vs by a booke

of purpose, that hauing tried all the felicities of the earth,

he found nothing but vanitie, trauaile, and vexation of spirit.

Aske we the Emperour _Augustus_, who peaceably possessed the

whole world. He will bewaile his life past, and among infinite

toiles wish for the rest of the meanest man of the earth:

accounting that day most happy, when he might vnloade himselfe

of this insupportable greatnes to liue quietly among the least.

Of _Tiberius_ his successor, he will confesse vnto vs, that he

holdes the Empire as a wolfe by the eares, and that (if without

danger of biting he might) he would gladly let it goe:

complayning on fortune for lifting him so high, and then taking

away the ladder, that he could not come downe agayne. Of

_Dioclesian_, a Prince of so great wisedome and vertue in the

opinion of the world: he will preferre his voluntary banishment

at _Salona_, before all the Romaine Empire. Finally, the

Emperour Charles the fifth, esteemed by our age the most happy

that hath liued these many ages: he will curse his conquestes,

his victories, his triumphes: and not be ashamed to confesse

that farre more good in comparison he hath felt in one day of

his Monkish solitarines, then in all his triumphant life. Now

shall we thinke those happie in this imaginate greatnes, who

themselues thinke themselues vnhappie? seeking their happines in

lessening themselues, and not finding in the world one place to

rest this greatnes, or one bed quietly to sleepe in? Happie is

he only who in minde liues contented: and he most of all

vnhappie, whome nothing he can haue can content. Then miserable

_Pyrrhus_ King of _Albanie_, who would winne all the world, to

winne (as he sayd) rest: and went so farre to seeke that which

was so neere him. But more miserable _Alexander_, that being

borne King of a great Realme, and Conqueror almost of the earth,

sought for more worlds to satisfye his foolish ambition, within

three dayes content, with sixe foote of grounde. To conclude,

are they borne on the highest Alpes? they seeke to scale heauen.

Haue they subdued all the Kings of the earth? they haue quarels

to pleade with God, and indeuour to treade vnder foote his

kingdome. They haue no end nor limit, till God laughing at their

vaine purposes, when they thinke themselues at the last step,

thunderstriketh all this presumption, breaking in shiuers their

scepters in their hands, and oftentimes intrapping them in their

owne crownes. At a word, whatsoeuer happines can be in that

ambition promiseth, is but suffering much ill, to get ill. Men

thinke by dayly climing higher to plucke themselues out of this

ill, and the height wherevnto they so painefully aspire, is the

height of misery it selfe. I speake not heere of the wretchednes

of them, who all their life haue held out their cap to receiue

the almes of court fortune, and can get nothing, often with

incredible heart griefe, seeing some by lesse paines taken haue

riches fall into their hands: of them, who iustling one an other

to haue it, loose it, and cast it into the hands of a third: Of

those, who holding it in their hands to hold it faster, haue

lost it through their fingers. Such by all men are esteemed

vnhappie, and are indeed so, because they iudge themselues so.

It sufficeth that all these liberalities which the Deuill

casteth vs as out at a windowe, are but baites: all these

pleasures but embushes: and that he doth but make his sport

of vs, who striue one with another for such things, as most

vnhappie is he, that hath best hap to finde them. Well now, you

will say, the Couetouse in all his goodes, hath no good: the

Ambitious at the best he can be, is but ill. But may there not

be some, who supplying the place of Iustice, or being neere

about a Prince, may without following such vnbrideled passions,

pleasantly enioy their goodes, ioyning honor with rest and

contentment of minde? Surely in former ages (there yet remayning

among men some sparkes of sinceritie) in some sort it might

be so: but being of that composition they nowe are, I see not

how it may be in any sorte. For deale you in affayres of estate

in these times, either you shall do well, or you shall do ill.

If ill, you haue God for your enemy, and your owne conscience

for a perpetually tormenting executioner. If well, you haue men

for your enemies, and of men the greatest: whose enuie and

malice will spie you out, and whose crueltie and tyrannie will

euermore threaten you. Please the people you please a beast: and

pleasing such, ought to be displeasing to your selfe. Please

your selfe, you displease God: please him, you incurr a thousand

dangers in the world, with purchase of a thousand displeasures.

Whereof it growes, that if you could heare the talke of the

wisest and least discontent of this kinde of men, whether they

speake aduisedly, or their words passe them by force of truth,

one would gladly change garment with his tenaunt: an other

preacheth how goodly an estate it is to haue nothing: a third

complaining that his braines are broken with the noise of Courte

or Pallace, hath no other thought, but as soone as he may to

retire himself thence. So that you shall not see any but is

displeased with his owne calling, and enuieth that of an other:

readie neuerthelesse to repent him, if a man should take him at

his word. None but is weerie of the bussinesses wherevnto his

age is subiect, and wisheth not to be elder, to free himselfe of

them: albeit otherwise hee keepeth of olde age as much as in him

lyeth.

What must we then doe in so great a contrarietie and confusion

of mindes? Must wee to fynde true humanitie, flye the societie

of men, and hide vs in forrestes among wilde beastes? to auoyde

these vnrulie passions, eschue the assemblye of creatures

supposed reasonable? to plucke vs out of the euills of the

world, sequester our selues from the world? Coulde wee in so

dooing liue at rest, it were something.

But alas! men cannot take heerein what parte they woulde: and

euen they which do, finde not there all the rest they sought

for. Some would gladly doo, but shame of the world recalls them.

Fooles to be ashamed of what in their heartes they condemne: and

more fooles to be aduised by the greatest enemye they can or

ought to haue. Others are borne in hande that they ought to

serue the publique, not marking that who counsell them serue

only themselues: and that the more parte would not much seeke

the publique, but that they founde their owne particular. Some

are told, that by their good example they may amende others: and

consider not that a hundred sound men, euen Phisitions

themselues, may sooner catch the plague in an infected towne,

then one be healed: that it is but to tempt God, to enter

therein: that against so contagious an aire there is no

preseruatiue, but in getting farre from it. Finally, that as

litle as the freshe waters falling into the sea, can take from

it his saltnes: so little can one _Lot_ or two, or three,

reforme a court of _Sodome_. And as concerning the wisest, who

no lesse carefull for their soules, then bodies, seeke to bring

them into a sound and wholesome ayre, farre from the infection

of wickednes: and who led by the hande of some Angell of God,

retire themselues in season, as _Lot_ into some little village

of _Segor_, out of the corruption of the world, into some

countrie place from the infected townes, there quietlie

employing the tyme in some knowledge and serious contemplation:

I willinglie yeeld they are in a place of lesse daunger, yet

because they carie the danger, in themselues, not absolutelie

exempt from danger. They flie the court, and a court folowes

them on all sides: they endeuoure to escape the world, and the

world pursues them to death. Hardly in this world can they finde

a place where the world findes them not: so gredelie it seekes

to murther them. And if by some speciall grace of God they seeme

for a while free from these daungers, they haue some pouertie

that troubles them, some domesticall debate that torments them,

or some familiar spirit that tempts them: brieflie the world

dayly in some sorte or other makes it selfe felt of them. But

the worst is, when we are out of these externall warres and

troubles, we finde greater ciuill warre within our selues: the

flesh against the spirite, passion against reason, earth against

heauen, the worlde within vs fighting for the world, euermore so

lodged in the botome of our owne hearts, that on no side we can

flie from it. I will say more: he makes profession to flie the

worlde, who seekes thereby the praise of the worlde: hee faineth

to runne away, who according to the prouerbe, By drawing backe

sets himselfe forward: he refuseth honors, that would thereby be

prayed to take them: and hides him from men to the ende they

shoulde come to seeke him. So the world often harbours in

disguised attire among them that flie the world. This is an

abuse. But follow wee the company of men, the worlde hath his

court among them: seeke we the Deserts, it hath there his dennes

and places of resorte, and in the Desert it selfe tempteth

Christ Iesus. Retire wee our selues into our selues, we find it

there as vncleane as any where. Wee can not make the worlde die

in vs, but by dieng our selues. We are in the world, and the

worlde in vs, and to seperate vs from the worlde, wee must

seperate vs from our selues. Nowe this seperation is called

Death. Wee are, wee thinke, come out of the contagious citie,

but wee are not aduised that we haue sucked the bad aire, that

wee carry the plague with vs, that we so participate with it,

that through rockes, through desarts, through mountaines, it

euer accompanieth vs. Hauing auoyded the contagion of others,

yet we haue it in our selues. We haue withdrawen vs out of men:

but not withdrawen man out of vs. The tempestuous sea

torments vs: we are grieued at the heart, and desirous to vomit:

and to be discharged thereof, we remoue out of one ship into

another, from a greater to a lesse: we promise our selues rest

in vaine: they being always the same winds that blow, the same

waues that swel, the same humors that are stirred. To al no

other port, no other mean of tranquilitie but only death. We

were sicke in a chamber neere the street, or neere the market:

we caused our selues to be carried into some backer closet,

where the noise was not so great. But though there the noise was

lesse: yet was the feauer there neuerthelesse: and thereby lost

nothing of his heate. Change bedde, chamber, house, country,

againe and againe: we shall euery where finde the same vnrest,

because euery where we finde our selues: and seek not so much to

be others, as to be other wheres. We folow solitarines, to flie

carefulnes. We retire vs (so say we) from the wicked: but cary

with vs our auarice, our ambition, our riotousnes, all our

corrupt affecti[on]s: which breed in vs 1000. remorses, & 1000.

times each day bring to our remembrance the garlike & onions of

_Egipt_. Daily they passe the Ferry with vs: so that both on

this side, and beyond the water, we are in continual combat. Now

could we cassere this c[om]pany, which eats and gnaws our mind,

doubtles we should be at rest, not in solitarines onely, but

euen in the thicket of men. For the life of m[an] vpon earth is but

a continual warfare. Are we deliuered from externall practizes?

Wee are to take heed of internall espials. Are the Greekes gone

away? We haue a _Sinon_ within, that wil betray them the place.

Wee must euer be waking, hauing an eie to the watch, and weapons

in our hands, if wee will not euery houre be surprised, & giuen

vp to the wil of our enimies. And how at last can we escape? Not

by the woodes, by the riuers, nor by the mountaines: not by

throwing our selues into a presse, nor by thrusting our selues

into a hole. One only meane there is, which is death: which in

ende seperating our spirite from our flesh, the pure and clean

part of our soule from the vncleane, which within vs euermore

bandeth it selfe for the worlde, appeaseth by this seperation

that, which conioyned in one and the same person coulde not,

without vtter choaking of the spirit, but be in perpetuall

contention.

And as touching the contentment that may be in the exercises of

the wisest men in their solitarinesse, as reading diuine or

prophane Bookes, with all other knowledges and learnings: I hold

well that it is indeed a far other thing, then are those madde

huntings, which make sauage a multitude of men possessed with

these or the like diseases of the minde. Yet must they all abide

the iudgement pronounced by the wisest among the wise,

_Salomon_, that all this neuerthelesse applied to mans naturall

disposition, is to him but vanitie and vexation of minde. Some

are euer learning to correct their speach, and neuer thinke of

correcting their life. Others dispute in their Logique of

reason, and the Arte of reason: and loose thereby many times

their naturall reason. One learnes by Arithmetike to diuide to

the smallest fractions, and hath not skill to part one shilling

with his brother. Another by Geometry can measure fields, and

townes, and countries: but can not measure himselfe. The

Musitian can accord his voyces, and soundes, and times togither:

hauing nothing in his heart but discordes, nor one passion in

his soule in good tune. The Astrologer lookes vp on high, and

falles in the next ditch: fore-knowes the future, and forgoes

the present: hath often his eie on the heauens, his heart long

before buried in the earth. The Philosopher discourseth of the

nature of all other things: and knowes not himselfe. The

Historian can tell of the warres of _Thebes_ and of _Troy_: but

what is doone in his owne house can tell nothing. The Lawyer

will make lawes for all the world, and not one for himselfe. The

Physition will cure others, and be blinde in his owne disease:

finde the least alteration in his pulse, and not marke the

burning feauers of his minde. Lastlie, the Diuine will spend the

greatest parte of his time in disputing of faith and cares not

to heare of charity: wil talke of God, and not regard to succor

men. These knowledges bring on the mind an endlesse labour, but

no contentment: for the more one knowes, the more he would know.

They pacify not the debates a man feeles in himselfe, they cure

not the diseases of his minde. They make him learned, but they

make not him good: cunning, but not wise. I say more. The more a

man knowes, the more knowes he that he knowes not: the fuller

the minde is, the emptier it findes it selfe: forasmuch as

whatsoeuer a man can knowe of any science in this worlde is but

the least part of what he is ignorant: all his knowledge

consisting in knowing his ignorance, al his perfection in noting

his imperfections, which who best knowes and notes, is in truth

among men the most wise, and perfect. In short we must conclude

with _Salomon_, that the beginning and end of wisedome is the

feare of God: that this wisedome neuerthelesse is taken of the

world for meere folly, and persecuted by the world as a deadly

enemy: and that as who feareth God, ought to feare no euill, for

that all his euils are conuerted to his good: so neither ought

he to hope for good in the worlde, hauing there the deuil his

professed enemy, whom the Scripture termeth Prince of the world.

But with what exercise soeuer we passe the time, behold old age

vnwares to vs coms vpon vs: which whether we thrust our selues

into the prease of men, or hide vs somewhere out of the way,

neuer failes to find vs out. Euery man makes accompt in that age

to rest himselfe of all his trauailes without further care, but

to keepe himselfe at ease and in health. And see contrariwise in

this age, there is nothing but an after taste of all the fore

going euils: and most commonly a plentifull haruest of all such

vices as in the whole course of their life, hath held and

possessed them. There you haue the vnabilitie and weakenesse of

infancie, and (which is worse) many times accompanied with

authoritie: there you are payed for the excesse and riotousnes

of youth, with gowts, palsies, and such like diseases, which

take from you limme after limme with extreame paine and torment.

There you are recompenced for the trauailes of mind, the

watchings and cares of manhoode, with losse of sight, losse of

hearing, and all the sences one after another, except onely the

sence of paine. Not one parte in vs but death takes in gage to

be assured of vs, as of bad pay-maisters, which infinitely feare

their dayes of payment. Nothing in vs which will not by and by

bee dead: and neuerthelesse our vices yet liue in vs, and not

onely liue, but in despite of nature daily growe yoong againe.

The couetous man hath one foote in his graue, and is yet burieng

his money: meaning belike to finde it againe another day. The

ambitious in his will ordaineth vnprofitable pompes for his

funeralles, making his vice to liue and triumph after his death.

The riotous no longer able to daunce on his feete, daunceth with

his shoulders, all vices hauing lefte him, and hee not yet able

to leaue them. The childe wisheth for youth: and this man

laments it. The yong man liueth in hope of the future, and this

feeles the euill present, laments the false pleasures past, and

sees for the time to come nothing to hope for. More foolish then

the childe, in bewailing the time he cannot recall, and not

remembring the euill hee had therein: and more wretched then the

yongman, in that after a wretched life not able, but wretchedly

to die, he sees on all sides but matter of dispaire. As for him,

who from his youth hath vndertaken to combate against the flesh,

and against the world: who hath taken so great paines to

mortifie himselfe and leaue the worlde before his time: who

besides those ordinarie euilles findes himselfe vexed with this

great and incurable disease of olde age, and feeles

notwithstanding his flesh howe weake soeuer, stronger oftentimes

then his spirite: what good I pray can hee haue but onlie

herein: that hee sees his death at hand, that hee sees his

combate finished, that he sees himselfe readie to departe by

death out of this loathsome prison, wherein all his life time

hee hath beene racked and tormented? I will not heere speake of

the infinite euilles wherewith men in all ages are annoyed, as

losse of friendes and parents, banishments, exiles, disgraces,

and such others, common and ordinarie in the world: one

complayning of loosing his children, an other of hauing them:

one making sorrow for his wifes death, an other for her life,

one finding faulte, that hee is too high in Courte, an other,

that hee is not high enough. The worlde is so full of euilles,

that to write them all, woulde require an other worlde as great

as it selfe. Sufficeth, that if the most happie in mens opinions

doe counterpoize his happs with his mishaps, he shall iudge

himselfe vnhappy: and hee iudge him happy, who had he beene set

three dayes in his place, would giue it ouer to him that came

next: yea, sooner then hee, who shall consider in all the goodes

that euer hee hath had the euilles hee hath endured to get them,

and hauing them to retaine and keepe them (I speake of the

pleasures that may be kept, and not of those that wither in a

moment) wil iudge of himselfe, and by himselfe, that the keeping

it selfe of the greatest felicitie in this worlde, is full of

vnhappinesse and infelicitie. Conclude then, that Childhoode is

but a foolish simplicitie, Youth, a vaine heate, Manhoode,

a painefull carefulnesse, and Olde-age, a noysome languishing:

that our playes are but teares, our pleasures, feuers of the

minde, our goodes, rackes, and torments, our honors, heauy

vanities, our rest, vnrest: that passing from age to age is but

passing from euill to euill, and from the lesse vnto the

greater: and that alwayes it is but one waue driuing on an

other, vntill we be arriued at the Hauen of death. Conclude I

say, that life is but a wishing for the future, and a bewailing

of the past: a loathing of what wee haue tasted, and a longing

for that wee haue not tasted, a vaine memorie of the state past,

and a doubtfull expectation of the state to come: finally, that

in all our life there is nothing certaine, nothing assured, but

the certaintie and vncertaintie of death. Behold, now comes

Death vnto vs: Behold her, whose approch we so much feare. We

are now to c[on]sider whether she be such as wee are made beleeue:

and whether we ought so greatly to flie her, as commonly wee do.

Wee are afraide of her: but like little children of a vizarde,

or of the Images of _Hecate_. Wee haue her in horror: but

because wee conceiue her not such as she is, but ougly,

terrible, and hideous: such as it pleaseth the Painters to

represent vnto vs on a wall. Wee flie before her: but it is

because foretaken with such vaine imaginations, wee giue not our

selues leisure to marke her. But staie wee, stande wee stedfast,

looke wee her in the face: wee shall finde her quite other then

shee is painted vs: and altogether of other countenaunce then

our miserable life. Death makes an ende of this life. This life

is a perpetuall misery and tempest: Death then is the issue of

our miseries and entraunce of the porte where wee shall ride in

safetie from all windes. And shoulde wee feare that which

withdraweth vs from misery, or which drawes vs into our Hauen?

Yea but you will say, it is a payne to die. Admit it bee: so is

there in curing of a wounde. Such is the worlde, that one euill

can not bee cured but by an other, to heale a contusion, must

bee made an incision. You will say, there is difficultie in the

passage: So is there no Hauen, no Porte, whereinto the entraunce

is not straite and combersome. No good thing is to be bought in

this worlde with other then the coyne of labour and paine. The

entraunce indeede is hard, if our selues make it harde, comming

thither with a tormented spirite, a troubled minde, a wauering

and irresolute thought. But bring wee quietnesse of mind,

constancie, and full resolution, wee shall not finde anie

daunger or difficultie at all. Yet what is the paine that death

brings vs? Nay, what can shee doe with those paines wee feele?

Wee accuse her of all the euilles wee abide in ending our life,

and consider not howe manie more greeuous woundes or sickenesses

wee haue endured without death: or howe many more vehement

paines wee haue suffered in this life, in the which wee called

euen her to our succour. All the paines our life yeeldes vs at

the last houre wee impute to Death: not marking that life

begunne and continued in all sortes of paine, must also

necessarily ende in paine. Not marking (I saie) that it is the

remainder of our life, not death, that tormenteth vs: the ende

of our nauigation that paines vs, not the Hauen wee are to

enter: which is nothing else but a safegarde against all windes.

Wee complayne of Death, where wee shoulde complayne of life: as

if one hauyng beene long sicke, and beginning to bee well,

shoulde accuse his health of his last paynes, and not the

reliques of his disease. Tell mee, what is it else to bee dead,

but to bee no more liuing in the worlde? Absolutelie and simplie

not to bee in the worlde, is it anie payne? Did wee then feele

any paine, when as yet wee were not? Haue wee euer more

resemblaunce of Death, then when wee sleepe? Or euer more rest

then at that time? Now if this be no paine, why accuse we Death

of the paines our life giues vs at our departure? Vnlesse also

we wil fondly accuse the time when as yet we were not, of the

paines we felt at our birth? If the comming in be with teares,

is it wonder that such be the going out? If the beginning of our

being, be the beginning of our paine, is it maruell that such be

the ending? But if our not being in times past hath bene without

payne, and all this being contrarywise full of paine: whome

should we by reason accuse of the last paines, the not being to

come, or the remnant of this present being? We thinke we dye

not, but when we yeeld vp our last gaspe. But if we marke well,

we dye euery day, euery houre, euery moment. We apprehend death

as a thing vnvsuall to vs: and yet haue nothing so common in vs.

Our liuing is but continuall dyeng: looke how much we liue, we

dye: how much we encrease, our life decreases. We enter not a

step into life, but we enter a step into death. Who hath liued a

third part of his yeares, hath a third part of himselfe dead.

Who halfe his yeares, is already half dead. Of our life, all the

time past is dead, the present liues and dies at once, and the

future likewise shall dye. The past is no more, the future is

not yet, the present is, and no more is. Briefely, this whole

life is but a death: it is as a candle lighted in our bodies: in

one the winde makes it melt away, in an other blowes it cleane

out, many times ere it be halfe burned: in others it endureth to

the ende. Howsoeuer it be, looke how much it shineth, so much it

burneth: her shining is her burning: her light a vanishing

smoke: her last fire, hir last wike, and her last drop of

moisture. So is it in the life of man, life and death in man is

all one. If we call the last breath death, so must we all the

rest: all proceeding from one place, and all in one manner. One

only difference there is betweene this life, and that we call

death: that during the one, we haue alwayes wherof to dye: and

after the other, there remaineth only wherof to liue. In summe,

euen he that thinketh death simply to be the ende of man, ought

not to feare it: in asmuch as who desireth to liue longer,

desireth to die longer: and who feareth soone to die, feareth

(to speake properlie) lest he may not longer die.

But vnto vs brought vp in a more holy schoole, death is a farre

other thing: neither neede we as the Pagans of consolations

against death: but that death serue vs, as a consolation against

all sorts of affliction: so that we must not only strengthen our

selues, as they, not to feare it, but accustome ourselues to

hope for it. For vnto vs it is not a departing fr[om] pain & euil,

but an accesse vnto all good: not the end of life, but the end

of death, & the beginning of life. Better, saith _Salomon_, is

the day of death, then the day of birth, and why? because it is

not to vs a last day, but the dawning of an euerlasting day. No

more shall we haue in that glorious light, either sorow for the

past, or expectation of the future: for all shall be there

present vnto vs, and that present shall neuer more passe. No

more shal we powre out our selues in vaine & painfull pleasures:

for we shal be filled with true & substantiall pleasures. No

more shal we paine our selues in heaping togither these

exhalati[on]s of the earth: for the heauens shall be ours, and this

masse of earth, which euer drawes vs towards the earth, shalbe

buried in the earth. No more shal we ouerwearie our selues with

mounting from degree to degree, and from honor to honor: for we

shall highlie be raysed aboue all heights of the world; and from

on high laugh at the folly of all those we once admired, who

fight together for a point, and as litle childr[en] for lesse then

an apple. No more to be brief shal we haue combates in our

selues: for our flesh shall be dead, and our spirit in full

life: our passion buried, and our reason in perfect libertie.

Our soule deliuered out of this foule & filthie prison, where,

by long continuing it is growen into an habite of crookednes,

shall againe draw her owne breath, recognize her ancient

dwelling, and againe remember her former glory & dignity. This

flesh my frend which thou feelest, this body which thou touchest

is not man: Man is from heauen: heauen is his countrie and his

aire. That he is in his body, is but by way of exile &

confinement. Man in deed is soule and spirit: Man is rather of

celestiall and diuine qualitie, wherin is nothing grosse nor

materiall. This body such as now it is, is but the barke & shell

of the soule: which must necessarily be broken, if we will be

hatched: if we will indeed liue & see the light. We haue it

semes, some life, and some sence in vs: but are so croked and

contracted, that we cannot so much as stretch out our wings,

much lesse take our flight towards heauen, vntill we be

disburthened of this earthlie burthen. We looke, but through

false spectacles: we haue eyes but ouergrowen with pearles: we

thinke we see, but it is in a dreame, wherin we see nothing but

deceit. All that we haue, and all that we know is but abuse and

vanitie. Death only can restore vs both life and light: and we

thinke (so blockish we are) that she comes to robbe vs of them.

We say we are Christians: that we beleeue after this mortall,

a life immortall: that death is but a separation of the body and

soule: and that the soule returnes to his happie abode, there to

ioy in God, who only is all good: that at the last day it shall

againe take the body, which shal no more be subiect to

corrupti[on]. With these goodly discourses we fill all our bookes:

and in the meane while, wh[en] it comes to the point, the very name

of death as the horriblest thing in the world makes vs quake &

tremble. If we beleue as we speak, what is that we feare? to be

happy? to be at our ease? to be more content in a mom[en]t, then we

might be in the longest mortal life that might be? or must not

we of force confesse, that we beleue it but in part? that all we

haue is but words? that all our discourses, as of these hardie

trencher knights, are but vaunting and vanitie? Some you shall

see, that wil say: I know well that I passe out of this life

into a better: I make no doubt of it: only I feare the midway

step, that I am to step ouer. Weak harted creatures! they wil

kill th[em]selues to get their miserable liuing: suffer infinite

paines, and infinite wounds at another mans pleasure: passe

infinit deaths without dying, for things of nought, for things

that perish, and perchance make them perish with them. But when

they haue but one pace to passe to be at rest, not for a day,

but for euer: not an indifferent rest, but such as mans minde

cannot comprehende: they tremble, their harts faile them, they

are affrayde: and yet the ground of their harme is nothing but

feare. Let them neuer tell me, they apprehend the paine: it is

but an abuse: a purpose to conceale the litle faith they haue.

No, no, they would rather languish of the goute, the sciatica,

any disease whatsoeuer: then dye one sweete death with the least

paine possible: rather pininglie dye limme after limme,

outliuing as it were, all their sences, motions, and actions,

then speedily dye, immediatly to liue for euer. Let them tell me

no more that they would in this world learne to liue: for euery

one is therevnto sufficiently instructed in himselfe, and not

one but is cunning in the trade. Nay rather they should learne

in this world to dye: and once to dye well, dye dayly in

themselues: so prepared, as if the ende of euery dayes worke,

were the ende of our life. Now contrarywise there is nothing to

their eares more offensiue, then to heare of death. Senseless

people! we abandon our life to the ordinarie hazards of warre,

for seauen franks pay: are formost in an assault, for a litle

bootie: goe into places, whence there is no hope of returning,

with danger many times both of bodies and soules. But to free vs

from all hazards, to winne things inestimable, to enter an

eternall life, we faint in the passage of one pace, wherein is

no difficultie, but in opinion: yea we so faint, that were it

not of force we must passe, and that God in despite of vs will

doe vs a good turne, hardly should we finde in all the world

one, how vnhappy or wretched soeuer, that would euer passe.

Another will say, had I liued till 50. or 60. yeares, I should

haue bin contented: I should not haue cared to liue longer: but

to dye so yong is no reason, I should haue knowen the world

before I had left it. Simple soule! in this world there is

neither young nor olde. The longest age in comparison of all

that is past, or all that is to come, is nothing: and when thou

hast liued to the age thou now desirest, all the past will be

nothing: thou wilt still gape, for that is to come. The past

will yeeld thee but sorrowe, the future but expectation, the

present no contentment. As ready thou wilt then be to redemaund

longer respite, as before. Thou fliest thy creditor from moneth

to moneth, and time to time, as readie to pay the last daye, as

the first: thou seekest but to be acquitted. Thou hast tasted

all which the world esteemeth pleasures: not one of them is new

vnto thee. By drinking oftener, thou shalt be neuer awhit the

more satisfyed: for the body thou cariest, like the bored paile

of _Danaus_ daughters, will neuer be full. Thou mayst sooner

weare it out, then weary thy selfe with vsing, or rather

abusing it. Thou crauest long life to cast it away, to spend it

on worthles delights, to mispend it on vanities. Thou art

couetous in desiring, and prodigall in spending. Say not thou

findest fault with the Court, or the Pallace: but that thou

desirest longer to serue the commonwealth, to serue thy

countrie, to serue God. He that set thee on worke knowes vntill

what day, and what houre, thou shouldest be at it: he well

knowes how to direct his worke. Should he leaue thee there

longer, perchance thou wouldest marre all. But if he will pay

thee liberally for thy labour, as much for halfe a dayes worke,

as for a whole: as much for hauing wrought till noone, as for

hauing borne all the heate of the day: art thou not so much the

more to thanke and prayse him? but if thou examine thine owne

conscience, thou lamentest not the cause of the widdow, and the

orphan, which thou hast left depending in iudgement: not the

dutie of a sonne, of a father, or of a frend, which thou

pretendest thou wouldest performe: not the ambassage for the

common wealth, which thou wert euen ready to vndertake: not the

seruice thou desirest to doe vnto God, who knowes much better

howe to serue himselfe of thee, then thou of thy selfe. It is

thy houses and gardens thou lamentest, thy imperfect plottes and

purposes, thy life (as thou thinkest) imperfect: which by no

dayes, nor yeares, nor ages, might be perfected: and yet thy

selfe mightst perfect in a moment, couldest thou but thinke in

good earnest, that where it ende it skilles not, so that it end

well.

Now to end well this life, is onely to ende it willingly:

following with full consent the will and direction of God, and

not suffering vs to be drawen by the necessetie of destenie. To

end it willingly, we must hope, and not feare death. To hope

for it, we must certainely looke after this life, for a better

life. To looke for that, wee must feare God: whome whoso well

feareth, feareth indeede nothing in this worlde, and hopes for

all things in the other. To one well resolued in these points

death can be but sweete and agreeable: knowing that through it

hee is to enter into a place of all ioyes. The griefe that may

be therein shall bee allaied with sweetnes: the sufferance of

ill, swallowed in the confidence of good: the sting of Death it

selfe shall bee dead, which is nothing else but Feare. Nay,

I wil say more, not onely all the euilles conceiued in death

shall be to him nothing: but he shall euen scorne all the

mishappes men redoubt in this life, and laugh at all these

terrors. For I pray what can he feare, whose death is his hope?

Thinke we to banish him his country? He knows he hath a country

other-where, whence wee cannot banish him: and that all these

countries are but Innes, out of which he must part at the wil of

his hoste. To put him in prison? a more straite prison he cannot

haue, then his owne body, more filthy, more darke, more full of

rackes and torments. To kill him and take him out of the worlde?

that is it he hopes for: that is it with all his heart he

aspires vnto. By fire, by sworde, by famine, by sickenesse:

within three yeeres, within three dayes, within three houres,

all is one to him: all is one at what gate, or at what time he

passe out of this miserable life. For his businesses are euer

ended, his affaires all dispatched, and by what way he shall go

out, by the same hee shall enter into a most happie and

euerlasting life. Men can threaten him but death, and death is

all he promiseth himselfe: the worst they can doe, is, to make

him die, and that is the best hee hopes for. The threatnings of

tyrants are to him promises, the swordes of his greatest enemies

drawne in his fauor: forasmuch as he knowes that threatning him

death, they threaten him life: and the most mortall woundes can

make him but immortall. Who feares God, feares not death: and

who feares it not, feares not the worst of this life.

By this reckoning, you will tell me death is a thing to be

wished for: and to passe from so much euill, to so much good,

a man shoulde as it seemeth cast away his life. Surely, I feare

not, that for any good wee expect, we will hasten one step the

faster: though the spirite aspire, the body it drawes with it,

withdrawes it euer sufficiently towardes the earth. Yet is it

not that I conclude. We must seeke to mortifie our flesh in vs,

and to cast the world out of vs: but to cast our selues out of

the world is in no sort permitted vs. The Christian ought

willingly to depart out of this life but not cowardly to runne

away. The Christian is ordained by God to fight therein: and

cannot leaue his place without incurring reproch and infamie.

But if it please the grand Captaine to recall him, let him take

the retrait in good part, and with good will obey it. For hee is

not borne for himselfe, but for God: of whome he holdes his life

at farme, as his tenant at will, to yield him the profites. It

is in the landlord to take it from him, not in him to

surrender it, when a conceit takes him. Diest thou yong? praise

God as the mariner that hath had a good winde, soone to bring

him to the Porte. Diest thou olde? praise him likewise, for if

thou hast had lesse winde, it may be thou hast also had lesse

waues. But thinke not at thy pleasure to go faster or softer:

for the winde is not in thy power, and in steede of taking the

shortest way to the Hauen, thou maiest happily suffer

shipwracke. God calleth home from his worke, one in the morning,

an other at noone, and an other at night. One he exerciseth til

the first sweate, another he sunne-burneth, another he rosteth

and drieth throughly. But of all his he leaues not one without,

but brings them all to rest, and giues them all their hire,

euery one in his time. Who leaues his worke before God call him,

looses it: and who importunes him before the time, looses his

reward. We must rest vs in his will, who in the middest of our

troubles sets vs at rest.

To ende, we ought neither to hate this life for the toiles

therein, for it is slouth and cowardise: nor loue it for the

delights, which is follie and vanitie: but serue vs of it, to

serue God in it, who after it shall place vs in true quietnesse,

and replenish vs with pleasures whiche shall neuer more perish.

Neyther ought we to flye death, for it is childish to feare it:

and in flieng from it, wee meete it. Much lesse to seeke it, for

that is temeritie: nor euery one that would die, can die. As

much despaire in the one, as cowardise in the other: in neither

any kinde of magnanimitie. It is enough that we constantly and

continually waite for her comming, that shee may neuer finde vs

vnprouided. For as there is nothing more certaine then

death, so is there nothing more vncertaine then

the houre of death, knowen onlie to God,

the onlie Author of life and death,

to whom wee all ought endeuour

both to liue and die.

_Die to liue,_

_Liue to die._

The 13. of May 1590.

At Wilton.

* * * * *

* * * *

[Transcriber's Note:

The play was printed in Italic type, with Roman for emphasis.

For this e-text, only the _emphasis_ is shown.

Acts 1 and 3 are unlabeled in the text. Act 1 can only be Antony's

soliloquy, with following Chorus, but Act 3 is ambiguous. Between

Act 2 and Act 4 are:

(scene) Cleopatra. Eras. Charmion. Diomede.

(soliloquy): Diomed.

Chorus

(scene) M. Antonius. Lucilius.

Chorus

Structurally the play seems to have six Acts, but Act 4 and Act 5 are

each labeled as such.]

[Decoration]

The Argument.

After the ouerthrowe of _Brutus_ and _Cassius_, the libertie of

_Rome_ being now vtterly oppressed, and the Empire setled in the

hands of _Octauius Cæsar_ and _Marcus Antonius_, (who for knitting a

straiter bonde of amitie betweene them, had taken to wife _Octauia_

the sister of _Cæsar_) _Antonius_ vndertooke a iourney against the

Parthians, with intent to regaine on them the honor wonne by them

from the Romains, at the discomfiture and slaughter of _Crassus_.

But comming in his iourney into Siria, the places renewed in his

remembrance the long intermitted loue of _Cleopatra_ Queene of

Aegipt: who before time had both in Cilicia and at Alexandria,

entertained him with all the exquisite delightes and sumptuous

pleasures, which a great Prince and voluptuous Louer could to the

vttermost desire. Whereupon omitting his enterprice, he made his

returne to Alexandria, againe falling to his former loues, without

any regard of his vertuous wife _Octauia_, by whom neuertheles he

had excellent Children. This occasion _Octauius_ tooke of taking

armes against him: and preparing a mighty fleet, encountred him at

Actium, who also had assembled to that place a great number of

Gallies of his own, besides 60. which _Cleopatra_ brought with her

from Aegipt. But at the very beginning of the battell _Cleopatra_

with all her Gallies betooke her to flight, which _Antony_ seeing

could not but follow; by his departure leauing to _Octauius_ the

greatest victorye which in any Sea Battell hath beene heard off.

Which he not negligent to pursue, followes them the next spring, and

besiedgeth them within Alexandria, where _Antony_ finding all that

he trusted to faile him, beginneth to growe iealouse and to suspect

_Cleopatra_. She thereupon enclosed her selfe with two of her women

in a monument she had before caused to be built, thence sends him

woord she was dead: which he beleeuing for truth, gaue himselfe with

his Swoord a deadly wound: but died not vntill a messenger came from

_Cleopatra_ to haue him brought to her to the tombe. Which she not

daring to open least she should be made a prisoner to the

_Romaines_, and carried in _Cæsars_ triumph, cast downe a corde from

an high window, by the which (her women helping her) she trussed vp

_Antonius_ halfe dead, and so got him into the monument. The Stage

supposed Alexandria: the Chorus, first Egiptians, and after Romane

Souldiors. The Historie to be read at large in _Plutarch_ in the

life of _Antonius_.

The Actors.

_Antonius_.

_Cleopatra_.

_Eras_ and } _Cleopatras_ women.

_Charmion_. }

_Philostratus_ a Philosopher.

_Lucilius_.

_Diomede_ Secretary to _Cleopatra_.

_Octauius Cæsar._

_Agrippa_.

_Euphron_, teacher of _Cleopatras_ children.

_Children_ of _Cleopatra_.

_Dircetus_ the Messenger.

[Decoration]

_Antonius._

Since cruell Heau'ns against me obstinate,

Since all mishappes of the round engin doe

Conspire my harme: since men, since powers diuine,

Aire, earth, and Sea are all iniurious:

And that my Queene her self, in whome I liu'd,

The Idoll of my hart, doth me pursue;

It's meete I dye. For her haue I forgone

My Country, _Cæsar_ vnto warre prouok'd

(For iust reuenge of Sisters wrong my wife,

Who mou'de my Queene (ay me!) to iealousie)

For loue of her, in her allurements caught

Abandon'd life, I honor haue despisde,

Disdain'd my freends, and of the statelye Rome

Despoilde the Empire of her best attire,

Contemn'd that power that made me so much fear'd,

A slaue become vnto her feeble face.

O cruell, traitres, woman most vnkinde,

Thou dost, forsworne, my loue and life betraie:

And giu'st me vp to ragefull enemie,

Which soone (ô foole!) will plague thy periurye.

Yelded _Pelusium_ on this Countries shore,

Yelded thou hast my Shippes and men of warre,

That nought remaines (so destitute am I)

But these same armes which on my back I weare.

Thou should'st haue had them too, and me vnarm'de

Yeelded to _Cæsar_ naked of defence.

Which while I beare let _Cæsar_ neuer thinke

Triumph of me shall his proud chariot grace

Not think with me his glory to adorne,

On me aliue to vse his victorie.

Thou only _Cleopatra_ triumph hast,

Thou only hast my freedome seruile made,

Thou only hast me vanquisht: not by force

(For forste I cannot be) but by sweete baites

Of thy eyes graces, which did gaine so fast

vpon my libertie, that nought remain'd.

None els hencefoorth, but thou my dearest Queene,

Shall glorie in commaunding _Antonie_.

Haue _Cæsar_ fortune and the Gods his freends,

To him haue Ioue and fatall sisters giuen

The Scepter of the earth: he neuer shall

Subiect my life to his obedience.

But when that Death, my glad refuge, shall haue

Bounded the course of my vnstedfast life,

And frosen corps vnder a marble colde

Within tombes bosome widdowe of my soule:

Then at his will let him it subiect make:

Then what he will let _Cæsar_ doo with me:

Make me limme after limme be rent: make me

My buriall take in sides of _Thracian_ wolfe.

Poore _Antonie_! alas what was the day,

The daies of losse that gained thee thy loue!

Wretch _Antony_! since then _Mægæra_ pale

With Snakie haires enchain'd thy miserie.

The fire thee burnt was neuer _Cupids_ fire

(For Cupid beares not such a mortall brand)

It was some furies torch, _Orestes_ torche,

which sometimes burnt his mother-murdering soule

(When wandring madde, rage boiling in his bloud,

He fled his fault which folow'd as he fled)

kindled within his bones by shadow pale

Of mother slaine return'd from Stygian lake.

_Antony_, poore _Antony_! since that daie

Thy olde good hap did farre from thee retire.

Thy vertue dead: thy glory made aliue

So ofte by martiall deeds is gone in smoke:

Since then the _Baies_ so well thy forehead knewe

To Venus mirtles yeelded haue their place:

Trumpets to pipes: field tents to courtly bowers:

Launces and Pikes to daunces and to feastes.

Since then, ô wretch! in stead of bloudy warres

Thou shouldst haue made vpon the Parthian Kings

For Romain honor filde by _Crassus_ foile,

Thou threw'st thy Curiace off, and fearfull healme,

With coward courage vnto _Ægipts_ Queen

In haste to runne, about her necke to hang

Languishing in her armes thy Idoll made:

In summe giuen vp to _Cleopatras_ eies.

Thou breakest at length from thence, as one encharm'd

Breakes from th'enchaunter that him strongly helde.

For thy first reason (spoyling of their force

the poisned cuppes of thy faire Sorceres)

Recur'd thy sprite: and then on euery side

Thou mad'st againe the earth with Souldiours swarme.

All Asia hidde: Euphrates bankes do tremble

To see at once so many Romanes there

Breath horror, rage, and with a threatning eye

In mighty squadrons crosse his swelling streames.

Nought seene but horse, and fier sparkling armes:

Nought heard but hideous noise of muttring troupes.

The _Parth_, the _Mede_, abandoning their goods

Hide them for feare in hilles of _Hircanie_,

Redoubting thee. Then willing to besiege

The great _Phraate_ head of _Media_,

Thou campedst at her walles with vaine assault,

Thy engins fit (mishap!) not thither brought.

So long thou stai'st, so long thou doost thee rest,

So long thy loue with such things nourished

Reframes, reformes it selfe and stealingly

Retakes his force and rebecomes more great.

For of thy Queene the lookes, the grace, the woords,

Sweetenes, alurements, amorous delights,

Entred againe thy soule, and day and night,

In watch, in sleepe, her Image follow'd thee:

Not dreaming but of her, repenting still

That thou for warre hadst such a Goddes left.

Thou car'st no more for _Parth_, nor _Parthian_ bow,

Sallies, assaults, encounters, shocks, alarmes,

For diches, rampiers, wards, entrenched grounds:

Thy only care is sight of _Nilus_ streames,

Sight of that face whose guilefull semblant doth

(Wandring in thee) infect thy tainted hart.

Her absence thee besottes: each hower, each hower

Of staie, to thee impatient seemes an age.

Enough of conquest, praise thou deem'st enough,

If soone enough the bristled fieldes thou see

Of fruitfull _Ægipt_, and the stranger floud

Thy Queenes faire eyes (another _Pharos_) lights.

Returned loe, dishonoured, despisde,

In wanton loue a woman thee misleades

Sunke in foule sinke: meane while respecting nought

Thy wife _Octauia_ and her tender babes,

Of whom the long contempt against thee whets

The sword of _Cæsar_ now thy Lord become.

Lost thy great Empire, all those goodly townes

Reuerenc'd thy name as rebells now thee leaue:

Rise against thee, and to the ensignes flocke

Of conqu'ring _Cæsar_, who enwalles thee round

Cag'd in thy holde, scarse maister of thy selfe,

Late maister of so many nations.

Yet, yet, which is of grief extreamest grief,

Which is yet of mischiefe highest mischiefe,

It's _Cleopatra_ alas! alas, it's she,

It's she augments the torment of thy paine,

Betraies thy loue, thy life alas! betraies,

_Cæsar_ to please, whose grace she seekes to gaine:

With thought her Crowne to saue, and fortune make

Onely thy foe which common ought haue beene.

If her I alwaies lou'd, and the first flame

Of her heart-killing loue shall burne me last:

Iustly complaine I she disloyall is,

Nor constant is, euen as I constant am,

To comfort my mishap, despising me

No more, then when the heauens fauour'd me.

_But ah! by nature women wau'ring are,_

_Each moment changing and rechanging mindes._

_Vnwise, who blinde in them, thinkes loyaltie_

_Euer to finde in beauties company._

Chorus.

The boyling tempest still

Makes not Sea waters fome:

Nor still the Northern blast

Disquiets quiet streames:

Nor who his chest to fill

Sayles to the morning beames,

On waues winde tosseth fast

Still kepes his Ship from home.

Nor _Ioue_ still downe doth cast

Inflam'd with bloudie ire

On man, on tree, on hill,

His darts of thundring fire:

Nor still the heat doth last

On face of parched plaine:

Nor wrinkled colde doth still

On frozen furrowes raigne.

But still as long as we

In this low world remaine,

Mishapps our dayly mates

Our liues do entertaine:

And woes which beare no dates

Still pearch vpon our heads,

None go, but streight will be

Some greater in their Steads.

Nature made vs not free

When first she made vs liue:

When we began to be,

To be began our woe:

Which growing euermore

As dying life dooth growe

Do more and more vs greeue,

And tire vs more and more.

No stay in fading states,

For more to height they retch,

Their fellow miseries

The more to height do stretch.

They clinge euen to the crowne,

And threatning furious wise

From tirannizing pates

Do often pull it downe.

In vaine on waues vntride

to shunne them go we should

To _Scythes_ and _Massagetes_

Who neare the Pole reside:

In vaine to boiling sandes

Which _Phæbus_ battry beates,

For with vs still they would

Cut seas and compasse landes.

The darknes no more sure

To ioyne with heauy night:

The light which guildes the dayes

To follow _Titan_ pure:

No more the shadow light

The body to ensue:

Then wretchednes alwaies

Vs wretches to pursue.

O blest who neuer breath'd,

Or whome with pittie mou'de,

_Death_ from his cradle reau'de,

And swadled in his graue:

And blessed also he

(As curse may blessing haue)

Who low and liuing free

No princes charge hath prou'de.

By stealing sacred fire

_Prometheus_ then vnwise,

Prouoking Gods to ire,

The heape of ills did sturre,

And sicknes pale and colde

Our ende which onward spurre,

To plague our hands too bolde

To filch the wealth of Skies.

In heauens hate since then

Of ill with ill enchain'd

We race of mortall men

full fraught our breasts haue borne:

And thousand thousand woes

Our heau'nly soules now thorne,

Which free before from those

No! earthly passion pain'd.

Warre and warres bitter cheare

Now long time with vs staie,

And feare of hated foe

Still still encreaseth sore:

Our harmes worse dayly growe,

Lesse yesterdaye they were

Then now, and will be more

To morowe then to daye.