SCHOLASTIC STUDIES. (continued 3)

Eu. I give you double Thanks, Gentlemen: First for taking these small Matters in so good Part; and secondly, for the Comfort I have receiv'd by your learned and pious Discourses. What Effect my Entertainment may have upon you I know not; but this I am sure of, you'll leave me wiser and better for it. I know you take no Pleasure in Fiddles or Fools, and much less in Dice: Wherefore, if you please, we will pass away an Hour in seeing the rest of the Curiosities of my little Palace.

Ti. That's the very Thing we were about to desire of you.

Eu. There is no Need of entreating a Man of his Word. I believe you have seen enough of this Summer Hall. It looks three Ways, you see; and which Way soever you turn your Eye, you have a most delicate Green before you. If we please, we can keep out the Air or Rain, by putting down the Sashes, if either of them be troublesome; and if the Sun is incommodious, we have thick folding Shutters on the out-Side, and thin ones within, to prevent that. When I dine here, I seem to dine in my Garden, not in my House, for the very Walls have their Greens and their Flowers intermix'd; and 'tis no ill Painting neither. Here's our Saviour celebrating his last Supper with his elect Disciples. Here's Herod a keeping his Birth-Day with a bloody Banquet. Here's Dives, mention'd in the Gospel, in the Height of his Luxury, by and by sinking into Hell. And here is Lazarus, driven away from his Doors, by and by to be receiv'd into Abraham's Bosom.

Ti. We don't very well know this Story.

Eu. It is Cleopatra contending with Anthony, which should be most luxurious; she has drunk down the first Pearl, and now reaches forth her Hand for the other. Here is the Battel of the Centaurs; and here Alexander the Great thrusts his Launce through the Body of Clytus. These Examples preach Sobriety to us at Table, and deter a Man from Gluttony and Excess. Now let us go into my Library, it is not furnish'd with very many Books, but those I have, are very good ones.

Ti. This Place carries a Sort of Divinity in it, every Thing is so shining.

Eu. You have now before you my chiefest Treasure: You see nothing at the Table but Glass and Tin, and I have in my whole House but one Piece of Plate, and that is a gilt Cup, which I preserve very carefully for the Sake of him that gave it me. This hanging Globe gives you a Prospect of the whole World. And here upon the Wall, are the several Regions of it describ'd more at large. Upon those other Walls, you have the Pictures of the most eminent Authors: There would be no End of Painting them all. In the first Place, here is Christ sitting on the Mount, and stretching forth his Hand over his Head; the Father sends a Voice, saying, Hear ye him: the Holy Ghost, with outstretch'd Wings, and in a Glory, embracing him.

Ti. As God shall bless me, a Piece of Work worthy of Apelles.

Eu. Adjoining to the Library, there is a little Study, but a very neat one; and 'tis but removing a Picture, and there is a Chimney behind it, if the Cold be troublesome. In Summer-Time it passes for solid Wall.

Ti. Every Thing here looks like Jewels; and here's a wonderful pretty Scent.

Eu. Above all Things, I love to have my House neat and sweet, and both these may be with little Cost. My Library has a little Gallery that looks into the Garden, and there is a Chapel adjoining to it.

Ti. The Place itself deserves a Deity.

Eu. Let us go now to those three Walks above the other that you have seen, that look into the Kitchen Garden. These upper Walks have a Prospect into both Gardens; but only by Windows with Shutters; especially, in the Walls that have no Prospect into the inner Garden, and that's for the Safety of the House. Here upon the Left-Hand, because there is more Light, and fewer Windows, is painted the whole Life of Jesus, out of the History of the four Evangelists, as far as to the Mission of the Holy Ghost, and the first Preaching of the Apostles out of the Acts; and there are Notes upon the Places, that the Spectator may see near what Lake, or upon what Mountain such or such a Thing was done. There are also Titles to every Story, with an Abstract of the Contents, as that of our Saviour, I will, Be thou clean. Over against it you have the Types and Prophecies of the Old Testament; especially, out of the Prophets and Psalms, which are little else but the Life of Christ and Apostles related another Way. Here I sometimes walk, discoursing with myself, and meditating upon the unspeakable Counsel of God, in giving his Son for the Redemption of Mankind. Sometimes my Wife bears me Company, or sometimes a Friend that takes Delight in pious Things.

Ti. Who could be tired with this House?

Eu. No Body that has learn'd to live by himself. Upon the upper Border (as though not fit to be among the rest) are all the Popes Heads with their Titles, and over against them the Heads of the Cæsars, for the better taking in the Order of History. At each Corner, there is a Lodging Room, where I can repose myself, and have a Prospect of my Orchard, and my little Birds. Here, in the farthest Nook of the Meadow, is a little Banquetting House; there I sup sometimes in Summer, and I make Use of it, as an Infirmary, if any of my Family be taken ill, with any infectious Disease.

Ti. Some People are of Opinion, that those Diseases are not to be avoided.

Eu. Why then do Men shun a Pit or Poison? Or do they fear this the less, because they don't see it? No more is the Poison seen, that a Basilisk darts from his Eyes. When Necessity calls for it, I would not stick to venture my Life: But to do it without any Necessity, is Rashness. There are some other Things worth your seeing; but my Wife shall shew you them: Stay here this three Days if you please, and make my House your Home; entertain your Eyes and your Minds, I have a little Business abroad: I must ride out to some of the Neighbouring Towns.

Ti. What, a Money Business?

Eu. I would not leave such Friends for the Sake of receiving a little Money.

Ti. Perhaps you have appointed a hunting Match.

Eu. It is a Kind of Hunting indeed, but it is something else I hunt, than either Boars or Stags.

Ti. What is it then?

Eu. I'll tell you: I have a Friend in one Town lies dangerously ill; the Physician fears his Life, but I am afraid of his Soul: For I don't think he's so well prepar'd for his End as a Christian should be: I'll go and give him some pious Admonitions that he may be the better for, whether he lives or dies. In another Town there are two Men bitterly at odds, they are no ill Men neither, but Men of a very obstinate Temper. If the Matter should rise to a greater Height, I am afraid it would be of ill Consequence to more than themselves: I will do all I can in the World, to reconcile them; they are both my Kinsmen. This is my hunting Match, and if I shall have good Success in it, we'll drink their Healths.

Ti. A very pious Hunting, indeed; we pray heartily, that not Delia but Christ would give you good Success.

Eu. I had rather obtain this Prey, than have two thousand Ducats left me for a Legacy.

Ti. Will you come back quickly?

Eu. Not till I have try'd every Thing; therefore, I can't set a Time. In the mean Time, be as free with any Thing of mine, as though it were your own, and enjoy yourselves.

Ti. God be with you, forward and backward.

The APOTHEOSIS of CAPNIO.

The ARGUMENT.

Canonizing, or entring the incomparable Man, John Reuclin, into the Number of the Saints, teaches how much Honour is due to famous Men, who have by their Industry improv'd the liberal Sciences.

None that has liv'd Well, dies Ill.

POMPILIUS, BRASSICANUS.

Po. Where have you been, with your Spatter-Lashes?

Br. At Tubinga.

Po. Is there no News there?

Br. I can't but admire, that the World should run so strangely a gadding after News. I heard a Camel preach at Lovain, that we should have nothing to do with any Thing that is new.

Po. Indeed, it is a Conceit fit for a Camel. That Man, (if he be a Man,) ought never to change his old Shoes, or his Shirt, and always to feed upon stale Eggs, and drink nothing but sour Wine.

Br. But for all this, you must know, the good Man does not love old Things so well, but that he had rather have his Porridge fresh than stale.

Po. No more of the Camel; but prithee tell me, what News have you?

Br. Nay, I have News in my Budget too; but News which he says is naught.

Po. But that which is new, will be old in Time. Now if all old Things be good, and all new Things be bad, then it follows of Consequence, that that which is good at present, has been bad heretofore, and that which is now bad, will in Time come to be good.

Br. According to the Doctrine of the Camel, it must be so; and therefore, hence it follows, that he that was a young wicked Fool in Time past, because he was new, will come to be a good One, because he is grown old.

Po. But prithee, let's have the News, be it what it will.

Br. The famous triple-tongu'd Phoenix of Learning, John Reuclin, is departed this Life.

Po. For certain?

Br. Nay, it is too certain.

Po. Why, pray, what Harm is that, for a Man to leave an immortal Memory of a good Name and Reputation behind him, and to pass out of this miserable World, into the Society of the Blessed?

Br. How do you know that to be the Case?

Po. It is plain, for he can't die otherwise, who has liv'd as he did.

Br. You would say so, indeed, if you knew what I know.

Po. What's that, I pray?

Br. No, no, I must not tell you.

Po. Why so?

Br. Because he that entrusted me with the Secret, made me promise Silence.

Po. Do you entrust me with it upon the same Condition, and, upon my honest Word, I'll keep Counsel.

Br. That honest Word has often deceived me; but however, I'll venture; especially, it being a Matter of that Kind, that it is fit all honest Men should know it. There is at Tubinge, a certain Franciscan, a Man accounted of singular Holiness in every Bodies Opinion but his own.

Po. That you mention, is the greatest Argument in the World of true Piety.

Br. If I should tell you his Name, you'd say as much, for you know the Man.

Po. What if I shall guess at him?

Br. Do, if you will.

Po. Hold your Ear then.

Br. What needs that, when here's no Body within Hearing?

Po. But however, for Fashion Sake.

Br. 'Tis the very same.

Po. He is a Man of undoubted Credit. If he says a Thing, it is to me, as true as the Gospel.

Br. Mind me then, and I'll give you the naked Truth of the Story. My Friend Reuclin was sick, indeed very dangerously; but yet, there was some Hopes of his Recovery; he was a Man worthy never to grow old, be sick, or die. One Morning I went to visit my Franciscan, that he might ease my Mind of my Trouble by his Discourse. For when my Friend was sick, I was sick too, for I lov'd him as my own Father.

Po. Phoo! There's no Body but lov'd him, except he were a very bad Man indeed.

Br. My Franciscan says to me, Brassicanus, leave off grieving, our Reuclin is well. What, said I, Is he well all on a sudden then? For but two Days ago, the Doctors gave but little Hopes of him. Then, says he, he is so well recover'd, that he will never be sick again. Don't weep, says he, (for he saw the Tears standing in my Eyes) before you have heard the Matter out. I have not indeed seen the Man this six Days, but I pray for him constantly every Day that goes over my Head. This Morning after Mattins, I laid myself upon my Couch, and fell into a gentle pleasant Slumber.

Po. My Mind presages some joyful Thing.

Br. You have no bad Guess with you. Methought, says he, I was standing by a little Bridge, that leads into a wonderful pleasant Meadow; the emerald Verdure of the Grass and Leaves affording such a charming Prospect; the infinite Beauty, and Variety of the Flowers, like little Stars, were so delightful, and every Thing so fragrant, that all the Fields on this Side the River, by which that blessed Field was divided from the rest, seem'd neither to grow, nor to be green; but look'd dead, blasted, and withered. And in the Interim, while I was wholly taken up with the Prospect, Reuclin, as good Luck would have it, came by; and as he past by, gave me his Blessing in Hebrew. He was gotten half Way over the Bridge before I perceived him, and as I was about to run to him, he look'd back, and bid me keep off. You must not come yet, says he, but five Years hence, you shall follow me. In the mean Time, do you stand by a Spectator, and a Witness of what is done. Here I put in a Word, says I, was Reuclin naked, or had he Cloaths on; was he alone, or had he Company? He had, says he, but one Garment, and that was a very white one; you would have said, it had been a Damask, of a wonderful shining White, and a very pretty Boy with Wings followed him, which I took to be his good Genius.

Po. But had he no evil Genius with him?

Br. Yes, the Franciscan told me he thought he had. For there followed him a great Way off, some Birds, that were all over Black, except, that when they spread their Wings, they seem'd to have Feathers, of a Mixture of White and Carnation. He said, that by their Colour and Cry, one might have taken them for Magpies, but that they were sixteen Times as big; about the size of Vultures, having Combs upon their Heads, with crooked Beaks and Gorbellies. If there had been but three of them, one would have taken them for Harpyes.

Po. And what did these Devils attempt to do?

Br. They kept at a Distance, chattering and squalling at the Hero Reuclin, and were ready to set upon him, if they durst.

Po. What hindred them?

Br. Turning upon them, and making the Sign of the Cross with his Hand at them, he said, Be gone, ye cursed Fiends to a Place that's fitter for you. You have Work enough to do among Mortals, your Madness has no Power over me, that am now lifted in the Roll of Immortality. The Words were no sooner out of his Mouth, says the Franciscan, but these filthy Birds took their Flight, but left such a Stink behind them, that a House of Office would have seem'd Oyl of sweet Marjoram, or Ointment of Spikenard to it. He swore, he had rather go to Hell, than snuff up such a Perfume again.

Po. A Curse upon these Pests.

Br. But, hear what the Franciscan told me besides: While I was intent upon these Things, says he, St. Jerome was come close to the Bridge, and saluted Reuclin in these Words, God save thee, my most holy Companion, I am ordered to conduct thee to the Mansions of the blessed Souls above, which the divine Bounty has appointed thee as a Reward for thy most pious Labours. With that he took out a Garment, and put it upon Reuclin. Then, said I, tell me in what Habit or Form St. Jerome appear'd, was he so old as they paint him? Did he wear a Cowl or a Hat, or the Garb of a Cardinal? Or had he a Lion by his Side? Nothing of all these, said he; but his Person was comely, which made his Age appear such as carried in it much Comeliness, but no Deformity. What Need had he to have a Lion by his Side, as he is commonly painted? His Gown came down to his Heels, as transparent as Crystal, and of the same Fashion of that he gave to Reuclin. It was all over painted with Tongues of three several Colours; some imitated Rubies, some Emeralds, and others Sapphires; and beside the Clearness of it, the Order set it off very much.

Po. An Intimation, I suppose, of the three Tongues that he profess'd.

Br. Without doubt: For he said, that upon the very Borders of the Garments were the Characters of these three Languages inscrib'd in their different Colours.

Po. Had Jerome no Company with him?

Br. No Company, do you say? The whole Field swarm'd with Myriads of Angels, that fill'd the Air as thick, as those little Corpuscles they call Atoms, fly in the Sun Beams; pardon the Meanness of the Comparison. If they had not been as transparent as Glass, there would have been no Heaven nor Earth to have been seen.

Po. O brave, I am glad with all my Heart, for Reuclin's, Sake; but what follow'd?

Br. Jerome, (says he) for Honour's Sake, giving Reuclin the Right-Hand, and embracing him, conducts him into the Meadow, and up a Hill that was in the middle of it, where they kiss'd and embrac'd one another again: In the mean Time, the Heavens open'd over their Heads to a prodigious Wideness, and there appear'd a Glory so unutterable, as made every Thing else, that pass'd for wonderful before, to look mean and sordid.

Po. Can't you give us some Representation of it?

Br. No, how should I, that did not see it? He who did see it, says, that he was not able to express the very Dream of it. He said, he would die a thousand Deaths to see it over again, if it were but for one Moment.

Po. How then?

Br. Out of this Overture of the Heavens, there was let down a great Pillar of Fire that was transparent, and of a very pleasant Form: By this the two holy Souls were carried into Heaven, in one anothers Embraces; a Choir of Angels all the While accompanying them, with so charming a Melody, that the Franciscan says, he is never able to think of the Delight of it without weeping. And after this there follow'd a wonderful fragrant Smell. When he waked out of his Dream, if you will call it a Dream, he was just like a mad Man. He would not believe he was in his Cell; he called for his Bridge and his Meadow; he could not speak or think of any Thing else but them. The Seniors of the Convent, when they found the Story to be no Fable, for it is certain that Reuclin dy'd at the very Instant that the holy Man had this Vision, they unanimously gave Thanks to God, that abundantly rewards good Men for their good Deeds.

Po. What have we to do, but to set down this holy Man's Name in the Calendar of Saints?

Br. I should have done that if the Franciscan had seen nothing at all of this, and in Gold Letters too, I'll assure you, next to St. Jerome himself.

Po. And let me die if I don't put him down in my Book so too.

Br. And besides that, I'll set him in Gold in my little Chapel, among the choicest of my Saints.

Po. And if I had a Fortune to my Mind, I'd have him in Diamonds.

Br. He shall stand in my Library, the very next to St. Jerome.

Po. And I'll have him in mine too.

Br. If they were grateful, every one who loves Learning and Languages, especially, the holy Tongues, would do so too.

Po. Truly it is no more than he deserves. But han't you some Scruple upon your Mind, in as much as he is not yet canoniz'd by the Authority of the Bishop of Rome?

Br. Why, pray, who canoniz'd (for that's the Word) St. Jerome? Who canoniz'd St. Paul, or the Virgin Mary? Pray tell me whose Memory is most sacred among all good Men? Those that by their eminent Piety, and the Monuments of their Learning and good Life, have entitled themselves to the Veneration of all Men; or Catherine of Sien, that was sainted by Pius the Second, in favour of the Order and the City?

Po. You say true: That's the right Worship, that by the Will of Heaven, is paid to the Merits of the Dead, whose Benefits are always sensibly felt.

Br. And can you then deplore the Death of this Man? If long Life be a Blessing, he enjoyed it. He has left behind him immortal Monuments of his Vertue, and by his good Works, consecrated his Name to Immortality. He is now in Heaven, out of the Reach of Misfortunes, conversing with St. Jerome himself.

Po. But he suffer'd a great Deal tho' in his Life.

Br. But yet St. Jerome suffered more. It is a Blessing to be persecuted by wicked Men for being good.

Po. I confess so, and St. Jerome suffer'd many unworthy Things from the worst of Men, for the best of Deeds.

Br. That which Satan did formerly by the Scribes and Pharisees against the Lord Jesus, he continues still to do by Pharisaical Men, against good Men, who have deserved well from the World by their Studies. He now reaps the blessed Harvest of the Seed he has been sowing. In the mean Time, it will be our Duty, to preserve his Memory sacred; to honour his Name, and to address him often in some such Manner as follows. O holy Soul, be thou propitious to Languages, and to those that cultivate them: Favour the holy Tongues, and destroy evil Tongues that are infected with the Poison of Hell.

Po. I'll do't myself, and earnestly persuade all my Friends to do it. I make no Question but there will be those that will desire to have some little Form of Prayer, according to Custom, to celebrate the Memory of this most holy Hero.

Br. Do you mean that which they call a Collect?

Po. Yes.

Br. I have one ready, that I provided before his Death.

Po. I pray let's hear it.

Br. O God, that art the Lover of Mankind, that hast by thy chosen Servant John Reuclin, renew'd to Mankind the Gift of Tongues, by which thy holy Spirit from above, did formerly furnish thy Apostles for their Preaching the Gospel; grant that all thy People may every where, in all Languages, preach the Glory of thy Son Jesus Christ, to the confounding of the Tongues of false Apostles; who being in a Confederacy to uphold the impious Tower of Babel, endeavour to obscure thy Glory, and to advance their own, when to thee alone, together with thy only Son Jesus Christ our Lord, and the holy Spirit, is due all Glory to eternal Ages. Amen.

Po. A most elegant and holy Prayer. As I live, it shall be mine daily. And I account this a happy Opportunity, that has brought me to the Knowledge of so joyful a Story.

Br. Mayst thou long enjoy that Comfort, and so farewell.

Po. Fare you well too.

Br. I will fare well, but not be a Cook.

A LOVER and MAIDEN.

The ARGUMENT.

This Colloquy presents you with a very chaste Wooing, mingling many philosophical Notions with pleasant Jokes. Of not being hasty in marrying; of chusing, not only for the Sake of the outward Person, but the inward Endowments of the Mind; of the Firmness of Wedlock; of not contracting Matrimony without the Consent of Parents; of living chastly in Matrimony; of bringing up Children piously; that the Soul is not where it animates, but where it loves. The Description of a deformed Man. That Wedlock is to be preferr'd before a single Life, and is not, as it is vulgarly called, a Halter. That we must not consult our Affections so much as Reason.

PAMPHILUS and MARY.

PA. Good Morrow, Madam, cruel, hard Heart, inflexible.

Ma. Good Morrow to you too, Mr. Pamphilus, as often, and as much, and by what Names you please: But you seem to have forgotten my Name, 'tis Mary.

Pa. It should rather have been Martia.

Ma. Why so, pray, what is Mars to me?

Pa. Because just as Mars makes a Sport of killing Men, so do you; saving that you do it the more cruelly of the two, because you kill one that loves you.

Ma. Say you so! pray where's the great Slaughter of Men that I have made? Where's the Blood of the Slain?

Pa. You may see one dead Corpse before your Face, if you look upon me.

Ma. What strange Story is this? Does a dead Man talk and walk? I wish I may never meet with more frightful Ghosts than you are.

Pa. Ay, indeed, you make a Jest of it; but for all that, you kill poor me, and more cruelly too, than if you stuck a Dagger in my Breast. For now I, poor Wretch as I am, die a lingering Death.

Ma. Prithee tell me, how many Women with Child have miscarried at the Sight of thee?

Pa. My Paleness shews I have no more Blood in my Body than a Ghost.

Ma. Indeed you are as pale as a Violet; You are as pale as a ripe Cherry, or purple Grape.

Pa. You coquet it with my Misery.

Ma. If you can't believe me, look in the Glass.

Pa. I would never desire a better Glass, nor do I believe there is a better in the World than I am a looking in already.

Ma. What Looking-Glass do you mean?

Pa. Your Eyes.

Ma. You Banterer! that's like you. But how do you prove yourself to be dead? Do dead Folks eat?

Pa. Yes, they do; but Things that have no Relish, as I do.

Ma. What do they feed upon?

Pa. Mallows, Leeks, and Lupines.

Ma. But you feed upon Capons and Partridges.

Pa. If I do, I relish them no more than Beets without Pepper or Vinegar.

Ma. Poor Creature! but yet you're in pretty good Case, for all that. And do dead Folks talk too?

Pa. Just as I do, with a weak Voice.

Ma. But when I heard you rallying your Rival a little While ago, your Voice was not very low then. But, prithee, do Ghosts walk, wear Cloaths, and sleep?

Pa. Yes, and enjoy one another too, after their Manner.

Ma. Thou art a merry Fellow.

Pa. But what will you say, if I prove it by undeniable Arguments, that I am dead, and that you have kill'd me too.

Ma. God forbid, Pamphilus; but let's hear your Arguments, however.

Pa. In the first Place, I think you will grant me this, that Death is only a Separation of Soul and Body.

Ma. I grant it.

Pa. But you must grant it so as not to eat your Words.

Ma. No, I will not.

Pa. You will not deny, I suppose, that the Person that takes away another's Life, is a Murtherer.

Ma. I grant that too.

Pa. I suppose you will grant that which has been allow'd by the greatest Men of many Ages, that the Soul of a Man is not really where it animates, but where it loves.

Ma. Make that a little plainer, I can't well understand it then.

Pa. You might as well bid me make an Adamant sensible of it.

Ma. I am a Maid, not a Stone.

Pa. Tis true, but harder than an Adamant Stone.

Ma. Go on with your Inferences.

Pa. Those that are in a Trance, do neither hear, nor see, nor smell, nor feel, if you kill them outright.

Ma. Indeed I have heard so.

Pa. What do you think is the Reason?

Ma. Do you, Philosopher, tell that.

Pa. Because their Mind is in Heaven, where it enjoys what it dearly loves; and therefore is absent from the Body.

Ma. Well, what then?

Pa. What then, hard-hearted Creature? Then it follows, that I am dead, and you have killed me.

Ma. Where is your Soul then?

Pa. Where it loves.

Ma. Who took this Soul of yours away? What do you Sigh for? Tell me freely: There's no Hurt in it.

Pa. A cruel Maid, that I could not be angry with if she kill'd me outright.

Ma. You're very good-humour'd; but why don't you take her Soul from her too, and pay her in her own Coin, according to the old Proverb.

Pa. I should be the happiest Man in the World, if I could make that Exchange, that her Heart would pass as wholly into my Breast, as mine has into hers.

Ma. But may I play the Sophister with you now?

Pa. The Sophistress.

Ma. Can one and the same Body be both alive and dead?

Pa. Not at the same Time.

Ma. Is the Body dead, when the Soul is out of it?

Pa. Yes.

Ma. Nor does it animate it, but when it is in it?

Pa. No, it does not.

Ma. How comes it to pass then, that when it is there where it loves, it yet animates the Body it is gone out of? And if it animates when it loves any where, how is that called a dead Body which it animates?

Pa. Indeed, you argue very cunningly, but you shan't catch me there. That Soul, which after some Sort governs the Body of the Lover, is but improperly call'd a Soul, when it is but some small Remains of the Soul; just as the Smell of a Rose remains in the Hand, when the Rose is gone.

Ma. I see it is a hard Matter to catch a Fox in a Trap. But answer me this Question, does not the Person that kills, act?

Pa. Yes.

Ma. And does not he suffer who is kill'd?

Pa. Yes.

Ma. And how comes it about then, that when he that loves, acts, and she that is lov'd, suffers, she that is lov'd should be said to kill, when he that loves, rather kills himself?

Pa. Nay, on the Contrary, 'tis he that loves that suffers, and she is lov'd, that acts.

Ma. You will never prove that by all your Grammar.

Pa. Well, I'll prove it by Logic then.

Ma. But do so much as answer me this one Question, do you love voluntarily, or against your Will?

Pa. Voluntarily.

Ma. Then since a Person is at Liberty, whether he will love or no; he that does love, is guilty of Felo de se, and accuses a Maid wrongfully.

Pa. A Maid does not kill in being lov'd, but in not loving again. He is guilty of killing, that can save and don't save.

Ma. What if a young Man should fall into an unlawful Love, as suppose with another Man's Wife, or a Vestal Virgin? Must she love him again, to save the Lover?

Pa. But the young Man, meaning myself, loves one whom he ought to love, and by Right and good Reason, and yet am murthered. If Murther be a light Matter, I could indict you for Witchcraft too.

Ma. God forbid, do you make a Circe of me?

Pa. You are more barbarous than Circe herself, I had rather be a Hog or a Bear, than as I now am, half dead.

Ma. By what Sort of Enchantments do I kill Men?

Pa. By the Witchcraft of your Eyes.

Ma. Would you have me take my noxious Eyes off of you then.

Pa. No, by no Means, rather look more upon me.

Ma. If my Eyes are so infectious, how comes it about they don't throw others I look upon into a Consumption too? I therefore rather believe the Infection is in your own Eyes than mine.

Pa. Is it not enough for you to kill poor Pamphilus, but you must insult him too.

Ma. O pretty dead Creature! but when must I come to your Funeral?

Pa. Sooner than you think for, if you don't relieve me.

Ma. Can I perform such a wonderful Cure?

Pa. You can raise a dead Man to Life again with the greatest Ease imaginable.

Ma. Ay, if I had the Grand-Elixir.

Pa. You have no Need of any Medicine, do but love me again. And what's easier than that? Nay, what's more just? You can no other Way in the World get clear of the Crime of Murther.

Ma. In what Court must I be try'd? In the Court of Chancery?

Pa. No, in the Court of Venus.

Ma. They say, she is a very merciful Goddess.

Pa. Nay, the most severe in the World.

Ma. Has she any Thunderbolts?

Pa. No.

Ma. Has she got a Trident?

Pa. No.

Ma. Has she got a Spear?

Pa. No; but she is the Goddess of the Sea.

Ma. But I don't go to Sea.

Pa. But she has a Son.

Ma. Youth is not very formidable.

Pa. But he is very revengeful and resolute.

Ma. What will he do to me?

Pa. What will he do? That which I can't wish to be done to one I wish so well to. God forbid I should.

Ma. Tell me what it is, for I an't afraid to hear it.

Pa. Well, I'll tell you then; if you slight me that love you, and am no Way unworthy of your Love; I shall be much mistaken if he don't by his Mother's Order shoot you with a venomous Dart, and make you fall deeply in Love with some sorry Fellow or other, that would not love you again.

Ma. That's a most horrid Punishment indeed. I had rather die a thousand Deaths than to be so bitterly in Love with an ugly Man, and one that won't love me neither.

Pa. But we had a notable Example of this not long since upon a certain Maid.

Ma. Where did she live?

Pa. At Orleans.

Ma. How many Years ago was it?

Pa. How many Years! not ten Months.

Ma. What was her Name? What do you stick at?

Pa. Nothing at all. I know her as well as I know you.

Ma. Why don't you tell me her Name then?

Pa. Because I am afraid it is ominous. I wish she had been of some other Name. She was your own Namesake.

Ma. Who was her Father?

Pa. Her Father is alive at this Time, and is a topping Lawyer, and a rich Man.

Ma. Tell me his Name.

Pa. Mauritius.

Ma. His Sirname.

Pa. Aglaius.

Ma. Is her Mother alive?

Pa. No, she died lately.

Ma. What did she die of, say you?

Pa. Why of Grief, and it had like to have cost her Father his Life too, for all he was a Man of a strong Constitution.

Ma. Mayn't a Body know her Mother's Name.

Pa. Yes, Sophrona, every Body knows her Name. What do you mean by that Question? Do you think I invent a Lye?

Ma. Why should I think so of you? Our Sex is most to be suspected for that. But tell me what became of the Maid?

Pa. The Maid, as I told you before, came of very honest Parents, had a good Fortune, was very handsome, and in few Words, was a Match for a Prince; a certain Gentleman of an equal Fortune courted her.

Ma. What was his Name?

Pa. Ah me, I can't bear the Thoughts of it, his Name was Pamphilus as well as mine. He try'd all the Ways in the World to gain her good Will; but she slighted all his Offers. The young Man pines away with Grief. Presently after she fell deep in Love with one more like an Ape than a Man.

Ma. How!

Pa. Ay, so wretchedly in Love, that 'tis impossible to relate it.

Ma. Such a pretty Maid to fall in Love with such an ugly Fellow?

Pa. Ay, with a long-visag'd, scald-headed, bald-pated, hollow-ey'd, snub-nos'd, wide-mouth'd, rotton-tooth'd, stuttering, scabby-bearded, hump-back'd, gor-belly'd, bandy-legg'd Fellow.

Ma. You tell me of a mere Thersites.

Pa. Nay, they said he had but one Ear, neither.

Ma. It may be he had lost the other in the War.

Pa. No, he lost it in Peace.

Ma. Who dar'd to cut it off?

Pa. Jack Ketch.

Ma. It may be his Riches made Amends.

Pa. Over Head and Ears in Debt. And with this Husband this charming Girl now spends her Days, and is now and then drubb'd into the Bargain.

Ma. That is a miserable Story indeed.

Pa. But it is a true one. It is a just Retaliation upon her, for slighting the young Gentleman.

Ma. I should rather chuse to be thunder-struck than ty'd to endure such a Husband.

Pa. Then don't provoke Justice, but love him that loves you.

Ma. Well, if that will do, I do love you again.

Pa. Ay, But I would have that Love constant as mine own. I court a Wife, not a Mistress.

Ma. I suppose so, but yet we ought to be very deliberate in that which being once done, can never be undone again.

Pa. I have been deliberating too long already.

Ma. Love is none of the best Advisers; see that he han't impos'd upon you, for they say he is blind.

Pa. But that Love has Eyes in his Head, that proceeds from Judgment; you don't appear so amiable, only because I love you, but you are really so, and therefore I love you.

Ma. But perhaps you don't know me thoroughly. When once a Shoe is on, then you'll know where it pinches.

Pa. I'll venture it, but I gather from many Conjectures, that it will be happy for me.

Ma. What, are you an Augur then?

Pa. Yes, I am.

Ma. Pray by what Auguries do you prognosticate all this? What, hath the Night Owl appear'd luckily?

Pa. She flies for Fools.

Ma. Did you see a pair of Pigeons on your right Hand?

Pa. Nothing of all this. But have for some Years been satisfy'd of the Honesty of your Father and Mother; and in the first Place, that's no bad Sign. Nor am I ignorant how modestly and religiously you have been brought up by them, and it is a greater Advantage to be honestly educated, than honourably born. And then there's another good Circumstance besides, that as my Parents are none of the worst, so yours and mine have been very intimate for many Years, and you and I have known one another from our very Childhood, as they use to say; and besides all this, our Humours agree very well together. Our Age, Fortunes, Quality, and Parentage are pretty equal. And last of all, that which is the chief Thing in Friendship, your Temper seems to agree very well with mine. There are some Things that may be very good in themselves that may not agree with others. How acceptable my Temper may be to yours, I don't know. These are the Auguries, my Dear, that make me prognosticate that a Marriage between you and me would be happy, lasting, comfortable and pleasant, unless you shall prevent it by a Denial.

Ma. What would you have me say?

Pa. I will sing I am thine first, and you shall sing I am thine after me.

Ma. That indeed is but a short Song, but it has a long Chorus.

Pa. What signifies it how long it is, so it be a merry one.

Ma. I have that Respect for you, I would not have you do what you should repent of when done.

Pa. Leave off teasing me.

Ma. Perhaps I shall not appear so amiable in your Eye, when Age or Sickness have spoil'd my Beauty.

Pa. No more, my Dear, shall I myself be always so young and lusty. I don't only look at that blooming, lovely Body of yours, but it is your Guest within it I am most in Love with.

Ma. What Guest do you mean?

Pa. This Soul of yours, whose Beauty will grow as Years increase.

Ma. In Truth you have a very penetrating Sight, if you can see that through so many Coverings.

Pa. It is with the Eyes of my Mind that I see your Mind, and then besides we shall be ever and anon renewing our Age by our Children.

Ma. But then I shall lose my Maidenhead.

Pa. Right enough; but prithee tell me, if you had a fine Orchard, would you rather chuse never to have nothing but Blossoms on the Trees; or would you rather, that the Blossoms should fall off, and see the Boughs laden with ripe Apples?

Ma. Oh, how cunningly you can argue!

Pa. Answer me but this one Question, which is the finest Sight, a Vine lying along upon the Ground and rotting, or twining round a Stake or an Elm-Tree, loaden with ripe Grapes of a curious purple Colour?

Ma. And pray do you answer me this Question; which is the most pleasant Sight, a Rose fresh and fair upon the Tree, or one gathered and withering in the Hand?

Pa. I look upon that the happier Rose that dies in a Man's Hand; there delighting the Sight and Smell, than that which withers away upon the Bush, for it would die there, if it were let alone. As that Wine has the most Honour done it; that is drank before it grows dead: Though this is to be said, that the Flower of a Maid does not presently fade, as soon as she is married: Nay, I have seen a great many, that before Marriage look'd pale and languid, and just as if they were dropping into the Ground: but having been in the Embraces of a Husband, they have brightened up, just as if they just then began to bloom.

Ma. But for all that, a Maidenhead is accounted a fine Thing.

Pa. A young Virgin is indeed a pretty Thing: But what's more monstrous than an old Maid? If your Mother had not shed that Blossom, we should never have had this fine Flower, yourself. And if we don't make a barren Match, as I hope we shan't, there will be never a Maid the less for us.

Ma. But they say Chastity is very well pleasing to God.

Pa. And for that Reason I would marry a chaste Maid, that I may live chastly with her. The Union of Minds will be more than that of Bodies. We'll get Subjects for the King, and Servants for Christ, and where will the Unchastity of this Matrimony be? And who can tell but we may live together like Joseph and Mary? And in the mean Time, we'll learn to be Virgins, we don't arrive at Perfection all at once.

Ma. What do you talk of? Is Virginity to be violated, that it may be learned?

Pa. Why not? As by little and little drinking Wine sparingly, we learn to be abstemious. Which do you think is the most temperate Person, he that is sitting at a Table full of Delicacies, and abstains from them, or he who is out of the Reach of those Things that incite Intemperance?

Ma. I think he is the most temperate Person, that the greatest Plenty can't debauch.

Pa. Which is the most laudable for Chastity, he that castrates himself, or he that having his Members entire, forbears Venery?

Ma. The latter, in my Opinion: I should call the former a Madman.

Pa. Don't they in a Manner castrate themselves, that abjure Matrimony?

Ma. I think they do.

Pa. Then it is no Virtue to forbear Coition.

Ma. Is it not?

Pa. I prove it thus; if it were of itself a Virtue not to copulate, it were a Sin to do it: so that it follows of Consequence, it is a Fault not to copulate, and a Virtue to do it.

Ma. When does this Case happen?

Pa. As often as the Husband requires his due of his Wife; especially if he would embrace her for the Sake of Procreation.

Ma. But if it be out of Wantonness? Is it not lawful to deny him?

Pa. He may be admonish'd or dissuaded by soft Language to forbear; but if he insists upon it, he ought not to be refus'd. But I hear very few Husbands complain of their Wives upon this Account.

Ma. But Liberty is a very sweet Thing.

Pa. Virginity is rather a greater Burthen. I will be your King, and you shall be my Queen, and we'll govern the Family according to our Pleasure: And do you think that a Bondage?

Ma. Marriage is called a Halter.

Pa. They deserve a Halter that call it so. Pray tell me, is not your Soul and Body bound together?

Ma. Yes, I think they are.

Pa. Just like a Bird in a Cage; and yet, ask it if it would be freed from it, I believe it will say, no: And what's the Reason of that? Because it is bound by its own Consent.

Ma. But we have neither of us got much of Portion.

Pa. We are the safer for that, you shall add to it at Home by good Housewifery, and that is not without good Reason said to be a great Revenue, and I'll increase it abroad by my Industry.

Ma. But Children bring a great many Cares along with them.

Pa. Have done with Scruples.

Ma. Would you have me marry a dead Man?

Pa. No, but I shall come to Life again then.

Ma. Well, you have removed my Objection. My Pamphilus, farewell.

Pa. Do you take Care of that.

Ma. I wish you a good Night. Why do you sigh?

Pa. A good Night, say you, I wish you would give me what you wish me.

Ma. Soft and fair, you are a little too hasty.

Pa. Must I not carry nothing of you along with me?

Ma. This sweet Ball; it will cheer your Heart.

Pa. But give me a Kiss too.

Ma. No, I have a Mind to keep my Maidenhead for you entire and untouch'd.

Pa. Will a Kiss take any Thing from your Virginity?

Ma. Will you give me leave to kiss other Folks?

Pa. No, by no Means, I'd have my Kisses kept for myself.

Ma. Well, I'll keep 'em for you: But there is another Reason why I dare not give you a Kiss, as Things are at present.

Pa. What is that?

Ma. You say your Soul is gone out of your Body into mine, so that there is but very little left. I am afraid that in Kissing, the little that is left in you, should jump out of you into me, and so you should be quite dead. Shake Hands as a Pledge of my Love, and so farewell. Do you see that you manage the Matter vigorously, and I'll pray to God in the mean Time, that whatsoever be done, may be for both our good.

The VIRGIN AVERSE TO MATRIMONY.

The ARGUMENT.

A Virgin averse to Matrimony, will needs be a Nun. She is dissuaded from it, and persuaded to moderate her Inclination in that Matter, and to do nothing against her Parents Consent, but rather to marry. That Virginity may be maintain'd in a conjugal Life. The Monks Way of living in Celibacy is rally'd. Children, why so call'd. He abhors those Plagiaries who entice young Men and Maids into Monasteries, as though Salvation was to be had no other Way; whence it comes to pass, that many great Wits are as it were buried alive.

EUBULUS, CATHERINE.

Eub. I am glad with all my Heart, that Supper is over at last, that we may have an Opportunity to take a Walk, which is the greatest Diversion in the World.

Ca. And I was quite tir'd of sitting so long at Table.

Eu. How green and charming does every Thing in the World look! surely this is its Youth.

Ca. Ay, so it is.

Eu. But why is it not Spring with you too?

Ca. What do you mean?

Eu. Because you look a little dull.

Ca. Why, don't I look as I use to do?

Eu. Shall I show you how you look?

Ca. With all my Heart.

Eu. Do you see this Rose, how it contracts itself, now towards Night?

Ca. Yes, I do see it: And what then?

Eu. Why, just so you look.

Ca. A very fine Comparison.

Eu. If you won't believe me, see your own Face in this Fountain here. What was the Meaning you sat sighing at Supper so?

Ca. Pray don't ask Questions about that which don't concern you.

Eu. But it does very much concern me, since I can't be chearful myself, without you be so too. See now, there's another Sigh, and a deep one too!

Ca. There is indeed something that troubles my Mind. But I must not tell it.

Eu. What, won't you tell it me, that love you more dearly than I do my own Sister: My Katy, don't be afraid to speak; be it what it will you are safe.

Ca. If I should be safe enough, yet I'm afraid I shall be never the better in telling my Tale to one that can do me no good.

Eu. How do you know that? If I can't serve you in the Thing itself, perhaps I may in Counsel or Consolation.

Ca. I can't speak it out.

Eu. What is the Matter? Do you hate me?

Ca. I love you more dearly than my own Brother, and yet for all that my Heart won't let me divulge it.

Eu. Will you tell me, if I guess it? Why do you quibble now? Give me your Word, or I'll never let you alone till I have it out.

Ca. Well then, I do give you my Word.

Eu. Upon the whole of the Matter, I can't imagine what you should want of being compleatly happy.

Ca. I would I were so.

Eu. You are in the very Flower of your Age: If I'm not mistaken, you are now in your seventeenth Year.

Ca. That's true.

Eu. So that in my Opinion the Fear of old Age can't yet be any Part of your Trouble.

Ca. Nothing less, I assure you.

Eu. And you are every Way lovely, and that is the singular Gift of God.

Ca. Of my Person, such as it is, I neither glory nor complain.

Eu. And besides the Habit of your Body and your Complexion bespeak you to be in perfect Health, unless you have some hidden Distemper.

Ca. Nothing of that, I thank God.

Eu. And besides, your Credit is fair.

Ca. I trust it is.

Eu. And you are endow'd with a good Understanding suitable to the Perfections of your Body, and such a one as I could wish to myself, in order to my Attainment of the liberal Sciences.

Ca. If I have, I thank God for it.

Eu. And again, you are of a good agreeable Humour, which is rarely met with in great Beauties, they are not wanting neither.

Ca. I wish they were such as they should be.

Eu. Some People are uneasy at the Meanness of their Extraction, but your Parents are both of them well descended, and virtuous, of plentiful Fortunes, and very kind to you.

Ca. I have nothing to complain of upon that Account.

Eu. What Need of many Words? Of all the young Women in the Country you are the Person I would chuse for a Wife, if I were in Condition to pretend to't.

Ca. And I would chuse none but you for a Husband, if I were dispos'd to marry.

Eu. It must needs be some extraordinary Matter that troubles your Mind so.

Ca. It is no light Matter, you may depend upon it.

Eu. You won't take it ill I hope if I guess at it.

Ca. I have promis'd you I won't.

Eu. I know by Experience what a Torment Love is. Come, confess now, is that it? You promis'd to tell me.

Ca. There's Love in the Case, but not that Sort of Love that you imagine.

Eu. What Sort of Love is it that you mean?

Ca. Guess.

Eu. I have guess'd all the Guesses I can guess; but I'm resolv'd I'll never let go this Hand till I have gotten it out of you.

Ca. How violent you are.

Eu. Whatever your Care is, repose it in my Breast.

Ca. Since you are so urgent, I will tell you. From my very Infancy I have had a very strong Inclination.

Eu. To what, I beseech you?

Ca. To put myself into a Cloyster.

Eu. What, to be a Nun?

Ca. Yes.

Eu. Ho! I find I was out in my Notion; to leave a Shoulder of Mutton for a Sheep's Head.

Ca. What's that you say, Eubulus?

Eu. Nothing, my Dear, I did but cough. But, go on, tell me it out.

Ca. This was my Inclination; but my Parents were violently set against it.

Eu. I hear ye.

Ca. On the other Hand, I strove by Intreaties, fair Words, and Tears, to overcome that pious Aversion of my Parents.

Eu. O strange!

Ca. At Length when they saw I persisted in Intreaties, Prayers, and Tears, they promis'd me that if I continu'd in the same Mind till I was seventeen Years of Age, they would leave me to my own Liberty: The Time is now come, I continue still in the same Mind, and they go from their Words. This is that which troubles my Mind. I have told you my Distemper, do you be my Physician, and cure me, if you can.

Eu. In the first Place, my sweet Creature, I would advise you to moderate your Affections; and if you can't do all you would, do all that you can.

Ca. It will certainly be the Death of me, if I han't my Desire.

Eu. What was it that gave the first Rise to this fatal Resolution?

Ca. Formerly, when I was a little Girl, they carried me into one of those Cloysters of Virgins, carry'd me all about it, and shew'd me the whole College. I was mightily taken with the Virgins, they look'd so charming pretty, just like Angels; the Chapels were so neat, and smelt so sweet, the Gardens look'd so delicately well order'd, that in short which Way soever I turn'd my Eye every Thing seem'd delightful. And then I had the prettiest Discourse with the Nuns. And I found two or three that had been my Play-Fellows when I was a Child, and I have had a strange Passion for that Sort of Life ever since.

Eu. I have no Dislike to the Nunneries themselves, though the same Thing can never agree with all Persons: But considering your Genius, as far as I can gather from your Complexion and Manners, I should rather advise you to an agreeable Husband, and set up a College in your own House, of which he should be the Abbot and you the Abbess.

Ca. I will rather die than quit my Resolution of Virginity.

Eu. Nay, it is indeed an admirable Thing to be a pure Virgin, but you may keep yourself so without running yourself into a Cloyster, from which you never can come out. You may keep your Maidenhead at Home with your Parents.

Ca. Yes, I may, but it is not so safe there.

Eu. Much safer truly in my Judgment there, than with those brawny, swill-belly'd Monks. They are no Capons, I'll assure you, whatever you may think of them. They are call'd Fathers, and they commonly make good their Calling to the very Letter. Time was when Maids liv'd no where honester than at home with their Parents, when the only spiritual Father they had was the Bishop. But, prithee, tell me, what Cloyster hast thou made Choice of among 'em all, to be a Slave in?

Ca. The Chrysertian.

Eu. Oh! I know it, it is a little Way from your Father's House.

Ca. You're right.

Eu. I am very well acquainted with the whole Gang. A sweet Fellowship to renounce Father and Mother, Friends, and a worthy Family for! For the Patriarch himself, what with Age, Wine, and a certain natural Drowsiness, has been mop'd this many a Day, he can't now relish any Thing but Wine; and he has two Companions, John and Jodocus, that match him to a Hair. And as for John, indeed I can't say he is an ill Man, for he has nothing at all of a Man about him but his Beard, not a Grain of Learning in him, and not much more common Prudence. And Jodocus he's so arrant a Sot, that if he were not ty'd up to the Habit of his Order, he would walk the Streets in a Fool's Cap with Ears and Bells at it.

Ca. Truly they seem to me to be very good Men.

Eu. But, my Kitty, I know 'em better than you do. They will do good Offices perhaps between you and your Parents, that they may gain a Proselyte.

Ca. Jodocus is very civil to me.

Eu. A great Favour indeed. But suppose 'em good and learned Men to Day, you'll find 'em the contrary perhaps to Morrow; and let them be what they will then, you must bear with them.

Ca. I am troubled to see so many Entertainments at my Father's House, and marry'd Folks are so given to talk smutty; I'm put to't sometimes when Men come to kiss me, and you know one can't well deny a Kiss.

Eu. He that would avoid every Thing that offends him, must go out of the World; we must accustom our Ears to hear every Thing, but let nothing enter the Mind but what is good. I suppose your Parents allow you a Chamber to yourself.

Ca. Yes, they do.

Eu. Then you may retire thither, if you find the Company grow troublesome; and while they are drinking and joking, you may entertain yourself with Christ your Spouse, praying, singing, and giving Thanks: Your Father's House will not defile you, and you will make it the more pure.

Ca. But it is a great Deal safer to be in Virgins Company.

Eu. I do not disapprove of a chaste Society: Yet I would not have you delude yourself with false Imaginations. When once you come to be throughly acquainted there, and see Things nearer Hand, perhaps Things won't look with so good a Face as they did once. They are not all Virgins that wear Vails; believe me.

Ca. Good Words, I beseech you.

Eu. Those are good Words that are true Words. I never read of but one Virgin that was a Mother, i.e. the Virgin Mary, unless the Eulogy we appropriate to the Virgin be transferr'd to a great many to be call'd Virgins after Childbearing.

Ca. I abhor the Thoughts on't.

Eu. Nay, and more than that, those Maids, I'll assure you, do more than becomes Maids to do.

Ca. Ay! why so, pray?

Eu. Because there are more among 'em that imitate Sappho in Manners, than are like her in Wit.

Ca. I don't very well understand you.

Eu. My dear Kitty, I therefore speak in Cypher that you may not understand me.

Ca. But my Mind runs strangely upon this Course of Life, and I have a strong Opinion that this Disposition comes from God, because it hath continu'd with me so many Years, and grows every Day stronger and stronger.

Eu. Your good Parents being so violently set against it, makes me suspect it. If what you attempt were good, God would have inclined your Parents to favour the Motion. But you have contracted this Affection from the gay Things you saw when you were a Child; the Tittle-tattles of the Nuns, and the Hankering you have after your old Companions, the external Pomp and specious Ceremonies, and the Importunities of the senseless Monks which hunt you to make a Proselyte of you, that they may tipple more largely. They know your Father to be liberal and bountiful, and they'll either give him an Invitation to them, because they know he'll bring Wine enough with him to serve for ten lusty Soaks, or else they'll come to him. Therefore let me advise you to do nothing without your Parents Consent, whom God has appointed your Guardians. God would have inspired their Minds too, if the Thing you were attempting were a religious Matter.

Ca. In this Matter it is Piety to contemn Father and Mother.

Eu. It is, I grant, sometimes a Piece of Piety to contemn Father or Mother for the Sake of Christ; but for all that, he would not act piously, that being a Christian, and had a Pagan to his Father, who had nothing but his Son's Charity to support him, should forsake him, and leave him to starve. If you had not to this Day profess'd Christ by Baptism, and your Parents should forbid you to be baptis'd, you would indeed then do piously to prefer Christ before your impious Parents; or if your Parents should offer to force you to do some impious, scandalous Thing, their Authority in that Case were to be contemned. But what is this to the Case of a Nunnery? You have Christ at home. You have the Dictates of Nature, the Approbation of Heaven, the Exhortation of St. Paul, and the Obligation of human Laws, for your Obedience to Parents; and will you now withdraw yourself from under the Authority of good and natural Parents, to give yourself up a Slave to a fictitious Father, rather than to your real Father, and a strange Mother instead of your true Mother, and to severe Masters and Mistresses rather than Parents? For you are so under your Parents Direction, that they would have you be at Liberty wholly. And therefore Sons and Daughters are call'd [liberi] Children, because they are free from the Condition of Servants. You are now of a free Woman about to make yourself voluntarily a Slave. The Clemency of the Christian Religion has in a great Measure cast out of the World the old Bondage, saving only some obscure Foot-Steps in some few Places. But there is now a Days found out under pretence of Religion a new Sort of Servitude, as they now live indeed in many Monasteries. You must do nothing there but by a Rule, and then all that you lose they get. If you offer to step but one Step out of the Door, you're lugg'd back again just like a Criminal that had poison'd her Father. And to make the Slavery yet the more evident, they change the Habit your Parents gave you, and after the Manner of those Slaves in old Time, bought and sold in the Market, they change the very Name that was given you in Baptism, and Peter or John are call'd Francis, or Dominic, or Thomas. Peter first gives his Name up to Christ, and being to be enter'd into Dominic's Order, he's called Thomas. If a military Servant casts off the Garment his Master gave him, is he not look'd upon to have renounc'd his Master? And do we applaud him that takes upon him a Habit that Christ the Master of us all never gave him? He is punish'd more severely for the changing it again, than if he had a hundred Times thrown away the Livery of his Lord and Emperor, which is the Innocency of his Mind.

Ca. But they say, it is a meritorious Work to enter into this voluntary Confinement.

Eu. That is a pharisaical Doctrine. St. Paul teacheth us otherwise, and will not have him that is called free, make himself a Servant, but rather endeavour that he may be more free: And this makes the Servitude the worse, that you must serve many Masters, and those most commonly Fools too, and Debauchees; and besides that, they are uncertain, being every now and then new. But answer me this one Thing, I beseech you, do any Laws discharge you from your Duty to your Parents?

Ca. No.

Eu. Can you buy or sell an Estate against your Parents Consent?

Ca. No, I can't.

Eu. What Right have you then to give away yourself to I know not whom, against your Parents Consent? Are you not their Child, the dearest and most appropriate Part of their Possession?

Ca. In the Business of Religion, the Laws of Nature give Place.

Eu. The great Point of our Religion lies in our Baptism: But the Matter in Question here is, only the changing of a Habit, or of such a Course of Life, which in itself is neither Good nor Evil. And now consider but this one Thing, how many valuable Privileges you lose, together with your Liberty. Now, if you have a Mind to read, pray, or sing, you may go into your own Chamber, as much and as often as you please. When you have enough of Retirement, you may go to Church, hear Anthems, Prayers and Sermons; and if you see any Matron or Virgin remarkable for Piety, in whose Company you may get good; if you see any Man that is endow'd with singular Probity, from whom you may learn what will make for your bettering, you may have their Conversation; and you may chuse that Preacher that preaches Christ most purely. When once you come into a Cloyster, all these Things, that are the greatest Assistances in the Promotion of true Piety, you lose at once.

Ca. But in the mean Time I shall not be a Nun.

Eu. What signifies the Name? Consider the Thing itself. They make their boast of Obedience, and won't you be praise-worthy, in being obedient to your Parents, your Bishop and your Pastor, whom God has commanded you to obey? Do you profess Poverty? And may not you too, when all is in your Parents Hands? Although the Virgins of former Times were in an especial Manner commended by holy Men, for their Liberality towards the Poor; but they could never have given any Thing, if they had possessed nothing. Nor will your Charity be ever the less for living with your Parents. And what is there more in a Convent than these? A Vail, a Linnen-Shift turned into a Stole, and certain Ceremonies, which of themselves signify nothing to the Advancement of Piety, and make no Body more acceptable in the Eyes of Christ, who only regards the Purity of the Mind.

Ca. This is News to me.

Eu. But it is true News. When you, not being discharg'd from the Government of your Parents, can't dispose of, or sell so much as a Rag, or an Inch of Ground, what Right can you pretend to for disposing of yourself into the Service of a Stranger?

Ca. They say, that the Authority of a Parent does not hinder a Child from entering into a religious Life.

Eu. Did you not make Profession of Religion in your Baptism?

Ca. Yes.

Eu. And are not they religious Persons that conform to the Precepts of Christ?

Ca. They are so.

Eu. What new Religion is that then, which makes that void, that the Law of Nature had establish'd? What the old Law hath taught, and the Gospel approv'd, and the Apostles confirm'd? That is an Ordinance that never came from Heaven, but was hatch'd by a Company of Monks in their Cells. And after this Manner, some of them undertake to justify a Marriage between a Boy and a Girl, though without the Privity, and against the Consent of their Parents; if the Contract be (as they phrase it) in Words of the present Tense. And yet that Position is neither according to the Dictate of Nature, the Law of Moses, or the Doctrine of Christ or his Apostles.

Ca. Do you think then, that I may not espouse myself to Christ without my Parents Consent?

Eu. I say, you have espous'd him already, and so we have all. Where is the Woman that marries the same Man twice? The Question is here only about Places, Garments and Ceremonies. I don't think Duty to Parents is to be abandon'd for the Sake of these Things; and you ought to look to it, that instead of espousing Christ, you don't espouse some Body else.

Ca. But I am told, that in this Case it is a Piece of the highest Sanctity, even to contemn ones Parents.

Eu. Pray, require these Doctors to shew you a Text for it, out of the holy Scriptures, that teach this Doctrine; but if they can't do this, bid them drink off a good large Bumper of Burgundian Wine: That they can do bravely. It is indeed a Piece of Piety to fly from wicked Parents to Christ: But to fly from pious Parents to a Monkery, that is (as it too often proves) to fly from ought to stark naught. What Pity is that I pray? Although in old Time, he that was converted from Paganism to Christianity, paid yet as great a Reverence to his idolatrous Parents, as it was possible to do without prejudice to Religion itself.

Ca. Are you then against the main Institution of a monastick Life?

Eu. No, by no Means: But as I will not persuade any Body against it, that is already engag'd in this Sort of Life, to endeavour to get out of it, so I would most undoubtedly caution all young Women; especially those of generous Tempers, not to precipitate themselves unadvisedly into that State from whence there is no getting out afterwards: And the rather, because their Chastity is more in Danger in a Cloyster than out of it; and beside that, you may do whatsoever is done there as well at Home.

Ca. You have indeed urg'd many, and very considerable Arguments; yet this Affection of mine can't be removed.

Eu. If I can't dissuade you from it, as I wish heartily I could, however, remember this one Thing, that Eubulus told you before Hand. In the mean Time, out of the Love I bear you, I wish your Inclinations may succeed better than my Counsel.

The PENITENT VIRGIN.

The ARGUMENT.

A Virgin repenting before she had profess'd herself, goes Home again to her Parents. The crafty Tricks of the Monks are detected, who terrify and frighten unexperienced Minds into their Cloysters, by feign'd Apparitions and Visions.

EUBULUS, CATHERINE.

Eu. I could always wish to have such a Porter.

Ca. And I to have such Visitors.

Eu. But fare you well, Kitty.

Ca. What's the Matter, do you take Leave before you salute?

Eu. I did not come hither to see you cry: What's the Matter, that as soon as ever you see me, the Tears stand in your Eyes?

Ca. Why in such Haste? Stay a little; pray stay. I'll put on my better Looks, and we'll be merry together.

Eu. What Sort of Cattle have we got here?

Ca. 'Tis the Patriarch of the College: Don't go away, they have had their Dose of Fuddle: Stay but a little While, and as soon as he is gone, we will discourse as we use to do.

Eu. Well, I'll be so good natur'd as to hearken to you, though you would not to me. Now we are alone, you must tell me the whole Story, I would fain have it from your Mouth.

Ca. Now I have found by Experience, of all my Friends, which I took to be very wise Men too, that no Body gave more wise and grave Advice than you, that are the youngest of 'em all.

Eu. Tell me, how did you get your Parents Consent at last?

Ca. First, by the restless Sollicitations of the Monks and Nuns, and then by my own Importunities and Tears, my Mother was at length brought over; but my Father stood out stiffly still: But at last being ply'd by several Engines, he was prevail'd upon to yield; but yet, rather like one that was forced, than that consented. The Matter was concluded in their Cups, and they preach'd Damnation to him, if he refus'd to let Christ have his Spouse.

Eu. O the Villany of Fools! But what then?

Ca. I was kept close at Home for three Days; but in the mean Time there were always with me some Women of the College that they call Convertites, mightily encouraging me to persist in my holy Resolution, and watching me narrowly, lest any of my Friends or Kindred should come at me, and make me alter my Mind. In the mean While, my Habit was making ready, and the Provision for the Feast.

Eu. How did you find yourself? Did not your Mind misgive you yet?

Ca. No, not at all; and yet I was so horridly frighted, that I had rather die ten Times over, than suffer the same again.

Eu. What was that, pray?

Ca. It is not to be uttered.

Eu. Come, tell me freely, you know I'm your Friend.

Ca. Will you keep Counsel?

Eu. I should do that without promising, and I hope you know me better than to doubt of it.

Ca. I had a most dreadful Apparition.

Eu. Perhaps it was your evil Genius that push'd you on to this.

Ca. I am fully persuaded it was an evil Spirit.

Eu. Tell me what Shape it was in. Was it such as we use to paint with a crooked Beak, long Horns, Harpies Claws, and swinging Tail?

Ca. You make a Game of it, but I had rather sink into the Earth, than see such another.

Eu. And were your Women Sollicitresses with you then?

Ca. No, nor I would not so much as open my Lips of it to them, though they sifted me most particularly about it, when they found me almost dead with the Surprise.

Eu. Shall I tell you what it was?

Ca. Do if you can.

Eu. Those Women had certainly bewitch'd you, or conjur'd your Brain out of your Head rather. But did you persist in your Resolution still, for all this?

Ca. Yes, for they told me, that many were thus troubled upon their first consecrating themselves to Christ; but if they got the better of the Devil that Bout, he'd let them alone for ever after.

Eu. Well, what Pomp were you carried out with?

Ca. They put on all my Finery, let down my Hair, and dress'd me just as if it had been for my Wedding.

Eu. To a fat Monk, perhaps; Hem! a Mischief take this Cough.

Ca. I was carried from my Father's House to the College by broad Day-Light, and a World of People staring at me.

Eu. O these Scaramouches, how they know to wheedle the poor People! How many Days did you continue in that holy College of Virgins, forsooth?

Ca. Till Part of the twelfth Day.

Eu. But what was it that changed your Mind, that had been so resolutely bent upon it?

Ca. I must not tell you what it was, but it was something very considerable. When I had been there six Days, I sent for my Mother; I begged of her, and besought her, as she lov'd my Life, to get me out of the College again. She would not hear on't, but bad me hold to my Resolution. Upon that I sent for my Father, but he chid me too, telling me, that I had made him master his Affections, and that now he'd make me master mine, and not disgrace him, by starting from my Purpose. At last, when I saw that I could do no good with them this Way, I told my Father and Mother both, that to please them, I would submit to die, and that would certainly be my Fate, if they did not take me out, and that very quickly too; and upon this, they took me Home.

Eu. It was very well that you recanted before you had profess'd yourself for good and all: But still, I don't hear what it was changed your Mind so suddenly.

Ca. I never told any Mortal yet, nor shall.

Eu. What if I should guess?

Ca. I'm sure you can't guess it; and if you do, I won't tell you.

Eu. Well, for all that, I guess what it was. But in the mean Time, you have been at a great Charge.

Ca. Above 400 Crowns.

Eu. O these guttling Nuptials! Well, but I am glad though the Money is gone, that you're safe: For the Time to come, hearken to good Counsel when it is given you.

Ca. So I will. The burnt Child dreads the Fire.

The UNEASY WIFE.

The ARGUMENT.

This Colloquy, entitled, The uneasy Wife: Or, Uxor [Greek: Mempsigamos], treats of many Things that relate to the mutual Nourishment of conjugal Affection. Concerning the concealing a Husband's Faults; of not interrupting conjugal Benevolence; of making up Differences; of mending a Husband's Manners; of a Woman's Condescension to her Husband. What is the Beauty of a Woman; she disgraces herself, that disgraces her Husband; that the Wife ought to submit to the Husband; that the Husband ought not to be out of Humour when the Wife is; and on the Contrary; that they ought to study mutual Concord, since there is no Room for Advice; that they ought to conceal one another's Faults, and not expose one another; that it is in the Power of the Wife to mend her Husband; that she ought to carry herself engagingly, learn his Humour, what provokes him or appeases him; that all Things be in Order at Home; that he have what he likes best to eat; that if the Husband be vext, the Wife don't laugh; if he be angry, that she should speak pleasantly to him, or hold her Tongue; that what she blames him for, should be betwixt themselves; the Method of admonishing; that she ought to make her Complaint to no Body but her Husband's Parents; or to some peculiar Friends that have an Influence upon him. The Example of a prudent Man, excellently managing a young morose Wife, by making his Complaint to her Father. Another of a prudent Wife, that by her good Carriage reformed a Husband that frequented leud Company, Another of a Man that had beaten his Wife in his angry Fit; that Husbands are to be overcome, brought into Temper by Mildness, Sweetness, and Kindness; that there should be no Contention in the Chamber or in the Bed; but that Care should be taken, that nothing but Pleasantness and Engagingness be there. The Girdle of Venus is Agreeableness of Manners. Children make a mutual Amity. That a Woman separated from her Husband, is nothing: Let her always be mindful of the Respect that is due to a Husband.

EULALIA, XANTIPPE.

EU. Most welcome Xantippe, a good Morning to you.

Xa. I wish you the same, my dear Eulalia. Methinks you look prettier than you use to do.

Eu. What, do you begin to banter me already?

Xa. No, upon my Word, for you seem so to me.

Eu. Perhaps then my new Cloaths may set me off to Advantage.

Xa. You guess right, it is one of the prettiest Suits I ever beheld in all my Life. It is English Cloth, I suppose.

Eu. It is indeed of English Wool, but it is a Venetian Dye.

Xa. It is as soft as Silk, and 'tis a charming Purple. Who gave you this fine Present?

Eu. My Husband. From whom should a virtuous Wife receive Presents but from him?

Xa. Well, you are a happy Woman, that you are, to have such a good Husband. For my Part, I wish I had been married to a Mushroom when I was married to my Nick.

Eu. Why so, pray? What! is it come to an open Rupture between you already?

Xa. There is no Possibility of agreeing with such a one as I have got. You see what a ragged Condition I am in; so he lets me go like a Dowdy! May I never stir, if I an't asham'd to go out of Doors any whither, when I see how fine other Women are, whose Husbands are nothing nigh so rich as mine is.

Eu. The Ornament of a Matron does not consist in fine Cloaths or other Deckings of the Body, as the Apostle Peter teaches, for I heard that lately in a Sermon; but in chaste and modest Behaviour, and the Ornaments of the Mind. Whores are trick'd up to take the Eyes of many but we are well enough drest, if we do but please our own Husbands.

Xa. But mean while this worthy Tool of mine, that is so sparing toward his Wife, lavishly squanders away the Portion I brought along with me, which by the Way was not a mean one.

Eu. In what?

Xa. Why, as the Maggot bites, sometimes at the Tavern, sometimes upon his Whores, sometimes a gaming.

Eu. O fie, you should never say so of your Husband.

Xa. But I'm sure 'tis too true; and then when he comes Home, after I have been waiting for him till I don't know what Time at Night, as drunk as David's Sow, he does nothing but lye snoring all Night long by my Side, and sometimes bespues the Bed too, to say nothing more.

Eu. Hold your Tongue: You disgrace yourself in disgracing your Husband.

Xa. Let me dye, if I had not rather lye with a Swine than such a Husband as I have got.

Eu. Don't you scold at him then?

Xa. Yes, indeed, I use him as he deserves. He finds I have got a Tongue in my Head.

Eu. Well, and what does he say to you again?

Xa. At first he used to hector at me lustily, thinking to fright me with his big Words.

Eu. Well, and did your Words never come to downright Blows?

Xa. Once, and but once, and then the Quarrel rose to that Height on both Sides, that we were within an Ace of going to Fisty-Cuffs.

Eu. How, Woman! say you so?

Xa. He held up his Stick at me, swearing and cursing like a Foot-Soldier, and threatening me dreadfully.

Eu. Were not you afraid then?

Xa. Nay, I snatch'd up a three legg'd Stool, and if he had but touch'd me with his Finger, he should have known he had to do with a Woman of Spirit.

Eu. Ah! my Xantippe, that was not becoming.

Xa. What becoming? If he does not use me like a Wife, I won't use him like a Husband.

Eu. But St. Paul teaches, that Wives ought to be subject to their own Husbands with all Reverence. And St. Peter proposes the Example of Sarah to us, who call'd her Husband Abraham Lord.

Xa. I have heard those Things, but the same Paul likewise teaches that Men should love their Wives as Christ lov'd his Spouse the Church. Let him remember his Duty and I'll remember mine.

Eu. But nevertheless when Things are come to that Pass that one must submit to the other, it is but reasonable that the Wife submit to her Husband.

Xa. Yes indeed, if he deserves the Name of a Husband who uses me like a Kitchen Wench.

Eu. But tell me, Xantippe, did he leave off threatening after this?

Xa. He did leave off, and it was his Wisdom so to do, or else he would have been thresh'd.

Eu. But did not you leave off Scolding at him?

Xa. No, nor never will.

Eu. But what does he do in the mean Time?

Xa. What! Why sometimes he pretends himself to be fast asleep, and sometimes does nothing in the World but laugh at me; sometimes he catches up his Fiddle that has but three Strings, scraping upon it with all his Might, and drowns the Noise of my Bawling.

Eu. And does not that vex you to the Heart?

Xa. Ay, so that it is impossible to be express'd, so that sometimes I can scarce keep my Hands off of him.

Eu. Well, my Xantippe, give me Leave to talk a little freely with you.

Xa. I do give you Leave.

Eu. Nay, you shall use the same Freedom with me. Our Intimacy, which has been in a Manner from our very Cradles, requires this.

Xa. You say true, nor was there any of my Playfellows that I more dearly lov'd than you.

Eu. Let your Husband be as bad as bad can be, think upon this, That there is no changing. Heretofore, indeed, Divorce was a Remedy for irreconcilable Disagreements, but now this is entirely taken away: He must be your Husband and you his Wife to the very last Day of Life.

Xa. The Gods did very wrong that depriv'd us of this Privilege.

Eu. Have a Care what you say. It was the Will of Christ.

Xa. I can scarce believe it.

Eu. It is as I tell you. Now you have nothing left to do but to study to suit your Tempers and Dispositions one to another, and agree together.

Xa. Do you think, I can be able to new-make him?

Eu. It does not a little depend upon the Wives, what Men Husbands shall be.

Xa. Do you and your Husband agree very well together?

Eu. All is quiet with us now.

Xa. Well then, you had some Difference at first.

Eu. Never any Thing of a Storm; but yet, as it is common with human Kind, sometimes a few small Clouds would rise, which might have produc'd a Storm, if it had not been prevented by Condescention. Every one has his Humours, and every one their Fancies, and if we would honestly speak the Truth, every one his Faults, more or less, which if in any State, certainly in Matrimony we ought to connive at, and not to hate.

Xa. You speak very right.

Eu. It frequently happens that that mutual Love that ought to be between the Husband and Wife is cooled before they come to be throughly acquainted one with another. This is the first Thing that ought to be provided against; for when a Spirit of Dissention is once sprung up, it is a difficult Matter to bring them to a Reconciliation, especially if it ever proceeded so far as to come to reproachful Reflections. Those Things that are joined together with Glue, are easily pull'd one from another if they be handled roughly as soon as done, but when once they have been fast united together, and the Glue is dry, there is nothing more firm. For this Reason, all the Care possible is to be taken that good Will between Man and Wife be cultivated and confirmed even in the Infancy of Matrimony. This is principally effected by Obsequiousness, and an Agreeableness of Tempers. For that Love that is founded only upon Beauty, is for the most part but short-liv'd.

Xa. But prithee tell me by what Arts you brought your Husband to your Humour.

Eu. I'll tell you for this End, that you may copy after me.

Xa. Well, I will, if I can.

Eu. It will be very easy to do, if you will; nor is it too late yet; for he is in the Flower of his Youth, and you are but a Girl; and as I take it, have not been married this Twelve Months yet.

Xa. You are very right.

Eu. Then I'll tell you; but upon Condition, that you'll not speak of it.

Xa. Well, I will not.

Eu. It was my first Care that I might please my Husband in every Respect, that nothing might give him Offence. I diligently observed his Inclinations and Temper, and also observed what were his easiest Moments, what Things pleas'd him, and what vex'd him, as they use to do who tame Elephants and Lions, or such Sort of Creatures, that can't be master'd by downright Strength.

Xa. And such an Animal have I at Home.

Eu. Those that go near Elephants, wear no Garment that is white; nor those who manage Bulls, red; because it is found by Experience, that these Creatures are made fierce by these Colours, just as Tygers are made so raging mad by the Sound of a Drum, that they will tear their own selves; and Jockies have particular Sounds, and Whistles, and Stroakings, and other Methods to sooth Horses that are mettlesome: How much more does it become us to use these Acts towards our Husbands, with whom, whether we will or no, we must live all our Lives at Bed and Board?

Xa. Well, go on with what you have begun.

Eu. Having found out his Humour, I accommodated myself to him, taking Care that nothing should offend him.

Xa. How could you do that?

Eu. I was very diligent in the Care of my Family, which is the peculiar Province of Women, that nothing was neglected, and that every Thing should be suitable to his Temper, altho' it were in the most minute Things.

Xa. What Things?

Eu. Suppose my Husband peculiarly fancied such a Dish of Meat, or liked it dress'd after such a Manner; or if he lik'd his Bed made after such or such a Manner.

Xa. But how could you humour one who was never at Home, or was drunk?

Eu. Have Patience, I was coming to that Point. If at any Time my Husband seem'd to be melancholy, and did not much care for talking, I did not laugh, and put on a gay Humour, as some Women are us'd to do; but I put on a grave demure Countenance, as well as he. For as a Looking-glass, if it be a true one, represents the Face of the Person that looks into it, so a Wife ought to frame herself to the Temper of her Husband, not to be chearful when he is melancholy, nor be merry when he is in a Passion. And if at any Time he was in a Passion, I either endeavoured to sooth him with fair Words, or held my Tongue till his Passion was over; and having had Time to cool, Opportunity offered, either of clearing myself, or of admonishing him. I took the same Method, if at any Time he came Home fuddled, and at such a Time never gave him any Thing but tender Language, that by kind Expressions, I might get him to go to Bed.

Xa. That is indeed a very unhappy Portion for Wives, if they must only humour their Husbands, when they are in a Passion, and doing every Thing that they have a Mind to do.

Eu. As tho' this Duty were not reciprocal, and that our Husbands are not forc'd to bear with many of our Humours: However, there is a Time, when a Wife may take the Freedom in a Matter of some Importance to advise her Husband; but as for small Faults, it is better to wink at them.

Xa. But what Time is that?

Eu. When his Mind is serene; when he's neither in a Passion, nor in the Hippo, nor in Liquor; then being in private, you may kindly advise him, but rather intreat him, that he would act more prudently in this or that Matter, relating either to his Estate, Reputation, or Health. And this very Advice is to be season'd with witty Jests and Pleasantries. Sometimes by Way of Preface, I make a Bargain with him before-Hand, that he shall not be angry with me, if being a foolish Woman, I take upon me to advise him in any Thing, that might seem to concern his Honour, Health, or Preservation. When I have said what I had a Mind to say, I break off that Discourse, and turn it into some other more entertaining Subject. For, my Xantippe, this is the Fault of us Women, that when once we have begun, we don't know when to make an End.

Xa. Why, so they say, indeed.

Eu. This chiefly I observed as a Rule, never to chide my Husband before Company, nor to carry any Complaints out of Doors. What passes between two People, is more easily made up, than when once it has taken Air. Now if any Thing of that kind shall happen, that cannot be born with, and that the Husband can't be cur'd by the Admonition of his Wife, it is more prudent for the Wife to carry her Complaints to her Husband's Parents and Kindred, than to her own; and so to soften her Complaint, that she mayn't seem to hate her Husband, but her Husband's Vices: And not to blab out all neither, that her Husband may tacitly own and love his Wife for her Civility.

Xa. A Woman must needs be a Philosopher, who can be able to do this.

Eu. By this Deportment we invite our Husbands to return the Civility.

Xa. But there are some Brutes in the World, whom you cannot amend, by the utmost good Carriage.

Eu. In Truth, I don't think it: But put the Case there are: First, consider this; a Husband must be born with, let him be as bad as he will. It is better therefore to bear with him as he is, or made a little better by our courteous Temper, than by our Outrageousness to make him grow every Day worse and worse. What if I should give Instances of Husbands, who by the like civil Treatment have altered their Spouses much for the better? How much more does it become us to use our Husbands after this Manner?

Xa. You will give an Instance then of a Man, that is as unlike my Husband, as black is from white.