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heart ever at home. Without a written warrant, he dare do nothing; and, with it, any thing. His war is perpetual; without truce, without intermission: and his victory certain: he meets with the infernal powers, and tramples them under feet: the shield, that he ever bears before him, can neither be missed, nor pierced: if his hand be wounded, yet his heart is safe: he is often tripped, seldom foiled; and, if sometimes foiled, never vanquished. He hath white hands, and a clean soul, fit to lodge God in; all the rooms whereof are set apart for his Holiness. Iniquity hath oft called at the door, and craved entertainment; but, with a repulse: or, if sin, of force, will be his tenant; his lord, he cannot. His faults are few; and those he hath, God will not see. He is allied so high, that he dare call God, Father; his Saviour, Brother; heaven, his patrimony and thinks it no presumption, to trust to the attendance of angels. Hs understanding is enlightened with the beams. of divine truth: God hath acquainted him with his will; and, what he knows, he dare confess there is not more love in his heart, than liberty in his tongue. If torments stand betwixt him and Christ, if death, he contemns them; and, if his own parents lie in his way to God, his holy carelessness makes them his footsteps. His experiments have drawn forth rules of confidence, which he dares oppose against all the fears of distrust; wherein he thinks it safe to charge God with what he hath done, with what he hath promised. Examples are his proofs; and Instances, his demonstrations: what hath God given, which he cannot give? what have others suffered, which he may not be enabled to endure? is he threatened banishment ? there he sees the dear Evangelist in Patmos: cutting in pieces? he sees Isaiah under the saw : drowning? he sees Jonas diving into the living gulf: burning? he sees the three children in the hot walk of the furnace devouring? he sees Daniel in the sealed den, amidst his terrible companions: stoning? he sees the first Martyr, under his heap of many grave-stones: heading? lo there the Baptist's neck, bleeding in Herodias' platter: he emulates their pain; their strength; their glory. He wearies not himself with cares; for he knows he lives not of his own cost: not idly omitting means, but not using them with diffidence. In the midst of ill rumours and amazements, his countenance changeth not; for he knows both whom he hath trusted, and whither death can lead him. He is not so sure he shall die, as that he shall be restored; and outfaceth his death, with his resurrection. Finally, he is rich in works; busy in obedience; cheerful and unmoved in expectation; better with evils; in common opinion, miserable; but, in true judgment, more than

a man.

THE HUMBLE MAN.

HE is a friendly enemy to himself: for, though he be not out of his own favour, no man sets so low a value of his worth as himself; not out of ignorance or carelessness, but of a voluntary and meek dejectedness. He admires every thing in another, while the same

contentment.

ør better in himself he thinks not unworthily contemned: his eyes are full of his own wants, and others' perfections. He loves rather to give, than take honour; not in a fashion of complimental courtesy, but in simplicity of his judgment: neither doth he fret at those, on whom he forceth precedency, as one that hoped their modesty would have refused; but holds his mind unfeignedly below his place, and is ready to go lower, if need be, without disWhen he hath but his due, he magnifieth courtesy, and disclaims his deserts. He can be more ashamed of honour, than grieved with contempt; because he thinks that causeless, this deserved. His face, his carriage, his habit, savour of lowliness, without affectation; and yet he is much under that he seemeth. His words are few and soft; never either peremptory or censorious: because he thinks both each man more wise, and none more faulty than himself: and, when he approacheth to the Throne of God, he is so taken up with the divine greatness, that in his own eyes he is either vile or nothing. Places of public charge are fain to sue to him, and hale him out of his chosen obscurity: which he holds off; not cunningly to cause importunity, but sincerely in the conscience of his defects. He frequenteth not the stages of common resorts; and then alone thinks himself in his natural element, when he is shrouded within his own walls. He is ever jealous over himself; and still suspecteth that, which others applaud. There is no better object of beneficence: for, what he receives, he ascribes merely to the bounty of the giver; nothing, to merit. He emulates no man, in any thing, but goodness; and that, with more desire, than hope, to overtake. No man is so contented with his little, and so patient under miseries; because he knows the greatest evils are below his sins, and the least favours above his deservings. He walks ever in awe, and dare not but subject every word and action to a high and just censure. He is a lowly valley, sweetly planted and well watered: the proud man's earth, whereon he trampleth; but secretly full of wealthy mines, more worth than he that walks over them: a rich stone, set in lead: and, lastly, a true Temple of God, built with a low roof.

THE VALIANT MAN.

He undertakes, without rashness; and performs, without fear. He seeks not for dangers; but, when they find him, he bears them over with courage, with success. He hath ofttimes looked death in the face, and passed by it with a smile; and, when he sees he must yield, doth at once welcome and contemn it. He forecasts the worst of all events; and encounters them before they come, in a secret and mental war: and, if the suddenness of an unexpected evil have surprised his thoughts, and infected his cheeks with paleness; he hath no sooner digested it in his conceit, than he gathers up himself, and insults over mischief. He is the master of himself, and subdues his passions to reason; and, by this inward vic tory, works his own peace. He is afraid of nothing, but the dis

pleasure of the Highest; and runs away from nothing, but sin. He looks not on his hands, but his cause; not how strong he is, but how innocent: and, where goodness is his warrant, he may be overmastered, he cannot be foiled. The sword is to him the last of all trials, which he draws forth still as defendant; not, as challenger; with a willing kind of unwillingness: no man can better manage it, with more safety, with more favour. He would rather have his blood seen, than his back; and disdains life, upon base conditions. No man is more mild, to a relenting or vanquished adversary; or more hates, to set his foot on a carcase: he would rather smother an injury, than revenge himself of the impotent; and I know not whether more detests cowardliness or cruelty. He talks little, and brags less; and loves rather the silent language of the hand: to be seen, than heard. He lies ever close within himself, armed with wise resolution; and will not be discovered, but by death or danger. He is neither prodigal of blood, to mis-spend it idly; nor niggardly, to grudge it, when either God calls for it, or his country: neither is he more liberal of his own life, than of others'. His power is limited by his will; and he holds it the noblest revenge, that he might hurt and doth not. He commands, without tyranny and imperiousness; obeys, without servility: and changes not his mind, with his estate. The height of his spirits overlooks all casualties; and his boldness proceeds neither from ignorance nor senselessness: but, first, he values evils, and then despises them. He is so balanced with wisdom, that he floats steadily in the midst of all tempests. Deliberate in his purposes; firm in resolution; bold in enterprising, unwearied in atchieving; and, howsoever, happy in success: and, if ever he be overcome, his heart yields last.

THE PATIENT MAN.

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THE patient man is made of a metal, not so hard as flexible. His shoulders are large; fit for a load of injuries: which he bears, not out of baseness and cowardliness, because he dare not revenge; but out of Christian fortitude, because he may not: he hath so conquered himself, that wrongs cannot conquer him; and herein alone finds, that victory consists in yielding. He is above nature, while he seems below himself. The vilest creature knows how to turn again; but, to command himself not to resist, being urged, is more than heroical. His constructions are ever full of charity and favour: either this wrong was not done, or not with intent of wrong; or, if that, upon mis-information; or, if none of these, rashness, though a fault, shall serve for an excuse. Himself craves the offender's pardon, before his confession; and a slight answer contents, where the offended desires to forgive. He is God's best witness: and, when he stands before the bar for truth, his tongue is calmly free, his forehead firm; and, he, with erect and settled countenance, hears his unjust sentence, and rejoices in it. The

gaolers, that attend him, are to him his pages of honour; his dungeon, the lower part of the vault of heaven; his rack or wheel, the stairs of his ascent to glory; he challengeth his executioners; and encounters the fiercest pains, with strength of resolution; and, while he suffers, the beholders pity him, the tormentors complain of weariness, and both of them wonder. No anguish can master him; whether by violence, or by lingering. He accounts expectation no punishment; and can abide to have his hopes adjourned, till a new day. Good laws serve for his protection, not for his revenge; and his own power, to avoid indignities, not to return them. His hopes are so strong, that they can insult over the greatest discouragements; and his apprehensions so deep, that, when he hath once fastened, he sooner leaveth his life than his hold. Neither time nor perverseness can make him cast off his charitable endeavours, and despair of prevailing; but, in spite of all crosses and all denials, he redoubleth his beneficial offers of love. He trieth the sea, after many shipwrecks; and beats still at that door, which he never saw opened. Contrariety of events doth but exercise, not dismay him; and, when crosses afflict him, he sees a divine hand invisibly striking with these sensible scourges: against which he dares not rebel, not murmur. Hence, all things befal him alike; and he goes with the same mind, to the shambles and to the fold. His recreations are calm and gentle; and not more full of relaxation, than void of fury. This man only can turn necessity into virtue, and put evil to good use. He is the surest friend; the latest and easiest enemy; the greatest conqueror; and so much more happy than others, by how much he could abide to be more miserable.

THE TRUE FRIEND.

HIS affections are both united and divided: united, to him he loveth; divided, betwixt another and himself: and his own heart is so parted, that, while he hath some, his friend hath all. His choice is led by virtue, or, by the best of virtues, religion; not by gain, not by pleasure: yet not without respect of equal condition, of disposition not unlike: which, once made, admits of no change; except he, whom he loveth, be changed quite from himself; nor that suddenly, but after long expectation. Extremity doth but fasten him; while he, like a well-wrought vault, lies the stronger, by how much more weight he bears. When necessity calls him to it, he can be a servant to his equal, with the same will wherewith he can command his inferior; and, though he rise to honour, forgets not his familiarity, nor suffers inequality of estate to work strangeness of countenance: on the other side, he lifts up his friend to advancement, with a willing hand; without envy, without dissimulation. When his mate is dead, he accounts himself but half alive: then his love, not dissolved by death, derives itself to those orphans, which never knew the price of their father: they

become the heirs of his affection, and the burden of his cares. He embraces a free community of all things; save those, which either honesty reserves proper, or nature: and hates to enjoy that, which would do his friend more good. His charity serves to cloak noted infirmities; not by untruth, not by flattery; but by discreet secrecy: : neither is he more favourable in concealment, than round in his private reprehensions; and, when another's simple fidelity shews itself in his reproof, he loves his monitor so much the more, by how much more he smarteth. His bosom is his friend's closet, where he may safely lay up his complaints, his doubts, his cares: and look, how he leaves, so he finds them; save for some addition of seasonable counsel for redress. If some unhappy suggestion shall either disjoint his affection or break it, it soon knits again; and grows the stronger, by that stress. He is so sensible of another's injuries, that, when his friend is stricken, he cries out, and equally smarteth untouched; as one affected, not with sympathy, but with a real feeling of pain: and, in what mischief may be prevented, he interposeth his aid; and offers to redeem his friend, with himself: no hour can be unseasonable, no business difficult, nor pain grievous, in condition of his ease; and what either he doth or suffereth, he neither cares nor desires to have known, lest he should seem to look for thanks. If he can, therefore, steal the performance of a good office unseen, the conscience of his faithfulness herein is so much sweeter, as it is more secret. In favours done, his memory is frail; in benefits received, eternal: he scorneth, either to regard recompence, or not to offer it. the comfort of miseries; the guide of difficulties; the joy of life; the treasure of earth; and no other, than a good angel clothed in flesh.

THE TRULY-NOBI.E.

He stands not upon what he borrowed of his ancestors; but thinks he must work out his own honour and, if he cannot reach the virtue of them that gave him outward glory by inheritance, he is more abashed of his impotency, than transported with a great name. Greatness doth not make him scornful and imperious, but rather like the fixed stars; the higher he is, the less he desires to scem: neither cares he so much for pomp and frothy ostentation, as for the solid truth of nobleness. Courtesy and sweet affability can be no more severed from him, than life from his soul: not out of a base and servile popularity, and desire of ambitious insinuation; but of a native gentleness of disposition, and true value of himself. His hand is open and bounteous; yet not so, as that he should rather respect his glory, than his estate; wherein his wisdom can distinguish, betwixt parasites and friends; betwixt changing of favours, and expending them. He scorneth to make his height a privilege of looseness: but accounts his titles vain, if he be inferior to others in goodness; and thinks he should be more strict, the more eminent he is, because he is more observed,

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