MANZINIE HIS MOST EXQUISITE ACADEMICALL DISCOURSES UPON Severall Choice SUBJECTS.

Turned into French by that famous Wit MONSIEƲR de SCƲDERY, Governour of NOSTREDAME. AND Englished by an Honourable Lady.

LONDON, Printed for Humphrey Moseley, and are to be sold at his Shop in S. Pauls Churchyard at the Sign of the Princes Arms, 165 [...].

To the Reader.

IF, to divert my selfe, and prevent the ordinary idle humor of Malancholly, I had taken the boldness to present you with some abortive issue of mine owne braine, I might, certainly, have expected a punishment from your severity, and (reasonably) despair'd of ever procuring your pardon for my presumption; but since I offer nothing but the quaint conceptions of one of the most eminent Wits of his time, and Nation (for which I must refer you to the judgement of Scudery, a Person so notorious (by his Writings) for ingenuity, and from whom I doe but borrow these Pieces of Manzi­nie at second hand) I will not so much as suspect your Mercy, whereof, though upon occasion of greater Crimes, a little hath ever been thought due, and a larger proportion usually afforded to the weaknese of our Sex from generous Persons. I dare promise, your Clemency is not likely to incourage me so far, as to make me appeare ungratefull by giving you any further trouble of this nature: But, if to your pardon for my at­tempt you shall please to adde the favour of a kinde acceptance, as it ought to bee beyond my expectation, so shall it ever bee (with thank­fullness) acknowledg'd to be far above my desert, who confess my selfe asham'd of my work by not daring to owne it with my Name.

The Titles of the severall Subjects.

  • 1. HOratio Suppliant. Pag. 1
  • 2. Horatio Opposed. Pag. 8
  • 3. Coriolanus Appeased. Pag. 16
  • 4. Cato Generous. Pag. 25
  • 5. Cleopatra Humble. Pag. 33
  • 6. Sentiments Paternall. Pag. 40
  • 7. Paris in Love. Pag. 48
  • 8. Paris Opposed. Pag. 57
  • 9. The Magnanimous Rivals. Pag. 64
  • 10. The three Rivals. Pag. 73
  • 11. Love without Faith. Pag. 81
  • 12. Hunger hath no Law. Pag. 87
  • 13. The Sports of the Carnivall. Pag. 96
  • 14. Stesicrates the Rash. Pag. 106
  • 15. Appelles Revengefull. Pag. 112
  • 16. The Apologie for Mariage. Pag. 115
  • 17. The Philosophy of Love. Pag. 120
  • 18. The Pusillanimity of Seleucus. Pag. 127
  • 19. The Funeralls of Beauty. Pag. 137

HORACE his ORATION.

The Argument.

Although Horace were happy in his Victory, and profitable to the Com­mon-wealth, and that Tullus was obliged to the Valour of the Con­queror, yet he could not be exempted from the punishment of his fra­tricide; the rigour of the Law must passe upon it, notwithstanding his Victory was so generally advantagious, that every one was incli­ned to mercy. Horace in so doubtfull an Estate, could neither re­joyce in his Triumph, nor complain of his danger; his good Fortune had blinded him, and his ill had brought him to the Precipice; in this fatall conjuncture Manzine supposeth that this illustrious Crimi­nall used these words to defend his cause.

IF I had a heart, O People of Rome, that knew as well to complaine as to conquer, it may bee the tenderness of my Teares would obtaine that com­passion from you, which is denyed to the remem­brance of my Victories: See at your feet, O my Judges, an unfortunate man, to whom without boast, you are indebted for all your felicity; be­hold me suppliant, but without teares, they were all shed in Tuscany upon the bodies of my two Bro­thers, not believing then, that he who had saved his Countrey, should ever have need of weeping: O houshold gods defended by me! you tutelary ones, whom I have preserved, if I have deserved any recompence, teach me onely what Divinity I ought to implore, to save my life, since you will not do it; O deceitfull hopes, unprofitable labours! O prodigy to be admired! [Page 2] Horace is suppliant, and not suppliant to any offended Deity, but to that Republique which holds from his Victory, that power which it now exer­ciseth upon him. O you gods who looked with a favorable eye upon the la­bour I underwent, to preserve your Temples, and your Altars, suffer not that I make my vowes any more to you in vaine; let mee obtaine attention and pitty in those hearts, which sleep when they should remember good turns, and who so slightly esteeme their Wives, their Countrey, their liber­ties, then lives, their Empire; nay, their gods themselves, which I have preserved to them, in exposing my life to danger; I would not for an hun­dred lives, O my Judges, that you should believe me so affrighted at death, that it were absolutely necessary for mee to beg life at your hands. Fathers conscript, I am a Roman born of that House, in which the Republique hath found three men, whom it judged worthy to defend it. I have a soul resolute enough to meet a greater danger than that I am in, and if the fact which I have committed (which ought to be stiled a zeale for my Countrey) might not also bee named a fratricide, I should slight that death, which I desired in the field, when my dear Brothers fell; I have a heart which loves life, when it may doe service to my Countrey, and which would not flie death, when it is necessary to confirm the generosity of life: when is it that death could be less frightfull, or more willingly imbraced than now, when I have given life to the people of Rome? Death cannot come too swift to him who hath attained to honour and glory, neither can it be ill for a good man: I do not refuse to offer my head to the block, yet I confess I have some repug­nancy, to see my selfe ready to be deprived of life by the ingratefull sword of the Romans, and be confident, I have more griefe to finde my high ser­vices at so low an esteem, that I should need to ask life, then I shall have to lose it: I returne triumphant, O my Judges, from a field, where (by this sword) I have interred the fortune of Hetruria, and from a field which I have besprinkled with my owne, and my Brothers bloud, and from a field consecrated to the victory of the Romans, all our Countrey, and all our Em­pire was nothing but Palmes and Lawrels, the Earth, the Army, the Hea­vens, and the gods applauded our Triumph, when a Woman presented her­selfe before me, afflicted at my Victory, sad at the greatness of the Empire, upbraiding and cursing the valour of my Arme and your Fortune, invoking the vengeance of the Heavens, and the gods, wishing a generall desolation of our Countrey, striving to draw upon us, by her imprecations, the ill in­fluence of the stars, and the fury of Hell: My sword, accustomed to shed the bloud of them, who look'd with griefe upon the happinesse of my deare Countrey was, in this, but the just revenger of so base and black a crime: [Page 3]I sheath'd my Ponyard in the heart of her, who could know how to grieve at the advantages of her Countrey; I believed I had made a just sacrifice of that infamous one, who when shee died wept at the victory of the Repub­lique.

This is the Fact, for which those that envy my happy successe, have made me guilty, that they might utterly deface that little vertue which they can­not equall: they resolve I shall suffer because I have destroyed a fierce Ene­my, and such a one, that even among the Tuscane Troups, there is not to bee found a person who bewailed their misfortunes with so great a pas­sion: But if to destroy the Enemies of our Countrey, be a crime meriting death, why did I not suffer it in that day wherin I returned Conqueror of the three brave Curiacii? what? should that unfortunate Wretch have been exempted from the punishment shee deserved, because shee was born with­in those Walls, which she wisht to see buried in their own Ruines? It was that which was not reasonable, and that which I could not suffer; for I be­lieved, it was a spectacle too sad, for the eyes of a Roman to see any one weep in the midst of the victories of their Countrey; why did you (O Romans) lay all the care of the Common-wealth upon my shoulders, when it was tottering and ready to fall; if you believed me so feeble that I could endure to see any body shed tears, as condemning my actions? I put all my confi­dence in this, that those who are to bee the Judges of my Cause, are the same persons for whose sake I committed the crime, and that those who pronounce my death shall be forced to confesse, that it is from me alone they hold their liberties, their lives, their Authority, their Victory, and the Re­publique; and that from the fact for which you pretend I ought to make excuses, I say, I ought to reap advantages: I was so zealous for the honour of my Countrey, that I did not forbeare to revenge it on my owne sister, when shee wept and declared her selfe an enemy: Those which love their Countrey less then I, might perhaps have pardoned its greatest enemies; but I could not forgive my owne sister, because I loved my Countrey more then my sister, more then my Father, yea, more then my selfe: I believed I should have had more need to have implored your mercy for sparing, rather than for killing a sister that had so lost her piety; but what said I? a sister? no, she is no sister of Horaces who bewailes the death of the Curiaces, and who with griefe beholds the Victory of her Countrey, and their Gods pre­served; what? will it be possible to finde out a heart that beares so little affection to the Common-wealth, and so little gratitude to me, that it will not know that designe in killing that detestable person, was to extinguish a dangerous Crime, and not the life of a sister? neither was she a sister when [Page 4]she was an enemy of my Countrey, nor was I her brother when I thrust my ponyard into her heart, I was the Arme of Victorious Rome, which de­stroyed the Enemy of the Republique, and its supporters: Let my Accusers shew you by what degrees of wickednesse I have proceeded; can it be belie­ved that these hands yet never stained with bloud, but in a just cause, should of the sudden arrive to the highest pitch of impiety and fratricide? let them upbraid me with crime, if ever this Sword hath given death to any, but to save the life of my Countrey; I render thanks to Fortune, O Rome (deare to my heart) that shee hath given me so notable a way to shew the love I beare and owe thee, in the field I have fought against thine Enemies, and in the City against them of Nature, and I was no more conquered by the affe­ction I had for my sister, then by the valour of the Tuscans: Well then it is thought just that so great a favour as I have received from Fortune, should cost me no lesse then my life, nor would I refuse to give it upon this occasion, if I had not resolv'd to lose it, O Rome, to adde to thy glory; what then shal I bee in a more dangerous condition that am victorious, then my Brothers (which were not? they found the end of their miseries in their destruction, and I the beginning of my calamity in my Victory: Ought this to be the cause of my teares? or to say better fatall to me the love of the Common-wealth? the memory of my vertue? the glorious remembrance of my Victory, and triumph? I confess I pitty that part of my bloud which I spilt in destroying that unfortunate Woman; yet after all, I cannot think it spilt, seeing it was sacrificed to the victory of the Common-wealth; and truly I had deserved she should have wept for my atchievements, if I had not had generosity enough to conquer the tenderness of Nature, and that my heart had wanted resolution to take her life, that would else have drowned her selfe in envious teares, for the liberty purchased by my bloud, of her Coun­trey; by this action alone, our enemies from henceforward, can have no hope to reap any fruit of all their practises, when they shall see that it is permitted to sacrifice our owne sisters that looke malignly upon the advan­tages of our swords; but my fault (justifiable if committed upon another) seemes only monstrous, because she was a person so neare me in bloud, as if when we were to punish the malignants of our Countrey, we ought to take counsel of the inclinations of Nature: Consider with a fatherly eye, O Se­nators, if it were not impossible for me to know that guilty one; for how could I take notice of her, as of a sister, hearing her complain for the victory of her Brother? or how could I remember her to be a Roman, when shee spoke the sence of the Tuscans? I believed her to be a relique of the Curia­cii, and I thought I should doe an Act of piety to my Countrey, in rending [Page 5]up by the root, a Tree that might bring fruit to support our enemies power and if this action bee of a straine so black and shamefull, that it cannot bee expiated but upon a Scaffold, with the bloud of this unfortunate man, who hath added one Naile to the Wheele of the Roman Fortune, then you think the death of her that bewayled your Victory, more incompatible with your government, then the life of him that gave it you: Perhaps it displeases you, that I should take away from the Tuscans her that might have increased the Curiaces; but believe me, if I had suffered a Woman, of the House of the Horacii, to have been long fruitful in Tuscany, it may be the Romans could not have kept their Empire, nor would the Tuscans (at least quietly) have permitted them. What? was the life of this Traytress so precious, that there must be sacrific'd to it, that life which was the soule of the greatness, and Fortune of the Latines? But what voice, or what rumour is that I hear, which interupting my discourse, hinders me from further declaring my in­nocence? Who are they that deny me the favour of pleading for that life, which hath preserved the life and liberty of the Common-wealth? But be­hold a deadly spectacle, and worthy of tears; see, O my Judges, see my Fa­ther, who never fail'd of his duty to the Republique, but when he begat this Daughter; see, O see an unfortunate Father, who hath newly lost two sonnes, to assure to you those powerfull seats you now possess, look how he fears to be depriv'd of the third and last, who surely (if there be any gods) shall not die without vengeance; hear how he complains, that he, a Roman, and chiefe of the Horatii should be thought so base, that with his owne hands he would not have torne out my very bowels, if he did not know that his Daughter was justly shine; O Heavens! shall I bee so unfortunate to die, for taking out of the world a Woman who was thought unworthy to continue in it by her owne Father? Can you suppose that those Troops which I have returned to you victorious, will ever endure to see him drag­ged to death that gave them life, and victory? What! shall Romes Enemies see him punished, that the Common-wealth thought only worthy to defend its honour? Could the Tuscans desire more mischiefe to him that rendred them miserable? I am not so little acquainted with humane frailty, that I repine at my mortality, at my death, but I grieve for not being thought in­nocent, and to see that my Countrey will be guilty; things are reduc'd to such terms, that as long as the Common-wealth remaines, it will bee stain'd with ingratitude; I am forc'd to detest my owne honour, O strange estate that you have plac'd me in! since it is just to wish, that my death had gone before my victory, and the establishment of your Empire. What! shall my fortune bee worse in the Capitol then in Hetruria? Can that be, O Ro­mans? [Page 6]I sweare by the souls of my two Brothers, who were so voluntarily sacrific'd to your Greatness, that I have more shame of the Roman people, than grief for being so cruelly depriv'd of my life and triumph, which I have so well deserv'd; but so long as I carry with mee to my Tombe the glori­ous Spoiles of the Curiacii, the Scaffold will be as honourable to me as the Capitol; I desire nothing of you, O my Judges, but that you will be always your selves, and that before you pronounce the sentence of my death, you will be pleased to remember, that while I was arming my selfe to the fight, you offer'd up Prayers and Vows to the gods for my life; stay! O stay you thunders, O you Powers that hearken to us, and tell how many times the people cried me up to be the Preserver and Father of my Countrey; and if it bee true that I was so, will you punish Fratricide with Paricide, and in stead of imploying your gratefulness in adorning me with a Statua, will you take away my life in an ignominious manner? But if knowledge of the cause which made me commit the Fact? if the teares of my Father? if the merit of my Brothers? (who died for your service) if my victorious Arme, consecrated to the Altar of your fortune, hath not power and eloquence e­nough to make me obtain life? Why, O Senators, do you deferr my death so long? all that I look upon speaks punishments, and there is nothing in my soule but mortall Chymera's; that I may not dye so many times, I am forc'd to ask my death as a favour from you, kill mee then quickly I pray you; what dost thou stay for, O Lictor? come tie these hands which were heretofore the hands of the Republique; these hands which have made the Roman Eagles flie upon the Lawrels of Hetruria, and present the infamy of a Gallowes to him who hath advanc'd Palmes upon the Capitol: which of you calls my unhappy and deare Father, that he may come, alas, that hee may come and comfort my heart, by his last offices of kindness, and fortifie it against the rigour of my destiny? that hee may come with his last kisses, and sustaine my feeble and languishing spirits? that hee may come, even that unfortunate man may come, and close those eies in death, to which he gave occasion of seeing? Comfort him, O Senators, and tell him, that it is true I die honourably, tell him that the Gallowes (if ever upbraided in the House of the Horacii) is not shamefull; tell him that I did not mount the Scaffold, but in descending from the Charriot of Triumph; make him re­member, that if there be Fathers that have had Children more happy, there is none that hath had a Son more generous; assure him, that you will alwaies remember the bloud of his Sons, lost for the Common-wealth; sweare to him, that you will not forget, that I have shed my bloud for your safeties; tell him, that you confesse, that it is from me you hold your plenty, and all [Page 7]your injoyments, the imbraces of your Wives, the Caresses of your young children, the honour of your dignities, the safety of your Lives, the Liberty, the Greatness, and the Fortune of the Romane Empire: and to conclude, it is from my bloud and sweat, that you have authority to condemn me to the Gallows; this unfortunate man; who hath enobled his death by the memo­riall of the generous actions of his life: And you my Companions, carry, I pray you, these Arms to those miserable Orphans, my desolate Children; bid them remember that they were Horaces; and tell them, if they use them one day with an Arme equall to mine, they will produce their ordinary effects for the good of the Common-wealth. Enjoy in all peace, ye Nobles and people of Rome, our Countrey in the happy estate I leave it, and may it be eternally glorious, and full of Heroes; thou great Republique, these are my wishes in spight of my misfortunes: Countrey, sweet Countrey, deare Countrey, to which Horace owes all, enjoy happiness, O Citizens of Rome, Plenty, Riches, Peace, and Power: and seeing the Heavens would not permit me to be a sharer with you, I rejoice that I was at least an instru­ment by whom you are not left unfortunate: And provided I may die assu­red that the memory of Horace may sometimes live in your hearts, of that Horace who never refused his bloud, to the sword of the Enemy, to assure you your Goods, your Lives, your Countrey, and your Empire; I die the happiest man that ever lived. But it is time, O Senators, that I hold my peace, and that I yield to violence. I have permitted my selfe to be transported by resentments too tender, for though my misfortune hath made me drop a tear, yet my life past will not permit me to be seen in such a posture, neither do any of my actions deserve sighes; nor can I esteem of a soule so effeminate that will ease its miseries by tears: we must die as we have lived: in a word, it is for you to do as you will, & for me to do as I ought. I have said.

The Effect of this Oration.

THe merits of Horatio in this great service abated no­thing of the justice of the Senate, but according to the Law provided against murder, hee was condemned to bee whipt within and without and Walls of the City, and then to bee hung upon that Tree which in Livy is called fatall; which exact and severe sentence gave Manzine cause to believe, [Page 8]that it was occasioned by some sharp speech of one of the Se­nate, which he fancied in the Oration following.

Horace Opposed.

The Argument.

After Horatio's Speech, one of the Senators, in discharge of his duty, gave this Answer.

VVHich of you, O Fathers, Senators, and Roman Knights, is for my sake so far toucht with compassion, at the ungratefull Office I am to perform, as to helpe to cover this face afflicted for the publique shame? and whither shall I turne mine eies, which had rather still continue fixt upon the earth, than behold these walls, which have been the Sceane of Fratricide? what tears can I afford to the common miseries, when I feele a particular griefe in my self, that makes me weep whether I will or no? and invites me to lament my owne misfortune, which hath not only made me so unhappy to see the Common-wealth dishonoured by a Citizen of Rome, but plac'd me in such a condition, that I am forc'd to publish our shame, and plead for punishment against those that ought to triumph? I vow to you, O S [...] ­tors, I could wish my selfe without either heart or tongue, upon this occa­sion; I never lookt upon a Victory more favourably than this, gotten by an unfortunate person; I rejoyced at his honour with a resentment that was affectionate, gratefull and sensible of my Countries good; doe but imagine how heartily he did it, you that know what pleasure a Victory may afford to those who have sav'd by it their Goods, their Lives, their Children, their Countrey, and their gods; truly I know not how my soule, which did che­rish this criminall person so tenderly, can be so far provok'd against him, to desire and endeavour to procure him punishment: Alas! I lov'd him with more than ordinary affection, both upon mine own and the publique account; as oft as I have seen my deare children playing about mee, so often have I blest, and given thankes (with teares) to that vertue by which they were [Page 9]preserv'd; I said with my selfe these hands were not free, but by thy strength, and perhaps ( Horatio) without thee I had never kiss'd my Chil­dren, but in bondage in Tuscany, I am infinitely obliged to the unlimited courage the gods have given thee; I owe all I am worth to thy good for­tune, and I found the whole safety of the Common-wealth hanged upon the edge of thy sword, I have not a heart so insensible, to be ignorant of what I owe thee; these eies that wept for the danger thou wert in, can hardly be­hold Horatio unfortunate; this tongue accustomed to traverse in the field of thy praises, will think it wanders astray when it hath lost that way; and I believe the gods, when they see my prayers altred, will either believe them irreligious or feigned: what shall I doe then unfortunate man that I am? I whose duty bounds my gratitude, and my gratitude opposeth my du­ty? But what shall I say (O Senators) these are but effeminate fancies? shal then future ages know, that in a Roman heart any tenderness was sufficient to make Fratricide supportable? shall there bee found any hearts so much at enmity with their Countrey, as not to fear the evils which such a president may bring forth, if this should passe unpunished? and what fortifications can secure us from the violence of his sword that hath been once victorious, if this wickedness shall escape like the sword of justice? ought I to feare the fury of a people obliged by the fury of this guilty person, as if I made so lit­tle account of the wisdome and justice of the Romans, that I did not thinke them capable of judging betwixt good and evil, and to punish crimes with rigour, as well as recompence generous actions with Bayes and glory? 'tis fit for the honour of the Senate to make it appear to such as merit Triumphs, that they ought not to be so confident in the peoples favour (which is uncer­tain as the winde) as from thence to assume so much boldness and insolence as to thinke by their swords to stay the course of justice: well, well! I am here to plead against an unfortunate wicked creature, who hath done us more dishonour with his sword, than we can gain advantage by his victory; and why should I bee afraid to bee the Instrument of cutting him off from the Common-wealth, who is the first in it that stain'd it with the murther of a sister? This day is no less sad and unfortunate, than yesterday was glorious, when lessening the Tuscane, pride advanc'd the greatnesse of Rome; of that Rome, which being deriv'd from the gods, is oblig'd to actions suitable to the divinity of its original: Never was there a more horrid and exe­crable crime that came under the punishment of the Law, or the eies of man kinde, then is now before you; pardon me Fathers, if in this so venerable and sacred place, I am forc'd to mention the name of Fratricide; let your owne inclination (O most just Iudges) provoke you to wipe off this blemish [Page 10]from the same of the Latines, and waken the ancient generosity to vindicate the honour of justice which so much insolency hath slighted, and troden un­der foot: expect not I should use any Art to incline you to my opinion; the Age wee live in were too unfortunate, if wee should need to beg the aid of Art to describe a Common wealth necessitated, to preserve one Citizen from another, a Brother from a Brother, and the Countrey it self from those that have deserved Triumphs; and what wickednesse will hereafter be unattempted, if a man may be pardoned for killing his owne sister? who­soever desires to see his children secured from each others swords, who de­sires to have the gods propitious to our innocence, and would be contented to see his Countrey no less admired for justice, then it is for valour, let him for ever rejoyce at this opportunity to make his owne vertue eminent, to be an honour to his Tribunall, and to justifie the actions of the Senate against the slander of their enemies, who accuse them of injustice and coveteousness, and say they never punish any person, though never so guilty, unless he bee poor? Shall then those that love justice bee afraid that the ingenuous consci­ences, and intire judgements of so many such Senators, can bee so mercifull to one particular person, as to become cruell to the publique? to provoke you to punish, I will only tell you the crime; excuse me if I plainely shew you one of the members of your owne famous body in the true condition wherein it now stands, for I am forc'd to shew you the malignity of the wound, which can now admit of no other cure but a sword; I am againe prick'd to the heart to put you in minde of so cruell a speetacle, but I know not otherwise to appease her injur'd Ghost, if I doe not shew her with how many tears the Roman People beheld her accursed murther, and how severe­ly they intend to revenge the same; this glorious woman-killer return'd from a field, where hee got himselfe more shame by his flight, then he did his Countrey advantage by his victory; when being met by his sister wee­ping (whether for joy of her Brothers triumph, or for grief of her Husbands losse, without any respect to his Father afflicted with the memory of his slain Sons, so much the more to be lamented, because they died honorably,) this Tyger lifts his bloudy arm, and sheath'd his sword in the bowels of his sister: O horrid spectacle! O poysonous heart! O incomparable mischiefe! what tears were ever more just then those that were dropt for the death of two Brothers and a Husband? Forget ye Doves! forget your hollow groanes and sobs, silence ye Turtle Doves your amorous sighs, since this new Refor­mer of Nature thinks them unreasonable: I will proceed no farther, O ye Judges, to represent the miseries of this unfortunate dying woman, because I would not provoke you to teares, though to say truth the subject is not at [Page 11]all too light, seeing it is no less then the death of one of our own Countrey­women: alas! poor unfortunate creature, who wert born to tears, and diedst for weeping; hadst thou been seen to lose either thy Husband, or thy Bro­ther, thy lamentation for either would have seem'd a crime as to the Cause. Oh! the unhappy age wee live in, that wee are not allowed so much as to complaine: can there bee a greater occasion to shed tears, then to see ones selfe reduc'd to such a condition as not to dare to weep!

This Murtherer thinks perhaps to excuse himselfe by saying, he kill'd his sister for grieving at the Victories of her Countrey; why he kill'd her wee know not, but we are sure she is dead; what! did the Roman Tribunall want a sword of justice to cut off a corrupted member from the body of the Common-wealth? who gave thee commission to imploy thine upon this occasion? who knowes but that he kill'd his sister lest she should discover some cause for her tears in fit to be knowne? but put case she did grieve at the prosperity of the Common-wealth; thence consider what stock this man is sprung from whose sisters lament for the prosperities of their owne native Countrey: nay, the unfortunate Wretch wept not for the losse of her Hus­hand nor was troubled at the triumphs of the Common-wealth, but was asham'd at this mans glories: she was not sorry she had lost a Tuscane Hus­band, but griev'd she had a Brother that fought like an Arabian, not a Ro­man.

Well, declare nevertheless (if you think fit) this glorious Murtherer to be innocent, one that hath deserved well of his Countrey, triumphant and fit to be honoured, whose victories are so generous that his owne sisters have been asham'd to rejoyce at; and though he may perhaps upbraid me as en­vious of his glory, because I promote the chastisement of his crime, I shall not for all this desist from my undertakings; I am so zealous for the honour of the Common-wealth, that I desire as earnestly to see it just as to reverence it triumphant: Unhappy Man! and who should I envy? can I envy thee that in thy victory wast a run-away, and in thy triumph a fratricide? but why do I name fratricide? a crime of all others the more shamefull, by how much it is the more unjust, so much the more scandalous to the Common-wealth, by how much it is the more publique; so much the more detesta­ble as it hath been committed by a person more interested; and so much the more hatfull to the gods as it was perpetrated in a time of gratitude, and ju­stice.

Thinke with your selves, O Judges, with what insolence hee, but now, bragg'd before you of a victory obtain'd only by the Roman fortune; and who will not confess that the gods will disdaine that the Republique should [Page 12]seem to acknowledge their power and their glory from any thing else but their owne benignity? since (to get themselves the Palms from amongst the vilest persons) they chose the veriest Run-away, to the end that we might acknowledge that to be the meer gift of their favour, when wee look upon the weakness of our owne force: you might perceive with what outragious desires he would have outrun victory with death (as if we could not among all this warlike people) have found out one man that knew how to overcom without flying; 'tis like this earth, only made fit to bear Palms, should want victories, and those not fit to be blusht at, not gotten by running away: what kind of Heavens? what gods wil this man cal to for succor to his innocence? perhaps some that he believes not in; do you think that he believes there are any to whom he can pray to for their help in case of a sisters murther? and what obligation can you have to him for this victory in which he hath exer­cis'd his sword, making it a Master in the Art of killing, to no other pur­pose but to be able readily to imploy it against the bowels of his sister, and of his Countrey? if we ought to be torne in pieces, and to have our throats cut here within our owne walls, in the armes of our houshold gods? I should thinke he deserv'd rather the name of a Preserver, of a Redeemer of his Countrey, who, restoring us to the swords of our Enemies, prevented the danger at least by the hands of our owne Souldiers, by the hands of Ro­man Souldiers: and how can you ever trust your selves with this man who had not beene above an houre in Tuscany, and yet hath learnt to turne his sword against us? But what! I know I wrong the Tuscane piety in com­paring them with this Villaine, who being a Conqueror could not pardon his own sister, whilst they, being yet enemies, compassionating themselves and us, submitted to this generous Duell, whereby having drawne them to out obedience, they are become associates of our fortunes: perhaps the tears of this poore old man his Father may move your compassion; why! with­out doubt he weeps rather for his sons crime, then his danger. I confess I am tenderly sensible of the prayers of so just a man, he hath lost his daughter, and so wounded by his griefe in his affection, by his son in his bloud, and yet pardons the offence, and makes vowes for his safety who hath brought to him all this desolation; Oh too easie old man! and yee who can chuse but sympathize in thy griefe? I should wonder if the gods should not crown all the sons of so good a Father with constant victory; he is one (O Fathers) that deserves that you should revenge his quarrell, though hee aske it not, though hee desires it not at your hands: shall hee then who hath bloudily offended him escape unpunished, because the old man is just, pious, and [...]agnanimous? none then but Fathers that are cruell and impious shall have [Page 13]the injuries they receive from their children reveng'd by your justice: it may perchance serve this mans turne to allay your just anger, to tell you, he gain'd a glorious conquest for the Common-wealth, and who knowes not that he came to it by the honour of election, and when he was in, he fought for feare of death? but what do I say, fought? I would it had pleas'd the gods he had fought halfe so well, as he fled swiftly from it, 'twas no better Fathers, 'twas no better; I will stand no longer upon calling our shames to remembrance: if he fought he did but his duty; 'tis not to bee call'd a good deed not to be wicked; and if he overcame, 'twas for that Countrey, by which he himselfe had been so often preserv'd by so many victorious Ar­mies, he pretends not to thanks as for a gift, that doth but pay a debt, those toiles that are undergone by the son for the Father, or by the Father for the son, are but duties, not obligations.

He hath already receiv'd as much honour and applause, as would make up a triumph, and is as fully rewarded as any man could pretend to merit, who had justly deserv'd to be carried in a triumphant Chariot; and if his gene­rous actions have been crown'd, I know no reason why his crimes should not be requited upon the Gallowes: to what purpose was it to defend the Countrey from the Enemy, which hee might depopulate when hee pleas'd with his sword or (which is worse) by his example? and who is so simple as to thinke 'twill bee any shame to us, if our Enemies shall reproach us, and say, that the Common-wealth had no stronger an arme to defend it, then a Murtherers? when wee shall bee able to re­tort, that the guiltiest person we have, the veriest run-wayes were suffi­cient to suppress and overcome them; they will rejoice that they are to live under the shaddow of such a government, which will not in the least measure pardon crimes, though in the Chariot of triumph, when victory shall be st [...]in'd with injustice, then to grieve they are fallen under so great severity, which doth but teach them piety towards their Countrey and Kin­dred.

Hold thy prace awhile thou insolent creature, thou that boasts of victory, and callest that Countrey ungratefull to which thou art obliged for thy birth, thy food, thy education, for justice, yea, and thine owne honour; discover the series of those generous Acts which rendred thee a person worthy, of whom the Common-wealth amongst so many Armies, so often triumphant should alone make choice, and to whose sword they would entrust their E­states, their Lives, their Liberties, and their Empire, and if thou canst finde no other reason, but the meere favour of the Citizens of Rome, and of thine owne Countrey, with what face canst thou call her ungratefull for a benefit [Page 14]which thou thy selfe hast receiv'd, not given? we have (O Senators) actions of ingratitude, as well as the murther of a Sister; nay, more! did you not perceive even now, how being afrighted at his crimes, which threatning punishments are but praeludium's to the pain of execution; did not you your selves perceive how invoking the Army, which hee call'd as it were newly born againe by the vertue of his sword, hee endeavoured to surprize the au­thority and justice of the Common-wealth, by stirring up your Armies against it, inchanted by the Artifice of his subtile speeches? did you not observe with what cunning he upbraided you with his Victories? so proud he is and so insolent, that whilst hee was begging his life of you, hee deserved death; behold him here ungratefull to his Countrey, guilty of treason against the Common-wealth, of fratricide against his sister: what needs any further delay, O Senators, the least of his faults is the murther of a sister: secure your selves and me, O Judges, I beseech you, from the rage of this wicked wretch; doe you not see with what a bloudy countenance hee already de­signes destruction? look to it, that fratricide upon a sister prove not patri­cide upon his Countrey: Can you believe that hee who could not pardon a sister, guilty of nothing but a few Crystall tears, will ever forgive those who have made him guilty of so grievous a crime, and forc'd him into so emi­nent danger of his life?

You may feare perhaps, lest after ages should blame you for not reward­ding a Victory; and would you not blush to bee justly upbraided, for not knowing justice, or rather for trampling her under your feet? as long as I have any rigour left in my breast, I will never cease to call it to minde; I will ever be a witness to the justice of his cause, who is willing for their crimes to make examples even of such as are triumphant; if every little effect of valour, or rather of fortune, is able to secure a man from the force and justice of the Common-wealth; what valour, what fortune, what justice is that of Rome? if we can be no safer from the sword of a Brother, 'twill quickly be thought necessary to prevent our Brothers sword with our own: Consider seriously, O ye Senators, the grievousness of this offence, consider it to the prejudice of any absolution in this horrid hainous fact: this exam­ple may doe more mischiefe then this offender can doe good; if not I what hath he to say for himselfe but excuses and a small victory, rather stoln then fought for? hee can finde no other Advocate, but onely that hee can say, I have defended my Countrey: hearken! O people, to all the glories of our person triumphant, hee was in a Battell, and there was content not to bee kill'd: heare the Encomium's due to Horatio the great, it being in his power to save his Countrey, hee graciously vouchsaf'd to doe it; what will future [Page 15]Ages say, when they shall see a Roman Senate pacified with a few teares for the murther of a sister? how heartily will all the Provinces round about us endeavour to avoid comming under our power, where even our own sisters are not secure? what kinde of sacrifices will those be, wherein the Victimes must fall by swords accustomed to the bowels of sisters? what answers will the gods give to our prayers when their ears are continually dull'd & impor­tun'd by their ghosts ever howling and calling for justice and vengeance? Up, up! yee Senators, and prevent Joves thunder bolts by exercising your Gallows; the Heavens will not long have patience to see fratricide unpun­nished: let not the gods by their chastisements rob you of the occasion of doing your justice: be ye solicitous, O ye Executioners, that the People may not accustome their eies to fratricide: but alas! what am I doing? whilst I goe about to perswade you to punish this Offendor, I seeme to question the justice of the Senate; pardon (Fathers) this boldness, I have rather done it in pursuance of my duty, then out of any thought of teaching justice to Ju­stice it selfe: the excess of this crime hath made me exceed in my desires to have it punisht.

I beg pardon of the gods, and of the soule of this poore wretch, who was unjustly cheated of her life, if out of a desire to see her revenged, I have taken up the time due to her revenge; let the sword of justice now fall, which hath been held up, and tied by the knot of my discourse; I will retire to give you time to execute the desire which I perceive in you (O Fathers) to purge the Common-wealth from this blemish, and to revenge it for the contempts and outrages it hath suffered by this offence; I should be accessa­ry to his fault, should I retard the execution of this magnanimous affection that is in you to vindicate justice: let future ages learne, who shall see that it is not possible for any thing (that is not God) to withdraw it selfe from the justice of the Senate of Rome: there is no greatness of birth, no degree, no fortune which can secure a Citizen of Rome from the rigour of the sword of justice, if hee shall depart from the Rules of honesty, and duty. I have said.

The Effect of this Oration.

SƲch or the like were the words that mov'd the Senate to sentence Horace to death, who without reply heard it, when one of his friends advis'd him to appeale to the people, [Page 16]whose counsell he followed, and his old Father flowing in tears, adjoyning himselfe with him, they prevailed, and the people delivered the son to the prayers of the father, ordaining him neverthelesse that he should passe under the Gallowes, as ha­ving receiv'd a just condemnation.

Coriolanus Appeased.

The Argument.

Coriolanus, being banished by the People of Rome, went to the Vol­sques, the unreconcilable Enemies of his Countrey, and being a per­son of high Reputation, and one that had often put them to the worst, he was received very honourably: not long after he returned at the head of a great Army, and layd siege to Rome, which hee reduc'd to such extremity, that it could not long hold out; whereupon they re­penting their former severity towards him, endeavoured to appease his wrath by Embassadors, declaring their sorrow; but their Em­bassie proved unprofitable, they could obtain nothing of this great en­raged spirit: the People of Rome in despaire at this ill successe, sent againe all their Priests, in their Robes Pontificall, followed by young Virgins, and Children, who all cast themselves at his feet, to implore his mercy, but the remembrance of his injuries, made him shut his eyes and ears against so pittifull a spectacle, insomuch that this second Troop obtained no more than the first; in this generall desperate con­dition, Volumnia his Mother went out to him, and spake thus, if we may believe Livy, or Manzini after him.

I Have cause to feare, that after you have forgot the love of your Coun­trey, the interest of your own honour, and the reverence which you owe [Page 17]to the gods, that you wil hearken with contempt, to the prayers of a Mother, to the sighs of a Wife, to the complaints of your children; but these being the only Armes wee have to protect us from the fury of yours, I am forc'd to make use of them, and to imploy that little breath which griefe hath left me, to soften your hard heart, yet it is not without great reluctancy, that I have obtained from my despaire, spirit and heart enough, to come and imbrace in one person both my son and mine Enemy, for I have found it hard for me to resolve to come my self and present you with our tears, and prayers to spare our blouds, and to put you in mind how much more honourable it is to have the title of the Deliverer of your Countrey, then the Destroyer of Rome; yes, I confess my weaknesse, I have hardly been brought to see Coriolanus armed against himselfe, and to kiss the hand, which it may bee within few dayes will set fire to our houses, massacre our Citizens, throw downe our Altars, and destroy our Temples, and I assure you that the sentiments of nature and those of reason have had so strong a Combate in my soule, that, if they have not overcome one another, I may say, I have been conquered by both; for it is true, my sonne, that I abhor your actions, and have tender­nesse for your person. I consider not your present errour, without remem­bring your past innocence, and I may affirm, that the most sharp griefe which I feele, is, that I cannot offer up my prayers for your safetie without wish­ing destruction to my Countrie, nor pray for the prosperitie of my Countrie, without desiring your ruine; and I am reduc'd to such a sad necessitie, that I dare not implore the assistance of the gods, neither for you, nor for my selfe, victory will be equally sad to mee, for on which side soever she de­clares her selfe, I am sure to reape neither profit nor honour; in this con­juncture of things, I must either see you led in triumph by our Citizens, or see you triumph over your Country; my disasters are come to so sad a period of extremity, that I cannot cease to be unfortunate, but in ceasing to live; the anger of the gods is now growne so visible to me, that I know no more to doubt of it: it is true that the sacrifices I have offered have obtain'd your returne, but it is as true, that your returne makes me more miserable, it is by you that our Citie is besieged, our Citizens murthered, and that all our Countrie sighes, and that the gods are provok'd; what remaines to bee added to my misfortune? my Husband is dead, and my Sonne is turned mine Enemie; Ah my Coriolanus! this is the onely thing that could have increas'd my unhappiness what more bitter smart can my soule feele, than to be obliged to love mine Enemie? and to feare the sight of a man, to whom I have given life, and who now makes use of that life to trouble the repose of mine? The common Lawes of Nature ordaine, that the care [Page 18]which Mothers take in the education of their Children should be recompen­ced not onely by obedience, but by all their actions; to the end that the praises which they deserve, should be attributed to her who was the cause of their being; and who, through tender affection, hath contributed all her industrie and power to advance them in the way of vertue: Judge after this how much you owe mee, my Sonne, seeing instead of the pub­lique acclamations, which I ought to expect for the reward of my paines, I hear nothing all day but upbraidings and reproaches; the people look upon me as the cause of their calamitie, and they all say with one voice, that I am the Mother of the Persecutor of Rome: I know very well that the warr you have undertaken is not without pretence of Reason; revenge is sweet to en­raged spirits, but withall I know it to bee more generous to pardon those who offend us, when they are in our power to punish, then to follow our owne inclinations, which often furiously hurry us to destroy them; the conquest of our selves is much more honourable, then a victory over another, and if you'ld suffer your selfe to be softned by my tears, and by the submis­sion of a people so haughty, to humble themselves to you, if you were not a Roman, I dare promise you the love of your Countrey, the immortality of your Name, and the protection of the gods.

Is it not enough that we have seen our fields desart? the Cabines of our Shepheards (where innocence used to reside) serve for Courts of Guard to your Souldiers? their Fockes for Victuals to your Camp? our Villages on fire? and to sum up all, murther and ruine where ever your Army hath marcht? have you yet cruelty left, to sack a City wherein you had your birth? can you consent to the destruction of so great and glorious pallaces, who expresse the magnificence and splendor of that age, wherein they were erected to be inhabited by tru [...] Romans, who made it their business to shed their bloud for the preservation of those walls, which you seek to lay levell with the earth? can that high and generous heart which you have from mee. can it permit you in following the custome of war, to take your share in the detestable plunder of the City, wherin you took your first breath? you, who have so many times returned home loaden with the spoiles of foraigne Ene­mies? can you bee so inhumane to expose the beauty and chastity of our young Wives and Virgins to the lust and rape of your insolent Souldiers, and the feebleness of old age to the fury of an Army? and the innocence of Babes to the tyranny of a strange people? can you behold the Virgins dis­honoured in the arms of their Mothers? and their kindred drown'd in their own bloud? and their yong men loaden with chains? me thinks the cries of so many unfortunate wretches should have power to move you to com­punction, [Page 19]if the gods permit, for the punishment of your crimes and ours, that your revenge must be satiated, doth not this horrid Table which I pre­sent to your immagination, appeare frightfull to you? will your patiently permit mee to finish it? and shall I shew you in Rome Rivers of bloud, mountains of dead bodies, our Temples demolished, and for the accom­plishment of all mischiefe, Coriolanus setting fire to our City, and making the place of his birth, a bloudy shambles?

I know not whether this Picture touch you or no, but I am sure it ought to doe; the very immagination of it you see makes your Mother shed abun­dance of tears, and in their torrent hurry me to a resolution to end my daies, and to finish my misfortunes, that I may not see my sonne wash his hands in the bloud of his Family; you must Coriolanus, you must upon necessity, either give peace to your Countrey, or death to your Mother; for if you shut your ears against my cries and prayers, and that you are resolv'd to lose your selfe, in destroying us, and draw upon your head the hatred of Man­kinde, and the anger of the gods, you shall see infallibly, that when your Rams and other Engines have broken downe our Rampiers, and when you come to skale and enter us, that I will bee the first that your fury shall kill upon the breach, and you shall bee constrained to tread upon my body when you ascend to the Capitol; it shall bee thus, thus, that Rome shall be ruined, for the mischiefe that I have brought upon her in bringing you into the world, the cruellest of her Enemies; and believe me, that this generosity is not particular, for I doe assure you, that your Wife and Chil­dren have resolved rather to die gloriously, then to live in that infamy which you have prepared for them: for what life can be reserved for us but to be the prey of our enemies, or which is more to be abhorr'd, the prey and spoil of their Father and Husband: Ah Coriolanus! what cruelty soever there is in Fortune, it is inferiour to yours, and we ought not to complaine of the rigour of destiny, since it leaves us liberty to die; it is you alone of whom we ought to complaine, that will not permit us to die with that li­berty we have lived in, and your inhumanity is growne so great, that you had rather have no Mother, nor Wife, nor Childe, nor Countrey, nor hous­hold gods, if they may not be your prey, and you their Tyrant: What shall wee say to you after all? wee can call you no more our Coriolanus, seeing you have given your self to the Volsques, you are come to steal us, even from your owne selfe; it is in vaine Virgilia for thee to think that thy teares and complaints can alter our destinies, it must be tears of bloud, that must have power to touch his cruelty; the preservation of our lives will be now an act of injuctice, and we are obliged for our owne honours to prevent our mis­fortunes, [Page 20]since we cannot divert the miseries of our Countrey; and indeed what have we more to doe here in this place? shall we take care of our per­sons, and preserve them to adorne the triumph of the Volsques? or shall we nourish Victimes for our Enemies? or breed up the Children of Coriolanus, for his tyranny? No, no, let us rather stifle this cursed race of his, who would stifle the liberty of his Countrey, and if we must be deprived of hea­ring the sweet name of Mother, from the mouth of our Children, at least let us by this generous action gain it from the people; O Coriolanus, your rigour destroyes in us all the resentments of Nature, and you have reduc'd us to such sad tearms, that to doe an act of mercy and courage, wee must take those out of the world which are derived from us, but if in the midst of all the fury and bloud, which possesseth your soule, there yet remains any place for innocence and justice, make it appeare to us, that our teares may give place to our hopes, and let gentleness succeed your cruelty; but if it bee true that all your inclinations to vertue be corrupted, and that on the sudden your sweetest delights be in horror and bloud, and that your greatest crimes are your greatest pleasures, imploy all your rage to destroy me, it is by this murther alone, that you can compleat your Barbarisme, and violate at one blow all the Lawes of Nature and of Reason, your inhumanity shall be sa­tisfied, together with the desire I have to finish my daies, the repose you give me this way will establish yours, and you will have nothing but your owne conscience to upbraid your crime, but be sure of that domestick enemy that will folow you to your grave, and however victorious you are, a continuall horror shall triumph over all your joyes; this Corasive will ever dwell in your soule to see alwaies our innocence dwell in your crimes, then shall you wish for that death you have given me; Oh how long a time was it before I could be brought to believe, that your Revenge had carried you to this in­gagement! wee are slow to give credit to those things which are to afflict us; I did not think it possible that such an exalted soule, which seemed to bee inspired with the Roman honour, should ever descend from its owne greatness, to humble, and mingle it selfe with a barbarous People, the most remote, the Volsques, and with them become the Destroyer of his Countrey, to be their Captain, or to speak truer, the slave of his Enemies; but we are not to think it strange, since it pleaseth you to destroy your owne Race, your Countrey, together with the houshold gods of Rome, which are the onely things they hate, or rather which they feare; what have I to dread from the rigour of my destiny? I might bee at peace without enemies, if I were without Children, my barrenness would be abundance to my Coun­trey, as on the contrary, my fruitfulnesse hath changed the glory of Cities [Page 21]into a Desart; to what more deplorable estate can I bee subjected? what malediction of fortune, or indignation of the gods can be more severe then that which hath constrained Vertue to be the Mother of Vice; and which causeth the innocent to give birth to the guilty? the little consolation which is left me in my mis-fortunes, is to see, that both gods and men are accessary to my faults.

Ah Coriolanus! if you have not renounced Reason and humanity, I know your complaints will follow mine, and that Repentance will succeed yours; consider I beseech you, that your crimes are of so transcendant a nature, that the gods (I dare not say) are guilty of them; but less that they are innocent: Ah my deare sonne! if you were acquainted with the inclinations that your Children have to honour, certainly it would change yours, they are so zea­lous for the interest of their Countrey, that they make it their entertainment to weep, and complaine, insomuch that the tenderness of their teares asto­nish all beholders; for it seems almost a prodigy that any who beare the name of Coriolanus should bee vertuous, and that being yours, they should be capable of shedding tears for your slaughters; it is by their com­plaints and teares that I conjure you to attention: Oh that their sighes and sobs might gaine peace to Rome! I know that from any other hand but yours we have deserved war, but I would have you grant to your Children that which they aske, which is to say, that which is to be expected from a generosity without example: Come then, my son, and teach them in their tender age to sow Palmes in the Capitoll, quit those Armes which affright them, and come and imbrace them; if they obtaine grace from you, give them the title of Fathers of their Countrey, in an age that others are scarce known to be sons of their owne Fathers, and then I can assure you, that you will advance them immediatly from a Cradle to a Charriot of triumph; can you refuse this honour? or, to speake plainer, can you hope for a greater? the way to conquer Rome is to pardon it.

Do you not esteem a victory, without you obtain it by fire and sword? is it possible you should be so unreasonable, rather to force your way, then to be joyfully received through an Arch-triumphall? no, no, I will not thinke your determinations so ill waighed, I rather hope that your desire of honour will over ballance those of Revenge, and give you a sudden resolution to pardon your desolate Countrey, to drie up your Mothers teares, to restore your wives life, and adde honour to your Children; the execution of this designe is not hard, since it is certaine that the Volsques will with joy im­brace the alliance of a man whose sole valour hath conquered their Enemies, enlarged their Territories, and given reputation to their Armes; and to sum [Page 22]up all, whose courage alone hath made Rome tremble, they cannot refuse their friendship to our Citizens, since it is by one of them, that their forces equall ours, and they will consider, that by this union wee shall overcome all our Enemies, and make a setled peace through the whole world, being certaine that there will be none to resist us.

But if the unsatiable desire of rule makes them promise to themselves an easie Victory, let them remember how dangerous that valour is that is forc'd, let them consider the instability of all humane affaires, let them learne of me, that the Roman people can never be conquered, without be­ing utterly rooted out; they know how to sell their blouds, and not give it, and that they never aske for peace, when they have reason to despaire to have it granted, let fortune faile us, our hearts never shall: But it may be, that your ambition perswades you, that the way to preserve your greatness, and power over so great an Army as you now command, is to conquer us, and that you cannot raigne, unless we be your Tributaries; if you be a Co­riolanus, have you forgot that those for whom you fight, are your naturall Enemies, and that they have suck'd in with their milke, the designe of your destruction, they doe not imbrace you, but for your ruine, it is their need of your valour that makes them flatter you for a time, but as soone as you have conquered, you shall become subject to those you have made Kings, then you will finde, that they protected you to gaine those Kingdomes they never meant you should enjoy; if their pride could suffer them to bee commanded by a Roman, they would never have disputed with the Romans for their Empire; believe me, my dear son, you are not their Master, but to keep them from being our slaves, and that as soone as ever you have put the power into their hands, you will be the first that shall feele its rigour, and be fore'd to groan under the yoake you have imposed upon us; I know that your generositie will rather make choice of a voluntary banishment; but what say I? good gods, you will not have power to banish your selfe, you have given them an example in your Countrey, which will render them cru­ell to you, they have learnt, to our cost, how dangerous it is to leave you your life and libertie, and that Repentance quickly followes the least inju­ries that are done you: in fine, you manure a field, whose flowers and fruits are not designed for you, and in establishing the felicities of others, you destroy your owne, you will then finde your selfe the onely unfortunate person of your party; it may bee you will tell mee, that fortune favoureth all your designes, and that you need feare nothing; but if you place your [...]onfidence in her you will be deceived, her inconstancy is so great, that there is but one way to protect you from it, which is to tempt her seldome; [Page 23]take heed that in going about to trie her, you do not drive her from you, and that in raising your selfe too high, you take not the greater fall.

How many times have we seen a Vessel swallowed up by the deeps, in the very same place which a little before served for a Haven of safety? suffer your selfe then rather to be conducted by Reason then Fortune; or, to speak more properly, bee kinde to your selfe in sparing us: but if your obdurate heart doe yet carry you on to vengeance, for the injuries you have received, and that contemning my discourse, it inspire you to our conqust; thinke a little what advantage you can reap by a Victory obtained by falshood, ingra­titude, & cruelty; imagine that the foundation of Rome were reverst, & your Countrey totally destroyed, doe you not believe after all is done, that Hell hath flames horrible enough to burne to ashes those unjust and shamefull Palmes which you have sprinkled with our blouds? can you esteeme that Victory glorious which you cannot rejoice in, but with impiety? and doe you think it will be for your honour, when the whole world shall know, that being able to conquer all that resists you, you have beene overcome by your owne passions? since that the remembrance of the injuries of some that were envious of your vertue, hath had more power in your soule, then Vertue itselfe, or the desire of true honour; this is to yield to them to make such use of your Victory, and to endeavour rather to out-strip them in Villany then courage.

Behave your selfe so, my deare sonne, that the Romans may know the worth of him, they have offended, and if they have been ungratefull, be not you inhumane; be revenged of their malice, in making them confesse to all the world, how great a fault they have committed, in banishing a man that knowes how to use a god-like Vertue, Mercy to his Enemies; it had beene better you had beene for ever deprived of the sight of Rome, then to have seen it for its destruction; your banishment was the guil [...] of others, but your returne in this way, is your owne; you are yet in a condition to take away this staine from your life, and to let posterity know, that you are not con­tented to keep your selfe within the strict limits of a sonne, but that you have the noble ambition to be stiled the Father of your Country; if I should beg of you, in preserving us, the ruine of the Volsques, I confess it were hard for you to grant, for it is no more just to betray those that trust us, then to destroy our Countrey; the peace that I demand is equally profitable for both Nations, onely so much more honourable for the Volsques as that when it may be probably supposed, that they have certaine Victory in their hands, they seeme freely to grant to us two soveraigne blessings, Peace and Friend­ship, though they are alike partakers of the benefit with us: if you yield to [Page 24]my just request, you will have the reputation of giving felicity, in this age, to Rome; but if you denie me, all the guilt of ill consequence will be impu­ted to you, as well by the Volsques as by the Romans, for though the for­tune of war is alwaies very uncertaine; yet this I am sure of, that if you be victorious, Story shall mark you out to posterity, as the plague and ruine of your Countrey; whereas if you bee conquered, they will say, that for re­venge of private injuries, you have ruined those who gave you protection in your exile: if you consider well, my Coriolanus, there is none more ob­liged to returne benefits, then your selfe, seeing you so eagerly pursue in­gratitude; submit your selfe then to Reason, and yield to the demand which it makes to you by mee, and give the Romans cause to rejoice in that safety which they hold by your generosity, and the Volsques will also hereby blesse themselves, that they have had for their Generall a man, whose Statua shall bee plac'd in the Capitoll, to which hereafter there will bee Temples and Altars erected, and who shall have no other Title then the Restorer of his Countrey, and the Defender of our gods.

Cast away those Armes which dazle mine eies, and which make me trem­ble onely to thinke, they are so neare us, your fury hath already beene too great, since it hath brought your violence before my face; give, my deare Coriolanus, give something to the supplications of a Mother, who gave birth to your generosity, and that loves you yet so tenderly, though you are turned an Enemies; do not denie your Children to be Witnesses, as well as Imita­tors of your noble actions, which are to come; come teach them by your example, to sacrifice all their interest to the honour of their Countrey, and testifie to the Common-wealth, that you came not against it, but to instruct it to doe its duty, and that it was rather for the honour of your Countrey, then for your owne, that you tooke up Armes; but I will not that the force of my Reasons, and the fervency of my Prayers take from you the honour of granting quickly, that which you cannot denie without injustice; on the contrary, I desire to obtaine that from you, which I may expect in justice, under the name of mercy onely: Prepare then, O People, to render thanks to your Deliverer; come and admire this noble soule, which is conquered by nothing but Pittie! come see this Coriolanus whose absence hath cost so many sighes, and whose returne hath preserved the Common-wealth of Rome; come my deare Virgilia, come, and kiss that hand which comes to untie our chaines, and to give liberty to his Countrey; wipe away those teares which blinde you, and come and enjoy the sight of a man, that will be ravished at yours: come, O generous Children, and kiss your victorious Fathers hands, follow his Chariot of triumph.

I would, O Coriolanus, say more, if my motherly affection would give me leave to speake, but since you have been so long absent from mee, it is fit I leave entertaining you this way, and joine my selfe in neare imbraces to you.

The Effect of this Oration.

ALL the indignation of Coriolanus was not proofe a­gainst this discourse; all in teares hee cast away his Armes, and told his Mother (giving her his hand) that shee had gained a very happy Victory for her Countrey, but an unfortunate and deadly one for her sonne: in effect, these words were Prophetick, for having raised his seige, and re­turned with the Volsques into their Countrey, that barba­rous Nation in dislike of this honourable action, murthered him in full Senate.

Cato Generous.

The Argument.

Cato of Utica seeing the Liberty of Rome oppressed by Caesar, was resolved not to survive it; his Sonne, perceiving his designe, en­deavoured to hinder him: Cato answered thus.

IF I were, my sonne, of the number of those men, who, given over to their owne appetites, judge of all things according to their passions, thy teares would not onely alter my minde, but they would bee powerfull enough to afflict my soule, to see him weep so tenderly, who, being so neare a part of my selfe, testifies so much more his affections to me, as he findes my death intollerable to him: but the life which I have led untill this day (never [Page 26]waighing wearinesse, nor dreading danger, when the service of my Countrie was concern'd) will speake for mee, that it is not feare, but strict necessitie that takes me out of the world, and I hope I shall not die without the plea­sure of leaving thee capable of some consolation, it being not possible to believe, but that Reason is the most powerfull consideration in the House of Cato; I rejoice to finde thee sensible of my death, not but that I am angry that thou dost not know that I ought to tend to my Center, and that, in making haste to a better life, I make haste to my felicitie; but because it is a signe that I have a Sonne who is pleased with my fatherly kindness, and a Sonne that in desiring my presence, doth by consequence approve the actions of my life; they are those teares which, contrary to their nature, inflame me more to die, because they assure me I shall leave a Cato behinde me: But if thou didst rightly consider, what that death is of which thou complainest, thou wouldst finde, that both Fortune and the Heavens have rendred it so necessary, that neither my House nor my Countrie can sustain dammage by it: So long as the Common-wealth was capable of my service, I never left it; but now that the particular fortune of Caesar hath overcome the pub­lique, why wouldst thou wish Cato to live, to be affronted by the multitude, who follow his wicked party? if in opposing the Conquerors Armie, I might ease the publique Calamities, I would not desire death at my own hands; but what shall I doe? Caesar hath conquered, and cannot bee sub­dued, but by his own fortune: all the Common-wealth runs with emulati­on to his service, and I cannot deliver my Countrie from any other milchief, but from seeing Cato in bondage: in fine, the Roman libertie can never die more honourably, then with Cato, neither can Cato die more gloriously then with the liberty of the Republique; if I should expect death from the feeble hand of old Age, I should be seene to live unprofitably, or, which is more shamefull, to survive the libertie of my Countrie: if I would goe to search for death in the war, where should I finde it? seeing all strange Na­tions are subdued as well as ours hath beene overcome, and if it appeare to thee, that in dying I seem to envie Caesars glorie, and that I take from him the honour of pardoning Cato, remember thy selfe that Cato is not an object for mercy? it would be a sacriledge to guiltie fortune if Caesar should par­don Cato, for what fault can he be guiltie of? he whose whole life was ne­ver imployed, but for the honour of his Countrie, and the gods? No! no, the providence of Heaven is such, that it hath ordained the destinie, not onely of particulars, but even the generall order of all things hath inform'd Cato of the necessitie of dying; all men may, but all men ought not to yield to the fortune of the Conqueror.

Thou hast perceiv'd, my Son, that I have been so active for Libertie, that if for the preservation of my life, I could indure servitude, I should never possibly bee assured of that life which is held in slaverie; hee will be alwaies jealous of my fidelitie, and to assure his Empire, be inforc'd to crueltie; I will as much as is possible hinder the crimes of the Prince of our Countrie, and carrie it so, that Caesar at least, bee thought innocent of my death, so shall the Common-wealth rejoice to see arriv'd in the Haven of safetie, that little which is left unconquered: in a word, seeing I see nothing free but dying, it would be very unjust, that death it selfe should not be granted mee at the last, but with some kind of servitude, and since I know not how to fi­nish so many miseries, by more generous hands then mine own I am resolv'd: is it possible that thou hadst rather see thy Father die by the hands of the Hang-man, then by those of Cato? No! no, it belongs onely to the Cato's, as to know how to live, so to die, when they please; and it is no small ho­nour in Caesars time to be master of Cato's life.

Admit Time hath ordained me for many years, thou seest my Son, how many are already past, and if I should refer the few that are left to the plea­sure of Fortune, consider what life can be more shamefull, than that which depends upon the will of an Enemie, to prolong Cato's daies, thou must not desire him to die less honourable; I will not be the first that hath brought servitude into the House of Cato, how canst thou desire him to live unpro­fitably and undervalued, that hath been the foundation of our liberty, and the fundamentall pillar of the Common-wealth? and how is it possible thou shouldst be so averse to behold Cato free, and Cato immortall? what is it troubles thee? is it only the immagination of what thy Father is to under­go? is it any other thing then the same death so much scorned by one of my Slaves? who, to avoid my fury, for a fault he had committed, cast himselfe headlong from a Rock? is it any other thing then, but the same death af­fronted by a Girle? who impatient at the absence of her Lover, abando­ned her life, and used for her instrument a halter; the evill ought to bee deemed very meane, which is encountred upon such slender grounds; what then? shall the thoughts of feare and pusillanimitie, prevaile over those of Vertue? No, no, my Son, if thou hast a minde by thy teares to shew me the Sentiments of a true Sonne, shew me a soule full of the Sentiments of Cato; thou oughtst to consider, that the day of death is not the last of life, but the last of mortalitie: if the soule survives the bodie, what day is more happie then that wherein a man begins to live free, and independent? and if it doth not survive, what man is more fortunate then he who hath finished the mi­series of life? if it proceed from the gods, death cannot bee ill, because the [Page 28]gods ordaine nothing bu: what is good, especially to the just; and if there bee no gods, or if they take no care of humane affaires, how can it displease a wise man to part from a world without Deities, and without Providence? Death to divers hath been the end, and to others the remedy of their suffe­rings, and there have been men who have desired it, and others who have procured it, but none (besides the wicked) ever thought it ill, and those esteeme it so, because their guilty consciences will not permit them to hope for a better place; those are slaves unto, and not Masters of life, who, being deprived of all happiness, had rather live in languishments, then leave to live: Nature hath ordain'd us to live as long as life is to us content and ease, but to abandon it when it growes a burthen; why should wee be exposed to the mallice of Fortune? to the frowns of the angry Heaven? love life my Son, whilst life is to us happinesse, but not when it is worse then death: The gods have put my soule into my body, but not chained it in, and if it had been their intention it should have been a Prisoner, they would have made the meanes to free it, more difficult; but on the contrary, all things may be ravished from us by Fortune, except death alone, which al­waies depends upon our free wills; he that is much a Lover of life, is much the subject of giddy fortune; there is nothing without vexation to him, because there is nothing without hazard.

I do not denie, but that Nature hath created man with an inclination to love and preserve the body, but it is an inclination which the Beasts have in commune with us, and which it may be Nature doth not give, but to keep us from detesting that life, which experience shewes us to bee the object of all miseries imaginable: The Earth is a naturall, but a painfull abode, it is a residence which the wise ought not to slight, so long as they may exercise the best affects of their Reason, but when Fortune and Reason have reduc'd them to such terms, that they cannot make use of Vertue without being scorned by the wicked, what life is it then? it would be an Argument of a meane soule, if I should feare either danger or change in my vertue: so long as there was hope to conquer my misfortunes by constancy, I preserved my life (expecting better times for the Common wealth and for my selfe,) but who now seeth not that the publique affairs are desperate, and that li­bertie is overthrowne, and that I cannot aid my Countrie any other way, but in sending Cato to Heaven? it is my griefe that thou hast not yet served thy Countrie so much as thou oughtest, who art borne my sonne, for if thou hadst, I would perswade thee also to stop by thy death the instability of Fortune, and to prevent an unhappy life, by which thou mayest know, if thou considerest rightly, whether he ought to be deplored that is delivered [Page 29]from so miserable an agitation: for me, I render thanks to the gods, with all the zeale that my soule is capable of, that they have taught me this truth, and indeed I cannot finde that I have any other obligation to life, then that it hath made me know the value of death, and I rejoice that I have found an occasion to die so honourably; to what purpose should we so long be ban­died between so many miseries, and so many mischiefes? whosoever hath a minde to bee enslaved to all the tyrannies of Fortune, let him cherish life: in a word, if life be profitable, let us live; but if it be the contrary, the gods have not plac'd us in the world to keep us there miserable, we may goe out of our selves, for sleep and death are naturall, and wee finde little difference between the one and the other; why then are we not as ready to die as to sleep? and why doe wee think a profitable death less lovely, then a langui­shing one? what reason is there why that death should seeme more horrid, which cuts off our lives in a moment, and almost without paine, then that which vexeth us miserably, almost a whole age together? if thou dost be­lieve that kinde of death not to be so cruell as the violent, which overthrows us at one blow, let us examine a little what this thing called life, is; it is subject to a thousand misadventures, and every minute exposed to the our­rages of all, even the least things; in its infancy it is helpless, and less reaso­nable then the beasts, and if by chance it attaine to old age, what creature is then more feeble or fuller of infirmitie? or more worthy of compassion? it is born in teares, it is bred and nourished in dolour and paine, preserved with many feares and dangers; there is nothing more poore, nothing more impotent in the beginning, and nothing more furious, more avaritious, more proud, nor more vaine in the continuance; the world is a Hell to it: didst thou ever passe from one season to another, without feeling the excess of heat, or the extremitie of cold? and what thing can the tormented soules of the damned imagine more cruell then these ordinary changes? men them­selves are enemies to themselves, and when they are in league one with another, they thinke of nothing more then whom they may oppresse, and whom they may ruine; to what end are there so many Armies, and so many Victories, if not for the destruction of one ano­ther? and who is he that hath not gone with impetuous haste to the Capitol to render thanks to the gods for the slaughter of numberlesse numbers of men such as himselfe?

Covetous wretches have digged up the intrails of their common Mother, the Earth, to teare thence Gold where with they purchase our lives; it's the Hemlock wherewith they poyson, and the sword wherewith they kill: what souldier is there that doth not learne to handle his weapon to kill, even [Page 30]with Art? wee are subjected to a condition that wee doe not onely suffer death, but study it: Behold I how many men are afflicted which way soever they turne themselves? they compound, with their laborious sweat, the cause of our misfortunes; to what use serve these Lances, and Arrowes pointed with steele, to which mans bloudy invention hath given wings, to send death flying where a remorseless hand destines it, who complaines himselfe of being mortall, whilest his heart and his hand are not imployed but for death? O unfortunate state of life I of which even those are enemies who live: certainly, if thou wouldst consider what this life is, thou wouldst finde, that such are worthy of being envied, who in the beginning of their daies, have found the end of their miseries, in making a Sepulchre of their Cradles; there is no kinde of life that hath not his pangs, and his disquiets; if a man be a foole, hee is worse then a beast; if wise, it is hard for him to finde an equall; if wicked, he is a living Hell, Pride rendreth him subject to hatred. Envy gnaws him, Avarice torments him, and debauchery con­sumes him; if he be just he is persecuted by Antypathy, if he beretir'd from the world, he leads a life solitary, unprofitable, and more suitable to a wild beast then a man; if he be imployed in the publique, he hath to doe with a body composed of wicked members; publique affaires are mingled with deadly dangers, particular are not worthy to take up the heart of a man of courage; Poverty causeth anxiety; Riches puff up and disorder; servitude dejecteth, and is a continuall misery; Command is not without perill: single life is a kinde of solitude, yet hath its thornes; a Wife is a sweet companion, but afflicting; the luxury of the age is great, the minde of wo­man is fluctuating, & in short, the domestick disquiets, the petulancies, giddi­nesse, and weakness of Wives are insupportable; often we are not Fathers, and often we are so to the perturbation of our soules. I must needs confess it is a great pleasure to have children, but it is that which sits uneasie upon the soule of Man, to have them as Hostages in the hands of Fortune: and it is an unspeakable agitation of the minde to have occasions so obliging and pressing, as are so far from permitting us to live with freedome, that they will not allow us to die with it.

Behold an example in Cato, in this Cato, so miserable, that even his own children endeavour by their tears, to hinder his liberty: finally, I am forc'd to conclude, that this life is nothing else but a Sea subject to tempests, wher­in a thousand things may raise a storme to drowne us: See now if this con­dition be worthy to be desired; I now live under the yoake of servitude, and remaine under the power of an Usurper, that hath abolisht the liberty of his Countrey, and vilely placed the dignities Consular, and Priestly amongst the [Page 31]offices of his slave, and subjected the Capitall to the necessity of applauding his guilty and criminall Triumph, and approving the slavery of the Romans: what! shall this life bee deemed worthy to be continued? shall I adde to the number of the enslaved of my Countrey, and omit an opportunity so re­markable of shewing to the world, that it is high time for those to die who have lead the life of Cato? what! shall my eyes (accustomed to behold the glorious Statua's of my Ancestors, who have counted in their lives more Victories then dayes,) shall they (I say) see the Roman Fortune bound in fetters? what! the Fasces of the Consular dignity, must they serve to make a Faggot to set the Common-wealth on fire, and Cato be yet alive? what! this Cato, that did not vouchsafe to give his Neece to Pompey the great, shall he prolong his ills to doe homage to him that hath ruined that liberty, which with so much sweate and perill was founded by Cato? the gods preserve me from an adventure so shamefull: why dost thou not ra­ther exhort me, O my son, to serve my selfe of that priviledge which Nature hath given us of being able to deliver our selves from so many evils by one death? wouldst thou not blush to see thy Father numbred amongst Caesars conquests; governe, O governe better thy too tender thoughts, and doe not desire that thy teares should bee more powerfull then all these most im­portant necessities; it will bee most agreeable that I, who have given so many blowes for the liberty of the Common-wealth, should give one for my owne.

I was made so independing both by Heaven and Nature, that I should blush to bee found alive in Caesars time, as well as under his Empire: if it troubles thee that thy Countrey shall lose Cato, let him survive in thy actions; as often as thou shalt recount my life in thy memory, thou shalt have me living in my Examples, and my Precepts; all love is vicious which is not grounded upon Reason; if thou lovest mee, imitate my Vertue, for when thou shalt love mee by immitation, thou wilt see that the Common-wealth hath not lost Cato, who shall certainly see him, both living, and glo­rious in the vertue of his Son.

The effect of this Oration.

Young Cato not knowing what to answer to his Father, re­tired all covered with teares; after which, this great man imployed one part of the night in reading a Discourse of the [Page 32]immortality of the soule, and slept the other, with as much tranquility as if hee had not had a designe against his owne life: At last be awoke, and sent to the Ports, to see if his Friends were departed, according to his order, and being answered, that they were all gone, hee fained as if hee would yet sleep a little longer; but as soone as the Company was re­tired, he tooke his sword from under his beds head, and vio­lently thrust it into his bowels; at the noise of his fall, his friends came into his Chamber, and finding that he was not yet dead, they drest and bound up his wounds, but within a little time, he got opportunity to pull off the bands with which they were bound up, and with his owne hands tore out his in­trails, for feare he should be inforced to live: Thus died this great Man, to whom they give the glorious Title of the first of Men, and the last of the Romans.

Cleopatra Humble.

The Argument.

Cleopatra not to bee comforted after the death of Mark Anthony, and the losse of her Kingdome, and Liberty, receiving a Visit from Augustus ( a rumour being spread abroad that hee had designed to carry her to Rome to adde to his triumph) to alter his intention, spake this following.

AT the last I have seene that which I thought had never beene possible. Cleopatra obliged by a Mortall; here it is (O Caesar) that thou first triumph'st over Aegypt; when thou hast conquered the Kingdome by thy Fortune, that Fortune hath brought thee to visit Cleopatra, not to comfort her in her great disasters, but to teach the world they ought to submit, as well to thy Vertue, as to avoid thy sword: what object can thine eies desire to see more pleasing? or what Musick can sound more sweet in thine eares, then to heare Cleopatra speake humbly? and that the Queene of Aegypt should have need to offer Vowes and Prayers? O Caesar, thy Vertue hath rais'd thee to so supreame a pitch of greatness, that thy meere visits have po­wer to make Queens happy; this is the first time since my reign, that favors are done mee upon Earth, I never received any that I esteemed so, but from Heaven alone, from Heaven said I? alas, it's benigne influences are chan­ged into maligne, and inauspitious; it hath left mee no hope, unless it be that my Conqueror hath as well the generosity, as the high courage of a Ro­man.

I have had heretofore so large experience, and interest in the gallan­try of Romans, your Peers, that I should deem my selfe ungratefull, if I had not an entire assurance in the Vertue of a Caesar, there doth now arise a large subject for hope to this captive Queene, seeing that the mercy of her Con­queror invites him thus early to do her this honour: and I confess my selfe to be more overcome, by the gentleness of this Visit, then I was by the po­wer of thy Troops: Force and violence overcame there, heere nothing but thy Vertue subdues.

I give thee thankes (O most noble Conquerour) and if I doe it not as I ought, it is but an effect of my disastrous fortune, the memory of my past felicities disorders me in this new learning of giving thanks: how transito­ry the favour of Fortune is, Cleopatra's condition furnisheth a great exam­ple.

Behold (O Caesar) to what she hath reduc'd Cleopatra, who hath re­ceiv'd no lesse incense from Kings then from Kingdomes, that Cleopatra, for whom the Caesars have fought, the Pompey's have travelled through dan­gers, and Anthony hath lost his life: I speake of that Anthony whose person, and whose actions were the lively image of Hercules, his Predeces­sor: I speake of that Anthony, who, whilst hee was in the world, past for bounty it selfe, for the soule of Armes, and for the delight of Greece, who­soever demands of all Asia, who was the Tutelary god, doubtless the an­swer will be, it was the great Anthony.

Unfortunate Cleopatra, to what extremity art thou reduc'd? if I would oblige thee (O Caesar) it is necessary that I praise thee, and if I praise thee worthily, I can finde no nobler way, then by recounting the glory of that great Anthony whom Fortune made chiefe of all men, to shew to thee, that the chiefe of all men was less then thy Vertue, less then thy valour, and less then thy Fortune.

I am indebted to the Destinies (alwaies mine Enemies) for no other Fa­vour, but that my infelicitie hath ministred matter to oblige thy generosity, to exercise thy high Vertue: There runs for all that a confused rumour, that thou intendest to carry me hence Captive, and to make me follow thy Char­riot in thy triumph; but be pleased to believe Cleopatra is not capable of suffering such contempt; death cannot seem to come too hastily to her who hath already seen the death of her Reigne, and Liberty.

I am forc'd (being terrified by so unpleasing a noise) to supplicate thee (O mercifull Conqueror) not to thinke of a thing so contrary to my quality, and I am the rather a Suitor unto thee, because thou shoul'd doe things sui­table to the favour of this Visit, then for any need I have to obtaine that of thee which I can alwaies command from my selfe; I sweare to thee, I had already conducted my interests to an assured Port, by this hand, if I were not obliged to acknowledge thy civilities, for I will not that thou reproach me, as thy Divine Father did Cato, that I envied thee the glory of pardoning mee.

Be content with this, that I am become a Suppliant; it is no small tri­umph to see Cleopatra petitioning, and humble: I assure thee that a heart lesse then thine should never be intreated by Cleopatra, for that soule accu­stomed to receive respects from the Caesars themselves, would disdaine to humble it selfe before man; If I did not know thy Vertue worthy to re­ceive the same honours which we render to the gods.

If thou wouldst know the value of this triumph which ought to make thee proud? demand of Heaven, if ever Cleopatra offered vowes to any but to the gods, and Caesar; I know thou remembrest the Time, the Affection, the Treasures, and the Men, I have imployed in the service of Anthony: But I also know (O noble Enemy) that thou art not ignorant of the price of that faith which ought to be inviolable, from the instant in which it is given.

Alas, unfortunate Cleopatra! of what crime art thou detected, if not for being faithfull? if I had betrayed my Party, as others have done, I should bee still the so much adored, Cleopatra: but because my faith was unshaken, ought I to be drawn as a vile slave after thy triumphant Chariot, [Page 35]by that which I have done for Anthony? consider (O Caesar) what I may doe for thee, if thou shalt be favourable unto mee: Could I bee so base to breake my faith with the conquered, and imbrace his fortune that is victori­ous, I should bee secured from the perill which now threateneth me; but thou canst have no assurance (O Caesar) that I will not betray thee, as well as another, if the reliques of the Triumvirate should produce any new mat­ter of war.

I have serv'd (I confess) and lov'd as much as I ought the noble and un­fortunate Anthony, and I dare sweare (so certaine am I) that Caesar him­selfe would have serv'd him, if he had beene in Cleopatra's place, since the effects of Vertue never change, although their residence be in severall hearts! alas unfortunate Anthony! that the memory of a Name so sweet, should be this day so bitter to me; pardon me Caesar, if thou art as mercifull as victo­rious? pardon me, I say, if my indiscreet tendernesse makes me lament be­fore thy face, the death of thine Enemy: I sigh for mine owne misfortunes, not for the establishment of thy unparrallel'd greatness; that thought is too sensible, when I call to minde a man who never did any thing without ha­ving for his object my will.

There is but one thing alone, that gives me cause to complaine of Antho­ny, which is, that I have heard him sweare a thousand times, (which I now deem flattery) that my beauty was divine, and all powerfull, and that it might soften Rocks; thou deceivedst me Anthony, and thou deceivedst thy selfe, seeing it cannot cause one sentiment of pity in his heart, whose cur­tesie is greater then his fortune, although his fortune bee greater then his Empire of the world.

In fine, O Caesar, the sum of my petition is, that I may increase thy repu­tation, in being content to obtaine of thy vertue, that which I can alwaies obtaine of my owne; I intreat thee to consent that I may live without shame, for otherwise in teaching Cleopatra, that thou intendest to triumph over her, is but to teach Cleopatra that it is time for her to triumph over her selfe; for she is absolutely resolved to follow no other Chariot, then that of thy mercy; if thou intendst by thy Victory to draw that base humi­liation from my misfortunes, thou mayst well see Cleopatra amongst thy Triumphs of death, but never amongst the Triumphs of Caesar; in being in­dustrious to hinder my death, to the end, to preserve mee to encrease the number of the Trophies and Spoiles which thou destinest to the Capitoll, is not out of a desire I should live, but that I should survive my reputation; which is not magnanimous, which is not like Caesar.

If the malignity of any fatall starre had rendred thee to the condition that I am in, wouldst thou submissively resolve to follow a Chariot? No! no, life is not precious enough to be purchased so dearly; and what honour can it be to him to triumph over a Queen, endued with no more generosity then to be capable of living to be carried in triumph?

Remember (noble Enemy) that the most feeble and vulgar power may deprive me of life, and use me ill, but the conservation of my first Majesty is an action of an Arme no less powerfull then Princely: Caesar I aske par­don for telling thee that the inclination to take revenge is as much below Caesar, as Caesar is above the power of being offended; chastisements that proceed from such as you, if they have not for their end, the designe of ma­king the Offendor an Example, are fury, and not correction.

My miseries as they now appeare, may serve for instruction of all those that hereafter, like Cleopatra, would ingage their affections for an Anthony; thou hast attained to such a degree of greatnesse, that for expiation of crimes committed against thee, that ought to suffice which appeaseth the gods, which is to say, I confesse I have done amiss and ask pardon.

To conclude, even the common Animals, at least those that are generous, alwaies treat them favourably whom they finde humble; if to exalt thy Victory it were necessary that Cleopatra should follow thy Chariot, I would enchaine my selfe to increase thy glory; a thousand consolations, drawne from past examples, attend my misfortunes, as that to bee conquered by a Caesar, though it be a misfortune, it is one of those which are honourable; that I have not wanted the courage of a Conqueror, though I have wanted the fortune; that Queenes are not less mortall then Kings, and that all things in the world have an end. It is thus that I comfort my selfe, and thus that I resolve to honour the Triumph of my Conqueror, if the Tri­umph of my Conqueror may bee honoured by my miseries; but to appeare Conquerour of Aegypt, it is more proper for thee to carry the Crowne, then the head of Cleopatra; neither shalt thou ever see Cleopatra humble her selfe to suffer such an indignity, for if she hath not strength to revenge the in­juries done her, she shal have at least strength enough to deliver her selfrom the violence of those that offend her; thus thou mayest see, O Caesar, that there is not any thing to be gained of Cleopatra, by any other way, then by generosity.

Thou wilt appeare incomparably more great, by thy mercy, and by thy mercy exercised towards an Enemy that repents, then for having beene the cause of the death of a miserable Queene, for the short and vaine pleasure [Page 37]of this Ambition; but if the hate which thou hast for Anthony, incline thee to be cruell to me, to the end that thou leavest not unpunished any one thing relating to Anthony, to what purpose is all this? Alas Caesar! consider how ill it becomes a man of honour to be cruell to the dead, the Victory of the generous ought to be bloudy rather in, then after the Battell: but if for the compleatment of thy Victory, thou wouldst finish the Conquest of Anthony, let the world then see, that thy Victories proceed from thy Vertue alone, and not at all from thy fortune, and what greater punishment can bee affli­cted upon a noble soule, then to make it sensible what a generous, what a mercifull, and what a noble Conqueror it hath transgress'd against?

But since Fortune hath beene so cruell to deprive us of the body of An­thony, save his Soul, O mercifull Enemy, for even that was Cleopatra's: but alas! what say I in my griefe? what? could the soule of Anthony survive Anthony, and humble it selfe before Caesar? Ah poore Anthony! thou wouldst never have permitted Cleopatra to have entreated so long in vaine, but if the rigour of my destiny will render mee so concern'd in the inclina­tions of another, as that the love of Anthony should endanger mee, why may I not as well hope for advantage from the respective affection where­with Caesar heretofore honoured me? that Caesar which thou reckonest a­mongst thy Fathers, is reckoned amongst my Husbands; if thou dost drag me after thy Charriot of Triumph, wilt thou not blush to thinke thou dost not triumph without paricide? Caesar! the reputation of thy clemency is so great, that in denying thy mercy to me alone, thou wilt declare upon the Theatre of the world, mee to bee the most unworthy to receive it that ever was, which is to doe injury to the judgement of thy divine Father, who much loved me; cruell Fortune! to what hast thou reduc'd mee? the war is finished, yet I have not finished my losses; poore Cleopatra! the Hea­vens are turn'd brasse to thee, aswell as the heart of him that holds thee cap­tive.

Pardon me, Caesar, if I doe not bewaile my misfortunes as I ought, it is not an effect of my pride, it is of my despaire; Tears cannot enough express my miseries for those which give us leave to complaine, are common, neither doe I thinke it civill to shed Teares before Caesar, whose vertue would bee offended, if I believed it capable of a feeble and base pity, for pity is a vertue of a low and vulgar soule: I call upon Caesar to make use of his magnani­mity, not his compassion.

And to conclude, it would bee a great addition to my misfortunes, if I found in my Conqueror a popular courage; but it is time that I hold my peace, not that I want words, for the Destinies have left mee no­thing [Page 38]else; neither doe I feare that thou wilt hearken to mee favourably, for I know how agreeable the Discourses of those who have generous de­signes are unto noble soules; but it is that, in the present condition of things, I dare not abuse the Patience of an Emperour, whose houres are all precious; I will onely tell thee, that if rigour to Cleopatra, bee not to bee accounted cruelty, the noble Treatment of her cannot faile to bee esteemed, at least, an effect of a noble soule; for in fine the opportunities for great hearts to exercise their Vertue, are favours which they receive, and they begge from Heaven.

I insist upon this to shew thee, how happy hee is whose felicity is such, that his very Triumphs themselves afford new matter of Triumph, but I will not be indebted to the force of my Reasons, because I doe not desire to have them esteemed powerfull and great, but to have found thee so; for my part I have no doubt of thy vertue, but I mistrust my owne Fortune, and I feare the Heavens (enemies to my peace) should take from thee so remarka­ble an occasion to gaine honour, and ravish from me the opportunity of be­ing obliged to thy magnificence.

Consider (O Caesar) to what height of power thou art ascended; as to my interest thou art above the stars, upon thy will depends my Fate, and whatsoever thou wilt, shall be my condition, and if thou in thy mercy grant me that which is fit for me to aske, and that which I ought to obtaine, thou shalt be deified by thy Valour, and adored by the subjected Cleopatra, thou shalt be the Disposer of liberty, the Conserver of life, the Master of Destiny, and the Protector of Kings, properties not inferiour to the gods them­selves.

But if the implacable anger of Heaven, together with the unalterable decree of Fortune be such, that it hath deafned thee to my requests, that I cannot hope to finde Caesar in Caesar, behold this bosome (O great Conqueror) opprest with all calamities, for its last refuge to rest, eagerly implores to receive from thy famous sword, as an effect of pity, that death which otherwise I shall search by the most horrid wayes that can force a soule from a body; if it be forbid thee by any higher power to oblige mee by thy mercy, it is not forbid thee to favour me by thy sword; my adven­tures shal be glorious, if I fall under that sword which hath conquerd all the East, and which in delivering me from the infamy of servitude, shall per­mit me to die free, and a Queene to whom the apprehension onely of the Capitol, and the consideration of attending a Charriot render this life insup­portable.

Goe on then, noble Conqueror, pierce this miserable bosome, and deli­ver me from the many misfortunes that overwhelme me: what! dost thou feare to oblige me, that thou art so slow? thou shalt receive a thousand praises for an action, which perchance thou believest to be too severe; strike, O favourable Enemy, strike, for since I must lose both my Crowne and Li­berty, it is the onely mercy thou canst do me: But why art thou silent? is it possible, that thou shouldest deny me so poore a reliefe? thou who art descended from a Race, which hath presented me with Kingdoms; believe mee cruell man, that this heart could never have beene so much beloved of Caesar, if it had not something in it like Caesar; I have beene bred, crow­ned, and instructed by the Caesars, judge after this, if I can be capable of servitude.

But to what end serve these my Complaints, since they are address'd to a Rock? I will not that my unprofitable prayers betray me to the baseness of Triumph and servitude: I have done, O Caesar, cruell Caesar, if thou wilt not suffer me to enjoy this Kingdome left me, by my Ancestors, at the worst thou canst not hinder me from dying, and practising those Vertues which I learned from their Schoole, all things may be denied me but death, and no Vertue is more vigorous then that which is desperate.

The effect of this Oration.

EVery one knows that Augustus treated this faire unfor­tunate Queene with much civility; yet in the midst of his curtesie, shee perceived his resolution was to make her attend his Triumph to Rome, but to prevent the shame shee so much dreaded, shee kill'd her selfe with an Aspe, which was brought to her amongst flowers; so, by the gene­rosity of her death, shee wiped away the blemishes of her life.

Sentiments Paternall.

The Argument.

The Graecians were assembled in Aulide, to consult upon the just re­venge they meant to take for the Rape of Helena: Agamemnon, Brother of Menelaus, and Generall of the Army, to recreate him­selfe, went to hunt, and kill'd a Hinde in a Wood, which unknowne to him was consecrated to Diana; things being in readinesse for their departure, the Heavens and Seas opposed it by impetuous and terrible tempests: They had recourse to the Oracle, the Priest de­clared that Diana enraged for the death of that Animal would not be appeased, but with the head of the eldest Daughter of that sacrilegious and unfortunate person, Agamemnon, being ad­vertised of his fault, and frighted with the tumult of the Army, spake to them thus in favour of the Princess his Daughter.

VVHat god (favourable to the Trojans, our Enemies) hath sowed in our Camp this furious sedition? hearken to mee, O Souldiers! if your military obedience doe yet render you such; I would call you Com­panions, if the quality of a King might suffer an equall: what tumult is this? what! I that within these few dayes was proclaimed King of Kings, not to have power to preserve mine owne bloud? Alas! I am ashamed to speake of the madness of my Army, I refuse not the head of my Iphigenia, to be offered for the publique safety, but I refuse it to particular Envy, if you judge it a thing requisite for the honour of our Troops, not onely to sprinkle the Altars, but to drowne our fields with the bloud of my Chil­dren; it shall bee I my selfe who will conduct the Victime to the Altar, and will rejoyce more to have bred them for the good of my Countrey, then for the repose of my Age; for what bloud can be more happily pow­red forth, then that which serves to appease the angry gods, and render [Page 41]happiness to our Countrey? Certainly, if ye believe I had a soule capable of meaner thoughts then these, it would be an injury both to your judge­ments and honours in making choice of mee to command so many brave men, otherwise the most vile Members of this great Body might have been made the chiefe: No, no! whilst Agamemnon lives, the head of Iphigenia shall not want a Sacrificer; but it seems very reasonable to me, that Pity in these generous Troopes, who to recover an Adulteresse, slight their Coun­trey, their Kindred, their Goods, their Wives and Children, and all things dear to them, either in this world or in that to come; it seems (I say) very reasonable, that they consider first, if the stayning their hands in the bloud of a Virgin, be an Act proper to render the gods propitious to our designes; for how can a sacrifice offer'd with so much praecipitation please the gods? believe, O valiant People! O believe that when you offer a sacrifice in fury, you satisfie no god but that of Envy alone; it is a thing which to mee seems very strange, that for regaining of an Adultresse, it should be thought fit to lose a Virgin, and that to recover the daughter of another, it should not on­ly be thought convenient, but necessary, that I this day lose mine owne; if innocency shall be exposed to losse, you will force your Daughters to that adultery, which findes more safety and protection then Virginity it selfe; if we may begin our enterprise no other way, but by the death of my poor Daughter, who will not confess that this war is ominous to mee, before there is any violation of peace to begin the hopes of our Victories with the bloud of our Daughters; alas! it is to begin them with our owne losses, if we are out of hope, that the gods will not be favourable to our designes, unless we imbraw the Earth and Sea in the bloud of our own bowels; tru­ly it will be a very criminous attonement.

Those atchievements are too deare bought, that cost us a Victime, for the preservation whereof, no Victime should be thought too precious: I have seen a war begun for the defence of Virgins, but never saw the murther of a Maid inaugurate the happy successe of a war; that may be called losing of the battell without fighting, and to fill our houses with murther before they be taken, and without looking one Trojan in the face, wee shall be­waile the death of our Children: God forbid, that our undertakings should be so inauspitious; reserve! reserve the fury of your swords to destroy the Daughters of your Enemies.

Those of Ilion shall not bee more swift to shut their Ports for their pre­servation, then we will bee to flie to the immolation of the most illustrious Virgins of Troy, there we will asswage our angers, and revenge our indig­nities without sparing a Maid that breaths in the aire of our Enemies, from [Page 42]the rigour of our swords: But what new astonishment is that I read in your faces? you seeme to have in horror the thoughts onely of a spectacle so bloudy, I was confident in representing to you the massacre of yong Vir­gins, I had chosen an entertainment agreeable to your inclinations: Poore Iphigenia! under what malignant star wert thou borne, that, that rigour which would be cruell, barbarous, and detestable, if it were afflicted upon the Daughters of our Enemies, is believed honest, pious, and desirable, when it is address'd to our owne? what? shall the sisters of Paris then feare the Graecians lesse then the Daughters of Agamemnon? who taught us that Religion which makes us mercifull to others, and cruell to our selves?

To begin the war by an act so inhumane is to better the condition of our Enemies, because we oblige the Heavens to defend those that are most in­nocent, for who can deny that a Ravisher sins less then a Homicide, and that it is a lesse fault to have loved a Wanton, then to murther a Virgin? Paris opposed, and wrestled with his lusts, as appear'd by the feares of his flight, and those of his conscience, to shew to the world, that at least hee knew his guilt, and dreaded punishment as well from the gods, as men; but how shall we excuse our crime, the wickedness of which renders us impious and cruell towards both gods and men?

We stile the prophanation of the Altars an Act of Piety, and as a sacrifice celebrate a detestable murther, who can excuse those crimes committed, not onely before the eies, but even upon the very Altars of the gods? I am not ignorant that the wickednesse of those who proposed this sacrifice, will say that the divine Decrees ought to be obayed, and not disputed; but I an­swer that the Athenians, to appeare falsely devout, were not ashamed to picture their gods cruell Homicides, those very sacred Intelligences which dwell above, for the preservation of Mortals, doe revenge, not desire the death of Innocents.

What? have the Gods rendred the Heavens serene, and the Sea calme, to favour the flight of an incontinent, and after doe they shew them in pro­digious stormes, thirsting for the blood of a Virgin, who perchance is pre­paring Hecatombs for them, whiles they are decreeing her ruine? No, no! it would be a Hell upon Earth, if the Heavens should oblige us to shed the precious bloud of Innocents; how is it possible that Jupiter should re­solve to reigne over a world desert and wicked? and who is there abject enough to continue amongst those Deities, whose number is not composed, but of more vile then our selves? but what god is it hath brought cruelty into Heaven, as if humane kinde were to be made the object of fury instead [Page 43]of love and mercy? all sacred forbid, O Jupiter! that wee should believe the gods to be more cruell to us then our enemies themselves; what? the Trojans love our Daughters, and the gods massacre them? it is not likely; produce the Priests, and name the Temples where this Oracle hath beene heard and receiv'd, that we may not rashly precipitate any thing against the innocent, which hath alwaies been known by all to be the prime object of love to the infinite powers; let us bee carefull that that piety which en­deavours to remove the clouds from the neck of Juno, take not away by violence the thunder bolts from the hand of Jupiter.

But if you tell me, that Calcas the Interpreter of the gods (to deliver our Fleet, which the Sea holds as besieged, and which, it see­meth, conspireth for the defence of our Enemies) hath pronounced this, which is rather to be called a sacriledge, then a sacrifice to appease the gods of the woods incensed by my hand for the death of a Hinde? I answer, that certainly any other but Calcas a Magician, a Sorcerer and Conjurer, accusto­med all his life time to the formidable way of Hell, by incantation with certaine verses which hee muttereth more horrid then his owne conscience, would never endeavour to acquire the reputation of Interpreter to the gods, by such a detestable invention, as to ingage us to the necessity of shedding innocent bloud.

But it is time, that I discover to you the tumour of this wound, that you may know how poysonous the steele is that made it; it is hence that Oracles are obtained by the gold of mine Enemies, and not the voice of the Thun­derer, that pronounces the fatall Ordinances of the all-powerfull Deities; it is he who envies me, my Scepter, and labours my deprivation, that he to whom Calc [...] hath sold his loyalty may usurp it, and that you by a fancied piety should become not religious, but superstitious; for certainly if I had not been chosen Generall of the Army, Cynthia would never have desired that her Altars should be adorned with my calamities; that Envy which darts Thunder-bolts upon the most supreame and exalted things hath (fore­seeing that our Troops desire of me a sacrifice not onely abominable, but impossible for a Fathers affection) engaged mee to the necessity of aban­doning you, to avoid that crime, or your selves to deposing mee, from that dignity to which others pretend; but consider I pray you noble Soul­diers, if it can be possible for that Goddess, the great Patronesse of Chastity, to designe the throat of a Nymph, of her owne traine, to be cut in revenge, for the death of a Beast.

If the Hinde was consecrated to Diana, to whom was dedicated the vir­ginity of Iphigenia? and what Deities are they, who expresse more tender­ness [Page 44]for Beasts then men? I know already they will say, it is a punish­ment which Agamemnon deserves, for daring to enter into a Wood conse­crated to Diana, and more for killing her Hinde, but what correction can he deserve, who hath committed a faulty Act, with an innocent heart? and how can hee bee guilty of irreverence that knew not the sanctity of the place which he hath prophaned?

In fine, I have not kill'd a she Priest in a Temple, but a Beast in a Wood, and shall this heart, which hath alwaies reverenc'd Diana, bee implacably condemned for a light fault, and a fault not of will, but of ignorance? but if the sin be mortall, and the punishment inevitable, was it ever seene that the gods condemned an innocent head, for the errour of a guilty hand? what? shall a spotless Virgin fall under a sword, piercing her bosome? and I who committed the sacriledge survive in glory, and command an Army which is to be alwaies victorious? if it be thus, what shall become of justice?

Ah! if Diana wisheth for the head of Iphigenia, shee wanteth not meanes to accomplish her desires, without imploying the aide of your swords: Demand of Acteon, if she ever had recourse to the assistance of men, to revenge the injuries shee receives in the Woods and Forrests? returne! returne into your selves, O valiant Warriors, and appease those Furies which it may be have been provok'd, as well as the Sea for our misfortunes by a hand, which hath drawne the fury of Hell upon us; appease those hearts and those spirits, who desire unjustly, that the Sea should bee calme, when their reason is overcast with Clouds and Tempests: No, no! Diana cannot hinder the revenging of a crime, wherein her Deity is more interessed then our selves, for who is there that hath so little judgement, as not to know how much the action of Paris hath outraged the pudicity, of which that Goddesse makes profession? and who seeth not that this Ra­visher by his incontinence is as much an Enemy to Diana, as an injurer of Menelaus?

But if those Reasons seeme too remote, doe but consider whose Daugh­ter this Helen is, for whose sake all Greece is in Armes? If you answer me, she had for her Father the Almighty Jupiter, whom Diana reverenceth as her owne, what reason is there to oblige a Goddess to hinder the punish­ing of a man who hath dishonoured her sister? and what sense is it, that one of the number of those who are infinitely just, should be agitated with a thousand furies, to hurry her to vengeance for a yellow Beast? and that she should be so implacable as to desire the death of her Neece? for if there be none that doubts, but that Helena is the sister of Diana, is there any to bee [Page 45]found that will question whether Iphigenia be her Neece or no? it may bee there is, for I ought to apprehend all things from my misfortunes, and be­lieve all that is ill of mine Enemies.

What say they now, after I have demolished all the stratagems raised by Envy; will they yet returne and inculcate that the Heavens threaten us, that the Aire is full of Tempests, and that the Sea is plowed up into billows? But what! is it so extraordinary a Prodigy to see the Heavens troubled, the Windes boisterous, and the Sea tumultuous? how is it that this Drea­mer of Oracles (as well impious towards the gods as cruell to men) how is it (I say) that he dares impute the impetuosity of the Tempest, to the se­verity of that goddess? by what new division of the Universe, hath Neptune yielded the Empire of the Sea to Diana? Alas! would it had pleased the Destinies, that the most chaste of all Goddesses had power over the Waves, they had not been cross'd over with so little perill by that Adulterer, by that fugitive, that Trojan Ravisher.

Wee are very ill Interpreters of the favours of the Heavens, it may bee their goodness not onely permits, but raises these tumultuous billowes to dissipate the fury of the Tempest, which spent at last with its owne vio­lence and impetuosity, will afterwards permit us a Calme and prosperous passage; if in the change of things, a Tempest succeeds a Calme, and a Calme a Tempest? we must confesse that the gods who keep us now in the Port, are more favourable to us, then the Ocean, in making us expect the opportunity of a calme, and serene passage; but peradventure to maintaine their great prerogative, the gods detaine us heere, being unwilling that any other force, but their Thunder-bolts, should undertake the punishment of so detestable an Adultery, or peradventure being pleas'd with our piety, that we, banishing our selves from our native soile, should endure the fury of the Windes, the danger of the Sea, and the inconstancy of the Heavens, lea­ving our Houses desolate, and abandoning our Wives, to precipitate our selves into the miseries of a painfull war, whose success is uncertaine, and often depends less on Councell, then upon that blinde Goddesse Fortune, who ordinarily favours guilt more then innocence.

But the Heavens defend us from a presage so unlucky, wee are to hope the best, and we ought not to distrust the justice of a cause, which if it proceed from the gods, shall not be without protection, the Heavens are on our side already, and I hope we shall also, at the last have the Sea: I must for all that confess, that feare and horrour invades my spirits as often as I represent the unusuall new manner of piety, where with this wicked man pretends to appease the Heavens and facilitate our Voyage, for if anger [Page 46]makes this opinion, (I mean the anger of Cynthia, for onely the death of a Hinde which was hers) hath disturb'd all the Elements, what will become of us miserable Wretches, when wee have mutthered a Virgin so deare to the Goddess, for her Virginity, and so neare for her consanguinity? re­turne! alas, returne (I say againe) to your selves, O valiant men, and be­lieve that my owne interests touch mee less then the publique: Alas I if now, when we are yet innocent, the Sea is unquiet, and the Heavens are darting Thunder bolts, what will they doe then, when they behold us cru­ell Homicides?

No, no! let our Daughters live safe from the violence both of men and gods; the ground of our piety, intended to be imployed for punishing in­justice, deserves not that the gods should make us tremble, and that they should render their very Altars terrible to us; suffer then this innocent Victime to live, that they may know what we have done a far off in re­venge of injured vertue.

The simplicity of my prayers with which I strive to preserve my Daugh­ter from the hands of Envy and oppression, shewes clearely the confidence I have in the justice of the Arrive Troops, your hearts have no need to bee softned into mercy by my tendernesse; yet I would intreat with more im­portunity, if it became the quality of Agamemnon to be a Suitor, and if the Grecians had souls, capable of so much baseness, to follow and obey a sup­pliant, I doe not desire that my afflictions should remember you that I am a Father, if that which I demand be not just, which if it were not, I should blush with shame for intreating you, though it bee for the preservation of a Daughter.

The magnanimous; the Souldier, and even Kings themselves, are subject to fatherly affection; but if in what I have said, affection appeares more then justice, I desire it may availe nothing, as if I had never spoken: I have not put you in minde of the merits of the unfortunate Maid, nor of mine owne, because I desire to owe the happy success of my prayers to the ju­stice of my cause, rather then to the eloquence of my language; I have dedi­cated to Justice all the actions of my life, and for the liberty and happiness of my native Countrey.

I have esteem'd, as fortunate, all the occasions which have so many times made me shed my bloud for the common prosperity of all Greece: but I doe not pretend that that shall assist me at all to preserve my childe, if justice and innocence did not render her inviolable, I would not save her, for I am a Father, but a Father no further then the Altars, I have endeavoured onely to open your eies, that Envy and wickednesse triumph not under the [Page 47]vaile of piety, after this Iphigenia and Agamemnon both shall goe as very happy Victims, if it be proper and requisite for the publique affairs.

The Effect of this Oration.

NEither the Eloquence, the Reasons, nor the Teares of Agamemnon could prevaile, the Ordinance of the O­racle must bee obeyed, but the fable (which under the figure of an afflicted Father, yet obedient) demonstrates to us the en­tire resignation that men ought to have to the will of the gods, and withall it evidenceth that almost alwayes the gods are contented with obedience, for it feignes that at the ve­ry instant that Caleas lifted up the sacring knife to strike that innocent Victim, Diana convey'd her away in a Cloud, and put a Hinde in the place, in such manner, that under this pleasing fiction, Poesie entertaines and instructs at once.

Paris in Love.

The Argument.

The Enterprise of the Argonauts, besides the ruine of Ilion which was halfe destroyed by them, having cost the Trojans, together with the death of Laomedon, and his sonnes the Captivity of Hesione; Antenor cross'd the Sea to ransom her, but return'd with contempt: The Trojans incensed for the injury, resolved Vengeance; wher­upon Paris, who ever since the judgement on Mount Idae, had [Page 48]alwayes entertain'd high hopes, was dispatched for that purpose, and quickly return'd; the issue of his Voyage was the Rape of He­lena, which so much enraged the Greekes, that they breath'd no­thing but War and Revenge, and Cassandra presaged nothing but misfortunes; the Trojans knew not what to resolve, when Paris, fearing to be abandoned, spoke thus to the King his Father, and to the Prince his Brother, which he assembled for that intent.

I Could never believe I should live to see feare reign in the House of Priam, but the more high and noble thoughts I had of the valour of the Trojans, the more unjustly I see my selfe reduc'd to the necessity of fearing the in­stability of that fortune, which hath so happily rais'd me to so supreame fe­licity, a soule infinitely captivated with love can never feare enough: The womanish weakness of Cassandra makes so much noise, that I fear Fortune her selfe envies my prosperity, but the more she shall strive to trouble my repose, the more vigorously I shall endeavour to oppose her malice, and I render thanks to Helena, who gives me occasion to shew the strength of my resolution, as my election of her hath been the Argument of my judge­ment.

I am not ignorant (O my Father, and you my generous Brothers) how inconsiderable a womans fears are, compar'd with the nobility of your cou­rages; but the justice of my cause, the inclinations of my scule, the reputa­tion of the King, and the safety of the Kingdome, are treasures so precious, that we cannot be too watchfull to guard them: I know to make you draw your swords it is sufficient to remember you, that the Valiant ever carry their Reasons in their hands, and to excite you bravely to a war, it is enough to say it frights none but women.

It is absolutely necessary, that the war must please Hector, since it dis­pleaseth Cassandra, the soules of Heroes and those of Women, are too di­stant to have the same thoughts, and he that consults the affairs of war with his Daughters, hath no great mind to fight: but I wil not that Mars should overcome Justice; if you do not by solid Reasons judge the war profitable, honest, and necessary to the reputation of the Trojan greatnesse; the hatted betwixt the Grecian people and us hath already lasted so many yeares, that it being now as a naturall inclination, I see no likelihood of a peace, and in my opinion that is no small advantage to justifie the war.

You heare by this, whether you ought to hearken to the clamours of Cassandra, and if the generous Sentiments of Paris deserve assistance [Page 49]of your Armes in a warre so necessary, that it ought rather to bee finished, then disputed, to bee consulted on: let us sacrifice (O my Brothers) let us sacrifice to that Fortune, that even upon necessity conducteth us to honour and triumph.

I might strive by my sad accents, to soften your hearts, and to prepare your eares favourable to my requests; but I doe not yet believe my selfe to be so deserted, as to feare that I shall finde my Brothers wanting in hu­manity to mee, I will not esteeme my life, if it deserve not to be che­rish'd, at least by the Sentiments of Nature, and if I cannot hope that you will hearken favourably to an innocent Brother, whom shee injoynes you to defend, though he were guilty.

But if the stars which reigned at my nativity were so fatall to have it o­therwise, I should feele a joy in my soule, to see a life torne from me, which my Fathers and Brothers themselves have thought unworthy their Prote­ction; for in fine, Paris pretends to no other honour, but to deserve some reputation among the Priams and Hectors: I parted from this River with order to treat about the ransome of Hesione, as an Ambassador, or to declare war as an Enemy.

My Voyage was fortunate under the conduct of the Divinity of the Sea, who foresaw I went to be the Nephew of Helena was his Neece. Neptune, but finding things so little favourable for us amongst the Greeks, I had no hope to make my Ne­gotiation happier then that of Antenors, and certainly I might have de­spair'd, if my confidence had not been in that Venus. Goddess, who was ingag'd to second my designes.

I had recourse to Menelans, who (though mine Enemy) was rendred favourable by her, according to what she promised me at Mount Idae; yet I was no sooner arrived at his house, but to evade the importunity of my requests, hee absented himselfe upon the false pretence of some affaires, which discovered to mee, that I had beene brought into his house rather by the force of Destiny, then by his curtesie, all his whole Pallace (even out of their innate hatred to our Nation) comported themselves towards me, as if I had been their particular Enemy, there was none save onely this Roy­all Princesse Helena, in whom I could discover common humanity, shee knew at first the equity of my demands, and I found her as favourable as the justice of my Cause deserved, or any moderate heart could desire: it is true, that my observation of it had no sooner encountred those faire eyes, (for comparison of whom, it is too much to name the Divinity, and infi­nitely too little to thinke of any thing we see upon Earth) but I presently apprehended a way in her to ballance the unjust detension of her I came for; [Page 50]the fell nature of our Enemies tooke from me all hope of remedy to the loss of Hesione.

It was thence I laid my designe in favour of your Empire; but my heart had scarcely received the image of that glorious object presented to mine eyes, but I resolved to mingle my particular inclinations with the publique interest, so that having for my object a face too faire for expression, the Idea was no sooner received into my breast, but Helen was inthroned in my heart, not onely amongst my affections, but divinities, for to know the glory and greatness of her beauty, you may but consider it was I that made choise of it, I, that came from seeing that of Venus.

The tumultuous imbtoylment that her taking away raised through all Greece, may teach you (O my Brothers) to know the value of the person, and how much she deserves, whose absence alone hath put so many Pro­vinces into Armes to recover her; I know not better how to boast to you the perfections of this excellent Lady, then in remembring you that she is the very recompence promised me by the Goddess Venus; and how can we more severely revenge so many outrages, receiv'd from the injurious hands of the Grecians, then in depriving them of a Treasure which dazled the eyes of a man newly come from beholding without astonishment, the won­ders of the prime beauties of Heaven; what shall stay us lazy, vile, feeble, (and that which I esteem yet more shamefull to our great soules) insensible men, to dwell under such indignities without vengeance? Shall wee suffer the Greeks to regaine Helena, and retaine Hesione? The death of Laoma­don, and the murther of his Son, the ruine of Ilion, and the injuries of An­tenor, are they all fled your memory? No, no! the prize I have taken can­not be retained at a lesse rate then the hazard of a Kingdome; the greatness of the hazard will set the greater reputation upon our honour, rather then to be a subject of fear, or terror to generous souls; the more dangerous and difficult things are, the more vertuous actions are enobled by being versed in them, and when I consider well the estate of this affaire, my soule is vexed that neither by the condition of our matters, as they are, nor by the will of the gods, the war that the Greeks threaten us withall, cannot be of dan­ger great enough to render us worthy detainers of that soveraigne piece of excellence, beyond which there is nothing to be desired, by those who have eyes, of soules able to judge; what ought we to feare? it may be you will say the Forces of falling Achaya, or those of miserable Sparta; No, no! my Brothers, either Mars must be a Trojan, or Venus will shew to us, that ingratitude reignes even in Heaven, but (my Brothers) those ought not to feare the fury of Mars who have Venus for their Protectress; the poverty [Page 51]of the Grecian Kingdomes permits no one of their Kings to assault us alone, and if divers Princes compose the number of our Enemies, it cannot bee but very happy for us.

Divers are the Graecian Princes, and all of them have without doubt more vanity then valour; who will there bee amongst them that will yield the Empire of himselfe to one that hee believes not his superiour; nothing is more hard to reconcile, then the opinions of a multitude, and how much harder will it bee, when the question shall arise about the command of an Army wherein the danger of all parties is concern'd: some will prove un­willing, some unable; the former loath to ingage themselves in a warr, the other not in a capacity to undertake it; there is no man so happy in his mis­fortunes, that all men should beare a part in his disasters; Menelaus hath his Enemies in Greece as well as wee, those who are unwilling to see him prosperous, will divert his forces, hinder his reliefe, and prove rather service­able then Enemies to our success.

But what is at length become of the usuall gallantry, and ancient repu­tation of the Trojan Monarchy, dreaded to that extreame part of our world, where the Land ends, so much reverenced through the whole Uni­verse? and though not onely Greece alone, but all Affrick should joyne with her, and take up Armes against us, must Asia therefore run away beyond the knowne limits of the World, where are so many tributary Kingdomes allyed and united aswell by the bonds of Nature as Inte­rest?

There is not one of these Neighbour Princes, but will feare the prosperi­ty of the Greeks, nor one that will nor remember the Favours that he hath received from the Trojans; where shall be that Jupiter, which never found the pleasure of Love, but in the Trojan beauties? where shall bee that Ve­nus, which holds not her Scepter, and reigne over beauty, but from my judgement? it was she which promis'd mee Helen for the Companion of my life, and her selfe to be my Protectress, let those alone distrust the ju­stice of my cause, who believe not the oathes of the gods.

The Greeks, as yet, have not assembled their Troops, nor so much as sent forth their Commissions to forme their Army▪ nor Victualled any Navy for their transportment, nor past over so many Seas, which seperate our Terri­tories from theirs, wherein they will have need of the conduct of their best stars, to performe so long a Voyage, without great dangers, at least impe­diments; wee shall have famine, and sickness, windes, and Seas, Heavens, and seasons, disorder, and discordance fight for us.

But if all the powers of Heaven and Earth should be against us, and that we should be utterly without Forces capable to defend us, what ought we to doe? ought we to let succeeding ages finde in Story that the Kings of Troy so long evill treated, injured, and (which is yet more shamefull) scorn'd by the Greeks, not only to leave so many outrages unrevenged, but to tremble at the very threats of the Enemy? and after having by the fa­vour of heaven, in this one action of mine, repaired all our losses, to yield back timerously, without fighting, such an inestimable booty? we owe! (O my Brothers) we owe higher resentments to the greatness of our births; for my part, I will not be affrighted with this vaine womans Predictions, and I abhor the onely thought that the heart of Paris should be daunted, being onely informed from the feares of a young Girle, that the Enemy threatned to be revenged.

But on the contrary, because our Enemies threaten I feare a great deale the lesse, we ought to feare those, whose words are actions, not those, whose actions are words; whosoever endeavours to abase me with lower thoughts, let him first take from my memory, that I am the son of a Priam, for the nobleness of my extraction, and the meanness of such thoughts are not compatible: No, no! I shall never be capable of so degenerate an in­gratitude to her, who hath so nobly exprest her affection to me, my Coun­trey, and its injuries.

What may all the world say, if Paris for a few threats should returne her back againe to Greece, who turn'd Fugitive for his love, and is recall'd ra­ther, for punishment, then for consolation with her Husband? what? ought I to betray, and abandon her, who, was the onely person in all Greece, that would have afforded justice to the Trojans? she who scorning her Jupiter. Fa­thers anger, and the fury of her Husband, left those unjust people, and came with me upon my word? what god would leave, so many oathes violated, after the faith that I ingaged, unpunished? I blush with shame to thinke that I have suffered great Helena to intreat for the safety of that Person, who hath sav'd the honor of the Trojan Empire.

Which of you (O my generous Brothers) would not esteem vilely of me, if I should shamefuly consent that Jupiter should see his Daughter betray'd by us, and betray'd, at a time, when she rather is to be adored, then aban­doned? then shall we be lesse afraid of the vengeance of the gods, then of the Princes of Argos? shall the Grecian faith, hitherto so infamous, cor­rupt ours, and mark our Names with a Character so black, that future Ages will make a proverb of the abomination of our infidelity? thus then wee may behold the Grecians to triumph over Troy, before they have drawne [Page 53]their swords; No, no! (my Brothers) we ought not to put shame, and life into the same Ballance together, we ought to resolve to lose the one no­bly, rather then preserve the other with such ignominy.

But admit my sentiments were not governed by Justice, how is it possi­ble (O my Brothers) that Paris should be so little considered by you, hee who would sacrifice his life with so much alacrity, for the establishment of your felicity, he I say, that must without doubt die, if he see ravished from him, the onely thing, next his noble Brothers, which makes him de­sire life?

Helena is a Beauty created by the gods, as a Master piece to express their power, all hearts, that are not ravish'd with so divine an object, are too neare insensibility; our Daughters desire not her absence, but our of envy to her perfections, their eies cannot suffer the fairness of her complexion, which in whiteness surpasseth the feathers of that beautifull The Swan. Bird, whose forme Jupiter assum'd, when he solaced himselfe with her Leda. Mother; Oh! how, by the malicous spirit of Cassandra, is the dreame of Hecuba misinter­preted, that a slame kindled by the hand of Paris, was to consume to ashes the Empire of Priam? which rightly interpreted intends nothing but the bright beames of Hellena's beauty, which we cannot behold, but the whole Empire must be inflamed by her.

I might feare lest my passion, or to say better, my tenderness doth render me too sensible for that royall person, if I did not remember, that even by gratitude, and acknowledgement of her high merit, I owe this returne to that Helena, whose eyes, full of love, and pitty, regarded the justnesse of my cause, and alone considered the danger to which I was expos'd, and fa­voured the designe of my Voyage; Helena! who borne our Enemy, was no sooner entreated to lend her assistance for the protection of the Trojan greatness, but she had compassion on our sufferings, and my honour; on the contrary, Cassandra (my sister) no sooner saw my returne, but she envied my successe, and endeavoured to ingage all the world to leave me in dan­ger.

What action, if not this, can be thought dishonest if I should faile in my faith to her, who though (at that time) an Enemy, hath exprest more ten­derness of my honour then mine owne sister, who is thereunto by the bond of Nature obliged? I say againe I might feare that my passion blinded me, and made me love her person wantonly, if I knew not that I am obliged to love her, more, by the generosity of my soule, then by the charmes of her incomparable beauty; I love not alone in her those attractions, which will be effaced by time, but I love to be the son in Law of Jupiter; I love to [Page 54]have my Children on both sides of the bloud of the gods: In fine, either the election of Paris is good, or the great majesty of the gods signifie no­thing.

I might have an ill opinion of my flame, if I did not know it to be kindled by the ordinance of the Destinies, and that its originall is from heaven; when Venus obtained by my judgement the prize to which she pretended, she made me read her thankfulness written in Characters indeleble; Paris (said she) thou shalt love, and thou shalt love that Helena so worthy of thy flames, whom Menelaus keeps for thy Nuptials; who then shall deprive me of a Legacy, which the Heavens not onely bequeath'd mee, but assu­red that Helena was borne for Paris? and to know her value, consider shee is chosen by a Goddess, as the most precious reward to gratifie a man, that had serv'd her in an affaire of such importance, that it troubled the tranqui­lity of the gods.

This in my opinion is enough for my justification; but if the infatuati­on of Cassandra suggests it a great crime, to seduce a Beauty from the House of her Husband, and that shee reproaches mee with violating the sacred Laws of Hospitality, and cites Jupiter incensed for that, and the rape of his Daughter? consider, I beseech you, that the Destinies, not Menelaus, made entertainment for me in Argos, and that in committing an act of affection, I have performed one of obedience; Helen hath been waited on by me, not ravish'd, she is not ravish'd who consents, nor is she a Beauty to be rendred back if she had been stolne, this would be an injury to Venus, if I should goe about to mend her election, and neglect her decree; I deny not but such a Beauty deserves to be a thousand times ravished; I appeal to Theseus, that Theseus, who, after he had been preserved from the sulphure of Hell, could not behold, without passion, the face of this Helen, who to shew her birth carrieth her lightning in her Eyes, as her Father doth his thunder in his hands.

Helena was return'd back by Theseus, that she might ever be retained by Paris; or rather she was returned backe, because his eyes accustomed to the obscurity of Hell, could not indure the brightness of hers; for my part I know no Reason why Jupiter should bee lesse willing to see his Daughter married to Paris, then to Menelaus: How is it possible (I say) that Jupi­ter shall be offended with me, who hath so much valued his Race, that I have deemed it worthy, even with so much perill, of being ravished? how shall it not please him to see his Daughter beloved and married into a Fami­ly, that hath produc'd Children worthy of the love and rape of Jupiter himselfe?

Thou didst ravish from us (O great god) our Ginimede, and by thy ex­ample, I have ravished thy Helena; who can doubt that my theft is not ap­proved by the gods, since I did it not but to imitate them? why thinke you (O Trojans) that Jupiter declar'd me the most sufficient of all men to be the Judge between the three Goddesses? it was to justifie his amorous Thefts, before the world, for in declaring me to be the wisest of all mankinde, hee justified his Thefts, since they are imitated by the justest of all Judges: Alas! all eyes have not opticks strong enough, to gaze against such a Beauty, and all Eagles cannot stare upon the Sun.

If the gods had been angry with me, they would not have permitted my returne to have been so happy, nor have calmed the Seas in favour of my Navigation; so that if you have no stronger motives to induce you to feare, it may be call'd as unjust as feeble; bee victorious (O my Brothers) for if you shall dispute whether it be necessary to returne Helena, there is no per­son that will ever believe, that any thing but feare makes you leave a Bro­ther, and render back a Jewell, which is of value sufficient to recompence all your losses, and restore your honours; for my part, I apprehend not how, in the family of The son of Tios their Ancestor. Assarac, there should be souls so low, as to have need to be excited by prayers to lead them on to honour; great actions require great constancy, those succeed best that are undertaken with most resolution; either wee must not doe them, or done, maintaine them no­bly.

The most part of those Actions that valour renders so glorious, would have little reason of their sides, if they were scinned by the Rules of exact Justice, all the ill in the rape of Helena is blotted out by Time, we must ju­stifie it by Armes, not by a poore repentance; if we rashly restore her, we shall discover to the Greeks, that we can be forc'd, and that we may be pu­nish'd.

Believe me (O noble Brothers) I am not blinded by affection, the surest way (I confess) hath somewhat of danger, the sword must now justifie our cause, or we shall become the Fable and scorne of the generations to come; the honour of the publique, and my particular concerne dictates this to me, and if I could believe that without danger to the Kingdome, and dishonour to the Crowne, the returne of her would not puffe up the Enemy to a be­lief that they do so surmount us in courage, as to make us af [...]aid when they please, I should regulate my desires, and rather then trouble the publique peace, I would undergoe, with patience, whatsoever Fortune should lay u­pon me, yes, to procure your repose, I would suffer not onely my heart to be torne out of my bosome, but even my Wife from mine Armes.

But what doe I say? (unfortunate wretch that I am?) it seems I make a distinction between my heart and my Helena; No no I (my Brothers) I can as well live without my heart as without my Helena; or to say better, they are but one same thing.

It is here I will terminate my discourse; it is here, I assure you, that you cannot take her away, without you take away my life also; it is you that are to consider, if one, or t'other be necessary for your safeties, that I may prepare my selfe: O my Father! behold my Helena, and behold also your Paris, we are both at your feet to demand the favour of permitting us to be alwaies together in the same Pallace, or at least in the same Sepulchre.

The effect of this Oration.

THe beauty of Helena, not being lesse perswasive, then the Eloquence of Paris, did not weakly fortifie his Reasons, the Eyes of the one finished, what the Mouth of the other had begun, and all eares to come were weake in comparison of one faire Face, and one faire Discourse, they mock'd at the Dreame of Hecuba, and slighted the Predictions of Cassandra, all the World was mov'd with compassion, and hardly would they heare the Discourse which followeth.

Paris opposed.

The Argument.

After Paris had made an end of speaking, as in the preceding Ora­tion you have read; Troilus his Brother taking up the Argument, answered, and thus opposed Paris.

I Take it for no small misfortune, to finde my selfe inforc'd to bee of a con­trary opinion to any of you (O my Father, and generous Brothers) and I am reduc'd to hard terms, that I, who have ever look'd upon Paris, as an Object worthy admiration, as an Example of Prudence, and as the delight of my soule, should be constrain'd, upon necessity, to condemne his acti­ons, oppose his desires, and incense his angers, and to account that the grea­test of my good fortunes to see him by me made unhappy, in the most sensi­ble, most tender, and most delightfull of all his passions; but since all Asia is in Armes for his doings, I must, in discharge of my duty, speake freely, and I must contradict Paris, because I love Paris, I should injure his honour, if I believ'd he would not willingly hearken to truth, and I should wrong the merit, and justice of Paris, whose praises have been celebrated by Jupi­ter himselfe, if I thought Passion would wilfully triumph over Reason in him, whom the gods thought worthy to be their Judge.

The violence of so many united Provinces, which are confederated toge­ther, for our Ruines, is the least evill, which can come, to disturb the felici­ty of this Kingdome; Cassandra weeps in vaine to make me afraid, the Greeks make a noise, and the Heavens themselves threaten; I have a heart as great as yours, and cannot feare death, I can be as jealous of honour as a­ny other, if the Sentiments of Paris endangered nothing but life, happy that life, which should bee lost for the felicity of Paris, whom wee all love; but what will succeeding Ages say, when they know that we have imbroyl'd the whole Universe, to maintaine the passion of one, most unrea­sonable, who could love nothing but an Enemy? What will all the Earth [Page 58]say of our injustice, when they shall see us defend a man that could not love without ravishing, and could not ravish without violating his faith, and who could not violate his faith without ingaging his Countrey to a preci­pice, and that could not ingage his Countrey, his Family, himselfe, his Kingdome, for a more illustrious occasion then the love of a Woman, and which is yet worse, an Adultress, a Fugitive, and a Enemy? Oh unfortu­nate Vessell in which Helens shame was conducted to our shores! it shall not be imputed to Troylus, if Paris doe not acknowledge Continence to be the most amiable vertue that can beautifie and become with better Reason grow in amoured with her, then he is now of his Helen.

Thou wert chosen to negotiate for the returne of Hesione, a Trojan, home to us from Greece, and thou hast not onely fail'd of that trust, but Paris himselfe is become a Grecian: consider, I pray thee, that thou hast not only fail'd in declaring to the Greeks their injustice, but thou hast dishonoured the just pretence the Trojans had to make warre upon them; to whom of all the gods ought we any more to have recourse, to implore reliefe against the Greeks that have ravished our Daughters? shall it bee to Jupiter, whose Daughter hath been ravished, and whose Son in Law ingratefully betray­ed? why! he is obliged to arm his all powerfull hand with vengeance a­gainst us; judge then (O Paris) of the justness of thy Cause, and of thy disobligements to us, and our Nations, thou hast depriv'd thy Countrey of the assistance of the gods, and thou knowest none can bee more accursed then those who in extreame calamities, cannot at least presume to have re­course to the immortall Powers; even this is also ravish'd from us by thee; and yet thou wouldst have us approve, and comply with thy actions, the thought of which is abominable.

Hesione, being compell'd to marry a Grecian, is bewayl'd and wept for by us, as for a principall limb lopt off from our body, and shall we not on­ly rejoyce, but become Idolaters and slaves to a Grecian, the high way to ruine? God forbid: the Trojan Troops should ever fight ingloriously un­der strange Ensignes; Troylus had rather see the Kingdome of Laonudon a­mongst the Spoiles of Mars, then amongst the Trophies of a Grecian, hee will never endure to behold the Empire of Troy envassail'd by the sparkling eyes of a charming Fugitive, to beare dishonourable chaines, and to fall, for the love of them into the formidable displeasure of an incensed Fate.

If these evils (O Paris) are not supportable which are believ'd least shamefull, we should offer vowes to Fortune, that our Countrey rather pe­rish, by the flame of our Enemies, then by those of thine incontinency, but if the injustice of thy action, the feare of the gods, the danger of our [Page 59]Countrey, and the honour of out persons are not sufficient to bring thee to reason, at least, consider the occasion, that involves thee in so many mis­chieves, whereby Asia, that spacicus, and faire part of the world, may bee most deplorably reduc'd to ashes, without any nobler cause to consume it, then the Eyes of a Woman; O strange infamy! I blush to see a Councell of Kings assembled to debate the question, whether the peace and happiness of so many Kingdomes ought to be preferr'd before one Woman, who also is our Enemy, certainly so dead-killing a Thunder-bolt could never fall, but from a very incensed Heaven, nor could these disoders ever proceed, but from woman, who is the mistake of guilty Nature.

What? upon the arbitration, or rather the tyranny of one woman, ought the fate of so many Provinces to depend, and be reduc'd to sigh out their ca­lamities? O Victimes too noble for so unworthy an Ladies, I would not have translated this, but that the prime Au­thor meanes this only of the Italian women, he could never intend it to the English. Idol! O Sex dange­rous in all times, in all places! who cannot bee beloved without repen­tance, and cannot love without Tyranny; consider Paris how vile the cause is, which produceth such sad effects, that the Histories of all Ages, and of all Nations, shall bewaile our miseries, whosoever will learne that wo­man, that killing Monster, was created for nothing else but to punish the world, let them consider the strange condition of Asia, at this day.

A chaste Woman is a Rock, an unchaste one a Quicksand; a course Wo­man is nauscious, a faire one, an Inchantress; if thou lov'st her, she is vani­ty it selfe; if thou slightest her, she is a fury; all her inclinations are mad­ness, she loves not without selfe ends, she speaks not without feigning, and under her smiles lurks deceit, ingratitude reignes in her heart, and if incon­stancy be a corporeall substance, Woman is inconstancy it selfe, and certain­ly there was never knowing man, that ever loved Woman, that would ex­pect to finde faith in that Sex; her heart is as deceitfull, as her face: Vipers, venemous Serpents, and Aspes are Monsters I confess, but Monsters which deceive not, they, in only shewing themselvs, premonish thee to flie, but Wo­man allures thee as a Goddess, & poysons thee as a Basilisk, she is, I say, the Error of Nature, a chastisement to the World, an infascination to the Eye; she hath no qualities that are not wicked and dangerous, her seeming Excel­lencies are adulterate, and in burying themselves under so much Ceruse and Vermillion, doe they not seem to confess, that they are indeed what they are asham'd to appeare?

Behold Paris! from whom thou expects faith, it is even from those whose very faces are counterfet, and deceitfull, and whose complexion compos'd of sublimate, can have nothing but poyson in her beauty: have they one haire that Nature hath plac'd as we see it? no, no, Paris! [Page 60]all is artificiall in them, I pray then judge what kinde of creature Woman must needs be, that is never contented with her selfe, but when she is no­thing of her selfe, to what end serve so many Jewels, which Womens luxu­ry hath made precious? these magnificent creatures could not be covered, if they did not reverse the mountains, trouble the Seas, because they would rather load their bodies, then not adorne them; how is it possible, that for a beauty so counterfeit, so false, and so dangerous, a generous man should so far lose his Reason, and the Empire of himselfe, as not to live comman­ding, and to die triumphing?

How is it possible (I say) that Woman the most weake, the most false, the most cruell, and the most inconstant of all other animals, should cause at this day the ruine of Asia? What? shall the state and life of Priam; and the illustrious destiny of Troy, hang upon those haires, which it may be are borrowed from those which make Perrukes? Returne! returne into thy selfe, O noble Brother, and let not future Ages know, that thou didst prefer in thy soule, the love of a Fugitive, before the affection thou owest to thy Countrey; thou hast but too much already subjected thy judgement to thine Eyes, although no other thing but Reason ought to command him, who is borne to command; if thou lovest war, thou hast a Enemy within thee, whom to subdue will be thine eternall honour; passion by growing old, will be enfeebled, and yield to time, as well as all other things; if this be true, as certainly it is, were it not better that the honour of this Victo­ry be thine, then that thou shouldst owe it to Time?

Consider that this beauty is the beauty of an Adultress, who was likewise her selfe, begot in the same crime, a beauty unfaithfull to her owne Hus­band, and the beauty of an Enemy even to thy selfe; the more faire she is, the more shamefully she hath darkened, by her incontinency, the lustre of so divine a donative; shee is faire I confesse, but faire more for the ruine, then for the delight of those that behold her,

Theseus, that rendred her back, knew how shee was to bee valued, and we may say, she is a Sun, which who can gaze on, but he must distill tears? so wilt thou my Brother, I feare considering the imbroylment she hath in­volv'd a many of Nations in; she is faire thou sayest, and it is because she is faire, that I think we ought to returne her; why shouldst thou nourish a Serpent in thy bosome, whose venome is inevitable? ought we to believe, that that beauty will live more honourably in the House of an Adulterer, then in that of her Husband? her Father hath seen her follow Theseus, her Husband seeth her follow Paris, and undoubtedly Paris will see her fol­low some other.

What? can wee hope to see Helen chaste? the impunity of her sinning hath taught her that shee may sin without punishment; if wee leave her to her owne liberty, she will not onely reigne over us, but she will establish her tyranny to overwhelme us, to our dishonours; if we should restraine her, we should force her to commit those stolne scapes, to which liberty will cary her more openly; for my part, I confess, I should doubt lest she had brought with her the Grecian perfidy, feigning to be an Enemy to her Countrey, to the end that she might ruine ours, if I did not see our Coun­trey is already turn'd Greece, since our Kings are under the obedience of a Grecian Woman, and at this rate she would but betray her selfe by betray­ing Ilion.

But in fine, whether these walls fall by her treason, or whether they fall by the force of the Enemies, it is certaine they are menaced with a fall so much more dreadfull as we have deserved it, by the injustice of his Action, and by our supine stupidity, having been premonished of the malignance of our Destinies by the Praedictions of Cassandra, and by the portentious signes observed in Heaven, which threaten us every day; I know very well, that, according to the inclinations of thy seduced heart, all these omi­nous things are held vaine, for Love is a Fury, and the furious, or men in­toxicated, favour neither of reason nor Religion, they feare not the menaces of the gods, whereupon, I conclude, that we ought not to follow thy er­rours, and that is most fit to use thee as a man frantick, to tie thy hands for thy safety.

Alas! with how little Reason dost thou believe thy selfe ingaged to be gratefull to the friendship of this Helena, who hath onely insnared, not ob­liged thee? Helena was inclin'd to love, not by a sentiment of compassion to thy flames, but to qualifie her owne hot appetite, she was excited by her inate Vice, not moved by any tenderness to Paris; if thou art afraid of be­ing ingratefull in Vice? thou hast here found the meanes to be vitious un­der the pretext of Vertue, and 'tis rather to outstrip Helen in inconstancy then gratitude.

Love is not a benefit, he layes an obligation that takes paines for another, but the Lover acts simply for himselfe: The particular pleasure from the party beloved reflects back upon the Lover, is that which love proposeth for its end.

If she love thee, it was to enjoy thee, she considered thee, as a good for conversation, or as a remedy to those loose desires, which governe in her wandring thoughts, and what obligation can we have to a Woman, who to allay her heat, wooes the embraces of her very Enemy? but (O my Pa [...]is) [Page 62]who assures thee that it was love that gave her to thee for a prize, and for a Companion? why might it not as well be out of hare to her Countrey, or to her Husband? it is no incongruous thing to judge that we hate them, from whom we fly; but admit that this were certainly the truth of this affaire, this were yet the least evill, for who knows whether this Artificiall Wo­man, left her Countrey for nothing but to evade punishment for some like Crime which thou art ignorant of, searing the returne of her Husband? excuse mee Paris if I speake too home, and too plaine, and think it not strange that I name that woman unchaste, seeing thou haste made her so thy selfe, we can never sufficiently doubt the faith of a woman, who hath be­trayed her Husband, to follow his Enemy.

I should aske thee, if thou canst remember the occasion which carried thee into Greece? but if thou answerest mee, it was for nothing else, but to use the best endeavours to hinder the marriage of Hesione to Telamon, I shall then say unto thee, that wee who would not indure a lawfu [...]l conjunction between a Trojan and a Greeke, shall with very ill will undertake so long, and dangerous a war as this is likely to prove, to patronize, and protect the adultery of a Trojan, with a Grecian woman.

Troylus could not indure without blushing to see his Nephews (though they were legitimate) not onely borne of a Fugitive, of a Wanton, but meerly to be born of a Grecian Mother, would be cause enough of regrete; this is not to chastise the Grecian thefts, it is to imitate, or rather to autho­rise them; this is not to wash out our shames by vengeance, but to draw the thunder of Heaven upon our owne heads by our crimes; and I wonder not that a Grecian Lady was capable of pleasing him, who so little valued his owne honour and the reputation of his Countrey.

Returne! returne into your selfe, O generous Brother, and be thou thy selfe the first to solicite us to render her back, whom wee cannot keepe but unjustly; it is onely by this way that we may justifie the actions of the Tro­jans, Paris shall not have deceiv'd Menelaus, but hee shall have revenged Hesione, if he retains Helena for no other end, but to cause them to render back Hesione, and if Helena hath been ravish'd for that Reason? happy the house of Assarac, who by a priviledge particular make their very thefts glorious: but I see by the change of thy countenance, that so noble a mo­tive never induced thee to steale that prey, and that this my discourse dis­pleaseth thee.

Pardon me! I am about to hold my peace, pardon me (I say) if my Rea­son opposes thy passion with some violence; I love thee as thou art a man, as a Trojan, as a Brother, and as my selfe; but I am no lesse a Lover, and a [Page 63]Lover jealous of the justice, and honour of the King, and Kingdome: But what doe I say? I am about to hold my peace! there is more need that I were beginning to speake a new, it is not just to leave the Reines of the Empire in the hands of a Mad-man, the gods forbid that the affaires of the House of Troy, should be so very desperate; it is to you that I address my selfe (O my Father,) and to you, my noble Brothers, to you magnanimous Princes, who are borne to hold the Scepter of this King­dome, whose safety depends on your resolutions, it is you, wise Heroes, who are to consider, and to establish that which is just.

Paris hath lost both his Judgement and his Will, and is sicke of a disease which requires contraries, he counsels what his malady would, not what he ought; it is for you to oppose, to his violence, the wisedome of your Counsels, and to the blindnesse of his passions, the just reasons of State, and to the love hee hath for an Enemy, the love you have for you Countrey; in short, it is for you, to save, whether he will or no, both your owne ho­nours and his.

The Effect of this Oration.

THat which the Fates ordaine, is unchangeable; they had decreed the ruine of Troy, and it came to passe; Paris was heard with a more favourable Eare then Troylus, and the wisedome of Priam was led by the f [...]lly of Paris, which, as an evill guide, conducted him to a Precipice: In fine, none are ignorant, that the im­prudence of that Young-man, lost his Father, all his Family, and himselfe, and that the Lascive Amoure of Paris did contribute as much as the Armour of the Gre­cians to the destruction of Troy.

The Magnanimous Rivalls.

The Argument.

Manzine makes this discourse in Rome, in the Academy of the humourists; the Argument whereof is nothing but the generosity of two soules, the one knowing how to give a City, the other to re­fuse it: This passage is written in the life, and amongst the Triumphs of that Alexander, who was and always shalbe the highest honour of humane kinde.

VErtue is a chaine by which a good man is tied to honesty, it is formed of a hundred Linkes, which are the peculiars of its Essence, as Pru­dence, Fortitude, Justice, Temperance, and many other excellent qualities; this here is one, which to have the means being different, seems to have dif­ferent ends, by which it hath a kinde of appearance, of contrariety: as for Example, Humility, and Magnanimity, Clemency, and Justice; but it is not so indeed, as it will be evident, for if one Vertue were opposite to ano­ther; this inconvenience would follow, that there would bee an Antipa­thy between the Members of the same Body, which Nature her selfe will not admit, I will endeavour by an illustrious example, to establish the thing in question.

Alexander, the Mirrour of the first Times, the Favourite of Fortune, and the fortune of all the gallant men of that Age, beheld the distress of a poore Philosopher, who spoke his wants; Alexander was mov'd to compassi­on, and assisted him like a King of Kings; he gave him a City which the o­ther refused, as a gift too high for his condition: Who seeth not, that the Temperance of the one, and the Bounty of the other seems heere to dispute which shall have the better? Yet there are none but those who are accusto­med to the exercise of Vertue, who do not judge their thoughts very contra­ry, however both pursuing honour, they tend to the same Center.

Now that I may acquit my selfe of the charge you impose on mee (O [Page 65]noble Auditors) I shall indeavour to sever the one Vertue, from the other, upon condition that your patience will recompence, by attention, the rea­diness of my obedience, and support with favourable armes, the feebleness of my spirit.

That Alexander who was generated amongst Victories; who, was the builder up of the Macedonian glory, and who tracing the steps of Hercules, went also beyond him, who proved himselfe the son of Jupiter, more by his Heroick actions then by the mouth of the Priests, so repleat with courage, that the Sybels nam'd him invincible, so liberall, that he made more then a thousand Alexanders of a magnanimity so expansed, that he was not sa­tisfied with one world; that Alexander (I say) hearing a Philosopher aske an Almes, forthwith gave him a City, he to whom the Hannibals, though not without envy, yet without shame, yielded the preheminence; is not this an act of a liberall soule to thinke of giving a City upon such an occa­sion? The Philosopher dazled with the splendor of so stupendious a muni­ficence modestly refused it, excusing himselfe, that hee neither desired nor needed so much.

I am demanded which of these two actions set the most lively gloss upon the rayes of that Vertue, which made them thus scorne, deserve, and give Principalities; it is for you (O Courteous Auditors) to weigh them, that you may know their value; for my part, I will bee the Advocate to alledge Reasons on both sides, and I will leave the censure of them to per­sons against whom Alexander may not make exception, and from whose judgement the Philosopher need not appeale; those who are evill looke al­wayes with an eye of Envy upon great things, they say that it was too much to give a City, and that it was (if I may so speak) like money, out of a Palsey hand, rather falling then given, but that which wee give to a good man is never too much; he who deserves all, can never receive enough, and if a City may not be given to a Philosopher who knew how to govern it, to whom should it be given? it is not a gift saith he, which agreeth with my quality; ingratefull man! thy quality is, that Alexander judgeth thee worthy; the favour of the King carrieth with it thy fortune; dost thou not see how the Vertue, of this great Captaine, shines in all things? knowest thou not that the generous considereth all as nothing? another might have obliged thee by the quality of the gift, this brave man obligeth thee by his opinion in esteeming thee worthy; so that it is not be­cause the gift is too great, but it is because thou art a thing too little; for, the favour of the Prince supplies thy want of merit, if the gift agreeth not with thy condition, make thy gratitude agree with it; wee ought not to [Page 66]render as vaine the actions of Princes, especially when they tend to his ho­nour, which is so much more deare to him as he pursues it more ardently: a noble Prince is a good star, whose every influence is a Treasure; Alexan­der wanted nothing in this concurrence, but another Alexander; there were no Eyes upon Earth worthy so glorious an object; for a City to bee given with as good a will, as others receive it, is a thing which was never seene but once.

All the Captains in the Army of Alexander might know how to take a City, but never any but Alexander knew how to give one: I have heard this Philosopher commended for so little esteeming a gift so magnificent, as a City; and why doe they not celebrate the praises of that Alexander, who knew how to dispoile himselfe of Kingdoms, to reward the vertue of such as could likewise scorne even Scepters?

Vertue they say, was the cause why that good man had no need of a Ci­ty, and the like Vertue made Alexander have need to give it to such a one as this man appear'd to be; shall I speak as I think? it was not Alexander that was vain-glorious in giving a Principality, but the other in refusing it; that subtile man would not onely shew his poverty, but hee would doe it with vanity, and why did hee call that necessity which hee made his trea­sure? he shewed not his poverty, but his vain-glory, he beg'd but to have the opportunity to refuse; why did hee make this use of his present for­tune? it seemes his indigence was his wealth, not his want: he may well purchase nakednesse a [...] a thousand talents, who placeth his wealth in the shew of poverty.

There was no want here, but of Vertue▪ and this Vice was so much the greater, that could finde out a place for pride and vain-glory, even in straw and hunger: It was not Philosophy which slighted that City, but Ambition; Philosophy would have taught him to accept it rather, then to have beene ungratefull to the bounty of his King; hee had not wanted meanes to have been delivered from the burthen of it, if it had been too weighty for him; he might have imployd it in redeeming the afflicted out of captivity, in ea­sing thousands of persons, he might have oblig'd his friends; indeed, what might he not have done?

It is more likely that hee, who nobly gives away his goods, doth as hee ought, then hee who refuseth them, after hee hath ask'd an Almes; who knows but that he refus'd out of a doubt that he was mock'd, or out of a feare, that it was onely to tempt him? who knowes but that feeble soule might bee dazled with the brightness of so great a generosity? wee cannot make Images of all sorts of Wood, and all soules are not capable of [Page 67]so high a fortune; it may be he accepted it not for feare hee should be obli­ged to quit his poverty, in which hee had found so much tran­quility, and for feare of being forc'd to serve the publique with more in­convenience; and shall hee then that doth nothing but for his owne ends and ease be compared to Alexander? poore and unfortunate Alexander! methinks I heare him say these very words, I hold my selfe more dishonou­red by this comparison, then if I had lost the Battell against Darius; and shall I who have exercised Philosophy, bee compar'd to him who hath but meerly learnt it? I! who taught the Hircanians to marry, the Aracos­sians to exercise Husbandry, who made the Sogdians to quit their paricide, and who have hindred sonnes from marrying their Mothers; I, who have disperc'd humanity beyond the known world, who hath extended Greece through the whole Universe, and I who in conjoyning soules to bodies, have made one Province of all the Earth? I! I say who am such a person, to be put in ballance with one good for nothing, but himselfe, who refus'd this Masse of Treasure onely for feare of being thought to depend upon another, and who avoided not the command of a City, but to serve himselfe with a­nother sort of ambition? these are the tears I should shed, if I had the ho­nour to be Alexander.

I know they will tell mee, that Alexander gave thus lightly a City, be­cause he valued it little, and that it cost him nothing; but this opinion is false, considering his illustrious Conquests cost him so many men, so much labour, and so much bloud; Anaxercus asking him an hundred Talents, his Treasurer told him, it was too much; give him an hundred more, said Alexander: he had reason to demand so much, knowing hee had a Friend that both could and would give much; he gave fifty Talents to Zenoera­tes, and fifty to P [...]rillus, to enable them to give portions with their Daugh­ters in marriage: Hee gave Bagoa to Parmenio, which was worth more then a thousand Talents yearly.

All those that serv'd him, were made so great by him, the very soales of their Boots and shooes were of massie gold; and others when they went to take their recreations in hunting, pitcht a hundred Pavillions of no worse stuffe, then cloth of Tissue: In fine, Alexander was of so immense a boun­ty, that those that serv'd him, were greater than we can immagine Alex­ander: Neither was it new in Alexander to give away a City on this man­ner, he had formerly shewne large instances of that Vertue.

On a day when he gave to his Favourites money, gorgeous cloathing, Pavillions, Palaces, Cities, and all the Royall Treasure, Parm [...]nio ask'd him, what he would leave for the King? he answered, Hope.

O inclination truly royall! I will now cease to wonder why hee desir'd to search for new Worlds, but the wonder is, how hee could chance upon a soule so meane, as to judge that the gift of a City, was excessive, comming from a King who found the world too little (though hee conquered it) to give away.

Whosoever accuseth Alexander of Prodigality, knoweth not the large­ness of his soule; the least Almes that could enter into his thoughts to give to such a person was a City: Those who upbraid him of being profuse, are unacquainted either with his Vertue, or Fortune; the bounds of his Empire were the bounds of the Earth; that part of Nature which would not be subject to Alexander, was retired (if I may so say) beyond the Seas.

To sum up all, Alexander was greater for the World, then the World was for Alexander; so that a vulgar liberality, had not suited with a soule so Princely: if his Majesty, Wisedome, Fortitude, and his many other royall indowments ought to surpass private actions, why not his munificence? Royall gifts ought to carry with them the majesty of the King which gives them.

Alexander would never let any man implore his bounty in vaine, hee met their demands with the same cheerfulness, that others doe favours; his liberality never troubled him, but when he wanted a subject to express it on: In a word (O illustrious Auditors) would you know the true degree of his magnificence, he gave away more then could bee received? neither doe I see that the bounty of Heaven expresseth it selfe in such a degree as Envy would seem to reproach Alexander withall: the Sun makes no such distinction of persons, but gives light equally to all.

But I know how it comes to pass, that they murmur so at that liberali­ty; they are vexed for not being borne in that Age, and believe it too great because it is without Example, and remember not that the magnimity of Alexander is without Example; behold a reproach well grounded that they speake ill of that, they could not share in; O false understanding of things I hee gave more then can bee parralleld, we are in no very ill condi­tion, since our acception only is abundance.

But it is time I make an end of speaking for Alexander; I should injure his Vertue, if I believ'd that his praises could be contain'd in this Discourse, that Vertue is little considerable which can bee express'd by praises; those of Alexanders were no such: one ask'd him an Almes, and he gave him a City; thinke with your selves, O noble Auditors, who could have a heart more royall, then his whose very Almes are whole Cities?

But who shall speak in favour of that poore Philosopher to whom it was no small advantage, that Fortune had rais'd Alexander to so supreame a height, as to be able to give away Cities, to give him opportunity to ex­press his Vertue by a refusall? let him defend himselfe, for I will not bee accus'd of a rash undertaking; yet if a Philosopher hath need of defence, who will not be ready to take his part, though hee himselfe is better able to defend himselfe?

That man ask'd an Almes of Alexander, Alexander gave him a City, the Philosopher refus'd it, as a thing not suitable to his condition, with a grace so full of majesty, that hee appear'd rather a King, then a miserable Beggar: Fortune was not unkinde in depressing a man, who was able to tread her under his foot.

Me thinks I heare him say, I thank you, but I have not a soule ambitious of command, I have implored the charity, not the magnificence of the King; if thou hadst enabled me only to buy me a Cloake, thou hadst plentifully satisfied my hopes, I will not quit my poverty, it sufficeth me to have my soule inrich'd with Vertue; in that, and not in the goods of Fortune con­sists my felicity: I esteem it not a charity in them, that would deprive mee of my Peace; a City is too much for him, who is contented with himself, I would not have my Estate more valuable, then my self, it being a thing pre­posterous, for a Master to be in worse condition then his Slave, so miserable is he, whose patrimony is nobler then his soule; I ask peace in my necessity, not trouble to my repose, I have not need of Kingdomes, I have enough to doe to reigne over my selfe, or rather I enjoy an Empire, which is not subject to the injuries of Fortune.

Indeed my Estate is small, but withall secure; what happiness is it to me to have a large and sumptuous bed, if I cannot sleep? or what's the diffe­rence to be shipwrack'd in a great and guilded ship, or a petty Pinck? why then should my life be more deare in a royall pallace then in my present con­dition? No, no! if I am just, I shall not be poore, and if I am not just, what should I doe with a City? I shall be but a Viper in a Vessel of gold, who, for all that, will not be lesse dangerous, lesse venemous.

Alexander, thou hast us'd mee like Polierates, but I will not use thee like Anacreon, when I shall not bee able to sleep without thinking of ren­dring thy City back unto thee, in doing whereof thou wilt esteem me either little generous in my command, or very inconsiderate, in accepting such a gift.

Now when I got to sleepe with Diogenes in the Porch of the Temple of Jupiter, it is with an assurance that either within doors or without, I finde [Page 70]my selfe lodged with the gods, so that when I shall have accepted of this thy magnificent offer, I know not how either to better my hostes or my lod­ging: In fine, I am contented with my selfe, I will have no other Em­pire, then to reigne over my passions, that shall be my Principality, it is in such a condition, that I feare nothing, and so full of satisfaction, that I de­sire nothing.

I am not rich in that men traffique for me into every provioce, but I am rich, because although they do not traffique at all, I shall live; a few Olives and a handfull of Figs suffice mee; if I have bread it serves to accompany them, if none, they serve mee for bread, and when I am thirsty, I have re­course to Nature, who mee thinkes made the fountaines for nothing more specially then to quench it, to defend my selfe from the rigour of the se­verall seasons, I am as well under the Rocks of my Countrey, as under forraigne marble, and I am not lesse defended from the raine under a tree, then under a guided fretwork.

He that hath need of Tyrrian purple, or of Phrygian embroydery to keep him from the cold, we may say it is rather in his soule then in his body, that he feeles the sharpness of Winter▪ a Tree, or a Fountaine (both common things) are sufficient for every bodies hunger, or thirst; it is not necessity, but luxury that covers the rest: I should not refuse that Scepter, if I had need of a Kingdome to make me a good man; but because I aske thee a Cloak, dost thou judge me to be poor, for what natural cause have I been in­cited to ask thee? it may be answered to save me from the cold, why shines the Sun so hot, if not as well to warme us, as to give us light? and why hath Nature plac'd me above the Animals, the Trees and Hearbs, if not to make use of the wooll, the leaves, and the barke.

If I did not equally feare to offend the modesty of a Philosopher, and the Majesty of a King, I might tell thee I ask thee not to obtaine, but to see with what a grace thou knowest how to give: I have tempted thy generosity, not thy prodigallity; consider what little need hee hath of a Kingdome. that knowes how to speake thus to a King: yet you who command may brag of one thing above the rest, that no other height equall to thine would permit me to speak to a Prince that were not Alexander, and this honour is so much the greater, because it is particularly your own.

Alexander, I am in such an Estate that Fortune shall never heare mee a Suppliant, I am content with what sufficeth Nature, and I will not put my selfe in a posture to lose it; in the place where I am necessity never findes me: in the same instant that I accept of thy bounty, I shall have need of slaves, of Horses and Dogs, of Treasures, Souldiers and Arm [...]s, for my [Page 71]devertisement, for my honour in peace, and to defend me in war, thus then I shall accept of a thing to trouble my repose, a thing that presupposes war, and will reduce me to such condition, that I shall have need even of Beasts; I must not onely lose the tranquility of my living, but my Reason. No no, Alexander! if repose accompanied with all other things, greatness and power, I am poore and thou art rich; if otherwise, I am rich and thou art poore, for by a chaine so weak as a City I will not be drawn in the triumph of thy Vertue, not that I envy thy glory, but I will be tender of my owne reputation; thou hast performed an act of great munificence in offering, it behoves me to express one of modesty in refusing; thy liberallity shall not be conceal'd for all this, but I will not to advance that, that any murmur at my Avarice, if I should hereby be a means to serve to thine honour, why should it be thought reasonable, for that to bee built upon the ruine of my Vertue?

Thus is mine opinion he might discourse, who possest in himselfe both a King and a Kingdom: Behold how deplorable humane Nature is, and what discord it carries within it selfe: Alexander lavish'd away a thousand lives to win a City, which a poore Philosopher was ashamed to receive by way of gift; Alexander thought to surmount that man by an Act, as of a Ma­ster of the World, but that man confounded Alexander by an Act, as of one Master of himselfe.

Ogallant stratagems of Vertue! this is not to aske an Almes, but a Tri­umph▪ any man that commands an hundred Kingdomes, may know how to give a City, but none can know how to scorne it, but hee who com­mands Fortune: Alexander is Lord of the World, and this man Lord of himselfe; but behold with how much inequality it is, that which one scornes, is more then the other can give, considering the poverty of the one and the power of the other; who will not say that this miserable poore one was above that King, who was above all the Earth? But why call I him miserable, whose condition is so high, that he scornes Cities? those are ra­ther miserable who believe a man, can be poore, that is free from all care, and who esteem him only happy, that proudly groans under the weight of gold and purple, formely the coverings of poore animals: we are not to consider men by exterior ornaments, the best are not alwayes the best clad.

Aristotle, who merited the name of Just, being questioned what Ju­stice was? answered, not to cover the goods of another, but our Philoso­pher hath exceeded that moderation hee hath scorn'd them; if Alexander would supply his wants, a City was too much, and if hee would trie his Vertue, his Empire was too little, but however it was, wee have seen two [Page 72]souls dispute so generously, that the least is greater then a Kingdome; the fortune and vertue of the one rais'd him so high, as hee might scorne tri­umphs, Palmes grew under his feet; he march'd not, but amongst Victo­ries, his sword was the Scepter of the World, glory conducted his Char­riot, and wheresoever he went he found nothing but new matter to enlarge his glory.

But when I turne towards the other, I finde him so wise, that there is lit­tle likelihood, that that man who hath refus'd a Crowne of gold, should accept one of Lawrell; on every side I meet with danger, I will not launch into so vast Seas, hee knowes not how great a merit there is in despising a City, who hath not master'd his passions, and imbraced the means of be­ing happy without one: nor can he judge what honour it is to give a City, that is ignorant with what hazard of life, honour and Armes it is acquired; the one gave, the other refus'd, and both of them deserv'd it.

I might proceed, if the faculties of my soule would give me leave, but when a soule is possess'd with astonishment, it is a signe, that it is less then its object, and that for want of apprehension, it is forc'd to express its weakness by reverence: so doe I now, not knowing which of these two Heroes is the more magnanimous: Judge you then, O illustrious Auditors, for, for my part in either condemning the one or the other; I can have no­thing for either the one, or the other of these noble Combatants, but re­spect, and wonder; these are the Victims which suite best with the Altars of Vertue, and the most worthy Trophies we can raise to her, which ought to be the more adored, the lesse she hath left us ability to define her.

I have said.

The Effect of this Oration.

ALL the Academy, upon this occasion was divided, the Philosopher had as many Voyces as the King, and as Temperance did not triumph over Liberallity, so was not Liberallity subjected to Temperance; and this illustrious debate rested undecided in such a manner, that opinions be­ing equall, it is in the Reader to turne the Scale, accor­ding to the Ballance of his judgement, if hee bee bold enough [Page 73]to judge of Kings and Philosophers, or able to decide a Question upon which so many excellent men dare not pro­nounce sentence.

The three Rivals.

The Argument.

Three Lovers of one faire Lady, comming at the same time to a place where she was, saw a prodigious Murtherer strike a Poniard into her bosome, who in the very instant fled, at which fearfull Object, the first of the three, transported with a just rage, with his sword in his hand, ran after that Monster to revenge his Mistris, and to punish the accursed fact: the second, prest by his compassion, flew to relieve her, and endeavoured to stanch the bloud which issued a­bundantly from her wound, and to lend her all assistance possible in so sad a condition: the third, having [...] compassion too tender for the sight of so horrid a spectacle, fell in a swound at the feet of the faire dying Lady, whom hee adored: the question is put, which of the three expressed most affection in that occasion; and this is the subject of our Authour Manzines examination in the Discourse following.

BY the sword of an infernal Fury (for illustrious Auditors, no other but a Fury, would ever have had the cruelty to shed the bloud of a faire Lady,) by the sword I say, of a Monster come from Hell, 3 unfortunate Lovers saw their Mistris wounded, which fel at the feet of that Barbarian: the first mov'd by generosity and love, drew his sword, and ran after that base assassinate that ran away, to sacrifice him to his anger, and to revenge her whom he adored: the second flew to her reliefe: but the third, out of a sense of ten­derness, [Page 74]and griefe, fell in a swound, and verified that ancient position, which assures, that the soule subsists more, where it loves, then where it ani­mates.

I am under your command to examine, which of these resentments ought to be preferr'd, though I am unable, yet I obey willingly, for who would not willingly obey the commands of those, who have the goodness to be satisfied with obedience onely? I am proud of this command, though I know, I undergo it not, but with the hazard of that reputation, you vouch­safe me; for speaking in so high a place, I ought to feare a Precipice, but the dangers to which we are exposed by knowledge, are so noble, and so glorious, that we never ought to eschew them.

I would to Heaven, and my good Stars, that I were able to performe it as I ought, I shall cheerfully doe the best I can; I am too much obliged to the curtesie of a City, whose least honour and glory, is to have fill'd all Eu­rope with the wealth of Peru, by the illustrious and fortunately bold en­terprize, of one of their owne Citizens; a City, whose treasures are much more precious, then all the Riches of the new world▪ since if persons bee considered according to the Majesty of their merit, & not what outwardly they onely are, we may boldly say, it hath given birth to more Kings, then all the Earth hath Kingdomes.

I was never very willing to acknowledge my weakness, but upon this subject, the more I attempt above my strength, the more my obedience, and the desire I have to serve you, is to bee esteemed; but whither doth my gratitude carry mee? rather then I will lose the opportunity of giving thanks, I am like to lose that of obeying you, behold me then prepared for this problem.

The cruell Homicide having given the fatall blow, flyes, and truly his flying agreed well with the nature of such a Tygre, which certainly was very cruell, seeing he had the heart to besprinkle with gore, a breast which intranc'd with delight all that beheld it, a breast that could not receive a wound without putting more soules, then one, in danger of forsaking their bodies; this Barbarian flies, I would say as a cruell Scythian, if it were reasonable to compare him to a man, Alas! why was not I commanded instead of opening anew the wounds of these Lovers to express my anger against that Caitiffe wretch, whose rage assaulted that tender beau­ty?

Beauty! it is to be adored in what face soever one meets it, I pertake so sensibly in the griefs of these poore afflicted, that I should be aswell pleased to revenge their infortunities, as I shall think my selfe happy, if I have abi­lity [Page 75]to distinguish the merit of their resentments, but since that is not allow­ed me; hearken noble Academicks by what reason hee pretends to be pre­ferr'd, who had already his sword in his hand, and who so swiftly pursued the cruell and detestable Butcher, to ease his griefs, by the death of that in­humane Murtherer, who destroyed and set a period to all the felicity hee had set all his affections upon; let us die, said that generous Lover, or let us make it appear to her, whom we adore, that our souls are all on fire, with rage, to undertake her revenge, by that I would have her know the ferven­cy of my love, and that this Age from thence may learne she was my God­dess, and that none, but these, that can defend themselves from a Thunder­bolt, shall dare to prophane her, whom I adore, and that I am not capable of permitting to be ravish'd from me, without vengeance, the life of all my hopes, the object of all my desires, and the onely felicity of my soule; how shall my Mistris know that I am worthy the honour to be beloved by her, if instead of flying to her revenge, I should stay to manifest my affe­ction by effeminate and feeble teares?

No, no! to the intent that all the world may see Mars is never far from Venus, I will pursue the Monster; she will love valour in me, since it is the effect of her faire Eyes, and my passion; I will demonstrate, by wounds worthy of my hand, what the wound was I received from those piercing Eyes.

I never assault any, but those that offend mee, and none can offend mee, but in depriving me of my Treasure, and if you would know what that Treasure is, enquire of this Evill which is unsufferable, inexpressible? hi­therto Fortune hath been so little favourable to me, that I had never occa­sion to express my love, but by unprofitable sighs; but it is unseasonable to shew either love, or griefe, in the midst of vengeance, since I never had the honour to serve her, but after I had lost her; let us run and sacrifice this Monster to the Divinity that he hath prophaned, we shall have time enough afterwards to sigh, and complaine; those who slay to lament when they should revenge, deserve to lament eternally.

O God! what doe I doe? I stay too long to give the blow, whose sole honour consists in being given quickly; let us not walke, let us not run, but flye, if it be possible, to repaire our negligence; what? can any heart dis­pute the vindication of the divinity it adores? delay, alone, will efface the merit of my service, whosoever loves truly, cannot leave one moment unpunished, that cruell and bloudy minded Monster, then, if it be true that we love as we ought, let us flye to our vengeance.

It is thus (O noble Auditors) me thinks that this generous afflicted would speake to justifie the cause of his fury, and the violence of his proceedings; but whither runnest thou? whither runnest thou, crieth that other judicious Lover, consider that it is more proper first, to remedy misfortunes, before we prosecute revenge; whither runnest thou? whither runnest thou, in­considerate Revenger? if this faire unfortunate cannot be revenged, with­out being abandoned? leave her revenge to those that desire her death; stay! I prethee, stay, this is no testimony of thy love, it is of thy fury, this is not the way to repaire our losses, it is to multiply them, the more our rage inclines us to vegeance, the more wee shall merit in depriving our selves of a sweetnesse, which, though it gives consolation for the present to our soules, hindreth not her destruction, and our future losse of her for ever.

Relieve so well (if it be possible) this dying fair one, that she may live, for to let her dye, to revenge her, is to finish, not punish the impiety of him that kill'd her: if thou abandon her whom thou hast sworne to be the Mistris of thy soule when halfe dead, and languishing, she so needfully im­plores thine ayde to sustaine, and helpe her; I will never say thou hast re­veng'd her death, but thou hast let her dye, that thou mightest bee re­venged.

Oh propensity too bloudy, unprofitable, arrogant, and cruell honour! if thou hast left as a prey to death, her, whose pale, and languishing counte­nance so eloquently challenges, that for the last proofe of thy fidelity, thou wouldst give her some assistance; if (I say) thou leavest her in this extre­mity, for whose sake wilt thou prosecute revenge? if thou dost it to fol­low thine owne inclinations, thy love ought not to pretend to the honour of it, for not being able to suffer so excessive a griefe, thou hopest, ven­geance will give thee some ease in so great a misfortune, whence it plainly appears thou lovest little, seeing thou searchest for consolations, when she (whom thou namest thy soule, lies wounded, and assaulted with the mortall agonies of departing pangs) sighes the last disfavours of her fortune, and can I speake it and my heart not breake?) peradventure sobs out her last breath.

For my part, I had rather pardon that inhumane (who shall punish him­selfe abundantly by the conscience of his owne crime) then faile in perfor­ming those offices of tenderness, and affection, which shall, it may be, have the power to draw not onely from the grave, but from danger, the onely Beauty I adore; let our Enemy be safe, rather then our Mistris perish; I will that all my desires tend to her preservation, love hath so ordered mee, [Page 77]that I have nothing in perticular, all my wishes, and all my thoughts de­pend absolutely on her, if she be lost nothing can sufficiently repaire mee, for the evills of another cure not mine, and if Heaven, and Destiny pre­serve her, I have no need of Remedies; all my wounds will be cured with hers, I have for my onely object the weale of her I love; my passion will not give me leave to thinke of mine owne Interests, so pure is my regard of her, that I wish shee might yet once more know the quality of my love, whose sole aime is, that shee may live, to the end onely, that shee may live, rather then for any other satisfaction to my selfe; it is not that which en­clines me to desire, or assist the preservation of her life, and that shee would please to give me leave, to stop that pure bloud which issues so fast, without the guilty thought of obliging her, but of doing my duty.

I melt (O noble Auditors) at the laments of this afflicted Lover, that to shew to his Mrs. how ardently he desired her life,-would have continued his complaints, if hee had not been hindred by the care of applying all his thoughts and art to her wounds, and by the need that the fair fainting La­dy had of repose, which required his silence.

But who speaks for the poor miserable man in a swound through his excessive grief, and being sensible of his own loss, appears to love himselfe more then that beauty which he hinders not to dye without either reliefe or revenge? I! I my Lords am most propense to it, it shall bee I, who will take into my protection a griefe which we doe not understand, if wee doe not infinitely compassionate, and if wee doe not thinke most worthy of our pity.

Oh God! behold at thy feet barbarously wounded, and all imbrewed in bloud that bosome of snow, which was created for the wonder and de­light of our Eyes, that bosome, the chiefe workmanship of Nature, the object of the soule, and the cause of all thy flame, and the glory of its Age, that divine person, as much lovely, as much beloved; what? canst thou see her wounded, languish, and dye, without letting thine Eyes lament? thy soule, thy heart, and thy life? how cam'st thou turn'd to such a Rock, to endure that spectacle without dissolving wholely into teares, and with­out dying with her?

O gods! behold at my feet those radiant Eys, whose splendor ravish'd my soule, whose glances consolated my heart, and whose regard occasion'd all my felicity, those Eyes whose light gave light to my affections, subsistance to my hopes, and from whence proceeded all my delights, those inlivening Eyes, those inlivening I say, eclipsed, and they themselves almost lost for want of light, languishing, and dying at my feet; canst thou consider her [Page 78]in this Estate, insensible man, and not dye thy selfe? (but if this poore Lo­vers trance astonisheth you (noble Auditors) you ought to wonder more, that I who have so perfect a sympathy with his passion, sinke not as well as he; that I did not help her (said he) is indeed rather a mark of my feebleness then of my love; yet I grieve not that I fainted, but I grieve that I ever re­viv'd, since my sad Fate reserves me to behold so killing a Spectacle; let the Mistris of my thoughts see, if she please, that shee is the soule which makes me live, seeing she could not receive a wound without my dying first; what marvell is it, that I fell in a swound with a stroake that wounded onely her? I received it in my soule, she in her bosome: canst thou deny (O my life) thy selfe to be the life of my life, seeing I live by thy life, and die by thy death? canst thou deny that thou art my soule, when I am constrained to dye, by the least wound thou receivest? have pity on mee, and comfort me, O you Lovers, who know the torments of Love! comfort mee, I say, for my body depriv'd of his soule, hath onely love for the soule; I love with all my heart, and withall my soule her, who is the heart, and soule of my heart, and soule.

I loved her onely for her selfe, I loved her not because my soule desired she should have been my Love, nor because from her love might proceed all my felicity; if it be not to love well to love thus, teach me in what fa­shion I should love; but if none of you can teach mee otherwise, why doe you condemne the feebleness of a man, who hath no heart, but as it hath relation to that faire one who was its soule, and with whom it is insepe­rable?

O life, of my life! soule of my soule! if I reliev'd thee not after thy wound, it was because thy wound left me in no condition to relieve thee; the others loved thee by the consideration of the future, which they hoped would be favourable to their passions, and I loved thee by the present e­state of things; I neither fear'd thy rigour, nor hoped to see thee mercifull; thou art what thou art, and I lov'd thee, for nothing, but because I love thee still; my heart neither hopeth, nor feareth, nor reasoneth, but it loveth in such a manner, that not living but in thee, by thee, and for thee; it is no wonder if it die with thee, or if it revive with thee, and as it is not reasona­ble to oblige the dead to assist thee, it is not just to punish the living, for the impotency of the dead.

Such in my opinion were the reasons of that Lover, if it were p [...]ssible for him to reason, who lay buryed in the immense gulph of Love, and who lived for nothing else, but to testifie the wonders of that powerfull passion; let those incredulous ones, who take for hyperbolies, the discourses of those [Page 79]Lovers, who vow to their Mistresses, that they are their soules and hearts: consider this poore Lover in a swound, and if, searching for the wound which caus'd it, they finde none, but in the bosome of the person beloved, let them conclude in confessing themselves conquered, that the divine my­steries of love, are incomprehensible; and that the knowledge of those in­scrutable secrets, cannot be attained to, but in Heaven.

Behold (illustrious Auditors) all that my weakness is able to say, touch­ing the ardent affection of these three passionate Rivalls, their loves fly too high a pitch, for my dull eys to follow, & my soul astonish'd, at their several apprehensions, is more capable of bewailing, then judging their impressi­ons: Excuse me (Noble Signiors) I pray, and be favourable to the affecti­on, and readiness I had to obey you; and in consideration of the injury which I have offer'd to my modesty, in presuming to undertake a thing so beyond my ability; Excuse mee I say from the necessity of attributing the pretensions to supremacy to either of these Lovers: I am in so profound an admiration of the quality of every one of them, that I know not how to give the crowne to either of the three, without derogating from the merit of the other two, and without giving them cause to complaine against the weaknesse or partiality of my judgement.

The Theatre, wheron I am brought to judge them, is too high, not to be dangerous; the one swounded, the other assisted the wounded Lady, and complained, the third fled threatning vengeance on the assassinate; these are spectacles more capable to take away the faculties of the soule, then of enlightning it; and how can a heart, without experience, know the griefe of those who saw before their eyes, the object of their passions murthered? it is a griefe which cannot be judged without comprehending, and can­not be comprehended without dying: there are none but those in Hell can judge what Torment it is to lose beatitude: without being in love, we cannot judge of love, and being in love, wee cannot judge at all; for judgement, and election have no place to reigne where there is so much Tyranny. I have said.

The effect of this Oration.

THe Academy was as irresolute, as Manzine; the Generous would have the Valiant preferr'd, the Cha­ritable desired that hee who assisted his Mistresse, [Page 80]should have the advantage, and the pittifull pretended, to make the feeblenesse of him that fell in a swound, to tri­umph: the first was call'd couragious, by some, and by o­thers furious: the second past for provident, but insensi­ble: and the third was esteemed a perfect Lover, but cow­ardly: each of them had their opposers and partakers; but after a long, and earnest contestation, they agreed that all three merited equally, and that the inclination of the Lady should alone turne the ballance; but a second dispute destroyed this Agreement; for one said, that the Lady, being as much obliged to the one, as to the other, could not follow her inclination without injustice, to one or t'other, and that there was no reason to suffer passion to prefer one, and neg­lect the vertue and merit of another; for the one having a desire to revenge, the other having reliev'd her, and the last being almost dead for her; a Lady truly noble in that equality of obligation, could never make either happy, with­out making the others miserable: that opinion reviv'd their first voyces, and the Academy conceiving her to bee just, and of sound judgement she alone, upon whom the Problem was founded, ought to decide the question.

Love without faith.

The Argument.

The Assyrians having besieged the City of Samaria, and reduc'd it to extreame necessity: Two Mothers oppress'd with famine, re­solv'd to eat their owne Children, having no other thing left to su­staine life; the one killed hers, which was devoured by them both, but when the time came that the other should be killed, the Mother preferring her sons life before her owne, cast her selfe at the feet of king Joram, to implore his power for protection of her pious infi­delity.

BEhold the King! O behold the King! my oppessed heart begins a little to revive, since the Heavens permit mee to behold the King; great Prince, give me leave to cast my selfe at thy feet, to seek refuge there, in my extreame necessity; alas! the remembrance of the danger I am in, takes away my breath, behold the Prince! it is hee, who is to defend his sub­jects; behold the Livetenant of the Almighty, to whom appertaines the protection of innocents! behold an afflicted King, who grants to our mi­series the same reliefe he implores from Heaven for his owne! and that fa­vourable God; that sends it him, be eternally praised.

Sir, in the universall famine, which causeth the death of all thy people, feeling my selfe not onely to want milke to sustaine my childe, but spirits to maintaine my owne life. I prepated some dayes before, all things that were needfull for my grave, when being overwhelmed with my sad thoughts, I went to the house of one of my friends, that we might comfort one another, to the end that the apprehension of our ensuing death, might be the less bitter to us; in the weakness I was in, I imagined no paine was like that of going downe my staires, but by that time I had ascended hers, I found the contrary, all my Muscles were loosned, and all my Nerves without strength, I let my languishing body fall upon the Earth, in which [Page 82]there appeared not to be any life, but by the feeble beating of my heart, to whom Nature gives the priviledge to bee the last to dye: farewell, said I, deare friend, (I made haste to salute her, for feare death should prevent me) farewell deare friend. I thought fit to come with my childe to visite you, to the intent that she, whose like and miseries should be prolonged for some moments, may think of the Sep [...]lture of the other; this woman mingled, I know not what of cruell in her Compliments, she raised her selfe upright before mee, with a motion more violent, then belonged to her deplorable estate, and under the pretence of easing me of my burthen, she took my dear child into her armes, and begin to praise it, that it was still so fat, she made mee shed teares, and quickly repent my bringing it to her house; thou art (said she) a thousand times welcome, and without so much as regarding me, she continued praising, touching, and I dare say, weighing the poore Inno­cent, which she tooke sometimes into her bosome, sometimes between her armes, and sometimes between her thighes.

O gods! said I to my selfe, what have I done? and then I re-assumed my lovely, and deare burthen, whom danger made mee thinke more light then it was before, I was too weake to goe from her, and shee too resolute to permit me, in this distraction I recommended my selfe to Providence, to send me reliefe, proportionable to the danger I feared.

To what purpose are these O [...]sons, these teares, and unprofitable weak­nesses of ours? this Inhumane began to say, we are lost! but Despaire is a great searcher, and Necessity a knowing Mistris, the last thing we ought to doe is to dye, we must thinke of all before wee lose all; what doe wee doe? ought we to dye with famine, our owne children by our sides? to what end serves our timidity? can it preserve them, what shall wee doe? let them dye, let them die, since they can no longer live, and let them helpe to nourish their Mothers, who have noutish'd them whilst they were able; of our evils it is the least, since they must dye however.

To extreame maladies, ordinary remedies signifie nothing, and if thou thinkst it good, it cannot bee ill, being necessary, let us resolve, to begin with mine, I am content, upon condition thine may have the same fate, I am so far from deceiving thee, that I will bee the first that shall undergoe this losse.

This last Discourse stayed my soule, which full of horror and feare was upon the wing, I was ready to offer mine owne flesh to that Barbatian, upon condition she would preserve my childe, when shee her selfe ran to the reliefe of my irresolution, with the pitifull cruelty of her prodigious offer.

O gods! how was I revived? I felt my selfe new borne, but in the meane time what should I doe? I thought with my selfe, if I refuse to con­sent to the death of her son, I hasten that of my owne, it is not best to un­dertake the opposition of her bruitish designe, without power to hinder it, she appears too resolved to this horrible action, to be diverted by my words, and seeing I can gaine nothing else, let me gain time, this is a danger which cannot be avoyded, but in going out to meet it.

Thus I consented to the death of my childe, that shee might begin with hers first, which would give me opportunity to come, and east my selfe at at the feet of my King; my designe hath happily succeeded: I am here Sir: looke upon this innocent, whose life is in question, and if thou thinkest me obliged to performe conditions, present it thy selfe to this Tygress; behold how she stands grinding her teeth, and rowling her eyes, looke upon her as having prepared the knife in her hand, and ready to dis­member, and devour it; on then, do thou pronounce, and determine, what shall be done with thy subject; see here, and judge, if it bee proper to cut in pieces an innocent, to sustaine a wicked person, who deserves a Thunder­bolt; if thou dost not joyne with mee in opposing this Fury, wee may say, that the City is already taken, since our Enemies devoure our Children.

But what do I say? is it possible, there can bee any Enemies so barba­rous to eat our Infants? shall I be so unfortunate to feare, thou wilt consi­der me less, then this bloud-thirsty creature, who is more our Enemy, then our Enemies themselves? and I (who had rather see mine owne childe dye for thy service, then for the preservation of mine owne life,) ought I to feare I shall not have protection from mine owne Prince, whose subjects this unnaturall woman hath begun already to devoure? I, I say believe that the life of the King himselfe is not assured, since her owne flesh, and bloud was not.

The fierce and barbarous resolution of this Tygress admonisheth us that we have cause to feare all things, for what will shee devoure next, now she hath no more children to eat? who can assure us, that incited by her hunger, she will not sell her Countrey for meat? and, to obtaine it of our Enemies, attempt to take away the life of the King himselfe? if the fa­mine continue and paricide escape without punishment: I know she will accuse mee of ingratitude, and call mee perfidious, for complaining of a crime which hath nourish'd me, but for what reason doth shee thinke shee hath oblig'd? is it for prolonging my life? Alas! I am so far from think­ing that an obligation, that for but onely seeing such a wickedness, I shall [Page 84]sigh eternally, and be eternally without comfort; it doth not content▪ hee, O detestable one, to have been wicked, unless thou injoy the vanity to brag of it, and boast that thou hast also made an unfortunate Woman, as wicked as thy selfe; there is but one thing can fall out, to make me thinke the sa­ving my life a favour, which is (Sir) that I may be so happy, to see the punishment of her sin, before I dye.

I confess I consented to her enormous crime, but how could I avoid it? if I had not resolv'd to take part in the tragick banquet of the body of her childe, my feebleness had subdued mee, to the necessity of seeing her de­voure mine; but there is nothing in the world but the preservation of the life of a Son, could ever have induc'd me, to have participated in that cruel­ty, which this Tygress calls a favour; the same action which was her crime, hath been my punishment; was it not thou thy selfe that with thine owne hands, tore in pieces thy innocent Babe? did not I turne away mine eyes? had not I horror in eating it? did not I mingle my tears with its bloud? yet that, which I could scarcely endure to doe with thy childe, thou wouldst have me suffer with mine owne.

Oh! neither the justice of the King of Heaven, nor Earth will allow this; I should deserve that my child should be devoured, if I had a soule so much an Enemy to my Countrey, to give consent, even with mine owne bloud, to the nourishment of a Fury who hath eaten her owne child; I have sinned, if I may say so without sinne, because I sinned without election, for the soule sinnes not without the will, but I am not excusable by the same reason, which she believes capable to excuse a Paricide; I have a thousand Reasons besides, to justifie my innocency.

Imagine Sir, (if your piety will give you leave to hearken to mee) you saw her with a knife in her hand, with a Savage, and bloudy looke, snatch­ing unmercifully the weeping innocent (whose destiny was that his very teares hastened his death) and giving him twenty stabs with a poniard, and then to cut his throat, and afterwards tearing out his bowels, breathing, and panting, and at last cutting them in pieces, and all this with such dex­terity, and quickness, that it astonisht me more, then the paricide it selfe, and made me thinke shee had served an apprenticeship in practising upon o­ther children, the barbarisme she now exercised upon her owne: but a­las! how shall I make an end? she spitted it, she blew the fire, and basted the little body, she complaind of nothing, but that the fire was too slow to rost her son: O Tygress! O Fury! O wicked Demon!

But Sir, I perceive this horrible Relation doth so much astonish you, that it takes away your power, not onely of judging, but of hearing me, and [Page 85]indeed who would not have the same resentment? Now Sir, if you trem­ble, without having seen this cruell spectacle, but in my description, you that are a Man, a Souldier, and a King, you that are out of danger, judge then of my condition in the midst of that horror? I who am a Woman, weakened with famine, and danger of my childe between life, and death; in this extasie, I had nor time, nor meanes, nor strength to know what I did, I eate I know not what, for my soule wholly intentive, to save my owne Infant, had no leasure to think of that of anothers.

Behold that she Caniball, who devours the subjects of her Prince, the Souldiers of the Kingdome, and the Defenders of our Countrey; punish, O punish this ravenous devourer of our Citizens, who hath taught to others, that the flesh of her owne is nourishing, and who hath incensed the Hea­vens when they have most need of appeasing: it troubleth me, there should be no other way to punish her but by that death that I should have thought a happiness before she made me sinne, if I could have been assured her rage would have spared my childe; I say well in saying her rage, for I should lie, if I should say; it was onely her hunger, for, a woman, who had strength to fright a Mother, and to engage her to the necessity, of defending the life of her childe, was not reduc'd to the last extremity of hunger, she was too quick, too fierce, and too menacing; for a woman, whom famine had ex­treamly enfeebled, and if she deny her fury and her force, the great blows she gave to her owne son will evidence it, they could not proceed from an arme decayed, from an arme of a Woman, and from an arme of a Mother enfeebled by long famine.

Chastise this malefactor, stifle this pernicious example, revenge the inju­ry done to the Hebrew name, in punishing her crime, that we may shew to after Ages, wee abhorr'd it: our Nation will bee more detested for her paricide, then it was glorious for the victories of Sampson, and David, no­thing, but she alone, shall darken the honour of so memorable a Siege, and so nobly maintained.

On then brave Prince! on then Father! on then Sir, cut off this corrup­ted member, for feare it corrupts the whole body; teare up, by the roots, this contagious branch, whose very shaddow is dangerous: what doe you stay for? you already know her inclinations, her owne son being de­voured, shee intends to devoure those of others; and that shee is yet more dangerous, she pretends to doe it by justice, so ill an opinion hath she of the equity of her Judge; it is against thy interest (O great King) to per­mit this poore Innocent to the rage of this insatiable Woolfe, it will bee quickly devoured, it is too little to last long, and she too ravenous to make [Page 86]more, then one meale of it; with what shall we asswage the hunger of this monster accustomed to eat the flesh of children? as for those that have none, they are not concern'd in my interest, but they that have, let them consider that the enemy threatneth to make them slaves, and she to devour them, if the justice of him, who is above justice, doth not protect them; let us goe and offer our Children to the sword of our Enemies, I say our Children, because the Children, of our Enemies, please not this impious wretch, will you then expect another proofe then this very instance of her wickedness, if necessity constraine her, ought she not rather to eat the Ene­mies Children then ours? doe not your valiant swords kill enough by so many brave sallies to satisfie the hunger of this ravenous devourer of flesh?

Goe on then mercifull Prince! goe on then Protector of Innocents! preserve thy Kingdome from the greatest infection it can have, besides the wrath of the Almighty, for canst thou believe that God will deliver from so dangerous a siege, a City, wherein Paricide passeth unpunished? I would speake more, but I dare not for feare lest in the mean time the absolute, and last necessities of hunger seizing upon this unnaturall, it should not lie in the power of the King to save my Childe from her ravenous fury; and be­sides I feele already feebleness oppress me, which is an infallible signe of my innocence, I have eaten so little of the Child of another, that my weakness constrains me so suddenly to leave the defence of mine owne, from whence you may judge whether I did it by force, or inclination: but I die, and yet there is left too much to say; the death of this unfortunate is not the cause of my teares; for it brought mortality with it into the world, the Warre, Fortune and Famine have reduc'd me to such a degree of calamity, that I weep it rather as dead, then about to die, neither are these agitations new to me, I grieve that my son, my soule, my bowels should be forc'd to serve for nourishment to a Monster, who hath dishonoured my Countrey, and would make it desolate.

Griefe stifles me, and takes away my voice, I can say no more, I dye, behold this miserable poore unfortunate Babe! what crime hath it com­mitted? Behold Sir, this innocent which knowes not the danger that threatneth it; if the unjust conditions she pleads, bee far more powerfull then the King, offer it thy selfe, to this hunger slarved Creature, offer it thy selfe if thou hast the heart, for it is thine, it was borne for thy service, and if it die, devoured by this Samaritan Tygress, it dies in serving thee, I will not be against his honour.

On the contrary, I shall esteeme him happy, for who ought to bee more contented to dye, then he who dyes in the service of so just a Prince, that the least of his glorious titles is the Protector of Orphans? but on the o­ther side, in exposing this Infant to the phangs of this wilde beast, who foames at mouth with greediness to teare it in pieces, it is to render mee the most deplorable creature that ever was.

Alas! Father of thy people, Protector of the distressed, bee concern'd, rouse up compassion towards this little one, who never deserved this mise­rable fate: Sir, save thy slave, it is an act suitable to thy honour, and the quality of thy charge; it is a favour which his poore Mother deserves, who would not save the life of her son, for any other end, but that he may dye in serving his King, his Benefactor, and his Preserver.

The Effect of this Oration.

IT is easie to know by the words of Scripture, that this Oration, which Manzine hath much enlarged, touch'd very sensibly a King, who was not absolutely unjust; but my Authour supposeth, that an impartiall Iudge, ought to heare both parties, before he give sentence, doe you suspend your judgement untill you have read the next following Ora­tion.

Hunger hath no Law.

The Argument.

If motherly love were eloquent, selfe love was not silent; the first of these women spoke for the life of her son, the second for her owne; the one would reserve her selfe, the other her childe, and both destroy [Page 88]one another. Love pretends to the Empire over all wheresoever he is, hunger disputes this power; you have heard the reasons of the one, hearken to those of the other.

SIR, It is a Woman which speaks, it may be it seems strange that I tell thee I am a Woman, for by the state of body, in which I appear, I may feare thou believest me a shaddow, and I know they have describ'd me to thee, as a wild Beast, but I give thanks to Heaven, which hath brought me before a King, whose profound Judgement cannot be decei­ved; behold then here a Woman so miserable that she hath been forc'd, even to the eating of her owne Children, and yet so persecuted, that she is ac­cus'd of monsirous impiety; when she comes to demand justice, she whose life I have preserv'd with mine owne bowels, strives to procure my death, I find my selfe accus'd by one, from whom I expected not only thanks, but recompence.

The necessity which hath forc'd me to eate mine owne Child, begins to be the least of my evils; Alas! who will pity me? or rather who will not pity me? I demand Justice (pardon me great Sir, if I am not upon my knees, weakness, and not irreverence is the cause, I shall fall if I stoop) and since I ought not endeavour, by a feigned humility, to surprize a Judge, whose wise, and apprehensive soule cannot be deluded by outward semblan­ces; you will therefore pardon the omission of Ceremony.

Unhappy I! if amongst my other infelicities, I had met with a Judge of a common capacity, or a Prince of a vulgar soule, one that would have been captivated, and charmed with flattery, and one that the very appea­rance of crime is able to discompose, unhappy were I! I say, if I had met with such a one, an ordinary apprehension had at the very name of Pari­cide, condemned this unfortunate, without considering the quality of the fact, or the cause that compell'd me to commit it; but those are slight, shallow, or effeminate men, without bottome, without courage, and not onely unworthy to command Kingdomes, and pretend to triumphs; but of soules so undiscerning, that the bare names, without circumstances of crimes, fright them: we ought to consider reallities, and not appearan­ces.

And now to have met with a Prince, of so magnanimous courage, who with onely one City, and that hunger-starv'd, dares yet promise himselfe the Victory over a great Kingdome, that bandies it selfe against him; is not this, is not this a blessing over-ballancing all my other infelicities? but I [Page 89]esteem my cause such, that I believe it needs no other eloquence, then its owne equity; expect not Sir, that I dresse up my distresses, nor that I ag­gravate my sufferings, I invoke not the Heavens, I envy not against my accuser, innocent causes have no need of such gilding artifice; for my part, in recounting to thee nakedly my busines by the testimony of my very Ene­my, I wil make it evident to thee, that I am so innocent, that she her self shal confess that all, that she had patch'd up together, when she complain'd a­gainst me, amounted to nothing, because she hath proved nothing, and be­cause an equall Judge takes impression of nothing, but the fact only, when he perceives that the passion and interest of those whose subtilty would disguise truth, and seduce his judgement by deceitfull inductions, which often hurry Judges into a precipice of errour, and unjust sentence.

And thou my fierce, and ingratefull Enemy, who accusest me with so much injustice, art thou contented to appeale to thy selfe? for though thy consent be not materiall, and thou being accustomed so little, to observe actions done by thy selfe, wilt thou that thy owne depositions shall be va­lid? I feele my selfe so cast downe with hunger, that if they permit thee to reply, and that they oblige me to tedious formalities, it is certaine that the sentence will be on thy side, if the judge will not, Famine will cast me into my grave, before the end of this sad process.

What? dost thou desire that I confess my fault? if that be it, thou hast said nothing that I am not ready to affirme: in fine, what dost thou re­solve? she is silent, that is to say, without speaking, she acknowledgeth her fault, and is undoubtedly ready to discharge her conscience, and it may be my unhappy childe (dead as it is) in the bosome of this cruell wo­man, fights in favour of his Mother.

Sir, she saith, that constrained by hunger shee ascended my staires with her Infant: she saith, that I received her with I know not what of horrible in my countenance, and with a motion too strong for the weakenesse I was in, and that praising the good plight of her childe, I gave her cause to tremble at the unsafe­ty of that innocent, is it not true Sir? I subscribe to all she hath said; in fine, God protects innocence? our Enemies themselves witnesse in favour of mine: See Sir, what I was! I was so hunger-starv'd, that the extremity of Famine, had transform'd me, to be as a wild beast; I was become so hor­rible, that I was even such to my friend, she here found me in such a con­dition, that she believ'd me capable of eating her childe, and yet, in this dreadfull estate I stayed at home, and expected peaceably my death every moment.

[...]
[...]

Deare Auditors, are you not touch'd with pity? I received her with a motion too precipitate, ungrate and barbarous as she is! in this condition which was so horrible. I lost not curtesie for this Wretch, yet she hath lost humanity for me, even when I sav'd her life with my owne bowels; if I prais'd the good plight of her childe, you may imagine to what extreamity I was reduced by Famine, that I was forc'd with envy to behold the flesh upon the bones of the living; I took her childe out of her armes: heere you see, though I was halfe dead, I eas'd her of her burthen, she grew jealous, and tooke it from me; but if she assures you, she tooke it from me by force, she injures the pretended justice of her cause, for if she were not brought to the extremity of feebleness by hunger, how could she resolve to eat a man childe?

In that she will lie, you ought not to marvell if she waver in her words, and if she say I render'd it unto her willingly, my innocence appears, seeing in my last extremity, I was just in returning back a thing more valuable to me, then all the treasure of the Universe, since it might have saved my life; but amongst these disputes violences, and feares, my soule, agitated with a thousand various passions began to feele evils yet more horrid, and my hun­ger was so strongly augmented by that object, that to give back a child, and a child which was none of mine owne, and a child in so good plight, was to hasten my death, and yet I did it; but Nature having lost the remembrance of all other obligations, save that of preserving it selfe, began to suggest the means as strange, as profitable; let them eat what they may, said I, since necessity hinders from eating what they ought.

What do we do? in vain we offer vowes to Fortune, to send us Rats or Dogs, for of all Victuall heretofore horrible (but now worthy of Envy) there is no more in my house unless in my intrals digested; I do not say in my flesh, for if I had found one ounce in any part of my body & God he knows whether I sought with care, or not, my heart had never been capable of gi­ving consent to that paricidall thought, of feeding upon the flesh of my child, that is to say, my heart, my life, and my soule, no not in this point, where necessity is pronounced invincible, and all things are permitted but delay, if I had found but one morsell of my owne flesh left, I had never thought (I say) of feeding upon my owne child.

What shall I do? (said I) and, being desperate, I turned towards this woman, and spake to her thus; but great Prince recall into your memory the words that she hath uttered to you, which are these, for I would not, in speaking in my defence, alter, sweeten, or forget the least thing: be you your selfe therefore pleased to repeat the words of my accuser, the last thing [Page 91]we are to doe is to die, we are to think of all before we lose all, thus Nature hath taught us, reason hath dictated, and our Predecessors have learnt us by their examples, what ought we to do? or what can we doe my friend? for, al­though I was forc'd to be led by necessity, I would take her counsell for feare of failing; ought wee to die at the feet of our children without doing them any good? will they escape their death by ours? even in killing them, I thought of doing good, seeing they cannot save their owne lives, let them save their Mothers, and save their Mothers, not for themselves, but for their Countrey; and what think you Sir, did then this mercifull, this tender hear­ted, vertuous Mother, to whom my crime hath been so horrid? she hath told you her selfe, therefore you may believe it, she alone, even without a pause, shee consented, shee came without all question, not onely to con­sent to the fact, but to invite me to commit it, for if she had come for any other intent, she wanted not the means to hinder mee, when I made the proffer, why did she not refuse it? why did she not cry out? but excuse her if you will, by saying she durst not, she was in an affright, she swoun­ded, but why did she ever revive? I know that she will say, that whatever her crime is, she never intended the death of her child, but being resolved to deceive me, and only conspiring against the life of mine, she pretends her affrightment for her excuse, and perceives not that little pollicy, which yet absolves her not from paricide, adds the crime to her, of being deceitfull to her friend, and impious to Heaven; for in agreeing to our conditions, she invok'd the name of God, which, in this case as it is conspicuous before you, must needs be judg'd a crying sin, barely to mingle the sacred name of the most high.

Yet had she the boldness to call, to countenance her wicked deceit, that Almighty power which she invok'd without either believing in him, or trembling to offend him, if it be true she believes in God? Consider by the truth of her intention, you heere present who have heard what her faith was; if this woman who was not inforc'd by the extremity of her hunger, to the necessity of such an action, had oppos'd me, and represented unto me the horror of the fact, I shou'd undoubtedly have abstained, and after the knowledge of it, should have dyed a thousand times, rather then have kild a son; indeed why should I have asked counsel if I had not fear'd the necessities of the body, might have extinguished the light of the under­standing?

If the onely designe of nourishing me, had carried me to that resolution, what need had I of her? had not I a childe as well as she? and in what have I bettered my condition in dividing with her? did she not receive the same [Page 92]thing from me, which I was afterward to have from her; and in that fa­tall participation no advantage could accrue to me, but that hazard to which I am now expos'd, that this disloyall doth not observe conditions, after the death of my childe, might be my lot; it may be, out of a just feare I should have urg'd her to begin with hers, you have heard her, herselfe repeat my words.

Let us begin (said I) with mine, I am content, provided thine may have the same fate, for I would not have it enter into thy thoughts, that I have any in­tention to deceive thee: Behold my Lords! that to save the life of a childe, I would not deceive, and that I knew how to bee just even in killing; I should never have thought of so horrible a sustenance, whilest I had strength or hope to finde any reliefe any other way, but when necessity, which is alwaies invincible, had reduc'd me to the last extremity, and that the con­straint of so long a siege had left nothing for man, but man, and that the fa­mine having overcome all other things, had at last overcome Nature, and constancy, it was absolutely unavoydable for me to resolve, yet I did it not without consulting of the thing, and finding it inevitable, to what should I have address'd me? it may be you will say rather to the children of others; no Sir, I address'd me to mine owne.

But tell me in pitty Sir, in an exigent so important, in mine owne house, and having in mine armes the fat child of another, was not I very just, in that I began not with the death of hers? O God! is there a heart so hard, not to have compassion on mine affliction? that being enforc'd to eate a child, or famish, when I had in my armes the child of another, I began with mine owne; all Fathers are oblig'd to this Example for the lives of theirs.

Ah! If there be a heart to be found capable of wishing me ill, it deserves to feele a griefe suitable to mine, that to staine Nature, they be constrained to act against Nature: I know that this frightfull name of paricide, dazles weake soules, and raises me many Enemies, but I know withall, that this weakness is not a weakness of Kings, but of vulgar, and unknowing men; those Lawes which have permitted Fathers to kill their children, for punish­ment, would they forbid them to kill them for necessity, to which all things submit?

If I had kill'd my son for some unnaturall outrage, done against his Mo­ther, they would have esteemed me innocent, now having kill'd him by ir­resistable constraint, they believe me guilty; but great Prince, who was he at the beginning of the Siege, made us pull downe, and burn so many mag­nificent Pallaces, contiguous to the very walls of our City, and such Pallaces [Page 93]as were worth halfe a Kingdome, and tooke up little lesse roome? was it not thou mighty Prince? and why that cruelty, common Father of the Countrey, to thy subjects, and to thy children? what could they feare worse from the Enemy? me thinkes I heare every one answer mee, that it was to assure the City, and to prevent harborage to the Enemy, he was com­pelled to perpetrate this merciless cruelty; it is then true, that the designe and end propos'd, is that which justifies, or condemnes the action; how many Provinces, and how many Armies by the command of their Kings, and of their Generals have willingly expos'd themselves to extreame losses, to prevent eminent evils? then if it be a remedy ancient, and approved, that in extreame necessities, men devoure men? what star, or what fatall de­stiny excludes me from the common priviledges of humane kinde? perad­venture it may be for that I am a woman, my resolution did not suit with my sex; it may be, because I am a Mother: why? is the desire of living less naturall to the Mother, then to the Son?

We never condemne that instinct, which, for the necessity of life, makes the Infant draw every day the most pure bloud from the bosome of his Mother; and may not the poore Mother, incited for preservation of her life, and by compulsion of Nature lawfully by the right she hath over her Childe, make use of her owne bloud, and of her owne bowels?

I know as well as another, that there is none so cruell, but hath compassion for the murther of a yong Infant, whose innocence is so capa­ble of pity, but who might be killed with so little loss to the Common­wealth as this yong child? and by what other Reason should a Mother that hath lost her Son, have been ever comforted, if there had not remained that feeble consolation of seeing it die at the least innocent? me thinks all heere present say, that she who accuseth me would have endeavoured to have had a child of the Enemies, O abominable wickedness! O execrable thought! God deliver me from an attaint so impious, no not to redeem my selfe from my grave, I could not goe, and search for the Infants of others, unless I had had a designe to eat children, before I was constrained by the extreame necessity of the siege; O God deliver me from purposes so impi­ous, such as could never be hatch'd in the thoughts of her who is so hu­mane, that shee never thought of eating humane flesh, before she found it absolutely impossible, to defer one moment the eating of her owne son!

Thus from the very same things of which thou accusest me; I pretend to derive my honour; expect not great Prince, that I should intreat thee, or conjure thee to exterminate this ungratefull Creature, who instead of obser­ving religiously conditions with her that preserved her life at so deare a rate, [Page 94]endeavouts by an impudence without example, to take that from me, which I value more then my life, my reputation, she would make an impression in thy judgement, O King, that I am wicked, and that I am unjust: No, no Sir, I thinke not of it, for not having committed a crime to preserve my life, I will not to pursue my revenge.

Be thou then judge what is to be done, thou whose prudence in all times, and in all places, and in all things knowes so clearly to distinguish equity from iniquity, and innocence from guilt, whether she did eat of my sonnes flesh for cruelty or necessity? ask her, herselfe, whether a woman so enfee­bled by famine, could go rambling abroad to seek for reliefe, and then con­sider whether it be likely she was in that extremity that being in an affright for the danger of her son, she had yet strength enough to teare it from the bosome of that Fury who devour'd it with her eyes; yes, demand of her, herselfe, if she be impudent enough to maintaine that hunger had rendred her feeble, and languishing?

After she hath confess'd her son to be fat, and thriving, demand of her (I say) whether a Woman in the condition she hath depainted her selfe, could have milke enough to preserve him in such well-liking; this pretended foundation being demolished, where was that necessity? such a necessity as in my case hath beene evinced by the testimony of my fiercest Enemy, I know not, but I believe you see the Rampiers, whereby she believed her impiety assured, to faile and fall; what wilt thou doe Sir? wilt thou suffer a woman so impious, so barbarous, so detestable, to live under thy protection?

Great Prince, what dost thou resolve? for my part. I make no supplica­tions to be revenged, though this Monster shames not onely her Countrey, but the whole Age; if she fall, I would rather have it to be meerly by thy justice, then by my solicitation; yes, let her outrage to me be pardoned, pro­vided it wound not thy Justice, neither doe I demand the murther of her child, but I demand something, even any thing, to sustaine my life, which is even now expiring, if I have not presently some food to relieve me; if she hath any other thing for my nourishment, and to dis-ingage her from the conditions to which she is obliged, it shall satisfie, whatever i [...] be, but if she cannot performe it otherwise, then Sir, I demand Justice, that child is none of hers, since I have bought it with mine owne bowels, she hath sold it, and sworne to observe conditions, she hath not only received, but eaten the price agreed of between us.

That every one have what belongs to him, is a Rule thought to bee most just in all Kingdomes, and especially heere where the King is [Page 95]so just, that rather then to abandon him, his subjects resolve to eat their owne children.

Well, what is there more expected? the Examination is had, she hath confess'd, and I demand immediate sentence; for by this little delay thou O King! wilt be guilty of my death: the most cruell hangman that the wickedness of this woman can feare, is that which I feele in my intrals; Sir, Hunger tears me, if thou forbeare to do me justice, because this kinde of justice carrieth with it I know not what, of prodigious, it is to do an injury to thy Kingly Office, which ordaines thee to doe as thou oughtst, though it overthrow the whole World.

That which I demand is a life; but it is true, a life unprofitable, a life full of misery, alife that I have purchased with mine owne childes life; to be mercifull to a childe, wilt thou be cruell to a Mother, who desires to sur­vive her child onely for thy service, and that doth not finde life supporta­ble for love of it, but that it may bee usefull for thy service? indeed for whom could I have prolonged a life, which Widdow-hood, and the losse of a childe, old Age and Famine, makes a living Hell, if it had not beene to serve thee with that little strength which remaines to carry earth to fill the Bulworkes, and Hot-water to the Souldiers to defend the liberty; the Scep­ter, and the life of my King?

Resolve then wise Prince, resolve (I say) then deare Master; what dost thou expect, that I also perish to become food for this wicked Woman, whom I could not oblige by giving her, her life? it is less dangerous to doe her injury, then favours, I have preserved her, and she would destroy me, if thou dost preserve her; she will certainly be mischievous also to thee; of this truth I am a sad example, seeing I have torne out mine owne bowels to feed her, she brings it to a question, whether that which I have bought, and payd for, be mine owne; r [...]solve then Noble P [...]ince, according to thy generosity resolve, I am so withered with Famine, that my very eyes will aff [...]rd me no more tears, to move thee to pity, for these few moments that thou delayest me I dare tell thee, yes I dare tell thee, thou shalt be no more my K [...]ng, but my H [...]ng-man.

I confess this discourse is bold, but it imports little, whether I die by a Halter, or Hunger, if I must lose my life; I perceive my end, famine tears my intralls, languishment overwhelms me, and my owne supplications as­sist time, and famine to consume me; either relieve me living, or thou shalt bee obliged to defend mee dead, for shee who hath eaten the childe, will not be nice to devoure the Mother also? Ah Sir! I can no more, I faint, I fall, I die.

The effect of this Oration.

NEither That is, the second of Chro­nicles. the fourth Booke of Kings, nor Iosephus tells us what King Ioram ordained upon this dispute, but it is easie to be conjectured, that he order'd nothing un­just, since the Scripture notes, that hee was so extreamly afflicted, that they saw a garment of humiliation under the [...]oyall Mantle, and that the next day the City was mira­raculously delivered by a Pannick feare which seiz'd the Ar­my of the Assyrians; and made them raise the siege; there­fore wee ought to believe, that the Prince gave that Innocent to the teares of his Mother: as for the other, that would not have killed hers, but to prevent her owne death threatned by famine, shee had no need of a repast so detestable; for the day after, there was abundance in Sa­matia, by the plenty of Provision, which was found in the Enemies Campe.

The Sports of the Carnivall.

The Argument.

The Cardinall proposed the Argument of this Discourse to the Acade­demy of the night, for in a faire and large Assembly of Knights [Page 97]and Ladies, some having maintain'd, that a Masque was onely fit for ill-favoured faces; others as confidently affirming, that Beauty, as the more dangerous thing, was onely fit to be masqu'd: in this diversity of opinions, Manzine declares his, after this manner.

I Have not so advantagious an opinion of my selfe (most illustrious Audi­tors) as to believe I have a liberty allowed me to hold an opinion contra­ry to your judgement; that judgement I meane, which was pleas'd to think me capable of an enterprise, which I thought far above my strength; 'tis a thing nevertheless not a little strange, that a person bred under the shade of night, should be put to discourse of beauty, that is a bright Sun; and that those eyes should be chosen to judge of deformity, which have been accustom'd to abide the most lively, and penetrating beames of this beauty.

And thence it comes to pass, that in spite of my endeavours, my sense gets the Mastry of my understanding, offering to my imagination what traverses a miserable weak Cock-boat may justly apprehend, that under­takes to struggle against the large waves of the vast Ocean. But hap what will, by his authority, who hath commanded me, I am ingag'd in the main Sea; & those stars (which upon another occasion I should cal suns) make me hope for a safe harbour, and give me assurance, that their favourable beams seconding the Art of the Pilot, will bring me safe to shore.

And although that lively Alabaster, which sparkles round about me, like the beating of the Sea threatens me with quick-sands, I shall nevertheless esteem that shiprack happy where the waves are of milke, and the field is so faire, as 'twould prove an honour to procure a grove in it.

But to lose no time, which of it selfe runs so fast, away, with which part of the dispute ought I to begin my discourse? The question proposed is, whether a Masque do more properly belong to a handsom, or an ill-favour'd face?

I know that those who consider things but slightly by the outward ap­pearance, will conclude, that a Masque infallibly belongs to the worst face; that they will believe, 'twas invented only to secure ill faces from the inju­ries mens eyes might doe them; so that they will be ready to say, that no shape in the world can derive so much advantage by being hid as deformity, which, buried under a Masque, is not onely protected from injuries, and contempt, but which is more, under that favourable shadow she marches upon such equall tearms with Beauty, that the visage of Hocuba and Helen [Page 98]are the same thing, whilst they both continue so covered. This happy Misque addes so much to an ill-favour'd face, that it not onely hides an ob­ject that displeases the eye, corrects a default in Nature, and rectifies a sin of the Times, but besides, places it in the same condition with Beauties, and makes it equall with that which hath beene ador'd even by the Heathen gods.

All this is well, (may some one say) but if we hide our ugliness, what shall put us in minde, that the defects of the body ought to be repair'd by the excellency of the soule. Socrates exhorted youth to view their faces in a glass, that those that were ill-favour'd might endeavour to mend them­selves, and those that had beauty might take care not to deforme it by the imperfections of Vice.

And indeed when a noble soule shall perceive it selfe imprison'd in an unhandsome and contemptible body, the more will it endeavour to make it selfe visible to become worthy of esteem: For my part I have alwayes look'd upon unhandsomness as a very considerable gift of Heaven, and a deep designe of the Divinity; for having resolve to impart to the world one beame of its owne brightness in humane beauty, made use of deformity as her opposite, that the eye by comparing contraries, might fully, and entirely discover the excellence of beauty.

And is't not evident, that if all Women were handsome, beauty would grow so common, that no man would admire it; and that 'twould be im­possible to have any strong desires for so ordinary a thing? Amongst the greatest advantages which belong to Beauty, one of the most considerable is, that it serves the minde as a light, to guide and help it to ascend to the knowledge of the intelligible world.

But to demonstrate how much more deformity contributes to that then beauty; it will suffice to compare them together: What Lover is there, whose judgment is not distracted, and that, in his Idolatry does not believe, that nothing but what he adores can justly pretend to the title of beauty? what Lover can be found, which calls not that his Sun, which is his fire; which invocates not her, as his tutelary Angel, who in conclusion proves his evill spirit? and looks not upon that house as a Heaven, or a Temple, which preserves his Goddess from the injuries of men, and weather? O miserable Deity! whose divinity hath need of humane help? that were indeed to tie the soule to earth, and not to lift it up to heaven. But as the shaddow makes the light appeare the clearer, and cold weather makes the Sun-beames the more welcome: even so deformity not at all furnished with any thing that might delight the soule, does put the minde into such a [Page 99]loathing of all these fraile and transitory vanities of the world, that raising it to the contemplation and knowledge of the onely true happiness, it is forc'd to resolve to quit these perishable beauties, and wholly to fix it selfe upon him, who onely is perfect and desirable: so then ugliness is a gift of Heaven, and by so much more precious then beauty, as 'tis less ob­noxious to the injuries of time, from whose severity it apprehends not the least danger of being made worse.

Unhandsomness, the sure and infallible guide of the minde; the certaine marke of Divinity, shall that be covered under a darke Vaile, or imprison'd, and buried under a troublesome cloud? and what shall then become of that unchaste vestall beauty, that does so much mischiefe, if she that is the very quintessence of chastity must be buried amongst the living? she that is a Virgin so pure, and unspotted? 'twill be as great an injury to Vertue, as ill-favour'dness, if she be contemn'd, for thereby we declare that even Vertue her selfe is not every where amiable: as if the Sun were onely ope­rative upon the purest matter, and Jewels deriv'd their value from the Cas­quet, wherein they are inclos'd.

Olympia the Wife of Philip was much in the right, when she told a Cour­tier, who had made choice of a handsome, but unchaste Mistris, that 'twas not fit to choose a Wife, onely, by the outside; and indeed, what more is beauty (for whose sake we would bury the precious treasure of deformity) but a single stroake of Natures Pensill? a Cheat of the times, a good thing that flies away, a glorious Sunne that soone sets, a possession that's alwayes troublesome, because ever envied, kept with too great subjection, and a­dor'd with too much Idolatry? If she be pitifull, she's dishonest, cruell, if she resist.

To conclude, an ingenious soule must needs say of outward handsomness, as Lisander spake of certaine fine gowns, that were sent him for his daugh­ters; I will not have these fine cloathes make my daughters seem less hand­some: From these Reasons oppos'd to the former, the result will be, that this Tomb of the face (if you will give me leave to give a Masque that name) is more proper for nothing, then Beauty; and I very well perceive by some languishing eyes, that I see about me, that more then one in this company could wish, that this dangerous thing call'd Beauty had never walk'd but in her Masque.

I am of opinion, that the famous Painter Thimantes, had done sacrifice to the god of Counsell, when having made a Picture of Venus excellently handsome in all the parts of her body, he drew a Veile over her face; not as the weaker sort believ'd, because he despair'd of finishing what he had [Page 100]begun, with the like perfection; but that this discreet Painter knew, that her beauty was so great, that had he given it the last degree of perfection, she must have prov'd as dangerous, to the soule, as pleasing to the Eye; and thereby taught us, that 'tis no less prudence to hide beauty, then to sup­press a great fire.

And this was Alexanders opinion, when, having taken the Wife and Daughters of Darius prisoners, he declar'd that the Persian Beauties were very hurtfull to the Eye-sight. Lucian, who detested beauty, call'd it the Enemy of Nature, by whom man being created free and couragious, was (like a poore slave) reduc'd to serve that Idoll with more satisfaction, then he was capable of receiving by the command of the whole world. Let us then cover this Inchantress, which seduces our Reason, and so blindes the eyes of our understanding, that 'tis not able to distinguish those objects, which deserve to be contemn'd, from such as merit adoration.

Phidias, who painted Venus upon a Torteys, (to teach the Grecian peo­ple 'twas fit to shut up Beauty in a house) would never have put himselfe to that trouble, had he knowne the use of a Masque; which is onely suffi­cient to preserve chastity, to keep mens hearts at liberty; to defend beauty from violence, and secure the eyes from treachery, and deceit.

I confess 'tis true, should we masque Beauty, we should be depriv'd of some kinde of sweetness, which this pleasing Witch suffers us to taste: But whilst we receive this wound, 'tis like that Enemy of Prometheus the Thes­salian, who cur'd him with a wound: happy Prometheus, whose very wounds prove his good Fortune.

Hide then, O hide this Beauty which is so criminall, that having more of Heaven in it then any other thing, is by so much the more guilty for ha­ving so ungratefully abus'd those great advantages: Hide that thing which imperfect, that it can never give a man intire satisfaction, whose poyson is very like that of the Serpent, which the Naturallists mention, which when a man hath once taken, the more hee drinkes, the more hee shall thirst.

But if the effects of this Beauty bee such as these, let every one consult with his owne heart, and not trust his eyes, which are but like foolish Gnats dazeled with the least glimmering; who to enjoy the brightness of the light, feare not to perish in the heat of the flame. Hide that inchan­ting Syrene, which never shews her selfe, but to ruine us; who Syren-like destroyed Orpheus, the ornament of his age, the soule of Musick, and sonne of harmony.

Hide, O hide this perfidious flatteress, this proud vanity, which triumphs over the world, this unseperable companion of pride, this impudent Mo­ther of unchaste desires; whose triumph is the ashes of those that run after her, whose Trophees are distracted soules; in whose Temples we onely sa­crifice to vanity, and her oracles are onely given to make us. Let us bury this ruine of the Universe, and at length revenge so many Provinces made desolate, and quite brought to nothing for her, or rather by her: Let the famous City of Troy tell you, what she can doe, that Troy, whereof there are not now the least footsteps extant, but in mens memories; though 'twas formerly the wonder of all the Earth.

But if any too passionate Lover should persist, and tell me, it cannot bee fit to cloud Beauty under a Masque, since it is the delight of the eyes, and the choisest piece of Natures worman-ship; I shall bee forc'd to answer him, that for that very reason, it ought to be hid, because so precious a Je­well cannot bee too carefully preserv'd.

How often hath the lovely Rose growing upon its owne stock (or ra­ther upon its Throne of beauty) forc'd the hand of the Beholder to doe it a mortall outrage? how often hath the falling Lilly in perfum'd tears bewai­led her beauty, which perish'd onely by being too much showne? In fine, a Masque is so proper for beauty, that, no doubt, she her selfe found out the invention: She found she was a fire dangerous to the heart; a treasure too much expos'd to the desires of such as endeavour'd to enjoy her; so that at length wearied with so many sighes, and complaints; and resolv'd to free her selfe from the importunity of her Lovers; resolv'd to be deliver'd from the slavery of a Looking-glass, that mercinary Councellour, which, as a re­ward of her flatteries, takes away from the Ladies above halfe the time of their lives; resolv'd to set her selfe at liberty from the troublesome subje­ction to pride, and vanity, the inseperable companions of her Majesty; she devis'd this covering for her face, or rather this Buckler for her chastity, that, hiding her beauty, which is the seed of Love, she might secure her ho­nesty, the chiefe ornament of a vertuous and well-born soule.

Who shall then for ever hereafter dispute Beauties title to the Masque? No, no! it must be yielded her, and if we will not have her hid, because she is innocent, let her be cover'd because she deserves it, as being divine. Sacred things are cover'd to stir up our reverence; Majesty, lest it should grow common; Beauty to prevent satiety; all to make themselves desira­ble.

But, me thinks I heare some impatient man complaining, that I am ce­lebrating the funeralls of Beauty; and, that, burying her under a Masque, I [Page 102]leave the world in such a miserable condition, that their eyes are of no far­ther use: for to what purpose should wee open those useless doores of the understanding, if beauty be hid, which is the rare, and onely object of the heart, the delight of the soule, the light of the minde, and the greatest grace that ever was sent from Heaven to the Earth?

But this angry man is mistaken, who without knowing my meaning, reproves me too sharply, whose whole study, and all the actions both of my body, and soule, have never had other object then beauty, of which I am and ever shall be an Adorer: My eyes serve me to no other purpose, but to behold her; my mouth opens not, but to praise her; I walk not, but to do her service; nor stand still, but to admire her; I sleep not, but to dreame of her; nor wake, but to see her againe; and in a word, I kneele not, but to adore her, as the purest beam of the Divinity, which gently conducting the minde to its originall, forces it, in the midst of earthly things to reverence the heavenly.

Shall I, that hold from this Beauty the small merit my soule can pretend to, which guided, and enlightned by her hath often attempted, if not with great success, at least with great desire to attaine to the highest degrees of Vertue? Shall I bury mine owne glory, and frame that darkness, and de­prive my eyes of the sight of that brightness, which they so highly delight in? And can you believe I should have been made choice of amongst so many eminent wits, to speak out of this Chair, or rather this Capitol, where so many great men have triumph'd, if I had not within me inclination pro­portionable to the matter I am to treat of?

We resolv'd to treat (as you have heard) of the high perfections of beau­ty; and because he best deserves to speake of beauty (not that hath most e­loquence, but) that hath most affection for her, I was advanc'd to the ho­nour of being heard in such a place, where 'tis a favour to be admitted as an Auditor.

Then judge if I, who am indebted to Beauty for so many favours, and have so many severall wayes had experience of her power, can ever indeavour to obscure this Sunne-shine, or indeavour to imprison her, which, like fire, burnes with the more violence, when 'tis restrain'd. I am not so ignorant, like Aesops Cock to undervalue jewels; nor so ill advis'd to attempt the death of that beauty, who, being heretofore injured in words only, deserv'd so well, that Jupiter himselfe reveng'd her quarrel: Stesicores is a sufficient testimony of this, who having by his ill-language endeavour'd to obscure Helens beauty, was stricken blinde; 'tis true, that when he had shewne his repentance, by advancing her praises, whom be­fore [Page 103]he had injur'd, the gods restor'd him to his sight, thereby leaving us an assurance, that Nature hath nothing more worthy of respect, nothing more precious, nothing more divine in all her stores, then beauty; that beauty which is the salt and light of all things; the Theatre of the infinite power, the object of all our desires; the Epitome of all perfection; the chiefe ray of the uncreated Sunne; and the Image of the onely God of the whole World.

Is not Beauty (according to the Platonists) the onely thing which the soule ownes to be divine in this lower World? So that whosoever shall veile her, may it not be justly said of him, that he envies the soule its felici­ty, and God the honour of the favours hee has done us? Is hee not a re­bell to Nature, who hath decreed us beauty for our chiefe object? and is he not an Enemy to Reason, which hath so fix'd it selfe upon the consi­deration of that delight, which pleaseth the heart, informes the understan­ding, and elevates the soule?

Whence should we finde Arguments to condemn the impiety of Diago­ras, if this beauty should no more appeare, which carries with her so great a splendor, that 'tis impossible her originall can be deriv'd from any thing, but such a Sunne, whose light is eternall? In fine, what would be­come of all the stars of Heaven, and all the faire flowers of the Earth, if all their beauties must be hid? and what kinde of Oration must mine bee, if nothing of Beauty dare appeare in it?

But if any of this Auditory desire to know exactly, what this beauty is? let him heare the witty Lucians opinion thereupon: Beauty (saith he) is the intrinsick value of all things, which are onely esteem'd precious so far forth as they are adorn'd with beauty; and Isocrates addes, that Vertue her selfe is therefore more valuable, then all other things, because more beauti­full.

'Twas a pretty Question in Plutarke, why the Ancients gave order, that the Temple of the Goddess Horta should alwayes stand open? Labeon an­swers, that 'twas for no other Reason, but that this Goddess had her very name from the word, to exhort and encourage men to handsome actions: But what is so likely to doe that worke, as beauty, being her selfe, not only the Theatre, but object of vertuous actions? Shall then the Temples of this Divinity be shut up, which not onely exhorts to noble actions, but repre­sents them before our eyes? Shall her Images be cover'd with Vailes? I am not able to endure it.

I am not ignorant that Beauty doth so powerfully captivate the heart, that some have thought her an Inchantress: But Olympias, the Wife of [Page 104] Philip King of Macedon, hath made her Apology: For her Husband be­ing so strangely in love with a Thessaliau Lady, that all the World swore he was bewitch'd; this Queen never left, till she had procur'd the sight of her; and seeing her so admirable beautifull, she cri'd out, let no man ac­cuse her any longer of Witchcraft, since she hath so many charmes in her eyes.

What shall I say more? Beauty was cal'd by Bias a good thing, which belongs not to the person, that hath it, but to him that beholds it, as in­deed none injoy it, but those that see it. So that if this be true by conceal­ing this admirable Scene, we deprive our selves of a glorious spectacle of a most pleasing object, of a benefit which of right belongs to us.

To conclude, (Gentlemen) Beauty hath so many advantages over all o­ther things, that Hell it selfe doth reverence, and adore it; but what did I say reverence, and adore? those are effects, which may spring from feare in a poore spirit; but Hell it selfe doth cherish, and desire beauty: The Divels themselves have often been in love with beauty; whereof the Hea­then Stories will furnish us with plenty of Examples.

Envy, the most mischievous Monster in Hell, from which nothing is free under the Sun, humbles her selfe before Beauty, which shee feares and re­spects: So that Melancomes had reason for what hee said, that all things are envi'd but Beauty, which is ador'd. And 'tis an infallible marke, that 'tis a divine quality, to which Nature acknowledging her selfe inferiour, hath not the boldness to envy it.

Shall we then be more rigorous then Hell? and would we willingly eclipse that light, which the faire Ladies extract from the Starres; in the brightness of her eyes, the whiteness of her bosome, the beames of their haire, and the warmth they bring to Lovers? Let beauty live, let her live uncover'd, since not just to be too sparing of the favours of Heaven: let Beauty be visible to the eyes of such as delight in't; but if any be of a con­trary opinion, let it be for ever conceal'd from him; for 'tis not just he should injoy the light of the Stars, who desires to see the sky alwayes clou­ded; let him then rejoice in the unpleasant rarity of deform'd objects, that desires to be depriv'd of the pleasing sight of beauty.

For my part, I have little reason to condemne it to a Masque, who should thereby pluck a Thunder-bolt upon my head, that would destroy me in an instant, in obedience to those that had power to command me: I could doe no less then discourse the matter they had appointed me; but 'tis none of my part to decide the question.

They that wish I should give sentence against beauty, are ignorant of my apprehensions; and he that would have me pronounce against deformity, knoweth as little of my Interest; how much of my selfe must I (upon that account) keep for ever from the view of the World, and particularly this Discourse, which hath nothing beautifull in it, but the matter? But if ne­vertheless (most illustrious Auditors) you desire to receive the sentence of an Oracle in the point, to come to Delphos, 'twill not be necessary to sacri­fice to Neptune, nor to implore mercy of that god, that commands in Aetolia; for that severe Apollo, who did not heretofore afford his Ora­cles, but with much adoe, to the devoutest of men, is now become prodi­gall of them, and by an extraordinary miracle makes his beames shine in the Academy of the night.

Behold! view these faire Ladies, and judge whether wee need seek af­ter any other Sun-shine; and whether our night can ever expect more glo­rious stars: you will guess by considering them, if it be just to conceale beauty: whether love can possibly permit it, since 'twill prove destructive to his Kingdome; whether Nature will indure it, since it injures her workmanship; whether 'twill not provoke God to rank his Image a­mongst such things, as are either hurtfull, or unprofitable; for indeed Beauty masqu'd is but as a Sunne eclips'd, or a treasure bury'd under ground.

But to what purpose are so many uncertaine words? I have done, and have no more left, but to turn my selfe to you, faire Ladies, whom I would call the Graces, if 'twere not an injury to your Beauty to allow a Venus above you.

I have no more to say (faire Ladies) but to beg your pardon for our A­cademie, that was so blinde to make a question in your bright presence, whether it might be fit to hide beauty; for when she propos'd this Que­stion amidst the darkness of her night, she had never seen the splendor of so many Suns; nor hath she compar'd beauty, and deformity to injure your faire eyes, but, as a mark of her affection, weighed the one, and the other, to the end, that having exalted that Beauty, wee might lift up our eyes to admire it, and bend our knees to give it reverence.

The Effect of this Oration.

EXcept those Ladies, that thought of preserving their complexions, the Masque had not one of its party; every one wish'd it might be sent back to the other side of the mountaines, and that the French custom might gain no footing in Italy. They sayd that the Beauties of Greece and Rome would not have beene inferiour to those of France, though they had had no Masques to preserve them. In conclusion, the first part of this speech was utterly cry'd downe, and the latter had all the Votes; and it was the generall wish, that no faire Ladies might ever make use of any covering, but against the Sun, or the Winde.

Stesicrates the Rash.

The Argument.

Apelles, and Lysippus were onely permitted to paint, or make a Statue of Alexander, because this generous Prince was unwilling to be put in condition to be undervalued, even in a Picture. Ste­sicrates as much beyond the other Statuaries, as a Mountaine is above a Statue, proposes a designe of higher consideration; 'twas of Mountaines contiguous to Heaven. He will make an Alexander of the Mount Athos to the glory of Alexander: who ever saw an [Page 107]Alexander mounted higher? He will place him a City in one hand, and a River in the other, and yet still reserve in this prodigious Colossus the resemblance of Alexander. This is the subject of this Discourse.

ALexander, the time is now come, that thou must perceive, that either Alexander needs no Statue to eternize him in the memories of men, since he is so deeply graven in their hearts, or that Stesicrates alone is wor­thy to leave to posterity the Image of that generous Prince, which can no way resemble him, unless it be fancied of greater things, then the under­standing is able to conceive.

What? can it be possible, that, that Alexander, whom I have heard bewaile, that he was too streightly confin'd within the vast compass of the Universe, should esteem a little cloth, or a few plates of Brass a Theatre worthy his Majesty? And how? can I leave Alexander in so pitifull a condition? he whose onely smiles or frowns create the felicity, or terrour of a hundred Kingdomes?

But what did I say? pardon me Great Prince, if I spake (before I was aware) of a hundred distinct Kingdomes, since we now see no body reign in the World, but Jupiter and Alexander. To paint Alexander to make his memory live the longer, were a rash errour: If Alexander be borne mor­tall, and perishable, as other men (which I will not undertake to prove) that were to increase not his glory, and eternity, but his shame, and frailty: He makes thee last but for a short time, that wishes no more, and such a thing as thy Apelles fram'd thee.

That very thing wherein he hath establish'd to future ages the greatest glory of ours is no stronger, then a poore cloth; and what can lesse re­semble our Alexander, then one compos'd of so much weakness? If hee have fram'd thee of so feeble materials to take away the violence of that Thunder-bolt hee hath plac'd in thy hand, I excuse the kindnesse hee shewes to the world; but if he did it out of a beliefe to answer the qualities of the originall, hee is a Liar, a Traytor, a Blaspheamer, even with his Pensill.

Alexander the delight of Mankinde, shall he put in a capacity to last but one age? Alexander borne for the good of the World, ought he to be trusted with a Thunder-bolt, but one hundred of years? What? shall those that carry thunder be not onely subject to the injuries of time, but worms? Doe we multiply Alexanders to the end more then one may be destroy'd? [Page 108]and who can secure us, that the least winde shall not carry away our Jupiter, as well as his Engle? but how comes it to pass, that Lysippus hath not been asham'd to make thee of brass? thee, who deservest Statues more precious then that of Artaxcrxes?

Brass is too hard and rude to represent an Alexander so clement; who is never brass, but when hee fights against an Enemy. When thy hand (that hath been ever liberall) shall be implor'd to relieve all other mens ne­cessities, wilt thou not complaine, though insensible, that thy hands are of brasse? Alas! he that makes not thy hands alwayes doing good, knowes thee not.

By imitating the features and proportions of the body, we may well co­py a Darius, but not an Alexander: Alexander was never buried in the superficies of his Motherswomb; he hath a soule which reaches farther then himselfe; and he must have something in him larger, then the greatest of things, who will picture that Alexander for whom the world was too lit­tle.

'Tis I. Great Prince, who will frame an Alexander which shall borrow some of the Vertues of the Originall: Heare, consider, and by the nature of my designe judge, what an esteem I have of thy worth. The large extent of the high and lofty Mount Athos, appears in the confines of Thrace, whose top mounts up even to the very stars, and the foot reaches very far into the Sea.

This is the onely matter I finde worthy to receive from Art the forme of that Alexander, who even in Effigies is fit to command the whole Earth: Yes Alexander, thy courage hath made thee head of all the Earth, and I am resolv'd to establish thee so. This is that Athos, whose foot was divided from the Continent by Xerxes his rashness, who to leave a monument of his power would make it possible to saile over Mountaines, and to march on foot in the midst of the Sea.

What higher thoughts did ever enter into the heart of man? and yet I will bring it to pass, that the World shall see the highest Fancy of this am­bitious Monark, shall for ever lie prostrate at the feet of my Alexander. This Image shall have a City in the right hand; for even in a Statue the hand of Alexander ought not to be without command.

From the left a River shall powre down; for, what can better resemble Alex­anders liberality, then a River? My intention is, that even in Statue Alex­anders hand should be a Fountaine of goodnesse. This is the Alexander Stesicrates hath design'd: The worth of my Heros will not agree with a traile Statue.

'Tis to doe Alexander an in jury to imploy any thing less then the Mount Athos to represent such a Greatness, under whose shadow so many Nations flye for shelter. Wouldst not thou complaine of an Artist, who thinking of Alexander, could fancy any thing lower, then a high Mountaine? Every Apelles, every Lysippus can counterfet an Alexander; 'tis Stesicrates onely can draw his true Copy, Every Apelles, every Lysippus can make an Alex­ander; bu [...] 'tis Stesitrates onely can frame an Alexander the Great. For indeed who can looke upon my Alexander without admiration? who will not presently know it to be Alexander, that hath alwayes a City in his hands? Is't any new glory to this hand to give away Cities, even for Almes?

Pictures ought, if it be possible, to have not onely the are of those Heroes they represent; but something to denote their principall inclinations, to the end they leave as well their glory as their Countenance to posterity. Now 'tis impossible better to represent Alexander, or more lively to express his liberall inclination, then by placing a City in his hand, as if he were gi­ving it away.

'Tis in this manner we ought to make Copies of Alexander, and not with a Pensill, which draws nothing but the shadow of the Body it pretends to imitate, and that but imperfectly. In that manner, which I designe thy Statue, if to the misfortune of the world, it should ever fall out, that thou shouldst finde thy selfe mortall, I dare promise, it shall never come to pass, that Alexander shall be left without a soule: if thou lose the reasonable, thou shalt not part with the vegetative soule; and so long as the Earth brings forth Trees, shall Alexander flourish.

The World cannot containe an Alexander greater then mine: He that desires a greater must finde a World, that hath more space betwixt Earth and Heaven: He that would fancy him more liberall, must finde out a Li­berality more profuse, then such a one as overflowes, more profitable; then that which nourishes mankinde, more constant and durable, then that which belongs to my Alexander, whose spring shall never dry up.

To make Alexander an ordinary thing, though 'twere but onely in an Image, is a crime in that understanding, that can stoop to such a thought: Wee must either finde out some place where 'tis impossible to erect any o­ther Statue, but thine, or finde out some matter capable of no other forme: otherwise how should we distinguish thy worth from some ambi­tious rich person, that had a minde to be equall with, and perhaps greater, then Alexander?

That Hercules, which liv'd before thee, knowing that without a rough draught 'twas impossible to designe an Alexander, fixt the bounds which he prescrib'd to his courage, in the middle of the vast extent of the Ocean, to put thee in minde that Hercules and Alexander ought not to erect Tro­phies to their memories in such a place, where the meanest Citizen may lay the foundation of his.

Wilt thou suffer the Image of so great a King, promiscuously to be made an ornament to every House? Divine Alexander, canst thou (though but in Effigies) indure to have a Master? Pardon what I have said; though I am so much concern'd in the honour of thy name, I could yet approve of the outrage done to thee, if for the generall good of the Universe, they could finde out a man worthy, that Alexander should serve for an ornament to his Pallace.

But who shall that man be? If I were to adorne a house with Alexan­ders Picture, Jupiter forbid! it should honour any other, but his owne. I will frame an Alexander which shall be an Ornament to the World, a Bur­then to Hell, and profitable to all men; I will make an Alexander, who shall have the center of the Earth for his foundation, the Sea for his Look­ing-glass, the Earth for his Theatre, and Heaven for his Pavillion: Stesi­crates his Alexander shall be subject to no misadventure but the fall of Heaven, which is so neare him.

If nevertheless it be possible for him to perish under those Ruines, who hath shoulders strong enough to prop up Heaven, which is the onely part of Nature, which hath not yet been partaker of the good thou hast done to the Universe.

To conclude Alexander, I did intend my boldnesse should imagine things for thy honour, which even timerity her selfe durst not have thought on. The Gyants, to lift themselves up to Heaven, Fanci'd not a higher Ladder, then I have made for Alexander; and yet I feare not Thunder bolts, unless Heaven shall prove envious of thy Vertues.

Thou seest, most generous Prince, what kinde of Statue I am preparing for thee; God onely can make a greater: I know not whether 'twill please thee, but I should be very unfortunate, if Alexander (the King of all that are magnanimous, as well as of the Macedonians) should undervalue a Sta­tue, which Stesicrates to the wonder of the World intends to set up to the eternity of his Master. The Heavens, the Sea, and the Earth have all sworn their assistance to the compleating of so marvellous a worke.

The Sea, as his Tributary will be ever at his feet; the Earth will embroy­der his garments with Trees, Hearbs, and Flowers; and the Heaven will [Page 111]crowne the fore-head of Stesicrates his Alexander with Starres eter­nally.

What more legitimate Prince can the Earth obey, then him that shall be crown'd by Heaven? In briefe, nothing ought to be above my Alexander, but that which can make an Alexander greater then mine. That rash per­son who should dare to attempt to overtop my Alexander, cannot possibly rise higher without knocking his head against the Region of Thunder-bolts, which would soon punish his ambition.

Hercules, had no Stesicrates, had he had one, he would never have con­tented himselfe with two poore Pillars, which were (to say truth) too low a thought for so high a Spirit.

I will let all the World see, that Jupiter and Alexander are two neigh­bouring Monarches, and that the bounds of their Empires are very neare one another.

In effect, if it come not neare Heaven, wat Kingdome is left in the World, to which Alexanders extreame courage may further aspire?

Thus probably Stesicrates spake to Alexander, but his Rhetorique could make no use of Hyperboles, since the Heavens and Mountaines were his most ordinary conceptions.

The effect of this Oration.

ALexander was about to answer Stesicrates, when hee was hindred by Apelles, who spake to him as you shall heare in the next.

Apelles Revengefull.

The Argument.

Because Stesicrates boasts, he is able to frame the Effigies of a man, out of a Mountaine, we ought not from thence conclude him, wor­thy to triumph over Apelles that had deified a mortall Man. Apelles was willing to revenge himselfe upon Stesicrates, and I finde Stesicrates had reason to tremble before a Man, that could not only represent the Thunder-bolts, but him that made them. The Reader is onely desired ( as Alexander did) to heare the Answer to this Rash Person.

BEhold at thy feet, O great King, Apolles, whom they accuse upon pretence, that he hath offended Alexander; canst thou believe it? thou who knowest that I have alwayes had my soule, mine eye, and my hand im­ploy'd neare an Alexander, who holds the Thunder in his hand; thou, I say, must not expect that I will now imploy my hands to petition thee, to be favourable in my cause; for those hands which know how to make an Alexander, cannot put themselves into the posture of petitioning, neither ought I to doe it, for if I have erred, that I have it either by intention, or action; my action hath deified thee, and for my intention I need not disco­ver that to a Jupiter, he knows the heart; in a word, the same I have made thee, the same I implore thee.

O how unfortunate should Apelles be, if to be clear'd he were forc'd to offer his vowes in any other place but at thy feet? indeed whither should he go else? should hee goe to the feet of that Jupiter, from whose hand hee hath taken the Thunder, to give it to his Alexander? it is not very likely for him to finde protection there?

My Accuser is Stesicrates, that rash Stesicrates, who envying thy valour, and not knowing how to oblige all the Divinity of Heaven to conspire a­gainst [Page 113] Alexander, would oblige Alexander to remove Mountaines that he might be taken for a Gyant, and have the same punishment. I will defend my selfe, not that I think this accusation can lessen me in the opinion of that Alexander whom I have made a Jupiter, but that they may see that none can be near Alexander without being enobled with frankness of spirit, being un­justly debased to return due reproach to an insolent depraver: I have made a Picture of Alexander in matter facile, and gentle, to make it resemble A­lexander, even in facility, and gentleness to comply with the love of his subjects, who each of them burne, with ardent desire, to have him their Alexander, and to offer their oblations of vows to him; Alexander is not only the head, but the heart of all his Subjects.

If I had framed an ALEXANDER of a stupendious fierceness, I should have defaced that sweetness, which of an ALEXANDER hath made him esteemed a God, through all his Dominions: I have made him common, but not vulgar, and if by chance the meanness of the matter render him less valuable, he hath his weapon of terrour in his hand, the Thunder-bolt will ever procure him reverence; in very being ALEXANDER hee is va­luable; and being depainted in cloth, he is the more communicable, here­by he shall reigne in every house, as he doth in every Kingdome, it will be my glory to have multiplied so many ALEXANDERS in the world; I might have provided a figure of gold, less precious, for all that, then this my object, if I had designed to have my ALEXANDER esteemed for the matter; but in this, ALEXANDER is the ornament of ALEXANDER.

Let him covet glory from without, who hath none essentiall within him: but the Beauty and Majesty of ALEXANDER hath lustre enough of them­selves; I will have all the world bow their knees before this poore piece of cloth, that meane and contemptible thing, which thou strivest to trample on, O Stesicrates, shall reigne over all the Mountaines thou de­signest!

The wise Lycurgus, thinking it not fit to distinguish the poore from the rich, at least in the service of the gods, ordained by a decree that they should offer no sacrifice but of things of low price; even so, have I facili­tated the meanes for all persons to be owners of an ALEXANDER, to whom they may pay their dayly reverence; the gods accept the will, and not the Expence; let the windes carry my ALEXANDER whither they can, they shall never carry him beyond his Empire; wheresoever he shall come, he shall finde Subjects and Altars.

I have made him of Linnen, to make known to the World, the merit of a man who knowes how to make himselfe adored even in a Picture drawne [Page 114]upon a piece of Canvas: but the envy of this insolent man, stopt not there, he would have me guilty of treason because I have placed a Thunder-bolt in the hand of that ALEXANDER, which he would have made of Earth: I have placed a Thunder bolt in his hand, that the world might know that ALEXANDER is my Jupiter, that my Jupiter shoots no Thunderbolts, and thereby may learne that ALEXANDER deserves Incense.

If I had intended to make him as terrible as amiable, I would have plac'd his sword in his hand, which is a Thunder bolt which never falls in vaine; what? dost thou wish his Thunderbolt had beene throwne? and dost not perceive, impertinent fool, that if ever it go out of his hand, it will hurt no other ALEXANDER but thine? it will rend Mountains: it was an effect of my gratitude, not my invention, O great Prince, to place a Thunder­bolt in thy hand; for who hath given me Campasbe, the faire Venus that reignes in my heart, but ALEXANDER? why should not he, that hath receiv'd a Venus from him, furnish his Jupiter with Thunderbolts? and why? can any but Jupiter give a Venus? but I wonder not at this mans extravagant undertaking, his wit is perverted, hee is an enemy to Nature, and to shame her would in spite of her teeth, transforme Men into Moun­taines, and Mountaines into Men.

O ALEXANDER! he doth not complaine, that I have made thee a Thunderer, but that I have made thee a Jupiter; if it were for the worlds safety that made him complaine, to see the number of the Thunderers in­crease, he would not frame an ALEXANDER that should with his owne hands carry Cities to ruine: this monstrous Gyant deserves a more severe punishment then those of Phlegra; for if they rashly endeavour'd to climb up to Heaven, they were content to leave the Cities at least quiet upon Earth; but I hope there will be no need of Thunder-bolts to ruine this Co­lossus, since he carries a River in his hand, sufficient to overwhelme his pride, and to drowne himselfe, as a just punishment of his crime that un­dertooke to overturn-Mountaines, and to precipitate Rivers; behold what a kinde of ALEXANDER this Stesicrates fancies, who is a greater Enemy, and more injurious to the fame of ALEXANDER then to that of Apel­les.

Behold, but not without vengeance, how he lessens thine honour, to ad­vance thy [...]tatua, he would make an ALEXANDER as heavy as the Earth, an ALEXANDER that inhabits the Ayre, and troubles the Sea; his A­LEXANDER shall have his forehead crown'd with Tempests, and his sides with Precipices, so that it shall be impossible to approach his feet, wash'd with the Sea, without Shipwrack.

Who ever saw a less considerable, a more pernitious contemptible A­LEXANDER, then that which Stesicrates hath formed? Sir, he exposes you to the Thunderbolts, and reproaches me for putting one in your hand; I humbly submit the cause to your judgement.

Thus Apelles opposeth Stesicrates and these two flatterers, would make this Prince believe, that the one could make a Mountaine to be ALEXAN­DER, and the other make him a Jupiter.

The Effect of this Oration.

THE Painter got the better of the Carver, and A­pelles Pensill triumph'd over Stesicrates Chissell: Alexander was content to bee thought the wonder of all Ages, without being a Monster; in conclusion be heap'd honours upon Apelles, and put not Stesicrates to despaire, for he found good reason to be satisfied with the magnificence of a Prince, who knew how to recompence a good inclina­tion, as if it had been a desert.

The Apologie for Mariage

The Argument.

A Question was proposed by one in the Academy of Sleepers to be de­bated, which of the two, either a Wife or a Suite in Law, was the greatest diversion from study: One, who having a Law-suit, and no Wife, and so by consequence, better knew the payne of pleading, the the pleasure of Love; seemed to disclaime against Mariage, Manzinie stopped himon this manner.

I Have alwayes heard with submission, and respect (O noble Academicks) [...]ll the discourses you have raised, and I never had the least inclination to condradict the opinions of those exalted spirits, who, with such facility (as one may say even in their slumberings) accomplish all their undertakings with honour, and applause; none of my opinions have been inconcurrent with yours, and I have never had but a high value for you, I have made it my honour, and esteemed my selfe happy in the conformity I have had with so many excellent men.

But if I have followed your tenents hitherto by reason, I must abandon them at this t [...]me by duty, finding I am too sensibly provok'd by a Problem, which by treating women ill, gives mee occasion to manifest to her (the Loadstone of my heart) that in what place soever I am in, I will alwayes enter the Lists, not onely for the Interest of her person in perticular, but to defend the honour of the Sex in generall: I am demanded (if I rightly un­derstand the Question) which is the greatest hinderance to study, a Wife, or a Suit in Law? but can there be a heart, insensible enough, to doubt the advantages which men receive from Wives, and compare them to a thing so con [...]rary?

What! (my Lords) Mariage, which we may cal the only love Lawful, the bond which unites the Universe, and the last felicity of unreasonable man, shall that be reckoned amongst the greatest misfortunes of humane tran­quility? I pretend not (my Lords) to prove to you that a Law-suit is a greater hinderance to study, then a Wife, not seeing how I can doe it, without sacriledge; for if I say, that a Wife is a lesse obstacle to study then a Process in Law, I should yield that a Wife is a hinderance to study, which I will never doe, I must not be so unjust or ungratefull to admit of a blame in that essence, from whence I have mine, and by whom I expect the felici­ty of my dayes.

What obstacle can shee bee to study, who brings to our houses wealth, beauty, modesty, and Vertue, who comforts us in all the misadventures of our life, who partakes our happiness, and who becomming an inseperable companion of our fortunes, diminisheth our displeasures, and increaseth our satisfaction, by the share she hath in it? no, it is impossible that she should be a hinderance to study.

On the contrary we may say, that she is not onely a meanes to make us study, but an ease, and consolation of the weariness which followeth it; and to say in a word, a subject, her selfe fit to be studied; and to evidence the truth of what I say, wee must have recourse to experience, all the [Page 117]world knowes that there is no person exempt from the care of business, but those onely who have Wives, their wisdome and industry supplies the mens places, and gives them leasure to imploy, in study, that time, which otherwise they would owe to the necessities of domestick affaires, and this being true, why should we call that our hinderance to study, which furni­sheth us with meanes to give our selves absolutely to it? and why should wee not owne to bee indebted, for this good, to so perfect a Sex? that a Wife is a consolation of the Labours, and travels of study, is not to bee doubted.

A Husband, in comming out of his Closet, meets with a Person, whose complacency cheers him after his solitude, whose conversation gives new lights to his understanding, and who, by the sweetness of her Eyes, makes him forget the paines, which the tediousness of study gave him, and pre­vents the irksomness, and lassitude of spirit, caused by long reading; but if she be a help for study, and an ease to the anxieties which it leaves? she is also (as I have said) a subject proper for us to study, and, I thinke, it will not be hard to prove to you, if a Wife be good and vertuous, she pro­duceth in our soules an emulation, which inclining us to imitate her, is more profitable to us, and draws us nearer to the way of Vertue, then Phi­losophy it selfe.

If on the contrary she hath wicked inclinations, instead of being an ob­slacle to study, she constrains us to study, with care, the way to change and mend her, or to indure her evill customes with patience; no, no! a Wife is not a hinderance to temperate study, but she is a hinderance to the de­bauch of study, that is to say, to the excessive labour, since she rules and moderates it.

Those, who seek for true knowledge, learne it, and not onely in Bookes, but finde it in all things which come in their way; study it self hath need of moderation, for he which studies, as if he had nothing else to doe in all his life, but to turne over the leaves of Books, and to load the Memory with the doctrine of all Ages, cannot say he studies reasonably, but wee can assure him he loses the occasion to shew in eff [...]ct, by some great, and generous actions, the fruits which he learnt from Philosophy, with so much paines, study, and time.

He that supposeth his Wife a hinderance to study, hath without doubt, his spirits dep [...]aved; he searches not for knowledge, but satisfies his curio­sity; hee studies not to become either more able, or more vertuous, but onely for his divertisement: it is no wonder (my Lords) if he that is in­temperate, even in good things, and loves not Vertue it selfe, but, by the [Page 118]voluptuousness of his spirit, maintaines that a Wife is a hinderance to study the first disorder of the soule causes the second, and (I think) I ought to say that he, that sindes a Wife an obstacle to learning, and would banish her from the society of reasonable men, is himselfe a hinderance to Vertue, and to the felicity of mankinde.

Socrates, the wisest of all antiquity, and so acknowled'd by the Oracles themselves, lived a long time maried unto Xantippe, whose humour was so unquiet and divelish, that we may say she was possess'd with a Divell ra­ther then a soule; and yet to shew that Socrates believ'd not that a Wife was an enemy to Philosophy, though she whom he had was very trouble­some, and that shee made his life unto him such, as all the world call'd a continuall Hell, yet she was no sooner dead, but he espoused Mirro, sister to Aristides, and, by this second Mariage, gave an illustrious example to approve my Tenent; not onely a Philosopher, a Socrates to take a Wife af­ter Xantippe, but a Philosopher that knew by experience what belong'd to a wicked Wife; yet for all that he tooke one, and so much for the advan­tage of my Argument, that he was a Philosopher, and a Philosopher, whom other Philosophers acknowledg'd for their Master.

A vertuous Wife invites thee to Vertue, and a wicked one makes thee exercise it, said that Master of knowledge, who suffered, with a marvellous tranquility, all the outrages his Wife did him; if I were not afraid to anger those of a contrary opinion to mine, I should say, that a Wife is not onely, not an obstacle to study, but she is more advantagious then study it self, if we will consider the utility of domestick affaires; how much labour and time might we expend in study, before we should gaine so much as our Mariage ordinarily affords us?

We are borne in an age wherein we may say, the Muses field is the bar­renest ground we could undertake to manure; if we value profit by the sa­tisfaction of the minde, what sublunary blessing can raise us to more felici­ty, then the affection of a lovely person, who in giving us children, gives us the pleasure of being fear'd, obey'd, and lov'd? if wee will consider the consolation in point of Vertue, we shall find it sublime; by the sweetness of her eyes, we may observe a Ray of the Divinity, and lift up our thoughts by beholding the marvels in his creature, to the contemplation, and admiration of the Creator; what Bookes, what Philosophy can teach us so perfectly temperance, moderation, piety, devotion, and continence, as the example of a vertuous Wife?

But if any, in reproving me, say that all Women are not faire, and that all Women are not good, I should answer him, that there is no Woman so [Page 119]ugly, but custome and conversation rendreth faire; nor none so wicked, but his Vertue may make good.

If I would maintaine my tenent by a multitude of Reasons, the justice of my cause would furnish mee with enough; but shunning tediousness, what I have said is sufficient to clear to you, that this Question is a Problem, without Problem, not doubting but you perfectly know, manger the elo­quent discourse of my Adversary, that it is impossible for a Wife to be a hinderance to study, but that I may intirely destroy a problem, which so uncivilly endeavours to disparage a Sex, for whose sakes I declare my selfe partiall, and of whom I am an Adorer, if not an Idolater.

It will be necessary to adde something, and to maintain also, that a Pro­cess in Law is no hinderance to study; for on the contrary, it may advance it: but if any oppose my opinion, I will give him for example the dispute now agitated between us, for the judging whereof, this noble Assembly are met.

I have observed in the soules of every one in particular, a redoubling of light, and knowledge, which makes me confident, that it is impossible, but that a Law-suit it selfe helps study.

Alas! what do I do? little judicious that I am! whilst I enter to discourse of troubles in Law, I hinder you from going home to give thankes to those amiable Creatures your Wives, whom I have proved to be so great an ad­vantage to the study of knowledge.

The Effect of this Oration.

EVery one agreed that a Suit in Law, and Study could not dwell together; but in respect the Academy was composed of Men that were maried, and of others that were not, this reply for Mariage did not passe without dis­pute; in the end, the plurality of voyces carried it, and they intreated Manzinie to remember, that Apollo was never maried, nor was Minerva, and that the Muses are Virgins, Antiquity having a minde to teach us, that Stu­dy, [Page 120]and the cares of Mariage are almost incompatible, and that we may say this without offending the beauty of Ladies, that the Muses often dwell with love, and the Graces very rarely with Hymen, but never with Discord, who causes all Law Suits; so that without determining which was most contrary to men of Learning, Mariage, or a Suit in Law, they concluded that Men, that addicted themselves to study, ought not to have the one, or the other.

The Philosophy of Love.

The Argument.

All Ages have made a Dispute, whether the Body were the Prison of the Soule? and Manzinie was forc'd to revive this Philosophicall question, at Gennes in the Academy of Sleepers. This serves for the Argument of the following discourse.

THE greater the Question is, (most illustrious Auditors) the less pro­portionable is it to my abilities: It is to be inquir'd, whether the soule be Pris'ner in the body, but which is fit to determine it, the soule or the bo­dy?

The body cannot discourse it, without being inform'd by the soule, and then it followes, that the body is govern'd by the soule; but, if the soule be to discourse the matter, 'tis necessary that the body afford it not only the liberty, but the means, in representing the species of those objects, which it conceives not onely to helpe the understanding, but to direct her in point of election; and from thence it may seem that the soule is rul'd by the bo­dy.

For my part, whatsoever others may say, who have more knowledge, I esteem it a very hard question to resolve: And as I finde my selfe unable to determine it, so I think 'twill be superfluous to discourse of it, since I shall be able to do nothing but multiply difficulties, and contradictions. Never­theless, to the end my obedience may supply the place of merit, and my will amend the defects of my judgement, I am resolv'd to acquaint you with an adventure which hath happen'd to me; which though it may seem a story too farr distant from the stile of an Oration, it will not be imperti­nent to the business propos'd by the Academy.

Doe me the favour to heare; for since I speak only to obey, I may boldly say, I deserve to be heard: I was last night in my study drawing some few lines to demonstrate (according to your orders) that the Body is the Prison of the Soule; when a friend of mine came in, and ask'd me what I was do­ing, and whether I had nothing to read? I told him I was transcribing something which I had compos'd to speak to the Academy, and that I would be glad to shew it him, and to be govern'd by his judgement: He express'd a great desire to heare it, so that (as if I had been before this Assembly) I began in this manner.

That the Body (most excellent Auditors) is the Prison of the Soule, the ancient Philosophers have born Witnesse; the Divine Prophers have prov'd it, and our owne soules make it evident every day; which, being oppress'd with the burthen of the mortality of the body, (which is worse) so fettred in this Earthly abode, that they have wholly lost the use of their liberty, which would soone conduct them (could they act freely) to that place to which they aspire, as to their Centre.

Bring my soule out of Prison, saith David, wearied, and disgusted with the unfortunate, painfull, and miserable condition of our life, into which no man enters, but weeping, nor leaves it▪ but he is reduc'd to nothing.

Seneca wrote, that his Body was the burthen of his minde, which was ready to sinke under the weight, and was kept in continuall chaines. And Proclus under the name of confinement seem [...]s to inlarge (not mend) this Prison; for he alwayes declar'd, that God had confin'd the soule to the bo­dy, as to a pestilentiall and miserable place.

This body is a Prison in which the soule is oblig'd to answer before the supreame Judge, with what gratitude shee hath resented her creation; and from thence must she expect the sentence, which declaring her inno­cent, must dis-ingage her from those bonds, which hinder her from mount­ing up to Heaven.

It seem'd strange to some of the Ancients, who were ignorant of this truth, that God should make the Planets and the Stars of Fire, (for so they believ'd) the Winds of Aire, Fishes and Birds of Water, and Man of Earth, an Element inferiour to all the rest, and that Man was thereby oblig'd (at least in the worthiness of his matter) to give place to the least Bird that flies, and the meanest Fish that swims.

But they consider'd not, that 'twas not probable God would have rather made choice of the Earth, then any other Element to frame a Body to the Soule, if he had design'd to build her a Pallace.

He made the body of Earth, because he meant it for a Prison: when hee resolv'd afterwards to build them a Royal Pallace, he made use of the light, and not of the Earth, and allow'd them the Sun for a cloth of estate, and a Throne imbroyder'd with Stars.

Plato affirmes in his Timens, that after God had created Soules, hee lodg'd them in the Stars, as in their proper Sphere; as in a place propor­tionate to their naturall qualities; and that there was their abode before man was created; but that afterwards (by a strange madness) they grew so ingratefully in love with Earthly things, and so weary of Heavenly, that the Divinity, being infinitely displeas'd at their errour, and ingratitude, threw them headlong, from Heaven, and confin'd them to the Body, which is the Prison where they are tortur'd, and doe penance for their crime: But if any man will reject other mens Authorities, and desire a clearer demon­stration to assure him, that the soule is indeed a Pris'ner to the Body, the Argument may be fram'd in this manner.

In relation to its place, the soule hath no liberty, for although it be a spi­rit, like an Angel, nevertheless it cannot, like an Angel, remove it selfe from place to place, so much is it tied to the body. It hath no liberty in re­lation to its objects, because being a Pris'ner she absolutely depends upon the will of her Jaylor.

She can think nothing without those Idea's the Body represents, nor doth any thing enter into the understanding, which passeth not through the sen­ses: Nor hath this poor P [...]is'ner any more light to her minde, nor liberty to her will, but what it pleaseth her Keeper to grant.

If this severe Guardian sleep, it is then, that, contrary to the Nature of o­ther Pris'ners, she is so closely lock'd up, and so totally depriv'd of liberty, that although it bee most certaine, that the Soule wakes, whilst the Body sleeps, yet is it as undoubted an Axiom (which cannot be question'd in our Church without a crime) that what operation soever the Soule may have during sleep, it can neither merit nor offend.

Judge then, whether the soule be free, when it hath not so much as the liberty to sin: The Soul hath no liberty to operate, unles the Body give it; nor hath it leave to refuse those imployments, which that commands. In what then can the Soul be free in the Body? And truly (to passe from intellectuals to manners) if the Soule were not fasten'd to the Body, how is it probable it could be pleas'd in so unlucky a Mansion, which all Ages have confess'd to bee onely a place of complaint, and misery?

O miserable man! one cannot so much as name thee, without treading thee under foot; thy Body being compos'd of Earth, thou art throwne to the ground, as soone as thou art nam'd; thou art imprison'd in a Body made of Earth, conceiv'd in sin, borne in paine, and expos'd to all the tyranny of fortune, to whom all seasons are troublesome, all the Elements dangerous: Thy Soule is plac'd in a body, which derives its diseases from its proper nourishment, and perils from its owne wealth, which loves not without griefe, hates not without trouble, and possesseth nothing without torment: in a body to which the influence of Heaven designes disasters, the Earth brings forth death, and hell prepares torments.

Judge then whether a soule created to bee partaker of eternall felicity can willingly make that her habitation? But why doe I speake of Heaven and Hell? those are things too great to be nam'd in a discourse of so meane a subject.

This unfortunate man is obnoxious (both dead and alive) to such things as scarce have a being, which may (almost) be call'd nothing. An atome animated, a flea devours his bloud; a Worme of the Earth will gnaw him, if he be a Giant: and after all this cannot be thought, that the Soule (which is but little inferour to the Angels, which may and ought to aspire to eter­nall glory) should willingly and without constraint, dwell in a body sub­ject to these conditions? sure 'tis impossible.

The ancient Philosophers, who were men of great wisdome, did very rightly say, that a dying man was set at liberty, and layd to rest, when hee was dead.

But if some men should doubt this truth, by seeing with what an affecti­on the soule is tied to the body, and when 'tis forc'd to leave it, with what extraordinary expressions of sorrow it sighs, to part with a place, which it would never grieve at, had it not been pleased with it: let them remem­ber, that it sighs and laments, not for love of the place she is to leave, but feare of that, to which she is going: for, who can assure her she is not to dye with the body, said Themistius, who had not learn'd a better Doctrine from the Schoole of the Gospel?

The life the gods have given is a hidden thing, saith Hesiod. If the Soule then feares not to die, as to its being, it may, as to its well being. No man knows whether he be worthy of love or hate, and therefore the Soule of a just person will part with lesse griefe, and more assurance, then a wic­ked man, because the goodness of a mans life makes him reasonably hope for happinesse at his death.

Most noble Auditors, I was scarce advanc'd thus far in my discourse, or to speake truth, I had scarcely begun to read him my Reasons, when my friend (who had before express'd by his wry-mouths and gaping at me, how little satisfaction hee receiv'd by my Arguments) interupted me in an in­stant; hold your peace, said he: for (by the faire Eyes that I adore) I am no longer able to indure this impertinence.

I speak with that sincerity which a Soule ought to have, that loves truly: and how is it possible, that such a man as you, who have alwayes delighted in the beauty of Learning, should suffer himselfe to bee throwne downe headlong into such low conceptions? In what condition are you? what? the Body the Prison of the Soule? he spake this in such a manner, with such a kinde of scorne in his Eyes, that instead of angring me, he made me laugh; and presently drawing a golden Case out of his pocket, hee drew neare the Lights, and shew'd mee the Picture of a Lady extreamly beautifull: I confesse the sight surpriz'd me, and that my soule was fixt upon't with de­light, and that I turn'd not mine eyes off from it, but to have the content to returne.

I had continued longer in this extasie, had not my friend catch'd his Pi­cture out of my hands: And now (said he) what do you resolve? can you still continue in your false opinion? I, who by this admirable Vision was not onely disturb'd in the course of my bloud, but of my reason; assur'd him, that I knew not, what he meant to inferre upon his Proposition: Hee answer'd me on a sudden; If thou be not starke blinde, Judge whether such Bodies as this represents, are fitter to be call'd horrid prisons, or objects of felicity?

I presently apprehended the subtilty of his amorous Philosophy, and made him answer, that I acknowledg'd my selfe vanquish'd, and would presently teare my papers, that they might not remaine as testimonies against mee of my former errour: But hee would not suffer mee to doe it, but spake to mee in this manner: That thou mayest not believe, that the blindnesse of love rather then the strength of Reason invites mee to oppose thy Arguments, doe mee the favour to heare me a little.

'Tis the property of the forme to containe, of the matter to bee contain­ned: If then thou wilt not say the forme is contain'd by the matter, thou canst not more affirme, that the Body is the Prison of the Soule, since the Soule is the true essentiall forme of the Body.

Nothing can bee belov'd but what is good, and beautifull: The Soule, which is all spirit [...], and light, loves the Body; Therefore the Body is the good, and not the Prison of the Soule. Aristotle hath prov'd the major, and the Soule proves the minor (as thou thy selfe hast confest) when being forc'd to part with the Body it complaines and afflicts it selfe at this sepera­tion.

Now, that the Body is the good of the Soule, and that consequently it loves the Body out of its owne interest, and affection (and not for feare of being buried with it, as Themistius said; nor by the violence of a forc'd ne­cessity, as Seneca did almost believe) I thinke I shall have no hard taske to prove, having Reason and Thomas Aquimas on my side: What difference (sayd this Angelicall Doctor, who had a greater priviledge then any other to treat of Angels) what difference can be found betwixt an Angel and the reasonable soule? The difference is, (saith he) that although both the one, and the other are spirituall substances, which may exist without a Body, the Angel nevertheless is perfect without the Body, but the Soule without the Body is imperfect.

The reason of this imperfection is, because the Soule (being the very essentiall forme of the Body, and so essentially but a part) when it is desti­tute of that part which concurs with it in the constitution of the whole, must needs remaine imperfect.

From hence is risen that opinion of some Divines, who it is possible in some measure to prove the resurrection of the Body, even from the naturall sight of Reason: because the Soule, being naturally imperfect without the Body (as the form without the matter) & having a continued desire of being re-united; it is a thing which appeares not conformable to Nature (which cannot indure perpetuall violence) that the Soule should be for ever imper­fect, and be continually agitated with an uncessant desire, and longing after accomplishment of its naturall inclination: And therefore many believe that the happiness of the Soule in Heaven shall not bee in its full perfection, untill the Body be likewise glorified.

So wonderfully are we made, (saith Gregory) that Reason possesseth the Soule, and the Soule possesseth the Body: and Aristotle gave this sen­tence, that the Soule might governe the Body, as the Master commands the Soule.

But not to trouble you with so much Philosophy, behold (and then to my great content he opened the Box again) behold this face, that proves it bet­ter then all the Arguments in the World: I know thou look'st upon it with joy, and I very willing to contribute any thing to thy delight: Behold it, take it, and draw your Arguments.

I reply'd, I was satisfied, and wish'd him all content, who had shew'd me a face, that pleas'd me so much. In conclusion, I see that Love is a Mu­sitian, a Philosopher, a Poet, a Divine, and what you will, and he that is not in Love is nothing; so that, my deare friend, it is not without Reason, that thou admirst a face, which hath taught thee so many sciences.

I have reason indeed (answer'd he) so to doe, for should I doe other­wise, I must acknowledge my selfe both ungratefull, and stupid; for, to conclude (and then he tooke up his Poetick Vaine) who would not adore a Face, whose Eyes are Stars, or rather Suns; whose haire are threads of pu­rest gold, & her complexion fairer then Aurora in her brightest lustre? who would not adore a person, whose lips were of Corall, her teeth of pure I­vory, and her voice equall to that Goddess, which the ancient Poets call'd HARMONY?

Who would not adore such a face as appears so beautifull, that 'twould doe the Sun an honour to be compar'd to it? To this sparkling Beauty only I can compare the Stars, when I would flatter them: But let neither the Sun nor Stars grow proud of this comparison; for certainly they must both yield, as well in power, as beauty to this incomparable. If the Sun can boast of being the Authour of life; this face hath the power of life, and death.

If the Stars glory of the power of their influence, those Eyes determine our destinies at their owne pleasure; I will not say as it pleaseth their ty­ranny; for I will not place tyranny in Heaven. How then? shall this Bo­dy, which is so accomplish'd, be believ'd to be a Prison, and not a Paradise to the soule, that inhabits it? Oh Heavens! for what reason can that be? 'Tis I confess, a Prison of the Soule, but 'tis of mine.

Well then in these dayes, either such places as resemble Paradise are Pri­sons; or the bosome of a faire Lady is no Prison; or at least such Prisons are desirable, as Paradise. So concluded this Poet in propose (sighing and going from me) who had fram'd his Paradise in a Picture. My Noble Audi­tors, you have heard him, and me; be you the Judges. I have said.

The effect of this Oration.

THE Academy tooke the Lovers pa [...]t; every one be­liev'd the Soule was too perfect, and too innocent to be condemn'd to Prison as soone as 'twas created. One amongst the Throng cry'd out, that if the Body were a Prison, there were some bodies (at least) which falsified the old Pro­verb, that no Prison is beautifull: This Carahine recoyl'd as soone as 'twas short, and Manzinie was forc'd to yield to the generall opinion.

The Pusillanimity of Seleucus.

The Argument.

I did never wonder much, that a Man compos'd of ambitious desires, after the goods of fortune might bring himselfe to complaine, that a single World was not sufficient to satisfie his desire of glory: but I have not a little marvel'd that any heart could possibly grieve at that power, which all others so vehemently desire. Seleucus sigh'd at his being borne a King, and esteem'd himselfe buried under (not adorn'd with) that Diadem, which others account a Character of Divinity. I have often thought to have sacrific'd to Fame to in­cline her to silence this fact; but finding it impossible to stop her mouth, I am resolv'd to oppose this Discourse, which cannot be heard without indignation, nor ought to bee passed by without punish­ment. [Page 128]Thus Manzinie design'd the Argument of the insuing Oration.

THE desire of Command hath alwaies beene the strongest passion­amongst men; so that considering often the extreame impetuosity of this generous affection, which hath so often overturn'd the World, I could not chuse but search into the Cause which hath produc'd this painfull long­ing in Mankinde.

But reading in Genesis, where the Creator considering his owne excel­lence in that of his last piece of Workman-ship: I observ'd, that hee no sooner saw that this work was good (as the Scripture saith) but by a Divine impatience, (if it bee lawfull so to speak) he instantly began to blesse him, call'd him to the government of all things upon Earth, & gave him the com­mand over all living Creatures; as if God had said that power was the ac­complishment of all blessings, and that whosoever had obtain'd it, might, and ought to esteem himselfe happy.

I protest to you (my Noble Auditors) I was something exalted with this conceit, whereof I thought my selfe the Author: But I happen'd on a passage, which made me know that, in truth, it was a Divine Conception, lively express'd by God himselfe; since that Esau complaining that Jacob had stolen away the blessing from him, (that is to say, the government of his Fathers Inheritance) seems likewise to infer, that the blessing is no other thing, but onely the right to command.

Who will hee then bee, that considering those eminent prerogatives of dominion, will not (as I doe) pity those famous unhappy persons, who have unfortunately, rather then wickedly, lost their lives in pursuit of their desire of advancing themselves to government? I shall wonder no more that some men have had so high thoughts of themselves, that they have in­deavour'd to have Altars, and Incense devoted to them, as if they were gods indeed.

This excellent condition of Ruling is so great, and accompanied with a traine of so many eminent additions, that 'tis no strange thing, that a man (proud in his owne Nature) should straggle out of the way, and suffer him­selfe to be cozen'd by this honour, which certainly hath something of Di­vine in it, if the matter in which it resides, corrupt it not. This man consi­dering himselfe adorn'd with a soule, whose noble and divine qualities have brought forth so much admiration, that many (with Plato) have perswa­ded themselves, that 'twas coeternall with God, and others (as Lactan­tius) [Page 129]that 'twas of the same substance with God: This man (I say) seeing himselfe in so eminent a degree, if he cannot say with Job (when he went about to contest with God) Now that mine Eyes have seene thee, I ab­hor my selfe in dust and ashes, may easily be brought to such a degree of pre­sumption, as was represented by Ovid in the Fable of the Giants; and in­deed if those favours be rightly weighed, by which God hath exalted the excellency of Humane Nature; they will appeare so admirable, that not onely the Saracene Abdala (who had nothing of the knowledge of God) call'd it the Miracle of Miracles.

But David himselfe (not able to suppress his astonishment of such a multitude of mercies) cry'd out, What is Man, that thou hast so exalted him? thou hast made him little lesse then the Angels, with glory and honour hast thou crown'd him.

So then if unto Man, who is by Nature so great, and in his owne esteeme much greater, there be the addition of a Kingdome, whose power renders him formidable and omnipotent, there is no cause to wonder, if he pretend to Altars, and Incense, since he may then say, that the destiny of the People depend upon his will, and the good or ill of all his Subjects; which may pull downe or erect Cities, as he please, who is above Laws and dispenses Fortune at his pleasure; on whom depend both war, and peace; death, and life; and in conclusion, then whom nothing appears higher, but Heaven it selfe.

Alexander, that great Prince, who made one Kingdome of the whole World, after having view'd the vast extent of his Dominion, that it even border'd with Heaven, seeing himselfe plac'd so near Divinity, resolv'd to believe himselfe a God.

And truly power is a thing too great, and too Divine not to be desir'd; and he must be a mad man, that knowes not the value of such a thing, as is so vehemently pursued by all Mankinde. When then I found a man, and him a King that not onely despis'd Royalty, but complain'd of it, and af­firm'd, that whosoever did truly know the weight of a crown, would not so much as stoop to the ground to take it up, I could not but bee infinitely astonish'd.

For how is it possible a mans heart should be capable of so much weak­ness, to esteem Command a Servitude, and a Kingdome a misery? I have chosen this poore apprehension of Seleucus for the subject of my Discourse, to the end, that, examining the lownesse of his Spirit, wee might likewise finde out (most Noble Auditors) the unhappinesse of Tyranny, which af­fords nothing but bitternesse amidst the sweetness of a Kingdome.

This King-like Act of Ruling is nothing else but the government of a lawfull King, as the onely object of a vertuous Prince is the publique good; so that, I must confesse, if to labour for the good of the Common-wealth be a thing to make Royalty be thought odious; it is most certaine a man may loath it upon that score, since 'tis impossible it should be free from trou­bles, and cares; and which do so necessarily take up a Kings time, that hee can never be idle, but the Common-wealth is the looser.

But who perceives not, that to complaine of being oblig'd to watch for the Publick safety, to looke after the integrity of his Ministers; to provide for the necessities of the poore, and to prevent the extortions of the Rich, and the designes of Neighbour Princes, is to grieve at a continuill necessity, impos'd upon him of exercising his Prudence, Justice, Charity, Magnanimi­ty, and all other the most perfect acts of Vertue; or rather 'tis to be sorry to be obliged to tend to his owne center, which is nothing else, but to complaine of being tyed to his owne happiness?

Royalty is without doubt accompanied with some trouble; but whosoe­ver wil like Moses have the Tables of the Law in his power, must (no more then he did) shun the pains of getting up to the top of the Mountain. He that will appeare upon the throne, with the sword of Justice in his right hand, must not be unwilling to lift the Billance of Equity in his left: Labour, and a Kingdome are Relatives, but that which we call labour, is a duty, an ope­ration, not a disquiet, a calamity: that motion which tends to its owne center is never painfull; the fire mounts to its owne sphere without any paine, and the water which runs towards the Sea, suffers no vio­lence.

If all things, which are inseparable from humanity, were painfull, it would be so not onely to be a King, but to be a Man; nay, our very being would be a trouble to us, there being nothing in Nature, which is not liable to these conditions.

A Pellican parts willingly with her life to preserve her young ones, and shall we thinke it painfull and irksome to be oblig'd to thinke, to watch, and take paines for the good of our People? but why doe I call it taking pains? the body is out of temper, when tis a paine to it to performe its naturall o­perations.

He that findes difficulty in a Kingdome, betrayes the weakness of his constitution, and that his inclination is not Royall: but whether it proceed from the ignorance, laziness, or malice of those poore spirits; many there bee, who change the true names of things, who take the Maske for the Face, who esteem care, simple thoughts, and business, foolish operations, [Page 131]and after that rate 'tis no strange thing, that to him (who accounts the a­ctions of Soveraignty a paine, and the thoughts troubles) Royalty it selfe should appeare a slavery.

He that calls the least motions of care and business, labour and trouble, is not to be thought to be of a Nature that's quiet, and peaceable, but feeble and useless: and how? shall wee account those imployments burthen, some, which are our duties, as Fathers, and as Christians? No, no, he that complains of business, and action, is griev'd, that he cannot bee idle, neg­ligent, and lazie.

Was it not (O illustrious Auditors) an unjust complaint of that Prince, who not finding forrage ready in a quarter for the Horse of his Army, much bewayled the unhappiness of Kings, that were bound to take care even of the very Beasts: And who cannot easily discerne, that to be the misery of men, but the meer condition of Humanity?

Nature who hath linck'd all things together, as with a chaine, hath well ordered, that one thing should be necessary to another, but not insupporta­ble: To complaine of being obliged to take care of Horses, is to repine, that we are not able to walk without feet, that we were not created Angels, which can operate with the intellect alone.

Tis the duty, not the misery of a Generall to take care of his Baggadge Horses, if he expects service from them, that they should remove him from Aegypt into Lybia, & give him the Water of Nilus to drink upon the most inaccessible heights of Caucasus, and the Pirenean Mountaines. The sailes of a Vessell are made to conduct it, and not to burthen, or overset it; and yet those are they, which these lazy persons call burthens or intollera­ble weight.

But these things which thou complainest of, are but the exercises of life, and not the troubles of a Kingdome: where wilt thou finde the ease which thou desirest, if every thing have the power to disquiet thee? A poore flie did more disturb Domitian in his Chamber, then an Army of an hundred thousand Men could trouble Alexander, when he was in the field ready to assault them.

But what thing will these poore spirits finde out to wish for, that is wholly free from trouble? The Garden requires sweating with a Mattock: Rest and Labour are the entertainments of Nature, not the destruction. One man scorches under the heat of the African Sun to catch a few Birds; another freezes upon the Ice of Scythia to kill Venison: This labour and pains they thinke well imployd for so small a matter, and wilt thou thinke much to take a little care for the publicke good, and that in the view of the [Page 132]whole world? Me thinks thou shouldst be asham'd of the thought; as I am to speake it.

If Labour were an ill thing, whereof had man greater cause to complain, then of Vertue? whose actions for the most part consist in the incounter of difficulties, which to overcome the means, is by taking pains, as the end is procur'd by constancy, and magnanimity.

Behold a spectacle worthy of the sight of God himselfe, Jacob wrestling with an Angel. Amongst all the Vertues which have their faculties, either act ve or passive, those actions are alwayes the most excellent, which labour after matters of greatest difficulty: and consequently they are most propor­tionable to a Prince, by reason of the greatnesse of his power. A great soul cannot desire but great things, and cannot but emulate those, that have done great actions; which made Themistocles say, that the Victories of Mil­ciades would never let him sleep.

What a difference was there betwixt two soules? Seleucus complains of the paine of commanding, and Alexander is griev'd, that his Fathers Victories had not left him worke enough. Nothing is sweeter, then glory, nor is there any straighter way to it, then Vertue, and the way to Vertue is not without paine.

Aske Hercules, whether he was deified for any thing, but his Labours? Alexander said, that business was the nourishment of generous spirits: A noble courage cannot indure, that operative Vertue should consume in idle­ness, as a Sword is spoyl'd with rust. In the end, I should conclude labour a gift from Heaven, did I not incline to their opinion, that esteeme it no paine to a Noble soule.

He is onely in paine, that is inferiour to the worke he undertakes, which a generous person cannot be. Corolianus, being invited to rest after a Bat­tle, answered, that the Conqueror was never weary: And Canus that plaid upon the Flute, told those that heard him, that if they knew how great a pleasure hee tooke in his owne Musicke, they might justly pretend to a re­ward for hearkening to him: so true is it, that Nature facilitates, and sweetens all things, to which the will inclines.

Thou sayest, this Scepter weighs heavy; I tell thee thou wantest as Roy­all strength: Poyson can doe no hurt, when it meets with a temper hot enough to resists its cold, whereof Mithridates was a testimony. He that groans under a burthen, ought not to accuse the weight, but his own weak­ness: an Oxe is not too heavy for a man that dares compare his strength with Mile.

But perhaps, you will say, that to Reigne is a word that implies Tyran­ny, a troublesome and dangerous thing, and I must answer that no man is afraid, but he that has an ill conscience; hee that feares confesses, hee has cause so to doe; and that which we call Evils in things, are rather Vices in men.

That Prince (who, out of love to his pleasures, neglects the care he ows to his People,) cannot be ignorant of his crime, even whilst he is in the act, and in that sense may truly say, he feels the weight of a crowne. In truth, he that hath cause to feare, in his Kingdome, is no King, but a Tyrant; and he that complains of Constancy, Fortitude, Justice, and Prudence, is griev'd to see himselfe bound to act constantly, valiantly, justly, and wisely; what can be more just and pleasing then the performance of good, honourable and vertuous actions? and where can they be acted with more honour and ad­vantage, then upon the Royall throne? Is it possible for us to believe that thing detestable, which is alwayes accompanied with justice, and power? which alwayes proposeth the publique good for its end, and whose prin­cipall imployment is, to exalt Vertue, and suppress Vice?

Tis true, a Kingdome is a matter of great consequence, and requires the whole Man: But the greatness of this Engine ought to provoke his care, that is to move it, not his feare.

How many times have we seen Masses of sione of a vast bigness lifted up into the aire by a small Vice, which giving motion to a wheele, and that communicating it to other lesser wheeles have beene able (if I may so say) to remove mountains.

Seleucus might have said with much more justice, that he was unwor­thy of a crowne, then that a Kingdome was of no value. The King is the head of the State, and it ought not to be troublesome to him to act for such a Body, whereof all the Members combine to doe him service.

The King is the tye by which the Common-wealth is united, and that very breath of life which is suck'd in by so many persons: The Throne is the Theatre of glory, and those Vertues, which in a private man were but simply Vertues, when they are in a King, they are a light and splendour, by whose beams other men are warm'd, inlightned, and guided. Who would have known the vertues of Cyrus, and Alexander, if they had been buried under a private fortune?

As a Kingdome is a large field, where Vertue hath roome enough to exer­cise her selfe: so doth the Throne by its Eminence, render all good qualities the more visible, and makes Kings appeare like mortall gods, in­compassed with magnificence, justice, and power, attributes sit for adora­tion [Page 134]and only proper to Divinity. I observe (with great admiration) that God having resolv'd the Creation of the World from all eternity, and fram'd the Idea thereof in that most pure intellect, which hath onely it selfe for intelligence, and it selfe for intelligible: I (observe I say) in the sacred Writ, that God having resolv'd the Creation of man, and desiring to let all things take notice of his great inclination, to make that Creature wholly like himselfe, he cries out, Let us make Man after our owne image: and as if that expression had been short of that so much desired resemblance, hee addes, and after our likenesse.

I must confess the vehemence and earnestness, wherewith God was pleased to publish his desire, astonish'd mee: so that inquiring further, to finde out how those words were put into actions, I discovered, that, after that the Divine Majesty had created this man, and given him a reasonable soule, worthy this noble resemblance, immediatly thereupon he made him Master of all things, saying unto him, Have dominion over the Fish of the Sea, and over the Fowle of the Ayre, and over every living thing that moveth upon the Earth: as if he should say, the understanding as reasonable shall be the Image of God in operation: But because I thinke that too little for my Creature, I will hove him likewise resemble mee in power, and there­fore bids him, have dominion, &c. that I may truly say, ye are gods, and the sons of the most high.

Who then sees not (most noble Auditors) that Royalty and Soveraigne power are acknowledg'd by God himselfe for the last, and most excellent strokes of his Pensill, by which the all powerfull hand of the Creator did intend to marke Mankinde with a most eminent, and indelible Character of Divinity.

And for this we finde a man, who repines at this excellent condition, which in truth is rather worthy of that desire, with which the Angels burn incessantly in love to God, then of this earthly man, who hath so little ge­nerosity, that he had rather injoy his solitude in a Wood, like wild Beasts, then the splendid throne of a King to operate like a God: For indeed to be a King, what is it else, but to be the object of all men, the rule of all de­sires, the Looking-glass for all eyes, and the example for all inferiour per­sons?

He is the soule of the Republique, the living Law of the People, the light of his Kingdome, and the Image of God upon his Throne. He that accounts this condition unhappy, esteems it a misfortune to have the honour to par­take of divinity, and thinketh it a misery to bee able to make his people prosperous: He's a Monster, borne onely for himselfe, and unusefull to [Page 135]all Mankinde, unless it be to such, as, considering his errours, resolve not to be like him.

Alexander though himselfe poore, because hee was master but of one World; and this Coward repmes at one Kingdome onely, as if Atlas had plac'd all his burthen upon his shoulders.

All earthly things are so imperfect, that the soule which aspires to infini­ty, not being content with any thing that is corruptible, is as easily cloy'd with every particular, as it can desire all.

Tis very true, there is a vast difference betwixt one mans heart, and ano­thers; for to Alexanders (which was great in all things) a Crowne seem'd not so burthensome, as to Seleucus; because the Magnanimity of Alexan­der rejoyced in so ample a field to exercise his Vertue, whereas the other was so weake, that the least weight supprest it. And upon this Reason that famous Conquerour was angry at Senocrates, because when he offered him fifty talents, he refused it, as not needing so much.

This generous Prince cryed out (all amazed) why then Senocrates has no need of a friend; to Senocates fifty Talents are a supersluity, and to mee all the wealth of Darius was too little? But the true reason was, not, that this Treasure was too great for Senocrates, or Seleucus, but that Senocrates, and Seleucus were of such poore spirits, that wanting magnanimity, friend­ship, magnificence, and liberality, they thought those riches burthensome, which they had not the hearts either to spend or give away. How is it pos­sible this Crowne should seem a burthen to thee, which furnisheth thee with oportunity to doe good to the people, which gives thee power to re­lieve the oppressed, to punish wickedness, and uphold Vertue, and to make thy selfe reverenced as a divine Power?

For indeed were it not for death, which as a tribute upon all Mankinde, makes no distinction, by what Argument could we prove, that a King were not a God, and the Throne Heaven?

But if a wicked Prince perceive a sword hanging by a slender thread over his head, ready to fall, and punish him for his crimes, let him finde fault with himselfe, and not his Kingdome, with himselfe (I say) who making Royalty degenerate into Tyranny, exposeth himselfe to the dangers that follow it.

But to speake the truth, I am not so much delighted with the occasion of exclaiming against the basenesse of Seleucus, who could not bee pleas'd with being a King, as I am satisfied with the opportunity of speaking of Alexander, whose very memory fills mee with joy: That Alexander, whose liberality emptied all the Treasures of Asia, and tir'd out the fertility [Page 136]of the Erythraean Sea, by the abundance of precious things, which he gave away: of that generous Alexander, for whom the whole world was too little: of that brave courage, whose greatest labours were his chiefest plea­sures: of that brave, Lion I would call him, but that I remember, Lions are to derive honour from him by the Comparison, since hee shew'd himselfe braver then a Lion by killing one hand to hand.

But what consequence can we possibly draw from the opinion of Seleu­cus? If we consider Alexander, complaining that hee was not able to bee confin'd within the limits of one World from a parallel of their different conceptions, wee might give judgement and determine, which of them is most to be esteem'd.

But 'twill bee sufficient to say onely, that Seleucus had so much gal­lantry, as to contemne a Crowne, as supposing himselfe burthen'd, and buried under it; but that Alexander was so weake, and unsatisfied, that he endeavoured to fancy new Worlds, believing himselfe too straitly impri­son'd within the compass of the whole Earth.

But should they heare Seleucus, what would Casar, Anthony, and Pom­pey say, and so many others, who have ventur'd to ruine the World, to ob­taine what he despiseth? I will conclude, and leave you to judge, being willing to spare you the remiander of this day, that you may imploy it in the praise of Alexanders generosity, whose glorious memory will cleanse your soules from all those base Idea's, which your conversation, with the Pusil­lanimity of Seleucus might have imprinted in them.

The effect of this Oration.

ALL the Academy inclin'd to Manzinies judgement: they thought it a great weakness to repine at so glorious a trouble; and the miserable Seleucus mov'd so much com­passion, that there was not one man amongst the Auditory, who would not have been content to have taken his heavy burthen, and layd it upon his owne shoulders.

The Funeralls of Beauty.

The Argument.

All the Swans of Liguria wept for the death of Emilia Adorne, who was the Venus of Lyguria, but! what doe I say the Venus? par­don me chaste soule, if I have injured thee by this comparison. Rea­der, this faire one died because she would not be like Venus, no not in immortality; the dolefull Orasons which followed were, the Torch, the dismall Bough, and the Crown, which you seeme here carry to the Funerall of Beauty, this is the Argument that Manzinie hath plac'd before his Discourse.

IS it then true (O illustrious Auditors) that you are resolv'd I shall speake to you of Emilia? O god! of Emilia? that faire Emilia, for whom heretofore this place (alas! my teares already begin to hinder my Speech) served as a pompous Theatre; the wound is too great, and too sensible to be touch'd without extream pain; a regular Disccurse, and passions irregu­lar are not consistent.

What? must I speake of Emilia? of faire Emilia? but who can deny any thing to those to whom they are so much oblig'd as I to you? be it so then, since you will have it so; yet you must not expect an Oration in her praise from a man, who is fit for nothing but weeping; there is nothing more ha [...]d [...]hen to finde words proportionall to an extreame passion, and what passion is it? O god! an unbridled, an irregular, and an imperious passion, but withall a reasonable one; but I imagine that your selves, be­ing infinitly afficted, for so great a losse, ha [...] made your Election of me, for no other reason, but to ease your owne griefes by seeing mine; for if you had intended only the praises of Emilia, you would have thought of some other person, then me, who am altogether uncabable of so high an un­dertaking; [Page 138]yes, yes! this Discourse ought to bee all griefe, the subject requires it; is it not a Panegerick above all Panegericks for this faire soule, to see in so honourable an Assembly a thousand Catoes melt into tears at the only remembrance of her rare beauty? but what doe I say of her Beauty? no, it is thus (me thinks you interrupt me) for I know, my Lords, that if you that were Associates, Admirers, and, I dare say, Adorers of the Vertues of Emilia, should heare me declare, that I intend onely to be waile the losse of Emilia, for regard to her Beauty, you would be very ill satisfied, or to say better, scandalized.

But what would you have me doe? dare I undertake to speake of that piety, which render'd her an Example of Devotion? of that Modesty which was never equaliz'd? of that Chastity which not onely exceeded Lucretia's, but would have frighted Tarquin from attempting her? of such a sweetness as charmed her inferiors? of such an obedience as satisfied her superiors? of such a curtesie as gained the hearts of her equals?

Would you have my Exordium to be of the sublimity of her spirit, which rendred her knowing in all studies, made her speake al, and rais'd her above all, in quickness of apprehension, solidity of Judgement, and eloquence? would you have me call to your remembrance, how excellent she was at giving life to her Designes with her Needle, and in sorting her colours? with what a grace shee danced? and when she sung, how shee ravish'd the soules of the hearers, with the harmony of her Voyce? when shall I make an end? or how can I? and who already knows not these things?

No! no, my Lords, it must be tears, it must be tears onely, I am capable of no other thing, and no other thing but tears can suit with your griefe; yes, it must be only tears, and tears for her beauty, which being the least of the perfections of this excellent person, will make knowne to posterity, what that exalted creature Emilia was, since so transcendant a Beauty was the least accomplishment which rendred her considerable.

If I am not worthy to put the Crowne upon her head, it sufficeth me, that I have power to lay it at her feet; if I speake poorely, the violence of my griefe must excuse mee; for hee that grieves indeed, is not obliged to grieve by Rule; the more weake and languishing my Eloquence is, the more strong will my affection appeare; if I speake like an Oratour, it must be attributed to my subject.

Those Nightingals, that made their Nests nearest the Tombe of Orpheus sung sweetest, as Pansonius saith, and what (my Lords) doe you thinke it easie for a person of my mean faculties to speak of a Sun? never believe (I beseech you) the comparison which I make with the Sunne, and this faire [Page 139]Creature to be a vulgar one, I use it because certain Platonicks held, that the Sun was the soule of the World, and in that manner naming her Sun, I have found the way to describe to you, that Beauty which was truly the soule of the World, I meane the reasonable World, and how can I better oblige you to bewail her departure, then in stiling her the Sun? the Sun is no sooner set, but the earth is bedew'd all over with tears: lament then! lament, the Rocks themselves lament, yea, and the Statua's of Memnon; it is no new thing to see Marble weep for the departure of the Sun; Ah Sun! Ah departure! Ah Emilia! Ah deare Auditors! in what place, just Heaven! in what place shall wee ever behold this Beauty which elevated our spirits, and which left in us impressions of light? that Beauty, whose Idea served as a Rule to our soules, which reigned without Tyranny, which charmed the eyes and the soule, and which never rais'd rebellion in the senses, that Beauty which produc'd Reverence, and not Love, because not having in it any other proportion, then that which is betwen Inferiours, and superiours; it could not be beloved upon Earth, where we love not good, as good, if we did, all that is good would be beloved; but every one loves as good, that which he believes suitable to himselfe.

If that which we call Beauty be not a Deity, it is at least adored as such, as the Pythagoreans said Wealth, Strength, Wisdome, Greatness of Courage, and all other adornments which may render a person remarkable, are ob­jects of the ambition and Envy of men; but Beauty alone, the Divels them­selves have not onely reverence, but affection for: The Histories and Tra­ditions of our Fathers have often told us, the veneration they had for beau­ty.

And what stronger Argument have you, that Beauty is Divine, then to say, the Divel who is nothing but a Spirit, and a Spirit, that hath injoy'd the sight of all the eternall Beauties, is for all that capable of being pleas'd and astonish'd at that Beauty which we call mortall?

For my part, I am forc'd to believe, that this precious advantage, is a mark of predestination to those who possess it; and to what other place then Heaven can that person bee destin'd, who carries so much light and splendor in her eyes, that some one (as I have already said) hath call'd them Suns?

Sure if it be then true that God hath dispenced that celestiall light to a mortall, can it be then believed, that he will deny it admittance into Hea­ven?

You know (my Lords) in what degree of perfection our incomparable Emilia was heightned with this Beauty, and not onely you, but the very [Page 140]streets (if I may be allowed to speake thus) are not ignorant, seeing they were more filled by the confluence of People, who thronged to see Emilia, then of these, whom their necessary affaires enfore'd abroad, there was ne­ver found a heart so rebellious, which was not proud to be constrained by the force of her Eyes to render themselves Vassalls to those though Tyrants (yet worthy of adoration) their power was too great to be resisted, we must submit to the mercy of such Conquerors, and yield when there is no possi­bility of longer dispute; the Zenocratii, and the Aristarchi, the most severe, celebrated her Beauty, and by the universall homage, which all men yiel­ded unto her, it was easie to know, that it appertained to none, but the Emi­lia's to triumph.

Her Eyes were not such cruell Tyrants, that we drew from thence feare, and servitude onely, and not love: on the contrary, all their Slaves were their Adorers, and all their Captives became their Captives willingly, and the cause of their thraldome was the object of their veneration.

O faire eyes eternally to bee desired! O tyrants to bee adored! Into what place are you retired? and why have you so soone left us? and yet for all that wee ought not to wonder, for since they were tyrants, they could not bee long endured in a Common-wealth; but what doe wee say of that fayre mouth, where all graces were assembled, her smiles and our ravish­ments were inseperable, shee was the delight of our eyes, and the charme to all our sences, and that which is not common the pleasingnesse of her dis­course was, in the length of it, shee spoke alwayes with a grace and in such a manner, that we apprehended nothing like her silence, eloquence and per­swasions were alwayes in that sayre mouth, insomuch as wee may stile it the Temple of the God of the Lydians, where wee ever found consolation for all our griefs, and to borrow a little from the liberty of Po­esy, since the sincerity of prose, is not full enough to expresse it, I can assure you that the graces were the least Deity, that resyded in that cave of pearls, this lovely Emilia had a certaine way of expression, that made so powerfull an impression upon the soule, that it could never be razed out; her discourse imprinted it selfe in the memory, without designe to Emilia's conversation could not be lost, though no care were used to preserve it, there remayned alwayes something in our soules, and by that marvelous effect, we may col­lect, shee was a creature all divine: Cicero sayd that the mouth of Aristotle was a streame of Gold, I will not say so of Emilia, for it would too poor­ly expresse her excellence; O God! what charmes? what allurements? What astonishments are left mee to describe? call to remembrance that an­gelicall voyce which ravished all the hearers; no, no! divine voyce I re­member thee not, retyre from my memory, goe! come no more neere mee, [Page 141]for if thou doest I shall never arive to the end, which I propose to my selfe in this Oration.

The Corinthian Demeratus weeping, exclaymed out of an excusse of affection, what pleasure have they mist who are dead and never saw Alex­ander; But O my Lords! I may well say how unhappy are those who never saw nor heard of the incomparable Emilia, I can assure them they never knew perfect felicity, shee dyed too soone: not that the Heavens thought her deserving a prec [...]p [...]tated death, but because they esteem'd her too deerly, to let her continew any long time mortall; let mee be condemned after this for bewayling her departure and losse, but what have I to doe but to make her Elegie? ought I to describe her as shee was? that will but increase your teares the more, if't present her perfect, and accomplished, the more subject wee have of affliction, to bee for ever deprived of so unparalleld a creature, and since the least of her rare endowments enforceth me to confesse I am not a­ble to describe it, how doe you thinke so numerous a stocke of Marvayles, which surmount not onely all I can say, but all I can comprehend, can accor­ding to their dignity bee treated of by mee? If I were to give you but a slight Idea of Emilia, or present you with a first draught onely of a picture, I might peradventure undertake it, but you must exp [...]ct no more; for an houre is not an age, and a Kind of Ballad Poet. Cherillus is not Homer, the Cradell, and the Se­ru'cher of Emilia, were even upon the Verge of the Sea, that shee might h [...]ve the nearer in this I understād not his meaning. conformity with the Sun, and enjoy the same prerogativs; & as Genova for many ages ha [...]h had precedence, & stitled the treasure of the world, it was it Genova that the Heavens diposited this inestimable treasure; hee that can doubt that Emilia should not be call'd a treasure, shews he ne­ver had the honour to see that invaluable person, whose beauty, wit, and vertue, were more worth then all the Treasures of the Universe, and who knowes not that cur Poets have so celebrated her? they have given her a bo­some of Alablaster, lips of Corrall, teeth of Pearle, and for haire, a deluge of animated Gold; but to turn to my discou [...]se Emilia was borne, not onely in that City, which is the miracle of the world, but in that street, which is the miracle of that City, to the intent that even the place, wherein she first saw the Light, should not be unworthy of her; she liv'd as one that was to be re­sponsable for the obligations she receiv'd from Heaven, for giving her so many glorious advantages: she was borne in the house of the Ador­nes, whose least ornaments & smallest honours was the command of king­doms; she was also born in the House of an Anthony, who hath inlarg'd the limits of his Countrey, who hath receiv'd humble supplications from the chiefe of Christendome, and not without the success of an Anthony, whose Vertue and courage being seconded by England, and France, have [Page 142]fore'd the Saracenes to yield us Victory, together with their Kingdomes: she was borne in the house, where sometimes lived one Raphiel, who after the triumph over the whole Nation, triumph'd over himselfe; and in what other house then in that of Adornes, was there ever found a man who wil­lingly resigned the supream power, and with as much joy as others received it? but these are not all the illustrious persons that this house hath furnish­ed us with.

Who is there that remembreth not the Eloquence of Dominique? the Prudence of Gabriel? the Valour of Prospere? Renown speaks of nothing more then of their Vertue, and our Histories are full of their generous a­ctions.

And thus now, ye see (my Lords) where our faire Emilia had her birth, and lived untill her nineteenth yeare, beloved of her kindred, upon so just ground, that the name of Daughter, Wife, and Sister, was the least motive that induc'd their affection to her: but (my Lords) she was no sooner of the age, that by custome yee marry your Daughters, but they thought of choosing her a Husband, worthy to be the Son in Law of John Baptista A­dorne, of Baptista, I say, whose wisdome is uncontrolable in Counsel, whose courage is undefatigable in execution, whose magnificence is su­preame, who sacrific'd to the publique good, as if he were the Son of his Countrey, and treated private persons, as if he were their Father, who is regarded by all the World, as if hee were the splendor of the Common-Wealth, and as a man, whose honour effaced all the glory of his Predeces­sors.

I dare say no more, as not being ignorant, that this illustrious person is living, if he may be said to live, who hath lost the most deare part of him­selfe, however I believ'd it no indecorum to speak something of him; for I thought, if I should be altogether silent in expressing the excellent indow­ments of the Father of Emilia, I should deprive her of one of the remarka­ble Causes, which rendred her considerable (if I may be permitted to speak thus) even before she was borne.

In fine, Emilia was married, more by the publique vowes, then by the di­ligence of her parents, but who ever saw the like disaster? her Mariage was but as a flash of happinesse, it was soon extinguish'd: Alas! who could believe it? Emilia pass'd, from her Nuptials, to her Funerall, from her Bridall bed, to her grave; yes (my Lords) that faire person, whose youth, health, and beauty, seemed to be immortal, is shut up in a Tomb, and with her all the glories of her time.

What rigour of destinies, or what malignant influence of the starres have caus'd this loss? I know not I vow, but I thinke it pertinent to say, that this was a beauty too Celestial to remaine upon the Earth, our Age is too depraved to enioy any long time such a donative from Heaven: for to speak truth, the Age wherein we live, is full of too much enoimity, to deserve the fruition of the incomparable Emilia.

Who amongst you hath not observ'd the discomposure of these times, by the transversion which we see in all parts of the World? at this day, Spaine, is in Flanders, Almaine, is found in Mount Ferrat, and the North, in Germany: We live in dayes, where there is nothing spoken but insurre­ctions of the people, an innundation of Barbarians, and the destruction of Kingdomes, which are made infamous by the ruine of so many Kings: And no, no, Emilia could not live long, in a place, where the affl [...]ct [...]d found no compassion, where none opposeth impiety, where the sole desire of men is to subdue one another, where gains and crime are inseperable; she was too religious, too wise, too just, too modest, and too accomplish'd to stay in a place where Vertue was so little reverenc'd.

Who can lose the remembrance of that sweeping plague, which making one sepulchre of a hundred. Provinces, hath sacrific'd to death (if I may say so) one Hecatombe inure of Kingdomes? and who is there amongst you that yet remains with a Soule [...] unaff [...]ighted at the apprehension of those prodigious flames of Vesuvia, which no long agoe threatned to come and burne us, though on this side that great extent of Sea that parts us; perad­venture it was never heard before this time, that the Earth angry with her selfe, did ever undertake to burne the whole World, beginning with the Sea; and yet (Sirs) it is true, that it is our Fortune to be borne in such an Age.

Can we say after this, that it was an abode sit for that Person, in whom sweetness, goodness, humility, and Majesty of soule equally resided? what Province can boast to be exempted from the effects, that the malignant stars have so universally dispersed? onely Liguria seem'd to bee priviledg'd, when unexpectedly the death of Emilia hath rendred us more miserable then all others; that faire, chaste, and wise Emilia dying, carried with her a treasure which cannot be sufficiently express'd, but by those that consider we have suffer'd this losse in the same time, when all the world receives chastisements from an Almighty, and an incensed power, to shew to us that of Emilia, being our onely misfortune, the losse of whom is more con­siderable then either plague, war, or flames which we have seen devour our Neighbours territories; O unhappiness! O calamity worthy to have been [Page 144]presaged by the revolution of half the Universe; if all our lives are somtimes compared but to one day? we may say of the faire Emilia, that the world saw but the first dawning of her morning, perhaps the Heavens (foreseeing that if she arriv'd but to her Noone, the Rayes of her bright beauty might have burned all the Earth) had pitty of the World.

No, no! I mistake, I rather belive the Heaven's jealous of the Honours, which were rendred to the faire Emilia, took from men the object of the Ve­neration due to themselves: for what ought not those Eyes expect, carry­ing more splendor then imagination can comprehend? those Eyes of a lustre which certainly was not deemed mortall? wonder not (my Lords) if after we have seen the marvellous Emilia die, contrary to our expectation, or desires, I dare assure you, she was not mortall; pardon this bold expres­sion and impute it to my griefe, and permit me to speake to you what, that suggests to me.

We have lost Emilia, but what Armes hath death made use of, to con­quer her? of all the violent Diseases, most mortall to mankinde, none ever attatch'd her; for the time she l [...]v'd in the world, she injoy'd a perfect health, her temper was never altred, and death, accustomed to overcome all things, could not with that subtilty that gives him entrance into all places, give him means to assault Emilia, she is ravish'd from us by a sickness which ne­ver kill'd before, by a sicknesse, so without symptoms, that the Physitians never search'd for a remedy, and in such a manner, that it visibly appeares that the losse of Emilia is not arriv'd to us by the hand of death; she hath been taken hence, but for all that shee is not dead; we have lost her but by that supreame power from whom death borrows his.

Let us then conclude, that this beauty hath not yielded to the power of sickness, but she was lifted up to Heaven, and yet for all this wee must con­fess, that it is a misfortune to us that ever we had a sight of this Lady, if b [...]th living and dead shee was appointed for a disturbance to the quiet of our soules.

The eleventh of May was the day destined for this sad Catastrophe, and as if the Heavens would not inforce Aurora to assist at the death of this new borne Sun, before she had blancht the Cloudes in the East, Emilia, the faire Emilia departed, yet though she hath not been the booty of death, as I have already express'd, her last minutes had for all that, all the marks of mortality, deformity tooke place of her Graces and beauties: and sure the Heavens ordained it thus, for the honour and merit of Emilia, to shew to the world, that Emilia without Graces, and without Beauty, was yet desi­rable, and desired.

O strange revolution of things upon earth! O vaine hopes of the world! unhappy to those who trust in you; who would ever have thought, that this day whereon heertofore Manna (incomparable for sweetnesse) fell from Heaven in the wildernesse, that this very same day, wee should cast a bitter­nesse able to make us detest the Sun, and curse his returne? who ever saw a rigour, and cruelty more dierful? Emilia in the most serene season of her dayes, and in the sweetest season of the yeare is vanished from our eyes, let us then for consolation say with these Poets that the Sun was in the sign of Taurus, fatall in ravishing from us the beauty of Europe.

I see my Lords, you also support your selves with much impatience, for the losse of so pretious a Treasure, and certainly it is not without reason, wee have need to live many ages, ere wee shall see Heaven give to the Earth a person so accomplished, wee have lost more then wee can bewaile, but the instabilitie of earthly things will have it so; this accident justifies, but too well, the discourses of those who preach to us dayly the continuall vicissi­tude of all sublunary things, for who would have thought that one so faire, so adored, who received the vowes, and the acclamations of all the world, should have beene so quickly, and so equally unhappy, as wee to lose her light, and leave us in so great an obscurity? yes my Lords, those eyes are ex­tinct, those eyes so radient, that, but one of their regards, dissipated the clouds of sadnesse, and consolated the most sharpe griefs; those eyes, which wee may call the glory of their age, and the miracles of nature; but without aggravating their beauty.

You my Lords, know what they were; in the meane time they are extinguished, in the midst of their triumphs, but I feele my heart rebell against my judgement, and say that it betrayes its affections, it desires that I not onely lament Emilia, but that I make imprecations, against the rigour of the stars, whose mallignant influences have so hastily ravisht from us E­milia; what say you my Lords, doe you consent to this motion of my griefe? will you that I follow it? if you will permit it? I will begin, but I see your prudence corrects this sentiment, and certainely not without reason, wee must not permit passion, which measures all things by it selfe, to hurry us out of the bounds of reason, to change the name of things, and to envy the felicity of another; for indeede to speake truly, it is not an unhappinesse, but a high beatitude to Emilia, that she finished her dayes in the supreame de­gree of her felicities, she hath ceased to live without knowing eyther griefe, misfortune, or old age; and Nature would not, that the marvellous Emilia, (whom she might allow to be her most exquisi [...]e workmanship) should her­selfe bee constrayned if shee had lived, to be wayle the change that tim [...] [Page 146]might have wrought upon her person.

Indeede my Lords, I suppose the death of Emilia, to bee the accomplish­ment of Emilias felicity. I repeat this once more to accustome your griefes to heare truths she could not die more advantageously, then in the midst of her flourishing prosperity, and conquests, what was there left for her to ex­pect further? when things are arrived to their highest, they must of necessity, eyther be established for ever there, or descend, and fall, if it may be sayd of him who hath liv'd long and glorious that hee lived but a short time who can be sayd to have liv'd long enough.

No no! my Lords, death hath not terminated the glories of Emilia, but confirmed them, she hath been 19 yeares the delight of our eyes, for her su­preame beauty, and the object of admiration, to all men, for the vivacity of her spirit; when shee sung, shee charm'd not onely our eares, but our hearts also, all tongues spoake to the advantage of Emilia, all pens cellebrated her large endowments; if workes in silke, and Gold (at which shee was unimi­table) retayned her in her house, being desired in all assemblies, shee was searcht for through the streets, and her absence complaind of by the whole world; wee may say that Vertue placed her above the ordinary rules of na­ture, and custome; for shee was reverenced by her Parents, she raigned over our Citizens, and that which is more strange, all our women yeilded to her without murmur, and without envy, what was there left to desire more, but a husband? which, Fortune gave her yonge, sprightly, couragious, rich, and by his family illustrious; what could she pretend too, or wish be­yond this? certainly nothing, who can then doubt that since shee could bee exalted no higher she must (as I have already sayd) either returne the same way, or fall? there was nothing more, left for her, of glory, there might bee of vexation, which being begun by the losse of her liberty (by matrimony) would quickly have been followed, with the losse of her beauty, and then acclamations, and applauses ceasing, sadnesse, sorrow, and melan­cholly must have succeeded; these changes were not far off; the cares of marriage began to busy her minde, the incommodities of child bearing would perhaps have made her pensive, and amongst what sort of inquie­tudes of soule (deere Auditors) doe you account the instability of Fortune, and the inclination of children? are these incidents new? have I invented them? where can we live without feeling thē? but if there were no other dis­composures in this life then the whole term of it, exc [...]pt only that part (which in considerations of youth covers us, as t'were with flowers, and seemes to us what indeed it is not) would it not be a felicity to be freed early frō this pri­son of life? and when did a Pilot complaine for arriving sooner into his Port [Page 147]then hee expected.

Quem amat Deus moritur Javenis.

Saith Menander, and Saint Basil holds that it is a marke of the perfecti­on of the soule, to goe out betimes from the body which shee animates, for (to use his owne words) if men proportion the durance of the prison, to the greatnesse of the crimes of the guilty, and that according to the valew, and merit of the operations of the soule, it is more, or lesse shut up in that cor­porall prison to enjoy a life which wee would never so much esteeme, if we perfectly knew it in the effects; what thing is that life whose infancy is al­most without reason, whose youth is nothing but folly; old age but infir­mity, Riches but perturbation, Poverty but anxiety, and whose whole busi­nesse is but paine, and travaile? and yet for all this, man who is borne for heaven, enclines himselfe to this life, as to his soveraigne good; and if by chance wee finde some one, that knowes how to imploy his time in acting noble, and glorious things, he is then the Butt for all the darts of envy, fall­hood, and wickednesse; and if wee see another, who spends his dayes in i­dlenesse, without doing eyther good, or hurt, he fils up the roome of a brave man, and is but an unprofitable burthen to the earth, and no other thing (as I may say) but onely a name; let us examine a little, what are the Conso­lations of this life, which can get a desire in the soule (th [...]t can feare nothing after this life, if it hath done well) to continue in this prison, and complain of being set free, it may be they are those souls that inhabit in those persons, who can betray in the same moment, when they make most protestations of faith, who value not Friendships, but for their profits, who regard no­thing but their owne ends, who leave us with our fortunes, and who, many times, hate us for having too much obliged them; behold (my Lords) the blessings which Emilia is depriv'd of; wheras now (he injoys the happi­ness she deservs, being gone betimes to the enjoyment of the supream felici­ty: No, no! I neither care, nor wish for the honour of her society, with the condition that should suspend her from the joyes of Heaven, and the light of a Sun which never sets, and which never was eclipsed, and of an abode in a place where death never enters, there are no complaints heard, where there are no griefs, where pains, and cares afflict no body, where hunger and thirst, and the rigour of the seasons have no power, and where blessed Rhaptures are so incomprehensible, that eyes cannot see, nor ears heare, nor have ever entred into the soule of Man.

Let us therefore endeavour (O deare Auditors) to raise ou [...] thoughts to consider our Emilia in a felicity, which can never end, in the injoyment of a good, which hath eternity for bound, infinity for measure, and God [Page 448]himselfe for the end; those, who are partakers of the happiness with Emi­lia, are Seraphins, burning with Love, and Charity, and Angels, those very Angels, whom she so much heretofore resembled; those, who now make a harmonious Consort, chanting together incessantly the praises of the very sacred, the very high, and the very powerfull divinity, which by an excess of infinite charity, being all at a time Lovers, and beloved, compleats the fullness of joy, and of felicity, assisted by the eternall Love, which he beats to them, and which they have for him, and this makes this eternity so desi­rable, that if it were true, that they could hope to possess it but one houre onely, scules would rather expose themselves to all the torments of Hell, then not injoy it.

After this, would you that I lament the happiness of Emilia, as the grea­test misfortune that could betide her? if I should, the Heavens would bee angry, and that faire Soule it selfe, which drawes so many advantages from so hasty a death, would complaine of my complaints, why then do you shed tears? I will tell you, at least I imagine I can! but indeed, who knowes not? have not I said to you in the beginning of this discourse, that you prepare to follow one desperate, who press'd with the violence of his pas­sion, runs blindly whither an unbridled griefe conducts him? It is certain, that it is a happiness for Emilia to goe so quickly out of so troublesome an abode, as this Life, as this Age, as this World, but it is an infelicity for our Eyes, no more to see Emilia: Alas! that Emilia, of whom all that I have yet said, is but a small R [...]ver to a bottomless Ocean.

Alas! when shall we see againe that Beauty worthy our adoration, of whom we may say, that she was a Sun too soon eclipsed?

When shall wee heare againe that charming tongue, whose eloquence reign'd over our hearts? Alas! in depriving us of her, death hath ravish'd from us the sweetest harmony that ever charm'd the Senses; and were it possible for my voice to speake over againe the words of her that I admire, I should inflame not onely the hearts of men alone, but of very Tygres and Bears with her sweet discourse.

But wee shall never more see that faire and desirable Emilia; all sup­ply that is left us in this case, is to say, happy those Eyes that saw her li­ving.

To conclude, it is just, we bewaile our lesse in lasting sighes, we should be too ungratefull if wee could forget her; what will that Academy doe now, it is deprived of her, where she so often hath beene rather an agreeable spectacle to the eyes of the Assembly, then a Spectatrix, though she came to be a Hearer, can it ever forget the light it hath receiv'd from her enlight­ning Eyes?

O sad adventure! able to make the very stones melt with griefe; goe my Lords! go, if affliction will give you leave, search for that conversation whereof Emilia was the whole delight, Emilia which we may say was ei­ther the cause or object of all pleasure.

But what do you heere languishing and sad, deprived not onely of con­tentments, but of souls; you shall confess your loss, when what you have lost, makes you see it was a thing, which a whole Empire cannot redeeme, nor all the Gold and Pearle of the East.

Could it be possible not to lament this loss? if at the death of Caesar the Sun was darkened for some Months; as to testifie his griefe? why not at the death of Emilia, who hath triumph'd over more Caesars, then Caesar o­vercame Enemies? is it not then just to shed teares? assist me (deare Au­ditors) to bewaile this misfortune, and remember you have lost the richest treasure of your Countrey, and that not onely you weare mourning gar­ments, but the very walls are yet hung with black; it being just, that the eclipse of a Sun should cause a Universall darkness.

What? my Lords▪ we are depriv [...]d of a Sun which enlightned our souls, inflam'd our hearts with the love of honour, and may be said to be the cause of all the learned works, since it appear'd: Who shall be any more the sub­ject of our prayses? who shall entry us to noble Actions? who shall bee from henceforth the occasion and the recompence of our Studies?

Ah Death! thou hast destroyed all the World with this unparalled loss; depriv'd of its Sun, the whole Universe is in darkness, and by this ravish­ment of her from the World, thou hast totally disarm'd the Quiver of Love: when this faire one died, Beauty and Vertue died with her.

Let us weep then, (my Lords) let us weep, and never be comforted, and to continue our griefs, I will say no new thing, but onely repeat these sad words, Emilia is dead: do you expect (my dear Auditors) that I give you any consolation? I vow for my part, I am not capable of giving you any other consolation, then that, which is to be found in persons, who bemoan as much as your selves the loss which we sustaine hereby; and what losse is it, but that of the marvellous Emilia? but as none can weep and speak any long time together, so I must stop my words, and let my tears flow.

THE effect of this sad Oration was Sighs and Tears; and as an Orator being himselfe perswaded, easily perswades others▪ so the Griefe, and Eloquence of Manzinie mov'd them all to weep with him: there was never seen so many Teares shed, and if to Ʋrnes and ancient Vessels which the ancient Romans call'd Lacrimines had been yet in use, it had beene no hard matter to have fill'd them; In fine, everyone that look'd on the Grave of Emilia, look'd upon it as the Grave of Vertue and Beauty, all unanimouss aggravated the unimitable perfections of Emilia; every tongue spoke of Emilia, the name of Emilia founded in all Eares; and to follow the Sentiments of that illustrious As­sembly, and those of Manzinie, I will finish this Volume with the faire name of Emilia.

FINIS.

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Text Creation Partnership. Searching, reading, printing, or downloading EEBO-TCP texts is reserved for the authorized users of these project partner institutions. Permission must be granted for subsequent distribution, in print or electronically, of this EEBO-TCP Phase II text, in whole or in part.